Since he'd already given them their tearful reunion, Lucius forced mother and daughter to immediately begin the march back to his tent.

"Hurry up!"

A look behind him told Lucius that Theresa was leading her daughter along with an arm about her small shoulders and a hand clasped in hers, as though the child were some invalid she was leading to their sickbed. Lucius took Theresa by the wrist then; the girl shrieked and scurried along with her mother's other arm held firmly in her grasp. When they reached the tent, Lucius stopped, pulled back the tent flap, and shoved the other two inside before entering himself and shutting the flap closed again.

He watched Theresa fuss over her daughter, listened to her voice as it strained from holding back tears as she tried to appear strong for her child.

The girl—Theresa kept calling her Josie—was filthy. She stank of the place she'd been kept in, of the vomit, urine, and feces that had soiled the ground from beaten or sick captives, of having gone unwashed for nearly a fortnight. Out of pity, Lucius conjured a bowl of warm water which he set on the floor beside Theresa before dropping a clean rag into the water. Theresa lowered her daughter to a sitting position and gently washed the girl's face, swiping beneath her chin and over her neck, then cleaning the small hands and wrists as she pushed up the sleeves of the ragged jumper the girl was dressed in.

"Are you hungry, love? Do you want something to eat?" Theresa had dropped the now filthy rag into the now brown water and was running her hands over her daughters's lank hair and wan, drawn face with its hollowed cheeks.

Lucius looked at the table. There was no food as there sometimes was—they—he and Theresa—had eaten all of last night's leftovers for breakfast. Well, it was near enough to lunchtime, and there were always some sort of victuals to be taken from the food tent anyway. He left the tent without a word while making sure to stomp as loudly as possible.

He asked the witches who ran the food tent if there was any milk, which, to his surprise, there was. Then he remembered that an entire village had been raided for supplies. Whenever Lucius came to grab something to eat, he always stuck with the same bread and fruits that they'd given out in the days before the full-scale raids. Lucius returned to the tent with far more substantial nourishment than the bread, bruised pears, and mealy apples from before.

Theresa was sitting on the floor with her daughter in her lap as though she were a much younger child than of thirteen years. The girl was snuggled into her mother's breast while she was rocked gently from side to side. Theresa looked up as he walked to the table and set out some of the food—more bread, but with butter this time; sugar; tea; biscuits; kippers; cheese; and strawberries.

Lucius wasn't sure how to describe Theresa's expression—it held a mix of what looked to him like worry, relief, fear, and even a sprinkling of hope. That last one he might have to watch out for on her behalf—keep her perspective in the real world, like.

Lucius did not speak to Theresa and refrained from allowing his expression to show much. He grabbed the packaged biscuits and the bottle of milk, walked over to the pair, which sent the girl scrambling from her mother's lap to hide behind her. Lucius made no comment but simply handed the food to Theresa. He looked the girl over again, and she, in turn, cringed and hid her face in her mother's back.

Lucius retreated to the table for his own meal, letting the two alone as Theresa watched her daughter eat, then stopped her from her drinking all of the milk in one go.

Lucius had asked one of the Snatchers how they fed the prisoners— "Leftovers; and food what ain't fit for your kind."

So that was why they'd been asked to throw their uneaten and unwanted food outside of their tents.

"Trez."

She looked up at him rather nervously.

"That's enough for her, now—she might get sick."

Theresa's eyes widened. "She's hungry, Lucius!"

"I know that, woman." He'd gotten up now. "But that's likely the richest food she's had in many days; she can have more—and better food—later. She needs to bathe. Here—" He conjured a goblet and filled it with water— "give her that."

Theresa watched silently as he walked over to the spot between the bed and the tent wall where they usually bathed, conjured the metal tub, filled it with hot water, and added a rag, a bar of soap, and a bath sheet, which he placed on the bed. He turned back to the pair still sitting on the floor. Lucius raised an expectant eyebrow.

"You can't be in here," Theresa said simply.

Lucius blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Theresa gazed steadily at him, silently pleading with her eyes. Her daughter was clutching at her arm; she watched Lucius through eyes wide with fright.

"I'll be gone for a couple of hours. Don't put those clothes back on her—throw them behind the tent so I can burn them later! I'll find her something better."

He returned two hours later and tossed a number of plain robes onto the bed. None of them were particularly suited to the girl's small size, but they were what he'd scrounged up from the laundry tent, where yet more of the Death Eaters' wives or other female allies ran things and commanded captives forced to work under them.

The girl—who'd shifted nearer her mother as he entered the tent—was now properly clean, wrapped snuggly in the great bath sheet he'd provided. Lucius saw for the first time how much she resembled her mother, though her eyes were less tilted, and an ambery shade of hazel. Her hair would turn mousy like her mother's one day, but for now it was sandy blonde and brown. He also noticed she was nibbling a hunk of bread whilst sat on the bed.

"She can't eat at the table like a human being?" Lucius grumbled at Theresa. The woman actually placed an arm across her daughter as though he'd threatened to choke the girl with the bread.

"Get her dressed. Then come outside. I need to talk to you."

While she hurried to do as commanded, Lucius stepped back outside. When Theresa opened the tent flaps to join him, he heard the girl whimper for her.

"I'll only be right here, my love."

Lucius gestured for Theresa to follow him some feet away from the tent.

"So, Mother, how does she look?"

"W-what do you—mean?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that! In case you've forgotten, I took you specifically for your age. What I mean is how does she look health-wise physically, and don't you dare be coy about anything. If she's spoken to you, I want to know what she said."

He watched a shadow pass over Theresa's face. She inhaled slowly, deeply, and exhaled as though she were trying to exorcise something dark.

"She was bruised all over."

"Did you remember the bruise paste?"

Theresa nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Good. Where would you say she was injured the most?"

Theresa closed her eyes for a moment.

"Did they . . . did they rape her?"

Theresa opened her eyes. "No. But they—she told me they undressed her."

Wanted to see how much she was worth, suspected Lucius.

"Some of the Snatchers, she said," whispered Theresa in a shaky voice, confirming Lucius's thought. "She said they touched her down there. . ."

So, they had checked. Lucius nodded to show he understood.

"She had—two big bruises on her chest . . . She said—one of the Snatchers asked her where her tits were, and so he—he kicked her on both sides—" Theresa's voiced became choked as she gestured to one of her own breasts, and then the other.

"How do you know she hasn't been—touched?"

"I asked her. She told me they threw her out of the hut where some older girls were because she couldn't stop crying. I think she saw—them—" Theresa swallowed and looked away from him. "I think she saw them raping other women, though."

The silence that now hung between them was tense and tasted of something harsh and bitter.

"Does she have any other injuries—all her bones look alright? Good. What about lice—or any other parasites? Places like that are breeding grounds for that sort of thing."

"I know that. She doesn't have lice. I don't know if there's anything else wrong with her."

"And her chest? Did it heal with the bruise paste? Does she breathe normally?"

"I—yes, I think so."

"Well then. . ." Lucius was unsure how to end his line of questioning.

"She needs underwear."

"What?"

"Josephine. You didn't bring her any underwear."

Lucius would have retorted that Theresa herself seemed to get along fine wearing no underwear at all, but thought better of it. It probably was better if the girl was fully clothed.

Lucius made sure to sigh as loudly and as exasperatedly as he could. "Alright. I'll see about it at another time."

"Thank you, Lucius."

"'Thank you, Lucius!' I say, I do like the sound of that!"

He chucked Theresa under her chin and led her back to the tent.

As he'd said he would, he burned the girl's old clothes behind the tent.

He spent most of the afternoon inside perusing a book on ancient magic that had been taken in a raid, and stealing glances at the girl, Josephine. While he was present, little Josephine did not speak. She avoided looking at him and would not go near him.

Theresa continually fed her daughter small bits of the various foods Lucius had brought, and, so far, the girl seemed capable of taking it all. Children were strong like that.

Mostly, the two lay on the bed holding each other. Lucius would catch movements from the corner of his eye, Theresa stroking Josephine's hair and back, adjusting the too-big robe even as the girl lay down. He supposed he would have to find some belts or sashes along with under things.

At dinner, Theresa asked him if he would conjure a plate. He did and felt awkward about it because he'd been eating directly off the surface of the table since his tent had been erected and furnished. Fucking war—it did things to one's manners. And then Theresa put bread, some strawberries, a few fish from the tin Lucius was currently eating out of, picked up the half-full milk bottle he'd charmed to stay cold and fresh, and said to Josephine, "Why don't we eat outside, love? It's nice out there."

Lucius wondered if she'd noticed the glare he followed her with as they stepped out.

While he ate, he heard Josephine ask her mother, "Where's daddy?"

"Trez!" Lucius had decided he was full. Without waiting, he strode to the tent flaps and wrenched them open. Directly in front of him sat Theresa, who looked surprised, and Josephine, who had latched onto her mother's arm.

"Get in here."

"But—"

"I said 'get in here,' didn't I, Trez?"

Theresa blinked a few times, swallowed, and stood up; Josephine stood with her, holding her mother's hand with her dinner plate in the other. . .

"No, just you," he said to Theresa.

"What?"

"She stays, you come inside and help me. . ."

Understanding dawned on Theresa's face. Lucius nodded. That's right—my back isn't going to wash itself, is it, sweetheart?

Theresa reassured her daughter that she would return to her soon, but Josephine was clearly worried.

"Sit back down, lass! Your mother will be right in here!" And he pulled Theresa in with him and shut the flaps closed.

"Please, Lucius—"

"I'm sure the sooner my back is scrubbed, the sooner you'll be with your daughter."

He conjured the tub and the steaming water, a rag and a bar of soap, just as he always did, and bent to remove his shoes. But this time, when he straightened up, he told her to undress him. As she did, she kept looking over her shoulder at the closed flaps of the tent.

He hadn't even adjusted to the hot water yet when Theresa picked up the flannel wash rag to wet it and start on his back.

"I've just sat down, Trez. Let me relax a bit!"

He laid back in the tub and let his hands rest on the sides.

Theresa sighed—she'd actually just sighed! Who did she think she was?

"Bring me some wine."

She went to the table, filled his goblet, and brought it to him without a word. She knelt beside him again with an air of wanting to get up and leave. He took a slow, leisurely sip and tilted his head back over the rim of the tub.

The air between them became permeated with her impatience. Lucky for her that the rim was digging into the back of his neck, then (it wasn't actually a comfortable position). As soon as he straightened, Theresa perked up a little; he saw her reach for the soap. . .

"I haven't even finished my wine, Trez! Dear me, but what's gotten into you tonight?"

She sat back on her heels then, but the way she looked at him with her mouth held taught as though she were angry, and her eyes wide with some sort of hurt—Lucius didn't know what to make of it. She was an infinitely patient, retiring sort of woman, but he could see he was trying her now. He wondered what she was like when she grew angry.

"Get the back of my neck, will you?"

As she scrubbed him, she continued looking back to where her daughter sat just outside.

"A little firmer there, Trez . . . that's good. Do the tops of my shoulders. . ."

She was barely glancing at him, now.

"Ow! You're going to scrub the skin off my back, woman!"

Theresa flinched and withdrew the rag from his flesh. "Sorry."

Lucius quirked an eyebrow. Had she ever apologized to him for any little thing before? He stared at her a moment—she actually did look a bit sorry, and nervous besides.

"Give me that." He held out his hand for the rag, snatching it from her and making her flinch again.

"Get lost."

Theresa hastily returned to her daughter.

Not long after he'd finished drying himself, his Mark burned and he left for the meeting, snapping at the two to get back inside when he exited the tent.

He returned an hour later to find them entwined on the bed, the girl clearly in the midst of drifting off until he came in. He removed his Death Eater robes, pulled out his wand, and duplicated the bedclothes, which he then rolled and folded into a passable pallet on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Of course, Theresa joined her daughter on the pallet, leaving Lucius rolling his eyes and punching his pillow a little harder than was necessary to fluff it up before laying his head down to sleep.

He woke earlier than usual, and a young girl's whispers proved to be the cause.

"Mammy . . . Mammy . . ."

"Yes, my love?"

"Are we going home?"

The silence from Theresa pierced even Lucius's gut.

"Mammy, can we go home?"

"I'm sorry, love. . . We have to stay here for now."

"Will Da come and save us?"

Uh-oh.

He heard Theresa's shaky breath as she prepared to tell her daughter the truth. Then he thought he heard her rising from the pallet.

"Let's go outside my love."

He listened as they crept around the side of the tent, to the back, then to the edge of the forest not a dozen feet away.

Through the tent's black canvas, Lucius listened as Theresa revealed to Josephine that her father was no longer alive, and as she tried gently to shush the girl's high, muffled keens—she must have pressed her daughter's face against her bosom.

That day proved to be what Lucius hoped would be the worst—for both his own sake and the sake of Theresa. The girl's too, really.

When he'd dressed and stuck his head around the tent to see where they were an hour after they'd crept out, he saw the girl sitting against a tree with her cheeks in her palms, her face awash with denial and heartache. Theresa sat quietly beside her.

Throughout the morning, Lucius would hear the intervals of silence broken by Josephine crying, begging, pleading, and demanding. She cried for her father, their situation, her desire to escape. She begged Theresa for them to run away (Lucius was glad that Theresa was smart enough to discourage such foolishness).

"Mammy, I don't want to stay here. Why do we have to stay with him? I want—I want daddy. . .!"

"I know, Josie love, I know. . ."

Lucius thought the worst parts for Theresa must have been when her daughter demanded to know—in the upset, petulant way a child asks for answers when they cannot yet comprehend them—why they were with Lucius. The silences after these questions might have revealed the answer to Josephine if she were older, or more worldly. Instead, her mother's blank responses only seemed to frustrate her.

"I want daddy to come and get us!" She wailed at one point.

"I know Josie . . . I know."

"Why are we here with that man?"

Really, what could Theresa say to her child? What do you say, how can you say to your terrified child that you are a sex slave?

Since the girl was too upset to go to the tent for lunch, Lucius finished his meal alone and called to Theresa that he would be gone an hour or two. When he looked back, Theresa seemed to be having better luck coaxing her daughter up to go inside.

He went to the laundry tent and grabbed as many drawers and slips as he could find that might fit the girl. When he returned, he could hear through the closed flaps that Josephine was trying, once again, to convince her mother that they should run away—at that very moment, in fact. He was gone! He wasn't there to stop them! They should just go, Mammy—just walk through the Dark Forest—

Lucius entered the tent. The girl gasped in fright and hid against her mother.

"Here." Lucius handed the underclothes to Theresa, who looked at him with wide eyes. She knew he'd heard her daughter.

"Come outside a moment. I need to talk to you—no, only you." The girl had gotten up to follow her mother.

Beside the tent, Lucius told Theresa sternly, "Stop any thoughts that girl has of running away, now—I know, Trez—I know you are smart enough not to do so, but if you don't make her see sense, and she tries to run by herself, through this camp—well, I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you."

"I'll tell her, Lucius."

"See that you do. So, Josephine is her name, then?"

"Well . . . yes. . ."

"A pretty girl."

"She is," agreed Theresa.

"She looks like her mother."

Theresa looked down and blushed.

"You know I enjoy your modesty, Trez."

"Lucius—"

"A pretty girl is a stupid girl, my mother use to say. But since she looks like you, and you are not stupid, your daughter must also not be stupid. Am I correct in my assessment?"

Theresa nodded. "Josephine is a smart girl—"

"She had better be. Now, I'm going out for a few hours. You make sure her head is set straight."

By dinner time the girl had calmed enough to eat but would not go to the table where Lucius sat. Theresa, of course, sat on the floor with her daughter to eat—quite apart from him. Lucius finished his meal alone (again) and pretended he couldn't have cared less.

When the time he usually had his bath approached, Theresa asked him quietly, while Josephine was distracted peering outside into the dusk, if he would bathe alone that evening. She didn't want the girl to know about her bathing him, Lucius suspected.

He turned around and conjured the tub, began to fill it with water.

"Please, Lucius—"

"Fine. Get out before I throw you out—for good."

He glanced over at Josephine, who was still half in, half out of the tent to look about. He turned away from Theresa, shaking his head and muttering just loudly enough for her to hear him say, "Thirteen thousand galleon virgin, and I'm not even fucking her."

She'd seen the irritated glances he threw at her daughter, felt the vexation that radiated off of him like a vapor.

Theresa was grateful that Lucius had found her daughter and, albeit grudgingly, taken her in. But she knew also that Lucius was no saint—far from it—the opposite in fact. Just as he could do as he wished with Theresa without anyone's interference, so too could he abuse, threaten, sell, trade, or kill Josephine as he pleased.

When he returned from a meeting later that night, she knew from the sound of his breathing and the way he stopped near them before going to his preferred side of the bed that he was, again, displeased to find her on the pallet with Josephine.

She listened as he undressed, and as soon as she heard him pull the covers over himself, Theresa carefully disentangled herself from her daughter's grasp, strong even in sleep. She walked to the side of the bed where he would be and pulled her robe over her head. She found his arm in the darkness, felt his hand close over her elbow as he pulled the sheets back for her. She straddled him and led his hands to her breasts. After a moment she bent forward so that he could take one of her nipples into his mouth. When he seemed ready for something else, she slid down him. She held his cock in her hand, kissed and caressed his belly above the hairline of his crotch until his breaths became more staccato and the hand he'd rested on her shoulder more insistent in its twitching and kneading. She looked up at him through the darkness and, as meekly as she could, begged him to remember her daughter was there. "Shhhh . . . Shhhh. . ."

He tapped her shoulder to show that he understood, and she thought she heard his head brushing the pillow as though he were nodding. With that reassurance, she took him in her mouth and sucked, licked, and swallowed for all she was worth until he came with his back arching and his breath hissing through his teeth.

He held her against him after, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and played with her hair while she rested her head against his chest. She hoped she had satisfied him—he'd sounded satisfied!

Lucius pressed his lips against her ear, whispering, "Does she sleep well?"

"Yes?"

"That's good. She's lucky."

"Lucius?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry that I haven't thanked you for getting her."

He tugged one of her nipples playfully. "You just did!"

"Oh. . ."

He huffed a little laugh at her. She heard him lick his lips.

"I'm thirsty. . ."

He patted her shoulder to signal that she should move. She was surprised when a very dim light revealed their nearest surroundings. She saw Lucius squint across the shadowy tent before he summoned the bottle of wine and his goblet. He offered her a drink first and she sipped gratefully, swishing the wine around her mouth before swallowing it and taking another sip before handing it back to Lucius.

They listened to Josephine's soft snores until she coughed and fell silent so that only her deep, even breaths permeated the tent. In the dim light he'd cast, Theresa observed Lucius: he looked content, restful.

"Lucius?"

"Hm?"

"Can I ask you something serious?"

"I suppose you can."

She looked towards the foot of the bed, beyond which her daughter slept. "I—I don't know what to tell her—when she asks me about—why I'm here. . ."

"I see."

Theresa tensed a little. She wasn't sure how he would react to such a question. What if he took it as some sort of insult?

"You mean about your being in my bed, yes?"

That was one way to put it.

"Yes."

"Come here."

He wrapped an arm around her waist as she closed what little space they'd had between them.

"You ought to tell her the truth."

Theresa felt nothing short of alarm at the idea, but Lucius shook his head.

"What I mean is," he continued, "you belong to me, and you have to do as I tell you. That is what you tell her. Nothing need be added." He was not harsh as he spoke, but solemn and matter of fact. "She'll figure out what I do with you sooner or later."

What he did with her, not to her, Theresa noted. Even through all the shame and self-hatred she felt from her new life, she knew better which preposition was the more accurate one. Though, she supposed a mere change in tone could change the intent behind the phrase that contained either one.

"Does that help?" Lucius asked.

"Yes. I think it does. Thank you, Lucius."

"Mmmm. . . What else?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What else would you like to ask me? You're very talkative tonight. . ." purred Lucius.

"I. . ."

He touched the rim of the goblet to her lips—Theresa supposed he thought she needed to be loosened up. She helped him tip the wine into her mouth so that she didn't choke on too much, licked her lips, and decided to ask him precisely why he'd bought (the word made her shudder a little) Josephine.

"Lucius—may I ask you why—"

"Mammy. . .?" Mammy. . .?" Josephine's shaky voice rang through the tent. Lightning-quick, Lucius blacked the dim light he'd created, withdrew his arm from around her waist, and laid down while Theresa scrambled over the bed to her daughter.

"I'm right here Josie."

Josephine relaxed into her arms, but after a moment, asked in a confused, anxious tone, "Mammy . . . why are you naked?"