Keeping a low profile after what happened in the Great Hall had been nearly impossible.  For some reason, Jordyn felt like every time she breathed she was being stared at.  Yes, thinking back on it, perhaps she would not have said that if she was thinking.  But, she wasn’t thinking.  A panic set in and she was just in survival mode.  But, it wouldn’t matter that she hadn’t started it or that Juni had hexed her in the back. 

Plus there was the whole situation with Jai.  He was writing all the time and the more she wanted space, the more he seemed to close in.  She dreaded when the owls swooped in.  The fact that she felt that way made her feel even more terrible.  She was just… there was so much going on.   

Lowering her face over the sink, Jordyn dipped her hands into the water and lifted it up to her face.   Her gloves were shoved in the waistband of her skirt, and it was almost nice that her fingers stung from the chill in the air. Looking up into the mirror, she was glad she invested what little money she had in the truly waterproof makeup she was using.  Taking a deep breath through her nose, she rubbed her eyes again before bracing herself against the rim of the sink. 

Her chin sunk down to her chest and Jordyn just… was so glad for the quiet. 

Until it wasn’t quiet anymore.  Her head snapped up at the sudden sound. 

The pang in her back was a funny thing, like she’d been running up and down the stairs all day, chasing more of her brother’s howlers. At the same time, it felt as someone was squishing together all of her insides. Spasms shot through her back every once in a while, refreshing the otherwise dull ache. As it crept to her tummy, Victoire wondered if she hadn’t escaped flu and cold season after all. She shuddered at the thought of a trip to the newly refurbished Hospital Wing, where she knew shelves and shelves of Pepper-Up waited.

Slipping into the washroom, Victorie paused briefly in front of the mirror. Her frown only emphasized her tired visage. She poked at her too-warm cheek and pushed back a wisp of her silvery— currently dull— mane. Was it her imagination, or did she look swollen? Was she coming down with a fever?

She abandoned her reflection for an open stall. (Thankfully, Victoire had the entire lavatory to herself, and would be able to pee in peace before trudging on to her last class and dinner— she was ravenous, but hardly felt up to sitting through another lecture first.) But a pleasant pee was not the cards. Perhaps if she’d been old enough to take Divination, she’d know that. Victorie barely sat down and wiggled out of her knickers before she let out an involuntary scream.

It was an ocean of red.

She was dying.

Close to it, she thought, horrified, as she realized what was happening. How could this happen here?! Now? Why not in the summer? Or at least when she was in her dorm. Victoire looked up and around for a sign of help. Nothing jumped out but the unfriendly metal box fastened to the side of the stall. It gleamed back at her, knowing, distorted her reflection clownishly.

Breathing heavily, she wrestled the roll of toilet paper off its holder and began to rip it off in mad bunches. Perhaps if she could stuff enough in… just to get to the Hospital Wing… This couldn’t be normal, this much blood. She would look like a duck waddling down the corridor!

Suddenly, the roll of toilet paper seemed to jump out of her hand, unraveling merrily toward the cramped (ha) confines of the stall. It coursed beneath the door and across the cool stone even as Victoire, in a panic, lifted her wand and attempted a Body-Binding Curse on it. The squeak of “Petrificus Totalus!” was lost in the echo of a drip-dropping sink. The paper product would not be stopped by silly magic.

Victoire jumped up after it, her knickers now around her ankles. She bounced ungracefully into the door. In the chaos of blood and terror, she had not noticed that another had wandered into the washroom. Palms and wand planted desperately to the door, she peaked through the gap in the stall and took in the flash of robes and dark hair. As she spied the figure’s face in the mirror, the single blue eye in the crevice widened. The first year ducked and tugged at her underthings, her hair brushing the questionable stone floor, then scrambled backward. As if Jordyn Dimbleby were not only the Head Girl, but also a House Cup-collecting Seeker who might be able to I.D. her based solely on the flash of an eye. ‘No, no, no,’ the Ravenclaw mouthed to herself, brows knitting in agony. (The cramps were a poor excuse for her expression. Her luck, though. It was turning on her! The Howler had stared it all. An awful end to a brilliant first year.)

Victoire looked down at her shoes, and then toward that metal box affixed to the flimsy wall. Stupid.

“I…” She spoke more to herself than to Jordyn, who had no doubt heard the commotion. Clearing her throat, she knew there was no escape. She straightened her skirt and hair and took the few small steps to the door, unlatching it. She poked her head out. Her eyes unwittingly trailed the toilet paper, which had made a whole map of the floor. She looked away quickly, fixing her eyes on Jordyn. Be brave. Be mature. “I… I’ve never had my,” she explained apologetically, unable to say the word. “It.” Surely Jordyn Dimbleby would know. Which made it worse, somehow. Victorie’s cheeks flushed fiercely. But her eye’s caught the badge, and she was suddenly determined to face up to it. “I’m sorry. Do you have any— anything?” She gestured to her school skirt. How did these things work? The sort her mother used to take care of it looked dangerous, like it could poke an eye out. Victoire wanted to shudder. Instead she persevered. “Or could you maybe find the Healer?” It was a sensible request, wasn’t it? Prefects were supposed to help… And the Head Girl was in charge of them! “I don’t think it’s supposed to be this much,” she added, her embarrassment coming back to her voice. "I think if I lose anymore blood, I might…”

Jordyn turned on her heel just in time to watch a bathroom tissue roll emerge from one of the stalls.  That was curious.  She didn’t bother to focus on that, though, her eyes following the path it had taken.  There was a pair of tiny feet behind the door… with… oh.  The chaos now suddenly made all of the sense in the world. 

It wasn’t until the stall door opened though that Jordyn realized who it was that was having such a rough day.  Not one of her housemates, but a little ravenclaw, Victoire Weasley stumbled out all red and small, practically shrinking in front of her.  Jordyn couldn’t blame her – she would have felt the same.  She sort of did. 

This was not a conversation she wanted to have.  Or needed to have.  Victoire was not her responsibility.  She was not the healer.  And even if she were, she wasn’t sure anything would prepare her for this.  Her mind raced.  She’d never… oh this was a conversation for a mother… or a much older woman to handle.  ‘It’ was something all females had to, unfortunately, deal with and she knew it could be very traumatizing experience.  For her, she’d been at home.  Her mother hadn’t made much of a big deal about it, but she at least had her to talk to about it, however brief the conversation was. 

She couldn’t imagine standing in front of the Head Girl at such a moment.  Being so vulnerable?! It practically gave her hives just thinking about it.  Or maybe it was the fact that she was the head girl a small child was standing in front of asking for supplies.  That was… oh gosh.  Feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, Jordyn pushed it down.  She was not the one dealing with the problem!  This was not about her.  “I um…” Jordyn pursed her lips and let them go with a harsh pop, still thinking about what to do.  Even though her mind was moving a thousand miles a minute, she realized she probably hadn’t moved since the second the Ravenclaw emerged from the stall. 

“There should uh…” Jordyn took a step toward the section of the bathroom that had a large, long mirror hanging.  Not useful for washing hands, but powdering up, and there was a box in the center – unassuming and silver, nothing fancy.  But, it was like it’s own little room of requirement.  Lifting it up, she turned, holding it in front of her.  Jordyn flipped the lid up and there was a sea of little trinkets for feminine care in it.  “Whatever you need is in here,” she finally announced – hoping Victoire at least knew about them.  Jordyn wasn’t sure she could get through saying anything without dying of embarrassment. 

Especially with her understanding of blood loss and the fear clearly written on her face.  “You won’t die,” Jordyn replied with blunt honesty, before softening.  “Though, I know it feels like that sometimes.”  She lifted the box in Victoire’s direction again, “take one and then I’ll get you to Healer Sage for a potion or a numbing salve, okay?” 

If Jordyn Dimbleby was as embarrassed as Victoire was at the moment, the tiny Ravenclaw didn’t notice. The heat in her own cheeks was enough to fill the day’s semester’s humiliation quota. Victoire wondered fleetingly if there were at least complimentary house points awarded for such disconcerting rites of passage. If she couldn’t be with her mum, couldn’t she at least take solace in an award? (But the thought of explaining the why to some of her housemates of the male persuasion ushered a whole new flush to Rory’s cheeks.)

Victoire looked up at her hopelessly, eagerly. Unblinking eyes unwittingly pinned Jordyn with the responsibility of the school nurse. Victoire had no idea that the Head Girl wanted to be a Healer— but she would have bet her allowance that her chosen area of expertise wouldn’t be puberty.

Her eyes darted to the box as the older girl approached it. The first year almost shivered as the lid was lifted— and she felt another surge of panic. What if it were the kind she didn’t want? Not that she knew what she wanted, but she knew what she didn’t want.

Scurrying over (whilst pressing her palms to the back of her skirt), she leaned in with some weakly summoned Weasley bravery, her silvery hair spilling forward to get its own peek. Victoire breathed out in relief. There weren’t just the glossy little wands her mother preferred, but the safer, beginner’s sort of commodity. The ones that wouldn’t take out an eye if she followed the instructions. And how hard could that be?

Harder than she cared to admit to Jordyn Dimbleby as she reached in and pulled out the lucky winner of the Victoire Weasley’s First Menstruation Contest.

She looked up at Jordyn again, her eyes less alarmed and pleading. She could feel some of the heat retreating from her cheeks, but she was still plenty warm. “Thank you,” she said, calmly enough. “This should cover me until I change… I think…” She hoped. Then she’d have to find her very own box, but she supposed she should ask the nurse. Victoire would be annoyed if someone else ransacked the entire cache, so she would spare the girls the thievery. She wasn’t a thief! She just needed a little help.

Jordyn’s words began to sink in, and Victoire’s mind raced. If she wasn’t going to die, and this was normal, that meant this much was normal, too. And she’d have to go through it every month. Merlin, she was going to come down with anemia. Or run into a vampire. Or stare a little hungrily at a unicorn, if she ever did find one.

“A numbing salve—” she echoed, in an almost sigh of happiness, all of those unpleasant thoughts evaporating from the moment. “Sounds amazing right now.” Like a hot bath, her grandmother’s cooking, or a Saturday morning. “But how do I get there without anyone seeing?” She was suddenly full of too many thoughts again, and looked down and around. Nothing had soaked through to her school clothes, but Victoire was sure someone would notice. And then… Her head shot up. “Did you— was your first one here, too?” She asked, and then wanted to kick herself for asking. But her eyes remained on Jordyn and she tilted her head a little, curious nonetheless.

This was strange.  It was too personal to witness, but also this tiny person was very distressed and Jordyn wouldn’t be able to count herself a good head girl (or future healer) if she didn’t help.  It just seemed like such a private thing… but here they were, in the middle of the bathroom, with a box of feminine supplies separating them.  And thank Merlin for that! 

Once she had plucked her choice out of the box, Jordyn snapped the lid shut and just curled her hands around it, resting it on her stomach.  “Quite alright,” she responded quietly to the younger girl’s thanks and glanced upward, avoiding eye contact.  Thankfully, that wasn’t so hard with a much younger year who just happened to not hit her growth spurts quite yet. 

Though, those would be coming.  Along with other things.  From the moment she’d ‘become a woman’ as her mother had written to her, Jordyn’s had come in full force.  Neely was still waiting on that particular arrival, even though she had gotten her’s first – and made sure that all of her girl friends knew it.  It was a good thing for Jordyn too. 

But, there were more pressing matters to attend to anyway.  Jordyn moved to the counter and placed the box back where it had come from.  “Healer Tempest has a numbing salve, and I’m sure more of those,” she gestured back to the box and furrowed her eyebrows.  “You don’t need to tell everyone along the way that’s why you’re headed to the healer’s you know.  Blessedly, it’s not a requirement of the Hospital wing,” she put her gloved hand in between Victoire’s shoulder blades and turned her – doing the nice thing and also glancing down at the back of the girl’s skirt – she was fine. 


“I’ll go with you,” she also added, “if anyone asks, I’ll say you ate a bad pumpkin pasty,” she gave her a weak smile as she nudged her forward.  Though, she had to admit, her question did make Jordyn trip over her own feet.  Her hand clasped around Victoire’s shoulder to steady herself and she cleared her throat, as all of a sudden her mouth went dry and throat seemed scratchy. 

Perhaps she needed the trip to the Hospital Wing as badly as the little Weasley did.  “Well um…” she smacked her lips and took a shaky breath, “actually yes, it was.  But, my best friend, Neely, she was there and well… I guess it was about time I did the same for someone else,” she forced a tight-lipped smile and continued the walk out of the lavatory. 

She lowered her voice as they entered the hallway and tried to appear as casual as possible, even though there weren’t that many people in the hallway to begin with.  “A walk usually helps though,” she added in as neutral a tone as she could muster, though it still felt like she was squeaking, “and chocolate.  Have you got any in your dorm?”

The Head Girl had no only not taken points for Victoire’s untimely horror scene, but had also answered a riddle to make the Ravenclaw door envious: how to stop the flood. The tension in the first year’s shoulders seemed to melt by the minute, transforming a rather Fleurish disposition into something more… brazen eleven-year-old. She, was after all, a Weasley.

Millions of questions that she could have only hoped to have sat around flinging at the Head Girl danced across her mind. What did she want to be when she graduated? How did she discreetly collect her mail every morning? Had she seen many unicorns? Had she ridden one? The little Victoire in Victoire’s head squashed the questions one after the other, albeit with struggle.

Her blush now cooling too, Victoire nodded fervently, as if obeying a professor. She was good at following directions. Quick to pick things up. But when her eyes dropped to the box and flew back up, the blush rose again. How many would she need? She’d stupidly assumed as a small child that women needed one each time— just one— and if she definitely knew better by now, she hadn’t realized it was quite this messy. Her mother was a picture of elegance, even when grumpy or tired, and periods weren’t the sort of thing Grandma went on about. Aunt Ginny was her best bet for comparing terrible stories, but Victoire’s near-death experience paled to her aunt’s. (She hadn’t found pads and tampons behind the loo sink, but something far less welcoming.)

One thing was certain: Dominique would not hear about this.

“Oh!” She gushed, clearly relieved. “I mean, I’d hope not— that’s not happened to anyone in my year yet, and Uncle George hasn’t mentioned it. He likes to talk about ridiculous rites of passage. He told Uncle Ron all about the trolls at the Sorting Ceremony,” she explained, and then looked at Jordyn as if to say, Duh Victoire. “And, well, there aren’t… obviously,” she finished a bit dully. “But if period announcements were a thing, he’d have told me.” He’d have loved it.

“And I can’t be the first one to have…” It was just logic. There were girls who had already turned 12, girls who were sprouting. “Delilah Warren did beg off sick in Potions two weeks ago, and she looked a little like I feel.” Vaillancourt had let her go without much convincing.

Victoire’s lips tugged up in a thankful smile. She felt a surge of pride as Jordyn’s armed slipped around her shoulders. The waning and waxing of her blush continued its annoying cycle as her mouth got ahead of her a bit, but Victoire forced one foot in front of the other, looking between Jordyn and the farthest reach of the corridor as they passed a boy… and then another.

“I’m glad you had someone there, too. I wonder how many people have been stuck in there while everyone is sleeping or in class.” Maybe Moaning Myrtle knew. Victoire usually avoided the ghost’s bathroom. There was a surefire way to never live it down— especially with her siblings inching closer toward Hogwarts.

“Chocolate?” Her eyes widened a little. “Always...” Victoire kept plenty in her trunk. “Is it really like dementors, then?” Just when she was feeling easy. She knew there had to be a catch. Besides all the blood and puberty. “I don’t know my Patronus yet,” she murmured, more to herself than to Jordyn.

The fact that Victoire was not that much shorter than Jordyn, even in her heeled boots was only slightly problematic for the Head Girl.  Being inches taller than a first year probably didn’t do much for her sense of authority, but there was very little she could do about it, short of taking a potion or wearing even taller shoes.  Neither seemed like a realistic choice… so, she resigned herself to the fact that at least she wouldn’t be in school anymore and being practically child sized would only be a daily problem during the summer months and Mungo’s flooded with school children who made poor choices. 

It would also be good her exposure to younger people would be limited because they sure talked a lot.  jordyn didn’t know what she was talking about to some extent, except perhaps that Uncle Ron was none other than Ronald Weasley from their history books (it was still difficult to process and accept that they were real people, especially after reading about them for so long), and that alone made her listen a little closer.

It probably also helped keep the younger student’s mind off of her predicament.  “I  guess we’re both lucky enough to never have to know that struggle,” she laughed awkwardly and fiddled with the edging of her skirt with her free hand.  The castle was ungodly huge and this trip felt like it was taking forever.  Though, she did at least have the luxury of not being the one with her first period through the walk.  That was most assuredly a blessing. 

She did stumble when she asked if it was like dementors.  Oh Godric! Professor Storm would love that comparison, she was sure!  “Only in that chocolate helps… and sometimes crying… and pain…” the more she talked, the more her voice dipped and she became less certain, “so… just like dementors.”  Another pause, “maybe we should call it that.  Though, a patronus would hardly help in this case.” 

It was a sad fact.  She wished a patronus would be the most effective method of alleviating all period dementor pain.  “You won’t learn that until your later years anyway,” Jordyn soothed her anxieties, “and even then you might not know what your patronus is.” She let out a deep breath, “Mine isn’t corporeal,” she admitted with a little sigh, “but it takes a lot of practice and something really good happening to you – the happiest thing you can ever remember.”  Unfortunately, none of Jordyn’s memories seemed to be enough.  That wasn’t something Victoire didn’t need to know about, though. 

“I suggest you begin practicing as soon as possible,” she added, “Professor Storm isn’t the type to accept less than perfect, especially in your NEWTs class.”

Jordyn Dimbleby, despite her distant demeanor, seemed to have a way of making people— at least an admirer like Victoire— feel like a fast friend. Victoire wondered very briefly (or, alright, in a lingering fashion) why’d she’d spent so many months thinking the Head Girl was anything but approachable! If they could talk about periods without points being taken or Rory’s name being brandished into some Prefect-sanctioned Hall of Shame, they could probably talk about anything.

She grinned at the affirmation. “Thinking of them like demeanors makes them seem less horrible. Somehow.” Maybe because Victoire had never had the misfortune of bumping into one of the ethereal spooks. They were figments of stories told by her parents; her father had used the shadows cast by his hands in the glow of a seashell nightlight to scare his girls. (Louis had been too young.) They were a campfire tradition, not anything that could truly hurt her. Which didn’t stop Victoire from wanting a patronus, and wanting it now.

It was a little surprising that Jordyn’s wasn’t corporeal yet, and Victoire felt a rush of embarrassment at having muttered about her own missing one. “I’m sure you have a happy memory in there somewhere,” she encouraged, trying to save face, and only blushing further. “Maybe when you got your badge?” Leave it to Victoire to assume that was much happier than thoughts of boys, parties, or summers. “Or… you’ve interned, right? I bet you know what you want to be and everything!”

Nodding so hard that she would surely have neck pain by dinner, Victoire pointed at her own chest with her wand. She seemed to have forgotten all about her cramps and the horror stories about period blood leaking through one’s outfit. “I always do my Defense homework right away. I don’t know how anyone can’t— even Gryffindors.” Her answer was just short of a nose wrinkle. Victoire loved the Gryffindors, but their superiority complex… just because they were brave… She was brave, too! “I can fend off Bowtruckles. I plan to help my Grandma de-gnome the garden this summer. Minnie just kicks them, but that doesn’t do anything but make them brash.” The eye roll was in her voice. “I can’t wait to tell Storm— Professor Storm— when I get back here.” She must have been the only child in Hogwarts already pining for the next semester.

Jordyn wasn't sure if the first year was humoring her because she was actually being helpful or she was too afraid to say anything to Jordyn's face about how she was not making this easier for her.  She wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter.  It seemed like the only students that Jordyn really intimidated were the younger years.  People in her own year felt as though the rules did not apply to them.  They were only eclipsed, perhaps, by the fifth year ravenclaws who destroyed the point system in single incidents. 

It was impressive, really.  She didn't know it was possible to get into that much trouble... and then punish your entire house for it.  If she were a ravenclaw, she would be horrified.  It was probably much easier to focus on answering the little girl's questions.  "I interned at St. Mungo's, yes," she explained with a bashful smile and watched the toes of her shoes against the hard, stone floors.  "I've wanted to be a healer since... fourth year, I think," she shrugged, "You have time to figure it out." 

It would be so liberating to be back in first year: not having the real world pressing down on you like a vice.  At that age, it seemed like school would never end.  They spent their dorm days wishing time would pass until they were third years for Hogsmeade, and then wishing for their seventeenth birthdays so they could be full citizens of the wizarding world.  Right about now, she'd be happy being 11 again.  Victoire was falling into the trap though, wishing the breaks away and anticipating the next time she could be impressive at class. 

"That is always a good strategy, especially as you get older.  Assignments get longer and you don't want to procrastinate," she dispensed this advice with far more ease than anything related to menstruation.  "He is tough," she added, "but I think he appreciates hard work."  She hoped so, at any rate.  Jordyn was dogged in her pursuit of academic excellence and though her classmates generally thought she was insane, she hoped at least her professors were appreciative of her efforts.  They weren't just here to be lazy and hormonal, after all.  This was school. 

As they moved through another passage and down a set of stairs, Jordyn glanced over at Victoire again.  "How are you feeling?" she asked, "Do you need to take a break - I know we are almost there," she added, "can you make it?"

Fourth year sounded ages away, but she knew it was still rather soon to be deciding what to do with the entire rest of her life. Victoire wondered whether weighing heavily upon her desire to spend time with unicorns would be wise, come fourteen years of age. She couldn’t imagine herself not loving unicorns forever, though. Really, she didn’t want to work with them so much as befriend one and ride it round the Burrow’s garden.

She kept this little tidbit to herself, believing Jordyn’s interest in medicine to be sober by comparison. Jordyn Dimbledy did not strike Victoire as the sort of girl who had uncles that specialized in dragons and jokes, and who might encourage her to chase after those pearly, horned equines.

Pride took precedence over cramps, for a moment. The first year accepted the affirmation graciously (with a bit of inward squealing). If Minnie tried to make fun of her for getting a head start this summer…

Ugh, Minnie. The blonde pushed away thoughts of her fiery little sister.

“I’m alright.” And, feeling her feet carry with a bit less of heaviness and doom, Victoire realized she was. “You know, now that I know I’m not dying.” She gestured nowhere in particular, in that way adults and the French women in her family tended to do. As if she shared a piece of secret knowledge with the Head Girl.

And she did, now, sort of. “I can…” She looked in the direction of the next turn, knowing they’d see the door to the hospital wing soon. “I can go myself and tell the nurse, I think.” Her confidence wavered momentarily, her voice mouse-like. But she persisted. “I know you’re very busy. You must have eight million classes.”

Victoire smoothed her skirt, battled with the resurgence of pink in her cheeks, and stared at Jordyn. “Er, what do I tell her though? Do I say the actual word, or…” There were so many terms for it, all of them more ridiculous than the next, but each less humiliating than that single word, period. She imagined it was like saying the word Voldemort during the war. Surely her mum hadn’t struggled this much with a name. It wasn't the nurse herself, so much as the prospect of others within earshot. She wouldn't put past a ghost or portrait hanging somewhere on the floor to hear Victoire confess.