His being in “big trouble” meant, of course, that her arm had not healed. Not that he – or for that matter, Jenna herself – had expected it to. But if her magic had aggravated the curse, then heaven help him. She might not be able to get his head on a plaque but – and the cool gaze she turned on him, for one lingering second said this – if he expected her to pretend nothing had happened, act like the rest of the Death Eaters, he was sorely mistaken.

“Impressive." He pulled himself to his full height and met her gaze. Being tall [despite being pretty evil, Jenna thought, holding his gaze and quite aware that he could, and did and would, read her thoughts], he could make the action look striking without trying to. “You have, however, not managed to heal it, have you?”

He stated that as if stating, Today Is Quite Hot, Isn't it? One of Jenna's eyebrows shot upwards, even as she looked up from the wound that - though any and all physical signs of it had disappeared - lingered in pain cruising up her arm. "I'm not your lab-rat, you know." Her voice was cool. She had a feeling the wound, as if it had a personality of its own, had not appreciated being meddled with. "You messed my arm up, and you're healing it." Once again, it was not a request.

“Perhaps that should serve as a reminder." Voldemort's voice was still detached. Keeping her at a distance. Professional. It occurred to her that maybe he did see her as just another lab-rat but, even as the thought came to her, she knew it was not true. He did not. He could not. “It might teach you to remain alert, at all times.”

“You can’t do that.” Can a voice be on fire? Because hers seemed to be.

“Can I not, though, Jenna?”

Their eyes met. She looked away. “You –”

“Yes?” He seemed amused. In an almost cynical manner, yes, but amused.

She glared.

"I can shoot a Cruciatus Curse at you," she said, crossing her arms across her chest. "But I don't remember having it done yet." Yes, he'd stop it before it could hit him. Not just because his reflexes were better, far better, than hers; but because she had never been good, or even decent, at magic made for the sole purpose of hurting others, and not because it frightened her - it's contrary to my nature, she had realized long enough. But the point was, she could cast the Unforgivable. But being able to it did not mean she should. Would.

"Is that an attempt to anger me?" He did not sound angered. Interested - amused - once again, she glared.

"Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should," she said coldly.

“Why not?” Voldemort asked. His manner seemed like that of an experienced teacher interested in a student because the said student has given an answer, different from those that the rest of the class has given. “I don't suppose you have an answer."

"You suppose wrong." She made a face at him. "Skill, talent, ability - none of those is a license. You can kill yourself, can't you, but you haven't yet. Because you'd not find that thought right." She paused, and then ploughed on. "There are other thoughts - and acts - that aren't righ -"

"You are not trying," he cut across. "To give me a lesson in morality, are you?"

"You think I'm stupid enough to try something that I know no in advance is going to have no effect?"

For a moment, she had the feeling she had gone too far, said too much, broken too many limits. It felt like something she should have done long ago, done the moment she had begun to realize things, done the moment she had come to know, and even so, the feeling was there, deep and restless, that she shouldn't have. The silence stretched. Then Voldemort said, his expression unfathomable, “Come here.”

She did.

“Hold out your arm." It was a command.

"You should say please," Jenna said, but she did do as instructed.

He ignored it, and laid a hand on her forearm. It wasn't cold, not like she had expected, but warm. Both surprised and amused, she looked up, ready to make a comment, but Voldemort's gaze was on her arm as he healed it, and for once, she held her tongue. Then the pain had gone, and her arm was fine. Jenna stepped back and grinned.

"Dark Lord: zero. Jenna: one," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "How insolent," he said smoothly.

“I know. You healed my arm. Thank you. Can I give you a hug?” She might have stuck her tongue out at him, if she hadn't known she had just said something that might infuriate him. Infuriate him more than usual, that is, given that she had that undeniable tendency to infuriate him at the best [and the worst] of times.

“Why not?”

Her grin faltered. She had become so used to going against his rules, and so used to him tolerating her to an extent, that it hadn't occurred to her that he might decide two could play at that game. She frowned, not sure if she had angered him or not, and then in an attempt to appear as if his response hadn't stunned her into speechlessness, said, "Okay. That's pretty scary, you being the Dark Lord and all. I think I'll go now."

There might have been a grin - a cynical sort of grin, but a grin nevertheless - behind that look in his eyes. "Of course," he said. "The door is open, and there are no more wolves to spotlight incompetent death eaters." His gaze lingered on her. "You should have a smooth path back home. Good night, Jenna.”

"If you trying to say I'm incompetent, you so do not have any perspective," Jenna called back as she left, the doors swinging open to let her out into the darkness of the night, but her comment - she realized herself - did not have the usual, said-to-anger flair, even seemed a tad uncertain, and she left in something of a hurry, as if the initial surprise had not quite worn off yet, and might not for a while to come.

Behind her, the Dark Lord smiled, a smile that could have been fake or genuine, but a smile that was not cynical. It seemed, to him, like he had finally found a way to make Jenna White shut up.