Voldemort felt the tingle of magic between his fingers as he ran a large, pale hand over the length of the Elder Wand, caressing the knots of the wood. The old fool didn’t know him quite as well as he had hoped if he believed he was above desecrating his tomb to retrieve the Wand of Destiny. Oh, how magnificent it felt knowing that at last he, Lord Voldemort, had conquered death. How he, the most powerful wizard who had ever been, was now in control of a wand of equal merit.
His wand of yew was strapped dolefully into his robes, unaware that it had performed its last great feat. Snape was waiting for him, his bat-like silhouette lit from behind by one of the flaming lanterns that hung from the outer walls of the school, his birthright, the castle that would soon be under his rule after the last of the traitors had been extracted from within its walls.
“The task is complete, Severus.” Voldemort said, raising the Elder Wand. “The wand is mine.”
Snape bowed his head. “And you are content with the wand, My Lord?”
“It is rightfully mine, of course I am content with it. Dumbledore believed he could hide such magic from a superior wizard such as I. He was mistaken, he has been outwitted again.” Voldemort smirked. The wand was warm in his hand, “I must return to the Malfoys’. We must regroup and assess what our next move is in this war now our headquarters have been compromised.”
“Is it true?” asked Snape. Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “That you have ordered them not to leave the house?”
Voldemort let out a mirthless laugh. “You expect me to forgive such an egregious mistake? Potter was in their grasp and they allowed him to flee. I am merciful to those deserving of it, but I am not a soft hearted fool like Dumbledore. No, such mistakes do not go unpunished by Lord Voldemort.”
Bowing his head once more, Snape turned on his heels and returned to the castle, his cloak billowing behind him. Voldemort eyed the Death Stick once more before placing it in the pocket of his robes. He allowed himself a triumph chuckle. He had fooled the old man once more. Oh, victory tasted sweet. If only Dumbledore knew that his own wand would be used to kill his precious Potter, how it would now destroy the one inexplicable threat that had haunted its new master for almost seventeen years.
He knew he couldn’t linger at the school any longer. He must return to the Malfoys’. Gazing around the grounds one last time, he sneered at the ugly white blot on the glorious and familiar landscape of his first and true home. The resting place of the old fool would be the first thing to go when Hogwarts would at last be under his command.
He visualised the familiar country lane that led towards Malfoy Manor. Silently he found himself following the yew hedge that curved towards a straight drive that led to the house. Its diamond-paned downstairs windows twinkled as he approached, passing through the wrought iron gate as though it were smoke. The door swung open at his approach as he strode towards the drawing room, which seemed to be unoccupied. He wondered if they had been able to repair the chandelier. Narcissa had been the only one not stupid enough to lose her wand, it would have been her task to tidy up the mess.
He turned the bronze handle and saw that the room was in darkness but for the fire that had been left to burn in the hearth. The room had been returned to its usual grandeur. The crystals of the chandelier reflected the flames, making the beads twinkle like tears of blood. The sofas and armchairs had been placed back into their usual positions and the portraits, which had been thrown askew by the chaos of the skirmish, had been straightened once more. The pale-faced subjects all appeared to be asleep, or perhaps feigning sleep in fear of his wrath, their soft snores barely audible over the crackling of the fire.
“You’re back,” a low voice said from the doorway.
He felt a jolt in his stomach at the voice. He turned, his scarlet eyes meeting Bellatrix’s. She had been crying. Her heavily lidded eyes were swollen and almost as red as his, her cheeks flushed, her hair dishevelled.
“Why are you back?” She sounded as though she had a cold, her voice stuffy and nasal. “I thought you were looking for the Elder Wand.”
He placed a hand lazily into his robes and pulled out the knotty wand. He waved it playfully in front of her and smiled. She beamed.
“You have it,” she said brightly. “This is magnificent, my Lord. May I?”
She eyed the wand hungrily as he passed it to her. Her thin hands caressed each imperfection, examining it closely as she had many years ago with the exquisitely intricate details of the small golden cup that had once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff.
“You will do even more extraordinary magic with this wand, I’m sure. How did you come about it?”
Voldemort gestured to the sofa as Bellatrix passed the Elder Wand back to him. They both sat, Bellatrix slightly hunched. He could hear her struggling to breathe through her nose, which always became blocked when she had been crying, as he recounted his meeting with Grindelwald and his retrieval of the wand from Dumbledore’s tomb.
As Voldemort finished, Bellatrix’s voice came out in a rush. “My Lord, I’m sorry for what happened. If I had known, I would have called you at once—” Voldemort raised a large, white hand and she subsided.
“I have not returned to Malfoy Manor to hear your apologies, Bella.” he said flatly, “We are at war and this house has become my headquarters. We need to assess our position now that Potter knows that this is our base of command.”
Bellatrix’s thin lips parted slightly. He wondered if she was blaming herself for this. He did not press the point as he went on, “As I said to you earlier, no one is to leave this house. However,” he placed a hand upon the handle of his yew wand as he continued, “You are no doubt my most skilled Death Eater, and you have proven your loyalty more often than perhaps any other. You have failed me, yes, but in the event this house falls under attack once more I shall not leave you unarmed as I did Malfoy.”
As if she had now been given permission to look, Bellatrix glanced to the hand resting on the yew wand. Her dark eyes were wide as they looked from his hand to his red eyes and back again.
“You mean…?”
Voldemort nodded. Bellatrix let out a soft sob as her eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude. “My Lord, are you sure of this? You do not wish to reconsider?”
“Take it,” he said, handing the wand that had served him well for so many years to an equally faithful servant, though he hated to admit it to himself. Her face was flushed. She wiped a tear from her cheek and sniffed loudly.
“This is the highest honour, My Lord. Thank you.” She sheathed the wand within a pocket of her robes and lowered herself from the sofa, kissing the hem of his cloak. “Thank you.”
Voldemort smirked, leaning back slightly to gaze into Bellatrix’s face that, despite being blotchy from her tears, looked all the more beautiful in the dying firelight. “Highest honour, highest pleasure… My dear, Bella. Whatever next?” He let out a soft laugh that was echoed by Bellatrix. “And I thought bearing my child was the highest honour.”
“It was, my Lord,” Bellatrix said quickly, talking into her chest as though embarrassed. “Aside from my freedom, Delphini is the greatest gift you have ever given to me. I—”
Voldemort let out a low shushing sound that was almost a hiss as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Their eyes met once more. Her dark eyes were twinkling with joy.
“Use the wand well.”
Bellatrix bowed her head subserviently. “Of course, my Lord.” She lowered her head to kiss the hem of his cloak once more. When she looked to him again there was a gleam in her eyes, a fire that he had not seen within her for many years, and when she spoke he saw before him not the haunted woman he had liberated two years before but the defiant seventeen-year-old he had tutored, who had proven herself the equal of any man on any battlefield.
"I shall not fail you again."