howdidtheyevermakeamovieof

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

This came to me in a drunken haze, would you guys consider it extremely vile and unhinged (in a delicious way I hope) if I said, ahem, Merope.

Bring in the Mommy issues.

Bellamort threesome with another woman

Woah this kinda caught me off guard, I have to admit my imagination is quite limited in this particular situation.

Does Anon have someone specific in mind? Pray tell!

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

How old were you at the lowest point in your life? Reblog this and put it in the tags, plus your current age maybe. I'm trying to see something.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

Bellamort threesome with another woman

Woah this kinda caught me off guard, I have to admit my imagination is quite limited in this particular situation.

Does Anon have someone specific in mind? Pray tell!

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

For @fugamalefica whom I owe all credit for inspiration💝✨🌸

Hurt, Comfort and Sweet Revenge post-Spinner’s End

Bellatrix stood still as the sisters returned from Spinner’s End, her pride stung, her posture rigid. Snape’s words had slithered under her skin—smooth and barbed as ever—so practiced in that casual cruelty he wielded like a scalpel. She could endure slights from others, but him? The arrogance. The presumption.

He dared to speak of her fall from favor. As if he could understand favor. As if he had ever been touched by him, chosen by him, the way she had. As if he had ever bled for him.

As if he had ever known what it meant to be—that word she dare not say— close enough to Him that it left marks no spell could undo.

She sat silent while Narcissa spoke, but her heart beat a rhythm of fury and shame and something far more unbearable—doubt.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Its light flickered against the high, shadowed ceilings of the manor, casting long golden streaks along the velvet wallpaper. Bellatrix sat alone now—Narcissa had long since retreated to her chambers after pouring herself a silent brandy and offering her sister a look of uneasy gratitude.

Bellatrix hadn’t spoken since they’d returned.

Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she unfastened the buttons of her cloak. It slid off her shoulders in a hiss of black velvet, puddling on the floor like something discarded, unworthy.

Her pride burned, not from Snape’s condescension—she’d faced worse and returned it double—but from the absence that followed. From the silence. From him.

He has not summoned me for days.

She rose from the chair abruptly and crossed to the hearth, pressing her hands against the cool stone of the mantel. Her breath trembled as she let her thoughts surface, against her will, like blood from a reopened wound.

She replayed the conversation with Snape in her mind—the smug tilt of his voice, his calculated restraint, the way he referred to her imprisonment as unfortunate and avoidable.

But worse than that?

The way he spoke as if Voldemort trusted him more now.

Her fingers curled into fists.

She had bled for the Dark Lord. Screamed for him. Danced in agony for him. She had suffered—for years—in a cell thick with despair, the walls alive with the memory of screams, clinging to his name like a prayer. She had never doubted.

Until now.

The doubt came in quiet pangs, like cracks in ice underfoot.

Why hasn’t he called me? Why does he send for Snape?

She hated herself for even thinking it. Hated herself more for feeling it.

Bellatrix slowly sank to the floor beside the fire, knees folded beneath her, her wild hair falling over her face. In the low glow, her features were strangely soft, younger somehow, like a girl who had lost something she couldn’t name.

She tilted her head up to the ceiling as though to ask the rafters what she dared not say aloud.

She swallowed hard.

Is it punishment? Is it doubt?

Or worse—

The thought struck her harder than Azkaban ever had.

She felt a sudden need to claw at something, to scream or curse, to tear apart the silence—but the manor was too still, too polished, too full of watching eyes.

Her hand crept unconsciously to her ribs, as though the old burns from her capture could still be felt, still carry weight. But even pain felt like a memory now.

Was she no longer what she had once been to him?

That night before Godric’s Hollow had felt eternal. The taste of him. His power. The kiss that had stolen her breath like a spell. The way his eyes, cold and cruel, had lingered on her with something… other. Not love. Never love. But need. Possession.

And now… nothing.

She bowed her head. The fire sputtered behind her, casting thin light across her bowed frame. Her pride warred with her anguish.

She would not go to him. She would not beg.

But she ached.

And she feared—yes, feared—that her Lord no longer saw her as the fury at his side, but as a relic of a failure at the Ministry.

And worse still, that Snape—that slippery, calculating pretender—had replaced her.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She crushed it with her hand, furious at herself.

She caressed her dark mark in the faint glow of orange flames.

There was no answer, only the crackle of dying embers.

And Bellatrix Lestrange—mad, merciless, and now unmoored—sat alone in the dim light, waiting for a summons that might never come.

Later, in the sanctity of darkness, she was alone until she wasn’t. She felt him enter before she heard a sound, as always—his presence curling in the air like smoke.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He stood behind her, just long enough for her to pretend not to want him to speak, and then—

“Snape is a man of calculated venom,” Voldemort said, his voice a whisper behind her ear, soft as silk and far more dangerous. “He stings where it hurts. He thinks it clever. But you—”

He stepped into her view, his pale eyes capturing hers with unnerving stillness. “You are not fallen.”

Bellatrix’s lips parted as if to laugh, but it died before it formed. Instead, she looked at him—this man who had remade her, ruined her, raised her above the world and made her ache for the fire of his favor.

But something bristled in her still, hot and trembling at the realization.

“You know we were at Spinner’s End?” she exclaimed. Half out of fear, half out of betrayal.

His gaze didn’t flicker. “It was… expected. Considering the pathetic state your sister has been in.”

Bellatrix recoiled a fraction, her voice tightening. “You must think me foolish…”

His silence was more terrifying than any hissed retort.

She took a step toward him. Her fists clenched at her sides, her teeth bared like something primal. “And you must agree with him,” she pressed, voice low. “That I am no longer useful. That I have been… replaced.”

A long silence fell between them.

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Is it true, my Lord? That you confide in him now? More than me?”

He moved slowly toward her, expression unreadable.

“Snape,” he said at last, “has his uses.”

“And I don’t?” Her voice broke at the edge, though she tried to steel it. “I have killed for you. I have bled for you. Azkaban—my mind nearly torn apart—because I would not renounce your name. And now I am made to stand beside him like a fool. Like a shadow.”

Her voice broke slightly. She hated that. But the tremble in it was not weakness—it was rage.

“I have known the Dementor’s kiss in spirit long before they could ever touch my flesh, because I gave it to you freely—”

She hesitated. Just a breath.

How could she fear a Dementor’s kiss, she thought to herself, when she had known that kiss the night before he went to Godric’s Hollow—only then to lose him?

It had been death. It had been surrender. It had been soul, ripped and shared and clung to in those final gasps before dawn. And when he vanished, when the world whispered he was gone, it was that kiss she relived—night after night in Azkaban’s cold silence. That kiss, and his absence after it. A kiss of death, and of abandonment.

He leaned in, close enough that his words touched her skin. “You fear a dementor’s kiss?” he murmured. “You’ve already survived mine.”

He reached for her chin—not with violence, but with the terrifying gentleness that made her tremble far more than any curse.

“And that is why you are still favored.”

Bellatrix closed her eyes. For one moment—one—she let herself believe. That what they had was something better. Something eternal.

And then she straightened. Recalled herself.

Because if he gave comfort, it was never freely. It was always earned. Always strategic.

But oh, how sweet it was, when it came.

—

The following day, the chamber beneath Malfoy Manor pulsed with restrained tension. A long, dark table stretched through the stone hall, its surface gleaming like still water, each Death Eater seated in reverent silence. Blue fire flickered in the sconces, casting long shadows that danced across their pale faces.

Snape sat two seats to Voldemort’s left, his black robes composed, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He had just finished speaking, detailing the slow decay of the Ministry with clinical dispassion.

“The Minister is fraying,” Snape said. “Soon even those pretending not to notice will begin to cannibalize one another. All that remains is patience.”

There was a low hum of assent—Rowle gave a grim nod, Yaxley murmured something approving under his breath.

Bellatrix leaned forward from her seat, her hands clasped too tightly on the table, her voice slicing through the air:

“Patience?” she repeated, lacing the word with venom. “You sound like we’re meant to wait in the shadows until the prey climbs into our hands.”

Snape did not turn. “Some prey runs itself ragged,” he said, tone dry, unbothered. “One needn’t always strike to kill. Occasionally, it is… instructive to let others fumble toward their doom.””

A few of the Death Eaters shifted in their seats. No one missed the implication.

Bellatrix’s nostrils flared. “How poetic, how convenient, Snape,” she spat his name. “that inaction now passes for strategy. And how long shall we wait while you philosophize in riddles? There are those among us who would rather act!”

Snape gave a slight smile. He still didn’t look at her directly. “Action,” he said, evenly, “is often confused with impact.” He turned just enough now, ever so slightly, letting his dark eyes rest on her. “Strategy is not a matter of appetite.”

Bellatrix half-rose in her chair, her hands flat on the table, her dark eyes wild with contempt.

And then—

“Enough.”

The single word floated out, low and precise, like a blade gliding across silk.

Voldemort rose from the head of the table, slow and deliberate. His robes made no sound as he moved. Every seated figure stilled.

“Severus,” he said, his voice threaded with a soft amusement. “You speak of patience with such devotion, I sometimes wonder if you intend to lull our enemies… or our dear friends.”

Snape inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying. “My Lord.”

Voldemort turned, and now he began to walk—unhurried—along the length of the table. His fingers grazed the backs of chairs as he passed. A few Death Eaters subtly stiffened under his nearness.

When he reached Bellatrix, he did not speak at first. He stood beside her, letting the silence stretch. Her breath slowed, like a pupil awaiting judgment.

He reached out and ran two pale fingers along her cheek, slow and deliberate. She did not move.

“There’s a beauty in fury,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “A terrible one. But beauty, left unchecked, becomes spectacle.”

She didn’t blink.

He leaned in slightly, his touch still featherlight on her cheek, she tilted her head back to regard him.

“But I suppose we are all familiar with Bellatrix’s…. Appetite, by now.”

He straightened, stepping back with regal grace, his eyes sweeping the table once more.

“To confuse silence as without strategy,” Voldemort said now, louder, for the room, “or fire for foolishness… is a mistake I allow my enemies to make.”

He returned to the head of the table, folding himself back into his chair with that sinuous control that demanded more silence than a shout.

“I do not allow it here.”

Snape bowed his head by a mere fraction, his expression unreadable.

Bellatrix remained still, her cheek still tingling from his touch, her posture taut with triumph.

The message was clear. The sting of being slighted now cooled by something far more intoxicating: attention. Directed. Intentional. Singular.

She had taken it not as a reprimand, but a kind of possession.

“Proceed,” Voldemort commanded softly.

The discussion resumed. Yet something had shifted. Only three in the room truly knew what it was.

Only one of them left smiling.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

Hurt, Comfort and Sweet Revenge post-Spinner’s End

Bellatrix stood still as the sisters returned from Spinner’s End, her pride stung, her posture rigid. Snape’s words had slithered under her skin—smooth and barbed as ever—so practiced in that casual cruelty he wielded like a scalpel. She could endure slights from others, but him? The arrogance. The presumption.

He dared to speak of her fall from favor. As if he could understand favor. As if he had ever been touched by him, chosen by him, the way she had. As if he had ever bled for him.

As if he had ever known what it meant to be—that word she dare not say— close enough to Him that it left marks no spell could undo.

She sat silent while Narcissa spoke, but her heart beat a rhythm of fury and shame and something far more unbearable—doubt.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Its light flickered against the high, shadowed ceilings of the manor, casting long golden streaks along the velvet wallpaper. Bellatrix sat alone now—Narcissa had long since retreated to her chambers after pouring herself a silent brandy and offering her sister a look of uneasy gratitude.

Bellatrix hadn’t spoken since they’d returned.

Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she unfastened the buttons of her cloak. It slid off her shoulders in a hiss of black velvet, puddling on the floor like something discarded, unworthy.

Her pride burned, not from Snape’s condescension—she’d faced worse and returned it double—but from the absence that followed. From the silence. From him.

He has not summoned me for days.

She rose from the chair abruptly and crossed to the hearth, pressing her hands against the cool stone of the mantel. Her breath trembled as she let her thoughts surface, against her will, like blood from a reopened wound.

She replayed the conversation with Snape in her mind—the smug tilt of his voice, his calculated restraint, the way he referred to her imprisonment as unfortunate and avoidable.

But worse than that?

The way he spoke as if Voldemort trusted him more now.

Her fingers curled into fists.

She had bled for the Dark Lord. Screamed for him. Danced in agony for him. She had suffered—for years—in a cell thick with despair, the walls alive with the memory of screams, clinging to his name like a prayer. She had never doubted.

Until now.

The doubt came in quiet pangs, like cracks in ice underfoot.

Why hasn’t he called me? Why does he send for Snape?

She hated herself for even thinking it. Hated herself more for feeling it.

Bellatrix slowly sank to the floor beside the fire, knees folded beneath her, her wild hair falling over her face. In the low glow, her features were strangely soft, younger somehow, like a girl who had lost something she couldn’t name.

She tilted her head up to the ceiling as though to ask the rafters what she dared not say aloud.

She swallowed hard.

Is it punishment? Is it doubt?

Or worse—

The thought struck her harder than Azkaban ever had.

She felt a sudden need to claw at something, to scream or curse, to tear apart the silence—but the manor was too still, too polished, too full of watching eyes.

Her hand crept unconsciously to her ribs, as though the old burns from her capture could still be felt, still carry weight. But even pain felt like a memory now.

Was she no longer what she had once been to him?

That night before Godric’s Hollow had felt eternal. The taste of him. His power. The kiss that had stolen her breath like a spell. The way his eyes, cold and cruel, had lingered on her with something… other. Not love. Never love. But need. Possession.

And now… nothing.

She bowed her head. The fire sputtered behind her, casting thin light across her bowed frame. Her pride warred with her anguish.

She would not go to him. She would not beg.

But she ached.

And she feared—yes, feared—that her Lord no longer saw her as the fury at his side, but as a relic of a failure at the Ministry.

And worse still, that Snape—that slippery, calculating pretender—had replaced her.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She crushed it with her hand, furious at herself.

She caressed her dark mark in the faint glow of orange flames.

There was no answer, only the crackle of dying embers.

And Bellatrix Lestrange—mad, merciless, and now unmoored—sat alone in the dim light, waiting for a summons that might never come.

Later, in the sanctity of darkness, she was alone until she wasn’t. She felt him enter before she heard a sound, as always—his presence curling in the air like smoke.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He stood behind her, just long enough for her to pretend not to want him to speak, and then—

“Snape is a man of calculated venom,” Voldemort said, his voice a whisper behind her ear, soft as silk and far more dangerous. “He stings where it hurts. He thinks it clever. But you—”

He stepped into her view, his pale eyes capturing hers with unnerving stillness. “You are not fallen.”

Bellatrix’s lips parted as if to laugh, but it died before it formed. Instead, she looked at him—this man who had remade her, ruined her, raised her above the world and made her ache for the fire of his favor.

But something bristled in her still, hot and trembling at the realization.

“You know we were at Spinner’s End?” she exclaimed. Half out of fear, half out of betrayal.

His gaze didn’t flicker. “It was… expected. Considering the pathetic state your sister has been in.”

Bellatrix recoiled a fraction, her voice tightening. “You must think me foolish…”

His silence was more terrifying than any hissed retort.

She took a step toward him. Her fists clenched at her sides, her teeth bared like something primal. “And you must agree with him,” she pressed, voice low. “That I am no longer useful. That I have been… replaced.”

A long silence fell between them.

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Is it true, my Lord? That you confide in him now? More than me?”

He moved slowly toward her, expression unreadable.

“Snape,” he said at last, “has his uses.”

“And I don’t?” Her voice broke at the edge, though she tried to steel it. “I have killed for you. I have bled for you. Azkaban—my mind nearly torn apart—because I would not renounce your name. And now I am made to stand beside him like a fool. Like a shadow.”

Her voice broke slightly. She hated that. But the tremble in it was not weakness—it was rage.

“I have known the Dementor’s kiss in spirit long before they could ever touch my flesh, because I gave it to you freely—”

She hesitated. Just a breath.

How could she fear a Dementor’s kiss, she thought to herself, when she had known that kiss the night before he went to Godric’s Hollow—only then to lose him?

It had been death. It had been surrender. It had been soul, ripped and shared and clung to in those final gasps before dawn. And when he vanished, when the world whispered he was gone, it was that kiss she relived—night after night in Azkaban’s cold silence. That kiss, and his absence after it. A kiss of death, and of abandonment.

He leaned in, close enough that his words touched her skin. “You fear a dementor’s kiss?” he murmured. “You’ve already survived mine.”

He reached for her chin—not with violence, but with the terrifying gentleness that made her tremble far more than any curse.

“And that is why you are still favored.”

Bellatrix closed her eyes. For one moment—one—she let herself believe. That what they had was something better. Something eternal.

And then she straightened. Recalled herself.

Because if he gave comfort, it was never freely. It was always earned. Always strategic.

But oh, how sweet it was, when it came.

—

The following day, the chamber beneath Malfoy Manor pulsed with restrained tension. A long, dark table stretched through the stone hall, its surface gleaming like still water, each Death Eater seated in reverent silence. Blue fire flickered in the sconces, casting long shadows that danced across their pale faces.

Snape sat two seats to Voldemort’s left, his black robes composed, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He had just finished speaking, detailing the slow decay of the Ministry with clinical dispassion.

“The Minister is fraying,” Snape said. “Soon even those pretending not to notice will begin to cannibalize one another. All that remains is patience.”

There was a low hum of assent—Rowle gave a grim nod, Yaxley murmured something approving under his breath.

Bellatrix leaned forward from her seat, her hands clasped too tightly on the table, her voice slicing through the air:

“Patience?” she repeated, lacing the word with venom. “You sound like we’re meant to wait in the shadows until the prey climbs into our hands.”

Snape did not turn. “Some prey runs itself ragged,” he said, tone dry, unbothered. “One needn’t always strike to kill. Occasionally, it is… instructive to let others fumble toward their doom.””

A few of the Death Eaters shifted in their seats. No one missed the implication.

Bellatrix’s nostrils flared. “How poetic, how convenient, Snape,” she spat his name. “that inaction now passes for strategy. And how long shall we wait while you philosophize in riddles? There are those among us who would rather act!”

Snape gave a slight smile. He still didn’t look at her directly. “Action,” he said, evenly, “is often confused with impact.” He turned just enough now, ever so slightly, letting his dark eyes rest on her. “Strategy is not a matter of appetite.”

Bellatrix half-rose in her chair, her hands flat on the table, her dark eyes wild with contempt.

And then—

“Enough.”

The single word floated out, low and precise, like a blade gliding across silk.

Voldemort rose from the head of the table, slow and deliberate. His robes made no sound as he moved. Every seated figure stilled.

“Severus,” he said, his voice threaded with a soft amusement. “You speak of patience with such devotion, I sometimes wonder if you intend to lull our enemies… or our dear friends.”

Snape inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying. “My Lord.”

Voldemort turned, and now he began to walk—unhurried—along the length of the table. His fingers grazed the backs of chairs as he passed. A few Death Eaters subtly stiffened under his nearness.

When he reached Bellatrix, he did not speak at first. He stood beside her, letting the silence stretch. Her breath slowed, like a pupil awaiting judgment.

He reached out and ran two pale fingers along her cheek, slow and deliberate. She did not move.

“There’s a beauty in fury,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “A terrible one. But beauty, left unchecked, becomes spectacle.”

She didn’t blink.

He leaned in slightly, his touch still featherlight on her cheek, she tilted her head back to regard him.

“But I suppose we are all familiar with Bellatrix’s…. Appetite, by now.”

He straightened, stepping back with regal grace, his eyes sweeping the table once more.

“To confuse silence as without strategy,” Voldemort said now, louder, for the room, “or fire for foolishness… is a mistake I allow my enemies to make.”

He returned to the head of the table, folding himself back into his chair with that sinuous control that demanded more silence than a shout.

“I do not allow it here.”

Snape bowed his head by a mere fraction, his expression unreadable.

Bellatrix remained still, her cheek still tingling from his touch, her posture taut with triumph.

The message was clear. The sting of being slighted now cooled by something far more intoxicating: attention. Directed. Intentional. Singular.

She had taken it not as a reprimand, but a kind of possession.

“Proceed,” Voldemort commanded softly.

The discussion resumed. Yet something had shifted. Only three in the room truly knew what it was.

Only one of them left smiling.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

Hello Fellow Bellamort shippers, I’m feeling a bit uninspired so if you can help a girl out, send me some prompts of scenarios you’d like to see in my writing, please, please, PLEASE, send help my way.

With love and desperation,

Yours truly

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

The night before Godric’s Hollow

There was something different in the way their bodies tangled that night, something unspoken yet palpable in the air between them. The fever was the same, the gnawing hunger, the violence of it all—but beneath it, threading through every grasp, every bite, was something neither of them dared name.

For the first time, the urgency was not just one of need, but of something deeper. Something akin to desperation.

Bellatrix clung to him with a fervor beyond worship, as if her nails sinking into his flesh could tether him to her, to this moment, as Voldemort took her with a slowness that defied his usual cruelty, a lingering possession that marked her as his in a way words never could. There was agony in it. A silent war between the inevitable and the unbearable.

She felt it—she knew. The shadows of tomorrow coiled between them, whispering of things neither dared acknowledge.

His hands on her were firm, demanding, but when his lips found her throat, when his teeth scraped her pulse, there was something else there. Something Bellatrix had never known him to be capable of.

Longing.

Her breath hitched as she arched beneath him, pressing herself closer, deeper, further—wanting to lose herself in him, to dissolve into him. If she could swallow him whole, she would. If she could become something more than flesh and bone, something immortal, something bound to him beyond the constraints of life and death—she would.

But there was no magic strong enough for that.

She knew it.

And so did he.

He grasped her harder, his body moving with hers in something not quite violence, not quite mercy—just a relentless, aching eternity. Bellatrix felt something hot prick at her eyes, and she buried her face into his shoulder, muffling a sound that wasn’t pain nor pleasure, but something far more dangerous.

Something human.

Voldemort stilled for a moment, breath shallow, forehead pressing to hers. His crimson eyes burned into her own, and for the first time, she saw something flicker there. Not doubt. Never doubt.

Premonition.

He would leave her behind tomorrow. She would wait, as she always did. But for the first time, she wondered—feared—if she would ever see him again.

For the first time, she thought he might be wondering the same.

Voldemort saw it in her eyes—the flicker of something she’d never dared show him before. A silent plea, a question she would never ask aloud. The weight of it unsettled him, not in the way weakness disgusted him, but in the way an inevitability does. Like watching a star collapse in slow motion.

He did not speak. Words were not how he reassured her. Instead, he let his hands answer, his body moving with deliberate precision, with the mastery of someone who knew exactly how to unravel her. She arched beneath him, melting into his command, but the change in her remained, stubborn, lingering between them like a specter.

Something stirred in him.

He did not name it. He did not acknowledge it. But it was there, coiling low in his chest, twisting its way through his veins with a heaviness he could not purge.

What was it? A reckoning? A divergence?

Was this the closing act of something that had defined them for so long? Or was it a new beginning, something reshaped by the ache they inflicted upon each other now?

His grip on her tightened, punishing, possessive. As if he could brand his certainty into her skin, drive out whatever doubt had taken root in her. She was his. That had never changed. And yet, tonight, she looked at him as if something had.

Bellatrix whimpered against his throat, her fingers pressing into his back, anchoring herself to him, to this moment, to whatever remained of what they were. He moved harder, deeper, chasing the last remnants of what had been, forcing her to meet him there, to remember.

But something was slipping.

Not her devotion—no, that would never fade. But something else. The purity of it. The blind, unfaltering worship she had always given him.

He hated it.

He craved it.

The thought disgusted him.

The thought electrified him.

Voldemort closed his eyes, shutting out whatever it was that gnawed at him, and instead let himself be consumed by the familiar rhythm of power and surrender, control and chaos. Bellatrix trembled beneath him, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered—when he returned, would she be the same?

Would he?

Bellatrix felt it—the shift in him, the way his control wavered for the first time, slipping like sand through his fingers. She held him tighter, tethering him to this moment, to her, to the feverish reality they had built between them.

Voldemort was losing himself, but not in the way he had before. This was not just power, not just pleasure. It was something raw, something dangerous. The tightening of her embrace stole the reasoning from him, stripping him down to something beyond thought, beyond command. He let himself be pulled under, let the sensory force of their union override the whisper of something he could not name.

Their breath tangling, their consciousness fraying at the edges, wandering beyond the present. Each sensation carving itself into memory—the bruising grip of fingers, the shuddering exhale against flushed skin, the way their bodies burned against each other, as if trying to sear this night into permanence.

Bellatrix memorized him. Every shift of his body, every flicker of unspoken thought behind those darkened eyes, every tremor that betrayed his composure. And he memorized her in turn, branding the shape of her devotion into himself, letting it seep into the marrow of his being.

This was more than their usual chaos. More than violence, more than hunger. It was something inevitable, something final. And they both knew it.

They clung to each other, wordlessly sealing whatever understanding had passed between them. When dawn came, it would all be different.

But for now, they burned.

She moved with slow intent, rising to straddle him, pressing herself flush against him as if to assure him—I can handle this. Her arms curled around his neck, drawing him in, coaxing him to bury himself in the hollow of her collarbone, in the scent of her, in the fevered rhythm of her breath.

Voldemort let his mind follow the sensation of her movements—the way her body molded against his, the softness yielding only to reform, pressing back against him, testing him, tempting him. Every shift, every deliberate roll of her hips sent heat lashing through him, uncoiling, tightening. His hands found her, mapping the familiar ridges and curves as if relearning them for the first time, as if committing them to memory in a way deeper than before.

Bellatrix tilted her head, her lips grazing his temple, her breath a whisper of fire against his skin. He felt her heartbeat through the points where they met, rapid, insistent, matching the tension mounting between them.

She was leading him now, guiding him through the dark, through the storm of something neither of them dared name. And for the first time, he did not resist.

For a moment—just a moment—he was no longer Lord Voldemort. He was something raw, something frayed, something closer to human than he had been in decades. The sensation of her, the slick heat that welcomed him, contrasted the way she clung to him, unyielding, unrelenting. He felt himself burn for her, an agonizing pleasure, a pleasure that felt almost wrong in its depth, in the way it stripped him of the cold detachment he so carefully cultivated.

His senses sharpened, unbearably so. The pressure of her flesh against him, the rasp of her breath against his ear, the way she trembled—not in fear, but in worship. Every nerve of his fragmented soul seemed to take in the moment, grasping at something beyond just the physical, beyond just possession.

He did not allow himself weakness. He did not believe in tenderness. Yet here, with her, in this fevered moment, the pain of his soul clashed with the pleasure of his body, and he let himself revel in the contradiction. Let himself feel—if only to remind himself that he still could.

A sound tore through him, through the carefully constructed walls of his being. A sound that was more than pleasure, more than pain—it was something deeper, something real.

For the first time, perhaps in his entire existence, he was held. Not just possessed, not just worshiped, but cradled. And it undid him.

His arms wound around her, not to dominate, not to control, but to keep. He dragged her down into himself, selfish in his grasp, his fingers digging into her skin, anchoring her there, as if willing her to never let go. Her cry—raw, broken, filled with something they never named—sent a tremor through him, an ache that had nothing to do with the act itself but everything to do with what it meant.

Their movements slowed, but their desperation did not. The friction between them was no longer just of flesh, but of something deeper—an agony, a need, a grief neither could voice. He felt himself lost in it, drowning, spiraling, undone in the ebb and flow of this unspoken desperation.

And for once, he did not fight it.

The urge came upon him like a tide, unbidden and unstoppable. It was foreign, unsettling, but undeniable. He needed to kiss her.

Not as a demand. Not as a show of dominance. But as something else—something he had no name for, something he had never allowed himself to feel.

His lips found hers in a way that was neither brutal nor possessive, but offering. A silent confession, a surrender of its own kind. His lips moved against hers with reverence, his tongue tracing the shape of her as if she were something sacred, something irreplaceable.

He felt her shudder beneath him, a breathless sound escaping between them, and he deepened it—not out of hunger, but out of a desperate need to tell her. To show her what words could never hold.

That she was wanted.

That she was needed.

That she was his.

And for once, it was not about power. Not about submission. It was about her. About the way she trembled in his grasp, the way her arms clung to him like her heart could give away if she didn’t, the way she let him do undo her—to take, to give, to be.

This kiss was the only understanding he had. For even his brilliant mind could not piece together this fragmented soul.

He stole the very breath from her, as if it were the last thing he could claim before fate dared wrench them apart. Each deepened kiss was an escape, a desperate act of defiance against the inevitable. He could feel her surrender, her pulse fluttering like a dying star beneath his hands, her body growing softer, heavier, as if she were slipping beyond reach.

And still, he did not stop.

He drank from her, devoured her, took from her—not in hunger, not in dominance, but in a torment that had no name. It was cruel, this mercy of his. A mercy for her suffering, for his own. For the unbearable weight of longing neither could name nor forsake.

He felt her go weak beneath him, her fingers loosening, her body yielding, her breath fading into his. And he hated it.

Hated the power she had over him in that moment. Hated that he could not pull away, that he needed this—needed her—with a ferocity that threatened to unravel him.

And yet, he knew.

Knew that if he let himself sink any further, he would be lost. There would be no return, no escape from this abyss she had pulled him into.

So he let her go.

With one final taste, one final claiming, he broke away—watching, waiting, as she stirred beneath him, gasping, dazed, her lips swollen from his kiss, her eyes clouded with something he dared not name.

He had given her unconsciousness. A reprieve from the suffering neither of them could voice.

But as he looked at her, his breath unsteady, his own longing clawing its way back into his chest, he realized the truth.

There was no reprieve for him.

He lay atop her, his weight sinking into the cradle of her body, his ear pressed against the soft rise of her chest, listening as her heart slowed. The rhythm of it, once so wild beneath him, now settled into something unnervingly still. Yet he knew—knew—she was not at peace.

Her lashes, damp with the glisten of unfallen tears, trembled faintly, though her body had gone quiet. And still, he remained within her, unwilling to sever what fragile tether remained between them. Her warmth, once feverish, now began to cool around him, her breath a mere whisper against his temple.

She was marked now. Not just in flesh, but in something neither of them could name.

Her scent clung to him, etched into the very fibers of his being. He could feel her echoing through him, reverberating in the marrow of his bones, in the hollow chambers of his soul, and in the magic that lingered between them like an unfinished incantation.

And yet, he did not move.

Not until he felt something shift within him, something darker than longing, quieter than rage. A stillness so profound it felt like slipping into a grave.

Only then, in that silence, in that emptiness, did he finally part from her.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

Just completed a Bellamort and Rodolphus fic (they basically play him like a puppet, I’m talking public humiliation type of shit), doing some clean up but now I’m not so sure I want to/can post it😢

Fuck my life.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

Watched Conclave last night, it took me five more cigarettes to get home than the usual three-cigarette-distance, drank a bottle of wine when I got home.

It was that fucking good.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

“do you know where you’ll be headed in 5 years?” no. but i do know about themes and motifs. and friendship. and putting garlic on everything

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

As the world caves in by Matt Maltese (original not the cover)

Tags: @fugamalefica @keepmycandleburning @ssamaraxx

No pressure tho☺️

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

If I may add my own two cents to this, indeed Voldemort is incapable of “selfless love,” however, the relationship between Voldemort and Bellatrix is by no means of a selfless nature.

What they share between them is self-indulgent gratification, which enables each other to be their worse selves possible. The affection they share with one another is always, ALWAYS, second to, if not dependent on their sense of self.

Would Bellatrix have loved Voldemort as fervently if he did not make her a death eater, singled her out of all the pureblood men to be his apprentice? Would he have familiarized himself with her if she had not favored his opinion and approval over her family’s/pureblood society’s?

Their relationship feeds off of their obsession with their own self images as a starved beggar is to bread. It is destructive, sometimes-deprecating and toxically co-dependent.

So no, Voldemort is incapable of love, reconciliation is not necessary here. Bellamort stays, as it always has been, as valid as ever.

I turn to you but also to anyone else who shipps bellatrix and voldemort with curiosity: how do you reconcile the fact that rowling thinks voldemort doesn't know how to love because of the love potion merope used on her father with her relationship with bellatrix? was it a metaphor?

Yes, J.K.Rowling said that Voldemort is not incapable of love because of the love potion, she said that the potion was a symbolic way but that if Voldemort had grown up with his mother things would have been very different. As for Bellatrix, I believe first of all that it is not necessary to love to have a close relationship with someone and have sex with them. I hope I answered your question!

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

When you’ve grown tired and weary, rest your gentle neck upon my breath, so that I may breathe in your image, feel your skin and flesh fill up my lungs;

I want to hear the color of blood coursing your veins, and taste the salt and smoke off your footfalls.

I will lose a bit of me, and you a bit of you, together we could dance in this unbearable lightness.

Someday you may resent me for all the reasons you’ve loved me for. Resent me then, I beg of you, if it means you had loved me first.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

There is a self-indulgence to looking a lover in the eye and deliberately choosing them, not in spite of, but because of all the destruction and obliteration you behold. By doing so we become our own demise, making life no great mystery.

I am, in this sense, a starved beggar, haunted by visions of fine fabric, blood, and threads weaving flesh.

My love, You are inconsumable, I have failed us miserably.

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

- Louise Glück, "The Burning Heart"

[howdidtheyevermakeamovieof]

My kind of epilogue:

Voldemort and Bellatrix reunite in Limbo, less than two souls stripped completely bare of memories and magic of their mortal coils, the moment and setting for the rest of eternity being their first dance (I imagine unforgettable playing in the background).

Eternally gazing into each other, basking in that moment of unfamiliar familiarity with premonition aching in their chests, while their bodies and what remains of their souls rest against one another. Unforgettable, undeniable, and unyielding.