Envy Engenders Spite

The wedding took place at the Malfoy family manor and was the ultimate pureblood party of the century. The Minister of Magic being the groom’s father, anybody who was anybody in the wizarding world was in attendance. 

Natalie Malfoy stood near the door of the study inside the estate. Abraxas and Melania had decided on a private ceremony. Natalie knew it was because of Portia Malfoy. Even from across the room, she could feel death hanging over her aunt. Which was why Natalie insisted on standing near the door. Despite the happiness of the day, her skin crawled and it was goddamn depressing, which probably wasn’t helped by her decision to wear a black dress. But she looked bloody good in it. 

She eagerly awaited the ceremony to end so she could run down the hall and see her old friends and teammates for the first time since Hogwarts. And she held onto a shred of hope that someone was back from Albania.

Only herself, Domitia Malfoy, Tiberius Malfoy and his wife, Portia, along with Melania’s parents; Casper and Charis Crouch, and her brother, Bartemius, were also present for Abraxas and Melania saying their vows, which were occasionally interrupted by the rumbling of thunder and the flashing of lightning through the windows. Their vows were so sappy, Natalie had to check her laughter on multiple occasions. The officiant was Rabastan Lestrange, Adolphus’s father, the current head of the Daily Prophet, and Tiberius’s long time friend. 

The weather being stormy that day had sent Abraxas into a panic — as the original plan was to host the reception out on the rolling lawns of the estate. They could have just magicked tents and whatnot — but that wouldn’t have been nearly as dramatic enough for a Malfoy wedding.

Domitia had chuckled, whipped out a crafty little spell that she “had always wanted to use”, and showed them all the ballroom that had been tucked into the magical layout of the mansion for “special occasions only” by Cassius Malfoy. Apparently, Natalie’s deceased grandfather felt having a fully functional ballroom for the hosting of massive events was a necessity. That was where the rest of the pureblooded wizarding world waited, just down the hall. 

Natalie and the others clapped once Rabastan declared Abraxas and Melania man and wife and they kissed, a shower of silver sparks flying up around them.

“Alright,” Domitia Malfoy looked at her grandchildren. “Now go enjoy the party.”

Natalie did not need telling twice. She flung the study door open for Abraxas and Melania, though they suggested she go out first.

“But it’s your wedding day!”

“Yes, but you’re going to announce us,” insisted Abraxas, unable to keep the brilliant smile off his face.

She blanched at this prospect in spite of his happiness. “Do you know how many people-”

Abraxas laughed, “you don’t have to say anything. Just walk into the room. Trust me.”

“Alright,” she grudgingly complied because it was, after all, their wedding day. She slipped out the door, heels tapping along the hardwood floor of the hallway as Abraxas and Melania giggled behind her, as if they knew something she didn’t.

Natalie approached the double doors leading to the ballroom. There was a crack of thunder outside as two house-elves opened them. She stepped into the enormous room and was briefly aware of hundreds of eyes being drawn in her direction before she skittered off so the newlyweds could claim the spotlight. 

The guests were seated at round silver tables and leapt to their feet to clap as Abraxas waved and Melania blushed. He led her to a small table that had been set up for them at the far end of the room and food began appearing with small pops on all the tables.

The ballroom lighting was dim (Natalie was fairly certain the silver lights floating around were actual fairies) but she sprinted to the left where she spotted a group of very familiar wizards in their best dress robes.

“Cap!” the group of young wizards greeted the witch in a black dress. She flew over to their table with an enormous grin. 

“I’m not your captain anymore,” but she couldn’t keep the squeal out of her voice as Lestrange and Dawson wrapped her in a hug. Nott and Rosier were next, and she even planted a fond kiss on Avery’s cheek — making him blush and stutter.

“And the kids came too!” she nearly squeezed the life out of Neil Lament and Cato Greengrass. 

“It’s only been a month,” laughed Neil and he handed her a drink. She downed it eagerly before snatching Lestrange’s drink and finishing that off too. 

“Woah!” he began to protest.

“Oh, stop, you lot have clearly been drinking for the past several hours,” she snapped and sheepish grins appeared on their faces — proving her right. After she polished off Dawson’s drink, she glanced around at their table and did a headcount. Lestrange, Dawson, Rosier, Nott, Lament, Greengrass, Avery-

“He’s not here,” Lestrange immediately knew who she was looking for. 

Natalie scowled. “I know. Just hoped that maybe. . . .” she was interrupted by someone tapping her shoulder. She spun around and couldn’t help her face from falling when it was not the one person she desperately wanted to be there that night.

“Well, gee, don’t look too upset to see me,” teased Jonathan Shaw. Giles Morrison popped up beside him. 

Morrison grinned. “Yeah, what’s with the long face, princess?”

“Nothing, shut up,” she said, forcing a laugh into her voice and giving her two old teammates hugs. “Jonathan, I heard you’re giving Avery hell at the Prophet.”

Faking offense, he scoffed, “it’s tradition to make the new kids’ lives miserable. I wouldn’t dare break such a time-honored code.”

Giles Morrison rolled his eyes. “That’s just because Dolohov made his life miserable the first few months there.”

“Dolohov?” Natalie repeated the name of one of their former housemates. “Antonin? He’s working for my Uncle, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he hated the Prophet,” laughed Shaw, “first month in complained so much about it that Rabastan Lestrange begged Tiberius to take him.”

“Uncle says he’s brilliant. Best assistant he ever had,” said Natalie and she looked around the ballroom. “Where is he? Someone tell him to come sit with us.”

“I’ll get him,” offered Shaw and he vanished into the crowd.

After telling half the group to go find their girlfriends or anyone else who might be interested in sitting at their table, Natalie was left alone with Giles Morrison and Eric Dawson. 

“Listen,” she turned to them and tugged up the bottom of her dress, making Dawson look away, blushing red in horror while Morrison laughed as she just whipped out her wand from where she’d tucked it in a secret pocket against her thigh. 

Dawson blushed a deeper red upon realizing he’d misinterpreted her gesture as she waved her wand at the table. It magically expanded itself, adding more chairs and plates with food. “The dinner menu is bloody amazing so we gotta eat.”

The two laughed and they took their seats, digging into the exquisite food as the table slowly filled around them. 

Adolphus Lestrange and Savanna Rowle, with Savanna’s little brother, Silas, eagerly tagging along, were the first back, sitting beside Natalie and Eric. The table was circular but the Quidditch team still claimed seats in a similar manner to the one they sat in while at Hogwarts. They instinctively allowed the seat on Natalie’s left side to remain empty. 

“Giles, where are you now?” asked Natalie as Nott and Rosier reappeared with Pamela Selwyn and Quinn Bulstrode. The four of them were already incredibly drunk. Cato Greengrass and Neil Lament staggered over next with Elizabeth Beckham and Cassiopeia Black. They brought a slew of Black family members with them — including Callidora, Orion, Alphard, Walburga, Lucretia and her husband, Ignatius Prewett, and recently married Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier. The latter being Evan Rosier’s sister, the two exchanged annoyed faces upon sighting each other before breaking into laughter. 

“Gringotts,” said Morrison over a goblet of wine. “Wizard liaison office. In fact,” he looked over at Lestrange and Dawson. “I might be seeing you two very soon.”

“Why?” asked Lestrange, making Savanna Rowle snort at his bluntness.

Dawson, not quite as inebriated as Lestrange (yet), still had part of his brain working. “The Russian deal?” 

“Exactly,” grinned Morrison, “there’s no way in hell we’re giving them a loan but they won’t back down. They keep on bringing in all sorts of ridiculous things as collateral.”

“Are you lot talking about Russia?” asked Rosier, face red from Firewhiskey. “I’m sick of hearing about Russia. It’s all we hear about at work.”

“Russia this, Russia that, Russia, Russia, Russia,” Nott added his opinion. “Bloody Russia. They’re the only other blokes in the world, apparently.”

The ranting about the Soviet country was interrupted by the return of Jonathan Shaw with Antonin Dolohov and another wizard whom Natalie thought she may have seen before.

“Brought the princess her request,” Shaw drunkenly gestured to a smirking Dolohov. “It was bloody awful trying to get him away from the Ministry crew.”

“Oi!” protested Rosier. “We’re the Ministry crew!”

“I mean the actual Ministry crew. You’ve been there for what, a month?” taunted Shaw as the three new arrivals moved to take places around the table. 

“Natalie,” Dolohov took her hand that did not clutch a goblet of Firewhiskey and kissed the back of it. She watched his eyes widen and correctly guessed he had just experienced a bolt of intoxicating energy. “Er, it’s, uh, been a while.” He recovered himself and then dropped into the seat on her immediate left.

“Don’t sit there,” she snapped, slamming her goblet onto the table and attracting everyone’s attention. The table now had at least twenty young witches and wizards gathered around it.

Dolohov opened his mouth as if to argue but Lestrange jumped in from Natalie’s right. “Yeah, that’s where her boyfriend sits, mate. Except everyone knows he’s not coming tonight.”

“Boyfriend?” Dolohov looked disappointed but Shaw and Morrison echoed his surprise at hearing this.

“Boyfriend?” Morrison raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess — Riddle.”

Natalie turned to stare at him but did not miss the fear that flashed through Dolohov’s eyes at the mention of the name. For some reason, this pleased her. And he moved over one seat. “How’d you know?”

Shaw choked on his drink. “Well, isn’t it obvious? The way you two just bloody looked at each other at school.”

“Where is he, anyway?” asked Morrison. “Wasn’t he invited?”

“Yes, but he’s traveling,” muttered Natalie, hand flying up to play with the ring hanging on a chain around her neck. She’d extended the chain so it couldn’t be seen with the sweetheart neckline of her dress tonight, but she’d fallen into a habit of toying with it whenever she felt uneasy. Which was now extremely often. 

Morrison looked skeptical. “Are you sure that’s not code for you broke up?” 

“Yes!” she hissed with so much venom they decided to drop the topic, but not before a drunk Antonin Dolohov slipped in one more comment.

“Well, if it is code, you know where to find me,” he went to wink but ended up wincing instead. A hand flying to his ear, he gave her an odd look. 

Natalie cursed under her breath as Lestrange and Dawson sent warning glances her way. She tucked the ring back under the neckline of her dress and allowed it to rest just above her heart, feeling its cool, ticking presence. At least part of who the seat on her left was for was here tonight. She took a deep breath and focused on the ring. Abraxas’s wedding was not the place to have a blow up. 

Not blowing up, however, had been increasingly difficult since leaving Hogwarts. And she knew part of the reason for that was the empty seat on her left. 

“Anyway,” Dawson jumped to her rescue, nodding at the third wizard who had arrived with Shaw and Dolohov and had since remained silent. “You look familiar?”

“Should hope so,” came the reply along with a grin. “We overlapped for a few years at Hogwarts. Seymour Mulciber, in case anyone’s forgotten. I’ve seen some of you around the Ministry,” he looked over at Nott, Rosier, and Avery. 

They blanked and shook their heads.

Mulciber snorted but glanced first at a very drunk Neil Lament and then at Natalie. “Matt Lament’s office, Department of Magical Sports and Games.”

Natalie trained her full attention on him now, delighted to have a distraction from the spinning inside her. “Oh, really?”

“Matt’s my uncle,” Neil gave everyone a goofy smile and the half of the table that was paying attention to their conversation laughed at him. 

“The very one,” grinned Mulciber. “And I can’t say much about Russia other than I heard they’re putting together a killer team for the upcoming World Cup.”

The mention of the Quidditch World Cup had the table buzzing. 

“When do they announce the roster?” called Lestrange over all the chatter.

“Not supposed to tell,” admitted Mulciber but a sly look came over his face. “But. . . oh, what the hell — end of the month.”

“That’s when it goes public, though,” added Dolohov and his dark gaze scoured Natalie’s face. She met his eyes over the rim of her goblet. Draining it, she tapped her index finger against it and it refilled. Dolohov grinned wickedly and continued. “But the players are already supposed to know by now. . . .”

Everyone stared at a silent Natalie Malfoy, their eyes wide. Orion Black looked ready to explode and Neil Lament’s jaw hung open. 

“My dad didn’t tell me that!” Neil was outraged. “Cap — are you — well, are you-”

Natalie didn’t answer. She tilted her goblet back and finished her drink. Licking her lips and refilling it yet again with another tap of her finger. Nobody around the table breathed and she enjoyed the strained silence for a moment. 

According to Jack Lament, Eugene Dent, and the entire Department of Magical Sports and Games, she wasn’t supposed to inform anyone she was playing on the national team until the roster was publicly announced. So, naturally, she had told the one person who could actually keep secrets, but he wasn’t even here tonight. Everyone else thought she was playing for the Tutshill Tornados. Though she was fairly certain Mulciber already knew everything about the national team, from the smirk he was hiding in a goblet of wine.

She took another sip of her drink. She was definitely nearing the intoxication level of Lestrange, whose eyes were so glassy she could see her reflection in them. She used his eyes as a mirror for a moment, flicking a piece of white-blonde hair out of her face. 

“Are you gonna tell us?” begged Lestrange in a tortured whisper.

Natalie finished off her drink in response. And it refilled. 

They watched her finish this one. 

It refilled.

Everyone around the table felt themselves losing their own sobriety as they watched her continue to drink and drink and drink. She focused on the empty seat on her left, allowing it to infuriate her and envisioned the spinning inside her churning outwards and adding to the general atmosphere of intoxication. Even the subtle ticking feeling of the ring hanging on her chest seemed to grow inebriated.

When she was satisfied with the look in everyone’s eyes, she drained her goblet for the last time and slammed it onto the table. She drew in a breath and knew nobody would remember tonight anyway. 

But she never had the chance to tell them. 

“Natalie!” called a voice over her shoulder and she glanced back. Rabastan Lestrange stood there with a sobering look on his face. 

“Dad!” whined Adolphus, “she was just about to-”

“Not now,” Rabastan silenced his son with a look. He turned back to Natalie. “I need you to come with me. It’s your aunt.” 

Natalie blanched, immediately regretting having drank so much. She scrambled to her feet and allowed Rabastan to lead her out of the ballroom. 

“Is she-?”

“She’s about to,” he said, hurrying down the hall to the study where Abraxas and Melania had said their vows. 

“Well, shit, what can I do?”

“I don’t exactly know, but Tiberius asked me to retrieve you-”

Domitia Malfoy stepped out of the study door and sharply closed it behind her. She met her granddaughter’s eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Natalie gaped, feeling like she had whiplash. “What, no, is she — what can I do? There’s gotta be something, you know-”

“She’s gone, Natalie,” Domitia shook her head over her granddaughter’s insistence. “There wasn’t anything any of us could do. It was time.” 

“But, but-” she spluttered, glancing from Domitia Malfoy to Rabastan Lestrange. Hadn’t he called her out so she could help? She knew by now he and her Uncle Tiberius knew about her intriguing energy power. There had to be something-

“Go back to the party,” said her grandmother with a smile. “And keep quiet about it. Abraxas can find out later.”

“Yes, he can wait.” Tiberius Malfoy now emerged from the study. Natalie could feel the raw emotion behind his controlled mask. He cleared his throat, meeting her eyes. “I had hoped that maybe there was something you could do. . . but my mother is right. It was time. She got her dying wish — to see her son married.”

Natalie had never been very close with Portia Malfoy, but found herself devastated. Maybe it was the wavering in Tiberius’s rigid gray eyes or maybe it was just how much she had drunk in a very short time. Or maybe it was that Abraxas was celebrating the happiest day of his life but tomorrow would be informed his mother had passed. Or maybe it was that her cousin would now also have to experience what it was like to lose his mom. 

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Rabastan Lestrange gently guided her back down the hall and to the ballroom. 

“Don’t let it ruin the party,” he said, though she barely heard him over the crashing of her mind. “But, er, maybe ease up on the drinking.”

She blinked at him, realizing how much he looked like his son, Adolphus. “Can you feel it?”

He winced and retracted his hand from her shoulder as they reentered the ballroom. “Yes. I feel like I’m five drinks in myself and I haven’t even touched the champagne tonight.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, her gaze returning to the large group of witches and wizards across the room. Several of them gestured for her to return.

“Youth can handle it better,” Rabastan followed her gaze and smiled. “Go on. Don’t think about your aunt.”

Natalie wove her way back through the crowd, stumbling in her heels as her mind seemed to shut down. 

Abraxas and Melania had just gotten married, and so she was happy. Her Aunt Portia had just died, and so she was sad. There was nothing she could do about the latter. But her Uncle Tiberius had hoped there might have been. But there wasn’t. It had been too late. But what if there had been something she could do? What if she could have saved her aunt’s life, time to die or not? But why was she so caught up with this? Her grandmother had said it was her time. Could she even have done anything? Did her power allow her to combat the forces of death? Or at least — of illness? She knew she could use it to heal others. Maybe if she had tried- 

Her mind wanted to tear itself to pieces over it all. She was happy. She was sad. She was curious. She was regretful. She was furious. She was intoxicated. She was anxious. She was depressed. And she was all these things ten times over because someone wasn’t there that night. Even though someone had specifically stated he would only be traveling for a month. Now it was August and she had no idea where he was and all she knew was that he had left her with a piece of his soul and that she was constantly overcome with an uncontrollable, raging energy and hadn’t been able to sleep all month and could barely handle herself and where was he-

“Sorry!” she tripped and stumbled into someone who caught her by the arm and glanced her over. It was Seamus Dawson, another friend of Tiberius’s, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Eric Dawson’s father.

“You alright, dear?” he asked her kindly, concern fluttering through his green eyes — a shade darker than his son’s. 

 She blinked and mumbled, “yeah, er, yes.”

He didn’t seem to believe her. But he released her arm after making sure she was steady on her feet by herself and quietly asked, “Portia’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” she repeated, feeling dazed. 

“Go have another drink and don’t think about it,” he said with a solemn smile. 

Natalie thought Seamus Dawson gave much better advice than Rabastan Lestrange. She ducked her head in a nod and slipped past him. She made it to the table, where Eric Dawson pulled her back into her seat.

“What was that about?” asked half the table.

“Nothing,” she exclaimed with a dramatic flourish. Then she flipped her hair over her shoulder and snatched the drink from Antonin Dolohov’s hand. “I just need another drink.”