“What do you think of him?”

Voldemort’s voice shook her out of her thoughts. Jenna White looked up, at the face that had killed so many, at the face that so many so feared, before choosing not to reply – If the man was fine enough for him, the man was fine enough for her, too.

“It’s hot in here,” she said, casting off her cloak to reveal the two, thick, silver braids travelling down the front of her chest, and ending at her waist. Silver bangs brushed her forehead, and she impulsively pushed them back. “Why can’t we just wear white?”

“I think,” and, now, Lord Voldemort’s voice was severe, “you sometimes forget who you are talking to, Jenna.”

“If you don’t want me here, tell me. I can leave.”

He ignored the comment. “You are hiding something from me, Jenna.”

“Only because I promised Wormtail.”

“What has he done this time?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell you.”

Lord Voldemort was examining his wand, now. “There is no end to your insolence.”

“Insolence? I can not break a promise for you.”

She had gone too far. Voldemort’s wand moved with the speed of light, but so did hers. The curse deflected, hit a table. It shattered into pieces, which dissolved into tiny, dust-like particles. If it had hit her – – but she knew. She knew him.

He had not intended to hurt her; he had only been testing her reflexes.

“That could have hurt me, you’re so –” she began, eyes huge.

“Jenna!” Voldemort said, and there was something deadly cold about his tones. Jenna fell silent, immediately. For a moment, the room was absolutely devoid of noise. Then she muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Voldemort looked away. “There is no need. But you take my leniency with you too lightly.” He paused, silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was its usual business-like cold. “Bella told me you said you would like to learn the Dark Arts from me.”

She looked at him with wide, silver eyes. “I know you do not teach.”

“I have taught Bellatrix.”

“She has long been your favourite death eater. I have not been with you for more than a fortnight. I –”

He looked up. “Yes?”

She hesitated. “I am not asking you to teach me,” she said quietly. “I have never hidden anything from you – you know I do not know the Dark Arts. I only know magic, powerful magic, and I learned it myself, practicing long days and longer nights. I have not asked anyone.”

For a moment, she felt she might have said something wrong. But she did not, would not, falter under his gaze. It was cold, very cold, a gaze icy to the core. She met it with her silver one, her wide-eyed, innocent one, and then she looked away.

“You are making me nervous.”

“I want to see you, tomorrow night. At the Mageant Mansion.”

He turned, disapparated.

For some reason she herself could not discern, Jenna’s hands were cold.