They were a drug rationed out while working beneath her cage, some foreign exuberance to send delight and terror running through Hermione’s veins. Bellatrix had always visited her most often, whether for a carnal visitation or lengthy debates around the application of specific policies, but when Voldemort deigned to visit her, she was His. He was aloof, a Master to a nation reborn, a King of old bred New. His time was spent however He wished it; hours spent in meetings or abroad, months locked away in His quarters, and when He gave her attention she would always remember to prostrate in a show of gratitude. A wash of magic upon her core had Bellatrix leaning forward to nip along the pulse of Hermione’s neck as something warm and cloying filled her body. 