At the doors, Silwen whispered quickly, "Draco. If you can, you must send an anonymous letter to McGonagall at Hogwarts telling her all of what you know! I'm getting the feeling they're planning to attack Hogwarts when I saw Carrow's face in the fireplace. Voldemort hates Carrow and wouldn't let him in on such a confidential mission if he didn't have to. Please. Can you? For me?"

Draco's eyes narrowed as the last chime for eleven o'clock sounded. "No. If I inform McGonagall, he'll know it was me and kill you or my parents." He held her close to him and muttered, "I won't lose you. And I won't even think about risking your life."

Stepping away from him, Silwen looked at him sadly. "Don't you understand? This war is more important than I am. More important than your parents. Are you willing to let the entire earth suffer because you won't give up crucial information? We could die any second here."

"Exactly. You could. But you aren't and you know that. The Dark Lord won't kill you, and as long as I do as he says, my parents live and vice versa."

"What happened to the Draco in the cottage, away from this mess? And your parents living free?"

A hollow laugh escaped Draco as clicking approached the doors' other side. "'Free?' None of us were free. My parents were buying supplies for him. I was in the cabin with an acquaintance of his...Spike. He's the one who brought me back to the manor! We've never left him. We've only messed up carrying out his plans."

Slumping against the doors, she stared, her eyes tearing up again. "Oh...Draco, I'm so sorry. I-"

Creak. Woosh. The doors swung open, and Silwen fell back. Instinctively, Draco tried to save her, but she had already been captured in surprisingly strong arms whiter than bones picked clean by vultures.

"My Lord," whispered Draco, bowing.

"Leave us," the Dark Lord smirked, dragging Silwen backwards and closing the doors with a kick.

Under the door came a soft whisper, "I love you."

"I love you, too. D-"

"Be quiet until I give you permission to speak!" he hissed. The arms clasped around her constricted even further, and she gasped. For someone over eighty, he still had a huge amount of strength. She struggled, fright giving her the force she needed to break free from his hold. Part of her wished to crawl under the table, and escape out the doors. But she didn't. She just stood there.

"Please, please, never do that again," she whimpered, her old terror returning. And then, she remembered her day. A glorious paradise. Quickly, she gained her composure.

"Some of my guests are...unhappy with your massages. Greyback was the most vehement, however, I fear that if I let him have you, you won't survive. But you will redo Spike's, Dr. Horrible's, and Mr. Cullen's massages."

Shivering, she nodded. "When?" she whispered, looking down.

"As soon as your hands are capable. How are they? Put them out. Let me inspect them."

Slowly, she brought her hands up, parallel to the floor, her fingers trembling.

Voldemort stepped toward her and took her hands in his, rubbing his thumb over them.

As if shocked, she jerked her head up and snatched her hands away.

"Put them back out and leave them until allow you to draw them back," he said smirking.

Her fingers returned to their position, but Voldemort merely looked at them. "Turn them over. Let me see your palms." When she showed him the perfectly healed skin, he sneered. "Well, it looks like that will be tonight. Once the other dismisses you, you will move on to the next one." Taking her hands, he returned to rubbing them, enjoying the pained look on her face. She murmured something inaudibly and backed into the table.

"What?"

"Please, please stop." Flashes of memories returned to her of his hands-cutting, clenching, hurting, always hurting-and she couldn't take it any longer. Her wand in her pocket was useless unless she had her fingers around it. Wand. That was a good thought. She concentrated on that as the Dark Lord chuckled coldly at her response.

"I have been informed that it is your birthday. I should have given you the l-" he broke off, staring at her neck, and then at what she was wearing. He let go of her, and she instantly dove under the table, emerging on the other side, dodging a Cruciatus Curse and running to the door. "You will not leave this room!" He shouted.

She skidded to a halt, shaking. He had noticed. Had noticed the shirt, muggle clothes, and the new locket. Now, how much longer do I have? she thought. In her pocket, she clenched her wand. Could she cast a spell, or had he forbidden it? Aguamenti! she nonverbally cast. Nothing. Aguamenti! she cast again, not paying heed to her surroundings, completely absorbed by her wand. Again, nothing. "Aguamenti!" she whispered.

A hand deliberately collided with her head, another one wrapped its fingers around her hair, her head suspended. She shrieked in pain.

"What have you got in your pocket?" he spat, letting go of her. Dropping to the ground, she curled around her pocket. Wet was spreading. Knowing she had only moments to act, she whispered inaudibly, "A wand."

Crouching down beside her, he forced her to sit up. "What?" he demanded through clenched teeth, pinning her shoulders against the wall on the other side. "A wand." Quick as a whip, she lifted it and muttered the incantation combination Uncle Severus had drilled into her, "Relashio!" A sudden force flew him away from her and she got up. "Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Accio wand!" What am I doing? I can't just fire hexes at him...And I can't kill him. "Incarcerus!" Cords wrapped themselves around Voldemort. It was quite rewarding seeing Voldemort trussed for a change. Uncle Severus would have been proud. She was very glad her uncle had made her practice those spells in quick continuity until they were perfect. Then she realized that once he was free...he'd murder her...or worse.

"What are you going to do now, little Snape? Do you think you have the bravery to avenge your uncle?"

Glaring at him, taunting him with his own wand, she walked over to him and said said, "I-I don't know. No."

"Then what is the purpose of this?"

Her voice laughed, full of hysteria. "None. It's a reflex."

"Get these ropes off now and hand me my wand, little Snape," he hissed, returning the glare.

She had never seen him so openly emotional. Yes, she had felt his glares and smirks, but never had they been written on his face. His mouth was contorted and pulled back into a demonic grimace, and his scorching eyes...I'm an idiot... She held her wand out, muttered the counter curse for Incarcerus, and tossed him his wand.

"Perhaps there's more Slytherin in you then I give you credit for. ... Crucio!"

Screaming, Silwen dropped to the floor, wand rolling to a corner, only to be picked up by Voldemort. Pounds on the door echoed through the room, and a faint shout of, "Silwen!" But she didn't hear anything else than her own anguished screams. For fifteen minutes, Voldemort held her under the curse.

Foolish girl. As if I wouldn't punish her. Punishments don't seem to work with her. And death is what she wants. Always she managed to infuriate him. More than Potter's escapes ever did. What would it take to break her spirit once and for all? Draco he might need still. He couldn't murder him. And simply punishing him wouldn't work either. A Dementor, he thought, surely, would have broken her, or her uncle's and elf's deaths! However, she still fought him in sporadic spurts. It was never consistent with her. Her fear mixed with hate and a silly loyalty to help Potter made her too unpredictable. He'd have to ask her. Force the answer from her lips with a simple question. He smirked to himself. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner.

Voldemort's musings done, he lifted the curse. "That will have to do...for now."

Beneath his feet, the floorboards shook all the way to where he was standing. The girl hadn't shaken so badly ever since the Dementor. Perhaps another taste of a Dementor's kiss, or more of the Cruciatus. I will have to see what her answer is. He decided to start with the easier questions.

"Where do your clothes come from?"

"N-narcissa g-gave th-them to me...S-she laid them out on my bed."

The Dark Lord waved his wand, and Silwen felt her body lift and sink onto the mahogany table. Delicately, his nails scraped the table's surface.

"Th-that's mahogany!" she whimpered, hating the scratching sound as it neared her face.

"Where does the locket come from? Where is the old one?"

Desperately, she tried to move as his nails softly fondled with her hair. "D-Draco. The o-other one is-is on the kitchen table unless D-Draco moved it." Sliding a hand under her neck, he unclasped the locket and opened it, smirking at the shudders emitted from her. Opening it, he found the new picture and the old one. He Summoned the old locket and opened that. The picture of her parents were still inside. Feigning love, he uncreased it and put it in the new locket, closed the new locket, and put it around her neck once more.

"How will I break your little spirit of rebellion?" he murmured in her ear, toying again with her hair.

She stiffened as if she'd been hexed by a Body-bind. "I-If...If Potter dies."

Leaning in closer, he asked, "Not Draco?"

"N-no...I-it's not Draco who can kill you," she whispered, closing her eyes so she didn't have to look at him.

"What else?"

"I-if you n-never let..." and she simply mouthed the words too quickly for him to get his answer.

"Speak normally, little Snape. What else? Tell me everything."

Tucking her knees in, she said clearly, "If you never physically let go of me. If one of your Death Eaters or 'guests' touches me for the rest of my life. If you kill Draco and his parents on top of that. Doing that or even torturing them alone won't 'tame' me." Her eyes became emerald ponds with a thin layer of ice holding the water inside. Yet she was forbidden from crying in front of him. A muted laugh echoed through the room.

"Get of the table."

Silwen obeyed, and knowing she couldn't stand, leaned on the table for support.

"Can you stand?" He knew the answer, but wanted to hear her say it. See the fear grow.

"No."

Elegantly, Voldemort put an arm around her back and the other under her knees and picked her up. However, he was shocked to see her faint. Scrutinizing her, he realized why mortals would find her attractive. Why he saw her as his. His possession, to use as he pleased. Ivory, flawless skin, lips redder than anger, thick, lustrous obsidian hair in waves, and a thin body. Perhaps too thin, he mused. He'd allowed her little to eat, and the hunger was eating away her shape into a stick. Carrying her, he could feel her ribcage easily.

Her eyes fluttered, saw his face and promptly shut. Eyes more naive than a child's eyes. Severus must have kept her away from everything. "I am taking you to Mr. Spike's room. You will do whatever he says. After Spike, you will go to Dr. Horrible's room, and then finish with Mr. Cullen." Silwen nodded, lying limply in his arms.

Once at the door, Voldemort let her out of his arms but maintained a grip on her forearm to keep her standing. Above his head, he conjured a potion, uncorked it, ordered her to tilt her head back and open her mouth. When she complied, he poured the contents down her throat and told her to swallow. Gagging, she gulped for air and swallowed, coughing.

"It was only a-"

"Strength potion," she finished for him.

Voldemort's eyes flared and he knocked, alerting Spike of her arrival. "You will behave yourself with him!" he hissed when the door opened.