Voldemort, lounging on a chair that could almost be described as a throne, laughing cruelly at Snape, doubled over in front of him. The faces of Death Eaters, howling with laughter, a pack of hyenas, obediently yowling in order to appease the insanity of their master.  A little something to bring home to your wife, Voldemort hissed, and she must have seen it, must have felt it, the unmistakable searing heat of lust, spreading through him. Broken, filtered, fantasised images of her, naked and sprawled, arched on top of him, his hand around her throat, fisting her hair, seizing her hips, digging nails into her thighs,  hurting her. Wanting her.  Thank you, my lord, he had choked out, the words tasting like poison.