The cemetery fell into an eerie silence.
Voldemort stared at the boy bound to the wooden stake, a dangerous light dancing in the red eyes beneath his hood.
Applause?
Was this damned brat actually reminding him that he needed an audience, in a manner bordering on mockery?
"You think you're clever, do you, Harry Potter?"
Voldemort's voice was low, as though squeezed from deep in his throat.
"You think you can anger the great Voldemort with these little tricks?"
"That wasn't what I thought."
Harry (Douglas) sounded so sincere that it made one want to punch him in the face.
"I was merely stating a fact, a simple piece of medical knowledge.
"An adult has approximately four to five liters of blood. Losing more than twenty percent leads to shock, and losing more than forty percent is life-threatening."
He tilted his head slightly and looked at Wormtail, who was curled up in a corner, his face as white as paper.
"And that loyal servant of yours, by my rough estimate, has already lost at least a liter of blood.
"Although people in the Wizarding World may have somewhat stronger constitutions than Muggles, the basic physiological principles should be the same."
"So,"
Harry (Douglas) looked back at Voldemort, a pure, academic curiosity glimmering in his eyes.
"From an efficiency standpoint, stopping his bleeding really is necessary."
Voldemort felt his reason being stripped away little by little.
This boy wasn't begging for mercy.
He wasn't even provoking him.
He was merely using a calm, objective tone, even tinged with concern, like a responsible onlooker reminding a director to pay attention to wear and tear on the stage props.
This was more maddening than any insult.
"You..."
Voldemort took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
No.
*He couldn't let this