A wizard without love—how could he understand love, let alone care about it? Thus, in Voldemort's mind, there was only deep calculation and exploitation. Bellatrix was a very useful tool, so he did not mind treating her gently.
"To give everything for me is her honor."
That was Dark Magic's truest thought. It could be called arrogance taken to the extreme. When Voldemort pushed open the stone door, the Death Eaters in the corridor all prostrated themselves. No one dared raise their heads. No one dared speak. Only suppressed, heavy breathing echoed through the air.
Bellatrix stood at the very front of the crowd. The eyes upon her blinked, shifted, watched, gazed in different directions, yet all held the same devotion and fanaticism. The instant she saw Voldemort emerge, all those eyes lit up at once, bursting with a dark red glow. "Master." She knelt, pressing her forehead against the cold floor. Her voice was low and hoarse, carrying that strange resonance, as though countless voices had overlapped into one.
Voldemort walked up to her and looked down. His scarlet eyes held no expression, no emotion—only an icy calm that was almost cruel.
"I have found Grindelwald's location," he said, his voice soft and dangerous.
Bellatrix abruptly raised her head, and all those eyes turned toward Voldemort. There was delight in her gaze, excitement, and an almost sickening craving.
"Where is he, Master? Let me go. Let me kill him."
Voldemort raised a hand and gently placed it atop her head.
All those eyes closed at once, as though savoring their master's touch. Her body trembled faintly, and dark red tears seeped from the slits of her tightly shut eyes, sliding down her cheeks.
"He is in Europe."
Voldemort spoke.
"In a remote town. He is badly wounded and weak,