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He was not Him. But perhaps, in the darkness, or if she closed her eyes, or doing it from behind as he preferred to, he was close enough to pretend to herself. But that wasn't entirely fair to the Potter boy – not a boy anymore, nor a stranger anymore, definitely not a stranger – she supposed she might as well call him Harry, as he called her Bellatrix. Not Bella, like her sisters and parents, nor Trixie, like Sirius did to annoy her. No, Bellatrix. Warrior. For all she was for all intents and purposes no longer a warrior, but something like a sex slave. But no, that was unfair to him again. For all he had defeated her thoroughly, killed her unloved husband and beloved Master (in self-defence, a part of her mind that liked her to feel bad whispered), pulled her out of the hellhole that was Azkaban calling who knew how many favours, and promptly offered his own home for her house arrest, there was nothing about what they did that wasn't consensual. He asked and she consented. Consented to the pleasure and consented to his cruelty – and Potter had a cruel streak that almost matched the Dark Lord's except Potter's seemed to be focused only on her. And she supposed she even deserved it – she had, after all, hurt a lot of people close to him in one way or another, himself included – but then, violence was never about deserving, it was about power, and power over her he had, and still more, she gave him. Because she craved it. She craved the whispered torture spells that she imagined uttered in a voice far higher but just as cold, craved the way her writhing always got him hard and dripping, craved the humiliation of being told how much she got off on the pain, craved the minor pains of their coupling (a grip too rough and an entrance too fast and a pull on her curly hair too strong) because they reminded her of the time she was on top of the world and everything was beautiful and it was the Dark Lord taking her. And what he craved about her, she learned each time he told her.
'I hate you,' he said, or 'You were my first sex fantasy,' or 'I saw Voldemort fucking you and knew I had to have you,' or 'You're such fun to torture, I don't think anyone else would just let me.'
'You keep what you kill,' he said once, and she only understood because she watched Muggle films now, because he told her it would be fun to watch it together and because the alternative was staring at the wall and remembering all her mistakes and missed opportunities. She still refused to watch anything to do with cars, on general principle, and he annoyed her by saying some Muggles don't like car films either.
Sometimes she cried, wept for her Lord and for herself, and sometimes he fucked her when she was crying, the intimacy making her feel raw but the pleasure helping a little, because he was always kind to her when she wept. Kind, but extra possessive, and sometimes, that intimacy felt like the most perverse thing they did.