Liaisons weren’t quite unusual after all this time with Bellatrix, the Witch would pretty her up in Victorian gowns and lacey strips whenever the mood took her, but nakedness was generally frowned upon when outside her living quarters. Generally, for she still had no concrete idea of what Voldemort thought on the matter. He never seemed to care much at all to what she did or wore, or said, so long as she bent herself to His whims and obeyed the call of His Magic, a task she took well to. She never minded His looks, not particularly at least, present as they were it was Bellatrix who had stolen the black pit her heart had become, and He was more a present eye that she could ignore. Respectfully, of course. Her only infraction and hesitation to answer His call had ended in a particularly harsh punishment that left a deep scar embedded right above her heart, a long strip of skin that would pulse and pain her whenever He was near. 