He didn't tie her up, but he certainly didn't want to hear any more of her request.

Later, when Lucius called her over to his bath to help him as usual, Theresa found herself opening the tent flaps and sitting outside without a word to him.

An hour or so later, she returned to find him on the bed with only a towel covering his lower half, as though he'd been too hot from the bath and had simply flopped onto the covers to let himself air dry. He said nothing as he watched her with narrowed eyes. Theresa turned away from him, removed her belt, left her robe on, and lay on her side, facing away from him. She heard Lucius remove the towel after a few minutes; he came closer to her, tried to turn her to face him, but she jerked her shoulder from his grasp. Theresa didn't know why she defied him now. It might have been despair over her daughter, or it could have been anger at Lucius for who and what he was to her, maybe both. Or perhaps she was simply in the initial stages of going numb, of falling into a mindset where she didn't think or feel. How much anguish could a person take?

But then Lucius wrenched her onto her back and Theresa felt her heart lurch. In another second he was straddling her stomach and scrabbling for her wrists while she desperately tried to keep them from his grasp. With her hands soon pinned on either side of her, Theresa's fear of Lucius, of her entire situation, came rushing back in a sickening wave. She closed her eyes so that she wouldn't have to see whatever rage had overtaken him. She was shaking so hard her teeth nearly chattered.

"Open your eyes, Theresa."

She wished she didn't whimper so.

"Open your fucking eyes and look up here."

As usual, Theresa finally did as she was told.

He bore his gray eyes into her fear-filled russety ones. He said nothing to her, which became as frightening as a spoken threat or a pull on her arm towards the bed at night. She shut her eyes again and he yanked her up by her wrists. He released the left one from his grip when she cried out and tried to pull it towards her. He stroked the top of her head, and now she worried he would yank at the hair there—he already did that sometimes, and it hurt more than she'd thought it would.

He scoffed at her. "You're always a quaking thing, aren't you? Like a little animal—like a mouse or a rabbit."

What could she say to that? He wasn't exactly wrong, was he? She shivered and held back whimpers as he continued his gentle stroking of her hair, even as he held her other wrist in a grip that would leave it bruised for a couple of weeks; the other she held tightly to her chest.

"So, Mizz Mouse, what is it that's got you disobeying me all of a sudden? If it's about—oh, I swear—if it's about your husband—wait—it was your daughter last time, wasn't it? If it's about one of them, again. . ."

Two large tears spilled onto Theresa's cheeks. How could he do this to her? How could he expect her to just give up and shut her mouth about her remaining child? Hopefully remaining child. He couldn't even allow her to find out if Josephine was simply alive or not?

"Well? What is it?" He gave her another impatient shake.

"Please. . ."

"Please' what?"

"My baby . . . my baby. . ."

Now he fisted his hand in her hair.

"My daughter. . ." Her tears came hard and fast now. "I'll do anything. . ."

He shoved her so hard against the headboard, she almost blacked out. Perhaps she would have lost consciousness if she hadn't realized he was conjuring a familiar length of cord. . .

Lucius tossed her onto her stomach and pulled her hands behind her back, but only after he'd wrapped the now doubled-up cord around her throat. Once he had her bound as before, he stood up and pulled her down the bed, just enough so that her head passed over the edge and she was looking at the floor. Theresa did not understand—not at first. Finished, Lucius put a robe on, walked to the little table, sat down with a sigh, and poured himself some wine.

His reason for positioning her as he did became apparent when Theresa tried to lower her head and neck—the cord began to strangle her, but where before she'd been on her side with her head resting on the bed, this time, the only way to prevent the cord from tightening was to hold her head and neck aloft. . .

"Don't move. Stay just like that."

. . . and this time, he was going to stick around to make sure she suffered.

There was no clock in the tent, and the only watch between them was worn by Lucius, so Theresa didn't know how long it had been when he got up to crouch before her—long enough for him to have sat comfortably, without growing bored, to watch her.

He looked into her face, and she pled with her eyes to be released—already, speaking felt like a near impossible prospect.

Lucius didn't smirk, sneer, or scoff. He stood up silently and went to the small chest where he kept his clean clothes. After dressing more thoroughly, he combed his hair and pulled on his shoes.

He wasn't gone long. When he returned, Theresa could see that he'd brought more bread and a small package of some other food. She'd learned from Lucius that there was a food tent largely run by some of the Death Eaters' wives—ones who'd shown up before or during the first battle. Lucius had told her that a few captured witches and wizards had been made to work in the food tent, cooking, baking, and magically increasing the food the Dark Lord's army now consumed.

He sat down and ate his supper, continued to watch her struggle to keep her head up. Her neck now felt like a wooden plank, and her head a great heavy ball set too close to one end. Just when she considered letting her neck dip just a bit, and to allow the cord to strangle her just a bit to give herself some kind of relief, she felt herself being pulled back up the bed.

Lucius cut the cord to release her neck and untied her wrists, sending wave after wave of relieve through her body.

He stated simply, "That was only an hour."

He sat her up and gave her a goblet filled with water. When she'd drank what she could, he led her by the shoulders to the table so she could eat. He sat across from her, sipping wine. At one point, he got up to retrieve something from the drawer in the bedside table. He returned holding the jar of bruise paste. He applied it wordlessly to the purpling flesh of her wrists where he'd held her down earlier, then, to her surprise, to her neck. She hadn't realized there were any marks left by the cords. The only mirror in the tent was a small, square thing that had been stuck to the tent wall above his clothes chest, which was where he usually stood to shave. Theresa never looked into it.

"I know that you're a mother, you know. I could see it the first time I undressed you."

From across the table, Theresa could only stare at him. He himself was looking elsewhere in the tent, and definitely not at her.

"So, how many was it—or shall I guess?"

Her mouth had fallen open. Why was he asking her this now? If it was to torture her. . .

"Wha—I—"

He set his goblet down with an irritable smack and glared at her. "I'll give you one minute to tell me about your half-blood offspring—unless you've suddenly changed your mind about ever bringing them up to me—"

"No!"

"Start, then. One minute."

"M-my daughter—"

"I asked you how many you've had, first."

God, but he was a cruel man.

"Two!" The number wrenched her insides. She only had one now. Oh, Jeremy!

"A boy and a girl. My son is dead—" She was surprised that it didn't kill her to say that, but she was afraid of how few seconds she might have left for Josie.

"My daughter was taken when I was, I don't know where she is, I have to know where she is, please! I'll do whatever you want—"

"Shut. Up. Your minute's not even done, but shut up. Merlin, woman! You didn't even bother with their names!"

Theresa closed her eyes as a sea of tears leaked onto her cheeks. "My son is dead! I don't know where my husband is—and my girl might still be alive!"

Lucius sat in silence as she sobbed. After a while, he slapped his hand on the surface of the table to catch her attention. She forced herself to quieten.

"That is not my problem—don't you start wailing again! You see, I don't just sit on my arse all day until I decide I want to fuck you; I have a job to do here, and problems of my own. You expect me to just go around the camp or the whole of Hogsmeade searching for your little chit?"

"She was captured! She must be in the camp—in the camp!" Suddenly, Theresa couldn't speak. It was the first time she'd said out loud where she'd thought Josie to be, though she'd certainly thought it the past several days. If her daughter was, indeed, in this camp, then what was being done to her?

The look on Lucius's face was one of pure iron. "There are all kinds of families that've been separated throughout this. You're far from the only mother missing her children."

If only I were.

Lucius stood up but did not go anywhere. Theresa could not—would not—let this go. No. She was Josephine's mother. Whatever she had to do to make sure her daughter was safe, she was going to do it, because that was her job.

Slowly, Theresa stood as well. She moved her hands to her belt and removed it, swallowing back more sobs. Then she began to lift her robe.

"Oh no you don't . . . you're not getting anything from me with any of that."

She ignored him and pulled her only cover from her body and dropped it, and then herself, to the floor.

Theresa crawled towards Lucius until she reached his feet. Then she bent her lips to the tops of his shoes and kissed one, then the other, repeating the motion until he suddenly backed away, towards the opening of the tent, and left.

It was just as well that he'd left. Not a minute after he'd stumbled from the tent to walk down to the lake—or wherever—his Mark began to burn.

The great clearing that had been created at the Dark Forest's edge was hung with an enormous black canopy that allowed no light to filter in from above. The table that was conjured for these meetings was a hollowed circle. Gaps at two side intervals allowed for any Death Eater who was so bidden to slip into the circle of his seated peers. No one was forced into the center tonight, nor did the meeting reveal any news to speak of.

Lucius once again sat beside his master. He'd regained the privilege and held onto it for all he was worth, for he'd learned, in the worst ways possible, that he, Lucius Malfoy, could in fact be viewed as expendable.

There were fewer Death Eaters than there had been before the battle. Two were prisoners within the school, while others were dead—Bellatrix and even her husband, Rodolphus; Nott, whose aging body could no longer react as swiftly as before; and Wormtail, though he'd died before the battle. Greyback had either been captured or killed—no one really cared which. Snape—somehow, Snape hadn't managed to evade capture.

The meeting had ended—mostly—it wouldn't be officially done until the Dark Lord dismissed them all. For now, Lord Voldemort was in conversation with Yaxley; the others at the table too were in various discussions with one another. Lucius heard someone mention prisoner exchanges, though the Dark Lord continued to hold back from accepting any of the castle's proposals to negotiate.

He let his thoughts wander back to Theresa, and the thing she had done that made him walk out of his tent when he'd had no previous plans to do so.

And suddenly, it came to Lucius—an idea as uncertain and trepidatious as a kiss atop his shoes—but an idea none the less.

"My Lord, forgive me, but might I beg an audience with you later tonight?"

The Dark Lord regarded him momentarily, then announced to the rest of the Death Eaters that they were to leave.

Though he was allowed to sit beside his master, Lucius knelt as he explained his idea—his idea for exchanging, not prisoners, but information, by counting on the weak hearts of their enemies—though not information that would necessarily be of use to the Dark Lord, and forgive him his selfishness, Master, but he, Lucius, was of course, still desperate for news of his son.

Lucius didn't think he'd ever run so swiftly in his life. When he reached his tent, he threw the flaps open in a burst of urgency, startling Theresa from her spot on the bed. She was still nude—probably, she'd expected he might want her after his return.

"Get dressed. And hurry about it." He picked up her robe from where she'd dropped it before her act of supplication and threw it at her.

As soon as she was dressed, he grabbed her arm and they set off, outside, towards the castle.

Lucius's strides were purposeful and determined , but Theresa, far smaller than him and quite frightened, had to be pulled up from the ground twice before he realized he could have her go ahead of him.

"Keep walking! I'll tell you when to stop. And—not that I won't catch you immediately—don't you dare try to escape."

He guided her across the grounds, occasionally shoving her from behind when she didn't move fast enough. Eventually, they made it to the guarded perimeter at one side of the castle.

"Who are you?!"

Lucius wasted no time in stating his name and the purpose of his visit.

"I'm here to exchange information!"

"What do you mean by 'exchange information?' We need more specifics than that!"

"I want to trade information about my son for information about this woman's husband!" He pulled Theresa, who was now thoroughly stunned, to stand in front of him. "She's one of our prisoners!"

The head guard gestured for Lucius to wait. He spoke to his partner, who in turn spoke to another guard. The head guard returned his attention to Lucius.

"Who is the woman?"

Lucius tapped Theresa on the shoulder to get her attention. "What's your husband's name?"

"Roman—Roman Conroy!"

Lucius looked at the guard and shouted across the sixteen feet of space between them, repeating Theresa's words.

"What information do you want to exchange?"

"I want to know about my son, Draco Malfoy!"

Theresa whipped her head around to stare at him. He hadn't told he was a father. Why would he? He continued calling to the guard, "I want to know if he's alive in there! She—" he gave Theresa a slight shake— "needs to know if her husband is in the castle, as well!"

"How the hell is that an exchange?"

"If her husband is alive, you can tell him that his wife is alive, also!"

The guard seemed to consider this, then nodded, shouting back, "I need her name!"

"Theresa!" Then, to make it even more provable, he added, "She's a Muggle!"

The guard seemed a little taken aback, but called his second to him, relayed the information, and soon Lucius was told to wait as a different guard rushed inside the castle.

In the meantime, Lucius kept his hands on Theresa's shoulders, in case she should feel emboldened and make a bolt for freedom in the guards' arms. They'd take her too, without a single question, Muggle-lovers that they were. It took him a while to notice that as time passed, Theresa had begun to quake. He supposed he couldn't blame her, but if she thought for one second that he gave a damn about—

"Malfoy!"

It was McGonagall. Lucius thought his heart might plummet. If McGonagall herself was here to tell him about Draco, did that bode ill?

"Your son is all right! He is alive!"

It was as if an invisible, thousand-pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

McGonagall continued, "He is being kept in a dormitory in his House! He is treated well! He is missing you!"

Lucius swallowed. He wasn't sure if Draco knew his mother had died or not. If he was yet unawares, then Lucius wanted to be there when the boy was told.

"Lucius! Is there something you want me to say to him?"

He had to clear his throat before replying, "Tell him I came looking for him!"

McGonagall nodded, turned on her heel, and headed back to the castle. As she left, the head guard from before took her place. Oh yes . . . Theresa's husband. . .

The guard made a gesture for Theresa to come closer. Absolutely not!

"Don't you move a single step," he warned her. To the guard, he simply shouted, "No!"

The guard paused for a moment, looking slightly uncomfortable. Something told Lucius the news was not good. He didn't look at Theresa, whom he had pushed to his side while he spoke with McGonagall, though a quick glance told him she was clenching her fists in a bid to quell her anxiety.

Finally, the guard gathered his nerve and shouted across the little strip of no-man's-land, "Roman Conroy is dead! He was killed in the first battle!"

She'd stood there like a statue while Lucius watched an unfathomable expression shadow her face. Her mouth had set itself in a grim line, and her eyes widened in an unblinking, unfocused stare.

He took her by the elbow—albeit more gently this time—and guided her back to the tent. Not once did she break down into tears as he expected her to. His plan then was to let her release her grief for several minutes, then he would say soothing words and coax her along again. With the good news he'd just received, he had patience to spare for the night.

But Theresa did not collapse in grief until they'd entered the tent, and even then it took her a minute. Perhaps it simply hadn't really hit her until now, or perhaps she'd been afraid that any great lamentations from her would anger him. Whatever the reason, she was now weeping into her hands, rocking back and forth on her knees.

He did not like witnessing her grief—did not like hearing it. It crowded him, there, in his tent where he kept her and used her and held her life in his hands.

So he left, and began to walk towards the far portion of the camp, where their allies who were not Death Eaters were obliged to live. He walked to where that great half-breed had once lived in the rugged little hut, which now housed the younger, prettier captives that had been found after the battle, or else taken from the village. Knowing his son was alive and whole had lifted a shield from some of Lucius's other senses, curiosity being one of them. Yes, he was feeling curious, now.

As soon as the Snatchers who were on guard recognized him, they allowed him to do as he wished, asking him if he required assistance.

"Not—" Did he? "Not Quite yet."

The Snatchers dipped their heads to show their respect. Still, one ventured, "Do you want to see the nice ones? Inside?"

He supposed he ought to start there, but Lucius found himself balking. He already had one woman crying and sniveling near him—he didn't want to deal with a whole cabin of them.

"Take me to the pen."

He was led to the wide, fenced-in spot a short distance from the hut. This was where the regular prisoners were kept, in an open-air, filthy pen guarded by Snatchers and enchanted barriers. Most of the captives were currently asleep, curled up in the dirt, some in pairs, some in groups, a few alone, all pathetically worn and ragged. Lucius realized he didn't see why what he sought would be kept out here, and told the Snatcher that, yes, he would like to start with the inside-prisoners.

He'd left it dark inside as they slept—or pretended to sleep—he could tell some of them had tried not to cringe at his presence—using his wand to light their faces as he looked. None of the girls there—and they were all females, and relatively young—struck him in the way that he'd anticipated, so he returned to the pen outside. A Snatcher opened the gate for him, and Lucius walked about the filthy prisoners, wondering if he would later be interested enough to go searching the other Death Eaters' tents, or even those of the un-Marked allies who had been allowed a 'reward' for their services.

He tripped over something soft. He hadn't seen the prisoner beneath his feet as he held his wand aloft to observe the ones huddled across the pen. Lucius looked down, and as soon as his wandlight revealed the prisoner he'd tripped over, he felt half-sure that this was the one he'd been searching for.

The young prisoner continued to sleep on despite having been nearly trampled. Lucius crouched down to better observe the small, childish body, the cute, regular features of the girl's dirt and tear-streaked face, and the long, filthy hair that was almost a shade of light, mousy brown tied with what looked like a blue or purple ribbon.