It hadn't taken Voldemort long to find James; the man had a feeling that the Dark Lord would be able to seek him out with a bloody thumbtack on a different continent. James couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Voldemort---lies, it was last summer, after their wedding, after Lily's parents' faces had melted away----James forced himself to not think of the times he had to deal with Voldemort (How many was this? Three--four?), but it was all he was able to do as he bent forward in pain in front of him.
He was asking him again. To join him, to help him. A good, pureblooded boy like you should not be wasting his time with the likes of the Order. Didn't he want to be a success?
"No!" James shouted again, immediately falling to his knees as another course of pain shot through him. It stopped though, it stopped almost immediately, and in James' confused and shaken mind, he couldn't help but think that Voldemort was just going to end it now instead of playing with him any longer.
"You've escaped?" Voldemort's voice rang out, sounding clearly irritated by--what? James forced his neck to crane up and he was jolted back into life at the sight of Dorcas. Dorcas! No--no she needed to get out of here! He was supposed to be saving her!
"Dorcas!" James croaked, but Voldemort must have completely lost interest in him, because with a miniscule twitch of his wand, James went soaring into the bushes once more.
"Dorcas Meadows," Lord Voldemort said, as if the name burnt his tongue, "You have been quite the pain in my side, and I've grown tired of it---means you're about to die." He took on a dueling stance, free hand twitching toward himself as if begging her to attack. "Do feel free to try and make it out of here alive, though."
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