Dearest Silwen,

I cannot even begin to say how worried I am about you. Scorpius is fine. Irate, he's not writing you till I explain what's going on. I don't think this resolution will last long. ... If you aren't home by Christmas holiday, I'll tell him the moment we arrive home from the station. He doesn't know about the divorce either. If you aren't home in a week, I will tell him about that, at least. Scorpius should know about it.

As the Master wishes, the divorce file is signed and taken care of. I had an attorney complete the paperwork. I-it's my fault. All of this! I am so sorry, love. There is nothing to forgive! Never! I love you. And once this is over, we will remarry. I swear it.

Names? Yours sound quite...unique. Yes, middle names for a boy or girl will be either "Lucius" or "Narcissa". For first names, I have a strong attraction to "Astoria," or perhaps, "Alistair." Please, Sil. I want to raise my daughter with you. I beg of you, behave until our child is born then the moment she or he starts to breathe, work on an escape plan. I know you can think of one!

The Master has a meeting planned for next week. He mentioned bringing you along as a cruel joke. I would love to see you, darling. Do you think you could come? Work is normal. No news there. I contacted a Doctor in worry of your pregnancy. The small kicks that sometimes hurt your ribs have gotten me anxious. Are you all right? Should I send him with the Master after the meeting?

Oh, here's Scorpius letter, just having arrived. Even for him, I thought his vow of not writing would go on longer.

I love you,
Draco.

P.S. Enclosed is a bit of chocolate. Cheer yourself up. I'm betting the Master isn't.

Softly, Silwen folded the letter and pressed it against her lips. His scent, and that of faint salt still lingered like an echo on the parchment. His slanted calligraphy, was scribbled over the paper, the ink still a touch wet. Maybe I'm closer to Draco than I think I am, she thought in a smile. Inside was another piece of parchment, unbelievably short and quickly torn off from a roll.

MUM!

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! You can't do this! It's my first year, and you have all this money from a lot of years of work so you don't have to go and abandon me and Dad, plus DAD has a fortune too! Besides, you're pregnant, and according to that horrible prig James Sirius Potter, you should stay in bed all day or the baby will die! ... So you can't go! I love you, school is good, Professor Longbottom doesn't really seem to like me that much, but I don't like him either. Defense Against The Dark Arts is brilliant, I'm the best student in there. Dad says I take after you. Do I?

I'm still angry at you,
Scorpius.

P.S. The cross is brilliant too! It's kept me from...all sorts of...danger. Thank you!

"Oh Scorpius. You always manage to make me smile," murmured Silwen after reading her son's scrambled letter. At least he was having a good time.

The letters had arrived early this morning, landing neatly on her bed covers with a tiny thump. A delicate nibble from Hermes had woken her up so he could be petted and scratched while she read. "Good Hermes," she had crooned, "such a good owl to come through the window and know how to push the window open." Of course, Silwen had taught Hermes this trick in case, at the Manor, a window wasn't open. After a few more croons, Silwen had then pointed Hermes to a perch the Master had placed in the room prior to her arrival, and told him to rest there until she wrote back.

It being still early in the morning, Silwen pulled her blankets up once more and fell asleep again. "I'll write tonight. I just need some rest right now," she told herself tiredly.

Tack! Crick! Creak! Crack! Soft noises growing louder tapped on Silwen's window. Her feet swung slowly over the side, and walked across the chilly wooden floor to the window. Luckily, the shackles allowed her to walk far enough to be able to see out of it.

"Good morning, Princess! How did you sleep?" called the Master from twenty feet below, dressed in a medieval prince's garb–a thick golden tunic with tight silver trousers underneath and high black leather boots on his feet.

"Not well, I'm afraid," she called back, her voice as cold as the floorboards.

"You may call me 'Henry' from now on," he said, chuckling at the frigidity of her tone. "And why didn't you sleep well?"

"The bed was...unsatisfactory."

Too tired from worry, her mind ignored the chuckle and ordered her feet back into her bed—her beautiful four-postered, red-curtained, centuries old, thick-mattressed, mahogany bed with pearly sheets and blushing pillows. It was more luxurious than hers at home. But it was lacking someone. And the red curtains, however beautiful, they only reminded her of blood. No doubt, that was why the Master had chosen such a color.

"I have not finished talking to you! Come back over and lean your pretty head out again, Ms. Prince."

He waited until her face reappeared. "What exactly bothered you? The curtains? The color? ... What are your favorite colors? I can be quite accommodating if you have my piece of paper, Silly."

"Green, blue, stone gray and dirt brown–the colors of a mountain stream. Here is your paper, Henry, all signed and perfect," replied Silwen, taking the divorce file out and letting float out the window. She watched it descend and rest on top of his waiting hand.

"Thank you, shall we address the shades of your bedroom colors?" he said, already starting to go inside and looking the parchment over.

Quickly, Silwen opened her closet and looked inside. Oddly enough, it was empty. She closed it and began running her fingers through her hair. Mid-yank, a soft yet compelling finger knocked on the door, instinctively drawing her attention to the Master entering her room. He dropped the package he was carrying onto the nightstand and, smirking, he walked over to her and took her hand out of her hair, holding it in his.

"Allow me," he said, gesturing for her to sit on the bed, "Go on, Silly, sit." From a pocket, he took a brush and when she had sat, her back to him, he started to tame her hair. To his irritation, Silwen's back was ramrod straight, and no matter harshly he pulled through her hair, she didn't wince, cry out or react at all. So she's learned composure. About time, he thought, pulling through a particularly knotted bunch of obsidian waves. "You haven't been brushing your hair. I will just have to do it for you every morning."

"No. I am perfectly capable of brushing my hair. However, due to...extenuating circumstances I've been unable to tend to my toiletterie," she replied through clenched teeth. His hands were soft and smoother than ice, she noticed when he brushed her skin to gather up more of her hair. "Henry, you're pulling to hard," she said idly, trying his new name for the first time. She didn't like it. It was too...romantic, too normal for someone like him. Speaking of romantic, that reminded her of Draco. The Master was going to see him next week. "I would like to go with you to your meeting next week," she murmured softly, loosening her back's muscles.

"Perhaps, Silly. How-of course. Darling Draco must have written to you about it. But aren't you curious about what I brought with me?" he asked, letting her hair fall down to her shoulders, fingering the ends thoughtfully. "I will allow you to come," began the Master, "if you will give me permission to cut your hair."

With a whirl, Silwen rose from the bed and faced him, glaring. "And if I say take me anyway?"

"Then I'll cut it off by force and I'll order you to stay here. Either way, I'm going to cut your hair now," responded the Master, taking a delicate pair of pure silver scissors out of his pocket. "Sit down on this stool, in front of the mirror, and hold yourself still," he ordered, motioning to a stool and vanity mirror that had suddenly appeared. "Don't get up until I am finished."

"You promise that if I allow you this, you'll let me come? You'll let me talk to Draco for an hour, alone?" she said sitting down on the wooden stool.

"So you are saying yes?"

Her face rigid, she nodded curtly. "Yes."

"I will give you an hour of privacy, not a second more. Now Silly, how short do you want it?"

"Keep it long," said Silwen, taking in a deep, half-relieved, half-worried breath. She had never cut her hair more than an inch.

"Close your eyes, Silly. Don't open them until I give word," ordered the Master, taking a muggle spray bottle and enchanted scissors in hand, watching her eyes close. "Don't try to open them once, keep them completely closed, please," he murmured as he began to wet her hair.

Her eyes closed, Silwen felt her head grow lighter and lighter with each snip when the Master started cutting. Judging by the weight loss, he was not keeping it long. Her hair was the price of seeing Draco, and she was much willing to pay. Yet despite her resolve, a few tears wormed themselves out of her eyes and down her cheek.

An hour of complete silence passed between them, the Master smirking as he snipped her hair away. Seeing her tears, he took a moment to brush them off, startled to watch her remain still at his touch. The girl truly had gained control over her emotions. He'd fix that soon. But now, it was her hair that he wanted. Her hair was needed to complete his final. A project that, if done correctly, would give him insight into her emotions and perhaps even thoughts, thoughts that she kept ever-so-carefully gaurded. Even before he had made her prescence known, the thing that he found remarkable with her was how, how controlled she had become.

With a last snip, he smiled at himself, self-satisfied. He fetched a blow-dryer and a straightener, then proceeded to style it into an adorable bob cut. Another grin escaped his lips as he imagined her stoic face crumble when she saw her ear-length hair. The cut was cute—ten years of beauty school had taught him that—and he wondered if Silwen would agree. Shaking his head, he marveled that he had spent ten years in such a place, just to learn how to do her hair. It was worth it, he thought, as he looked at her reflection. A new hair cut turned her look over quite nicely. All that was needed now was her wardrobe and her make up. When her ex-husband saw her, the Master would be sure that Mr. Draco Malfoy would hardly be able to recognize his wife. Perhaps I'll even give her colored contacts, he mused.

"I am finished. Open your eyes," commanded the Master, after he had smoothed down a few strays.

Preparing for the worst, Silwen opened her eyes and silently inspected her hair. Acutely, she felt the lack of locks not shielding her from prying eyes. Without her hair, she suddenly felt vulnerable, and with the Master as her master, this was not something she wanted. In front of him, she must be strong—or at least poised. No more trembling. Smiling, she looked at the Master's reflection and said, "Thank you. Now, I really must find something else to wear so if you'll be so kind as to step outside—"

"You will wear what is in that package," spat the Master, pointing. Again, the woman had refused to react. One day, he'd get something out of her and finally snap her spirit. "I will return in five minutes to see how it looks," he promised as he strode outside and shut the door.