"You have disobeyed the Dark Lord, little Slytherin. For that you must be punished," crooned Voldemort stroking Silwen's back like he stroked Nagini. In response, Silwen moved closer to the wall, trying to find an escape from his deathly fingers, but only ending up cornering herself.
"That is not true, my Lord. All I did was delay returning. I was going to return—and with the Elder Wand. You were the one who ruined your plans. Now the wand is safe with Harry Potter, and I pray to any existing god that it will stay there." Muscles tensing, she anticipated retribution for her words. When none came, she started to tremble so badly that her cot rattled faintly on the ground. Absence of punishment only meant that worse ones were were in store.
Voldemort went on. "I have arranged for a Dementor to visit you. Perhaps after the visit, you will be more cautious of your actions." With a jolt, Silwen lay still, shocked into immobility and silence.
"I will leave you to him then," he murmured, rising to his feet and leaving the room, his high, cold laugh reverberating inside of her.
As soon as he had left, cold that Silwen had thought impossible seeped into the room. Depleting every ounce of warmth that she had managed to gather. She lay like that, refusing to greet her new visitor, dreading what was coming. Fingers longer, bonier, more ominous than even Voldemort's picked up her face and held it, turning it towards his mouth. She forced her eyes to stay shut. "Expecto patronus!" she screamed hysterically, her wand arm instinctively rising. An empty arm. Empty words. No dove appeared to send the Dementor away. For once, what her uncle had taught her did not—could not help her without a wand in her fingers.
Sucking greedily, the Dementor kissed her, taking away her cherished memories, and soon, her soul. What frightened her even more was feeling her soul rising. Through her stomach, into her throat, and—everything stopped. "That's enough, Dementor!" barked a Death Eater's voice. Reluctantly, the Dementor let go of Silwen, his lips leaving her face, and departed silently.
He had not taken her soul. She was still alive—still in possession of several beloved memories—and whole.
Gasping for air, Silwen sobbed—half in relief, half in horror—and slowly, she gathered the memories that she still had around her, reliving them, letting them wash over her, heal her, and calm her down enough so she could sleep. She was alive. Parts of her were missing, but she was alive.
"Do not defy me again, little Slytherin," whispered a voice from the doorway. Too deep in her shallow sleep to respond, Silwen heard, but turned to her side, sinking a touch lower in her sleep, clinging to her soul inside her, where it belonged. Where it would stay.