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The extravagant dining room was filled with bowed heads and the faint stench of terror. They were silently quaking in their seats, dreading the next words of the man sitting at the head of the table. He languidly sat back, fingers steepled together as he appraised his followers and their complete ineptitude. ‘Really,’ he thought, ‘I should flay all of them and let their children pick up the pieces.’ He let his ruby eye rest on Malfoy long enough to make the man squirm in his seat. He never raised his pale blonde head and didn’t dare speak a word. Lord Voldemort always appreciated that about the Malfoy clan; they always knew when to hold their tongue.
“So.” His soft voice managed to carry through the deathly silent dining room. “Who am I to thank for this latest setback?”
Barely a moment passed before his dear, sweet, most loyal Bellatrix blurted out, “It was Dolohov, My Lord. He was the one who tripped the caterwauling charm and brought the Order on us. ”
Lord Voldemort hummed in approval; really, she was his only competent follower. If he could make two more of her, he’d have all of Great Britain in a fortnight.
“Your prudence will not go unrewarded, Bella.” She practically glowed from the praise as Voldemort threw a cruciatus curse towards Dolohov with a lazy flick of his wrist. He dispassionately watched Dolohov fall out of his seat, writhing on the floor in agony, his screams echoing through the dining room. The remaining Death Eaters tensed in their seats, eyes affixed to the table below.
He held the curse for another fifteen seconds before removing it. Dolohov continued to gasp and twitch on the floor, a small trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“Would you care to explain your blistering incompetence, Dolohov?” Voldemort asked, fingers rapping impatiently on the mahogany table. Dolohov opened and closed his mouth several times, desperately groping for the right words. He shakily pushed himself onto his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor.
“M-my lord, I beg for your forgiveness,” he sputtered, spraying droplets of blood across the dark marble tiles.
Voldemort raised his wand, prepared to cast another cruciatus, when a wave of panic cut across his consciousness. He nearly dropped his wand when images of a blood-covered nightgown and shaking hands seared themselves into his mind. Heart hammering in his chest, Lord Voldemort stood abruptly, knocking over his chair as he fled from the meeting with inhuman speed. He could taste the fear in the back of his throat as he flew through Malfoy Manor, rending wallpaper and portraits to shreds in his wake.
He knew only some of the distress was his. She hadn’t panicked like this in several months, not since he had whisked her away from the graveyard.
He violently turned a corner, knocking over an expensive vase as he raced into Harrie’s wing of the manor. He finally reached the large double doors, throwing them wide only to stop dead in his tracks.
He felt his stomach drop.
There was so much blood.
Harrie was sitting on the edge of her bed, glasses askew and blood covering her hands, vibrant green eyes wide in horror. The comforter had been thrown off to reveal a large bloodstain in the center of the bed.
Across from her, Narcissa sat, as regal and collected as ever. She was holding a small square package in her hands as she patiently explained that, “No, Harrie, you’re not dying.”
Both women jumped at the sound of the doors being thrown open by a thoroughly frantic dark lord bearing over them. He strode over to where Harrie sat, making Narcissa scramble out of the way when he kneeled in front of his most precious horcrux.
“Where does it hurt most?” Voldemort demanded as he held her face in his hands turning her head side to side and pushing her unruly dark hair back to check for any head injuries.
“Nothing hurts. I’m fine. Quit fussing over me,” Harrie protested, batting his hands away from her face.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You look like a crime scene.” He examined her hands and arms, finding no cuts or anything to explain the state she was in. Satisfied that Harrie hadn’t been stabbed nor was in any immediate danger of dying, Lord Voldemort took a deep breath to try and quell his tempestuous rage. Clasping her small hands between his, he raised his hellfire eyes to her emerald irises.
“Who did this to you?” he asked in the calmest tone he could manage. To his complete bafflement, Harrie averted her eyes, her face and ears turning scarlet. He reared back as if slapped, confusion and disbelief playing across his snake-like features.
“Harrie,” he pressed. She looked back at him and grimaced in clear discomfort before breaking eye contact again. He knew by the stubborn set of her jaw that Harrie wouldn’t say anything more on the matter. He felt his eye twitch in irritation.
“What. Happened?” Lord Voldemort seethed over his shoulder at Narcissa. His rage crackled through the room, threatening to suffocate the next unfortunate soul to displease him. Narcissa had backed up several paces and was currently trying to blend into the dresser. Her head was bowed, eyes drawn to the carpet, hands folded in front of her, still holding the small package.
“My Lord,” she began, pausing as if to find the words. “There has been a… complication.”
Voldemort rose to his full height, towering over the woman like a deathly spectre. He was prepared to crucio her with all of his considerable wrath when Harrie blurted, “I got my period.”
He slowly turned back to his ward. She managed to turn an even brighter shade of red, picking at the sleeve of her nightgown and looking anywhere but at him.
For the first time in his long life, Lord Voldemort was completely and utterly gobsmacked.
He looked at the crimson stain on the mattress and back to Harrie, who looked for all the world like she’d rather be fighting another dragon than be here. He finally noticed exactly where the blood staining her nightgown was most concentrated. His eyes flicked back to the bed, and back to a very distraught Narcissa, desperately trying to maintain her composure. She held between her hands what could only be a–
“Oh,” was the only word he can manage at the moment.
He blinked once, turned around, and strode out of the room without a backward glance, shutting the doors with a soft click.