Send "You called." for me to write a drabble where my muse rushes to your muse in a desperate moment where they need them.
There were few moments in his long life which had stopped The Dark Lord in his tracks. And fewer people who render him speechless. He wonder what sort of impression he made upon her.
When she answer his, "You came." with, "You called."
Surely it was hard to read such a shock on an expressionless face such as his. One made even harder to read now without a fleshly face. Nah with out a proper body to make a face. One without a neck to hold up. Or arms to gesture. A solid form even! Blown apart, soul render out by a toddler no less!
Curse be upon Harry Potter and his dead family! To hell with The Order and the Wizardry World.
Lord Voldemort's red eyes turn upon the young woman. His child.
She who boldly stride forward, his hero. How much she looked like Bellatrix. But there was some of him there too. That determine look, a cunning, sharp way the light hits her eyes. More important then looks. His own family who came to save him! A concept so alien and foreign it stir with in him something forgotten it almost seem obscene. Harking to an old hurting long ago.
"I knew you would be far more loyal and braver." He said, a hint of bitterness to his followers.
Surely they fully grown with more resources could have saved him long ago! But neverminded, Voldemort shook his head. He would not taint this mood.