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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.

#oh wow #stunning #absolutely brilliant #not my writing

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