Envy Engenders Spite

“Who’s the dipshit who wrote this?” Natalie Malfoy burst into the study of the Malfoy Manor, waving about the parchment which detailed a sponsorship by the most influential private company in all of Europe, Intrepid Ingredients Inc. Otherwise known as Triple I.

Abraxas Malfoy sat behind the desk and removed his feet from it the moment the door opened. He rolled his eyes upon noting it was only his cousin. 

“First of all, anyone who speaks with that sort of language in here is usually thrown out, so shut your fucking mouth. Second of all, hello, Winky, how are you?”

Winky Crockett had entered the study right behind Natalie and grinned. “Not too bad, Abraxas. How was Venice?”

“Lovely,” said Abraxas with a fond smile at the mention of his honeymoon destination. “But I assume you aren’t here to discuss moonlight gondola rides and the finest Italian wines.”

“I wouldn’t complain if we did,” replied Crockett. “But don’t think the big boss will let me.”

“Who’s the big boss?” asked Natalie, throwing herself into one of the leather chairs in front of the desk and making herself right at home. 

“Big boss is you if you’re mature enough to handle the joke,” snorted Crockett as he took a seat next to her. 

“Doubt it,” muttered Abraxas while Natalie adopted an air of incredible haughtiness, flipping her loose blonde hair and throwing a leg over the arm of the chair. 

“I’m the maturest person I’ve ever met.”

“Then you must not have met many mature people,” taunted Abraxas. “And sit properly. Grandmother would be appalled.”

Natalie straightened, crossing one leg over the other and flaring out the long silken robes she wore. “Well, seeing as I’ve met you — and those hooligans you’ve hired, I’d say you’re right,” she fired back with a smirk. “Where are the hooligans anyway?”

“Gringotts,” said Abraxas, ignoring her comment. “Sent them to visit Giles Morrison. See if he’ll give any clues as to how Gringotts is feeling about Russia. Shouldn’t be too hard. He loves complaining about his job.”

Natalie dropped the pompous banter and tilted her head. “I thought Gringotts hated Russia?” 

Abraxas shrugged. “Gringotts will act in its own self-interest. Their hate can switch to love in an instant if they can strike a deal that works for them.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m not involved,” she hummed before growing lighthearted. “It all sounds dreadful.”

Abraxas surveyed her with a thoughtful expression, tilting his head the same way she had. “You would be more useful than you think. . . .”

It was her turn to shrug before she retrieved a piece of parchment from the inside of her robes and slapped it on the desk between them. “I really just came to talk about this.”

“Grandmother will be disappointed you and Crockett aren’t staying for dinner. And I know there’s two Triple I representatives that will definitely be stopping at the Leaky Cauldron-”

“Okay, obviously, we’re interested in both — but, seriously, who wrote this?”

“Dawson,” said Abraxas, picking it up and examining it. “Wrote it while I was in Venice. . . and. . . er, didn’t want to do anything.” 

“Er. . . oh,” Natalie shifted in her seat, avoiding Abraxas’ gaze. She hadn’t seen her cousin since the wedding and she didn’t want to approach the topic of Portia’s death. Fortunately, neither did Abraxas. She thanked Merlin they were such an emotionally-repressive family. It saved her a lot of awkward conversations.

“What don’t you like about it?” he asked and picked up a quill, ready to edit the terms right there and then.

“Nothing,” Crockett finally jumped in. “She’s fine with it. Just wanted an excuse to visit. Dragged me along to make it more official.”

Abraxas looked at his cousin and sneered, “doesn’t seem very professional of you.”

Natalie glared at him. “Well, sorry I wanted to visit before we begin traveling all over the world!”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Abraxas perked up and tugged open one of the desk drawers. He retrieved a large poster and presented it to her. Natalie laughed upon recognizing herself and the rest of the English national team. 

“Grandmother would like this autographed,” requested Abraxas. “By the entire team.”

Natalie snorted as he slid the poster towards her, ignoring Crockett’s snickering. “Sure. Those gits love signing their name on anything offered.”’

“I’m sure you’re no different,” Abraxas rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” she said and reached for a quill.

Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson each picked up a shot of Firewhiskey, clinked them together, threw them back, and swallowed them in one gulp.

Lestrange slammed his empty glass on the counter of the Leaky Cauldron. “Alright. I’m ready.”

“Me too,” Dawson copied his actions, licking his lips as he smirked. “You know Abraxas just wants us to wheedle information out of Giles, right?”

“‘Course,” Lestrange snorted and tossed a few Galleons onto the bar. The two then traversed through the dim pub toward the back exit leading to Diagon Alley.

When they stepped into the bustling wizarding alley, the first thing they saw was Natalie Malfoy. But not in the flesh. 

Laughing to each other, they approached the nearest storefront bearing multiple magical advertisements featuring the English national team Seeker grinning and waving in various different robes and outfits sold by the shop.

“Bulstrode’s Befittings is sponsoring her, then, huh,” snickered Lestrange as they studied the shop. The storefront also had one of the official English national team posters plastered to the door, a familiar scrawling signature in the corner of it.

“Quinn works there now, I heard,” said Dawson and he peered into the windows displaying dress robes, work robes, casual robes, and everything in between. 

“No shit, her parents own it,” Lestrange joined him and they waved furiously through the windows until Quinn Bulstrode, who was talking to a customer, spotted them. 

She rolled her eyes but gave the two a wave back.

“When do you think her and Evan are getting engaged?” asked Dawson as they continued on their way towards Gringotts.

“As soon as that idiot realizes she wants to marry him,” replied Lestrange with a laugh. “But definitely before Zack and Pam.”

“But not before you and Savanna,” teased Dawson.

“I’m marrying that witch the second she leaves Hogwarts,” proclaimed Lestrange, stopping in the middle of Diagon Alley and putting a hand over his heart.

Dawson hooted with laughter, then doubled over and nudged Lestrange to look at the next store that sponsored Natalie Malfoy.

“Why does she look so bloody annoyed?” Lestrange sniggered and they darted over to Ollivander’s wand shop to laugh at the poster pasted to the front window. It displayed a disgruntled Natalie Malfoy, sitting on a hovering broom with both legs swung over one side, spinning a wand between her fingers.

“Probably because this suggests you can use magic during a Quidditch match,” joked Dawson and Lestrange barked a laugh, opening his mouth to reply but was cut off by a cold voice.

“Or because she never bought her wand from Ollivander’s.”

Adolphus Lestrange whipped around to find Lord Voldemort wearing the same expression one would have when behind someone who walked far too slow for one’s own busy schedule. Lestrange nearly tripped in his surprise, flinging out a hand and snatching hold of Dawson’s robes to steady himself. His actions almost caused Dawson to topple over with him.

Tom Riddle watched them with mild amusement. “Do you have to act like fools in the middle of the busiest place in the entire wizarding world?”

“Uh, yes, I mean, no,” said Dawson as Lestrange steadied himself. 

“What are you two doing here, anyway?” Riddle inquired, eyes drifting to study the same poster they had just been laughing at. “Besides gawping at posters of the English national Seeker?”

“Er, we’re technically doing business. You?” asked Lestrange.

“Business,” Riddle repeated the word, eyes flicking between them before his face morphed into an expressionless mask. “When’s the wedding?”

Lestrange blanked. “What?” 

“Your’s and Savanna’s.”

“Oh, er, I dunno the exact date yet-”

Tom Riddle snorted as though Lestrange was a complete idiot. “Well, don’t go around telling everyone you’re marrying her when you haven’t even got the date picked yet.”

“Uh, how does, er, August fifth sound?”

“Sounds like it’s in the middle of the Quidditch World Cup.”

Dawson’s jaw dropped as he stared at Tom Riddle, someone who was not known to be well-versed in Quidditch knowledge and lore. “How do you know that-”

Lord Voldemort just gave him a look as if questioning his intelligence. Dawson flushed a brilliant red. 

“Oh, er, right, of course-”

“I’m reminded every time I see her,” he droned and stepped to move past them and on his way.

“Wait, when’s the last time you saw her?” Lestrange eagerly asked, “we haven’t seen her since Abraxas’ wedding and that was over a month ago.”

He looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow as though they ought to know better than to ask him questions of that kind. Then his black robes melted out of their sight, leaving Dawson and Lestrange staring after him.

“When do you think they’re getting married?” Lestrange finally asked after a moment. 

“Dunno!” Dawson loudly snapped.

At the outburst, Lestrange gave him a pointed look. “You. . . still fancy her, don’t you?”

“No!”

“Eric. . . .”

“Shut up. Do you think he can tell?”

“If I can, he definitely can.”

“Great,” muttered Dawson. “That’s just great.”

“What’s great?” for the second time that day, another voice joined them.

They turned to spot Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott standing behind them, dressed in their official Ministry attire and looking very aggravated.

“Nothing,” Dawson hastily said. “Where are you lot coming from?”

“Gringotts,” replied Nott, looking none too happy about this. 

“That’s where we’re off to,” Lestrange gave them a suspicious look. “What’s the Ministry doing sending its two youngest interns to Gringotts?”

“Russia,” grunted Rosier and he gestured to Dawson. “Seamus wanted us to tell Gringotts that the Ministry is thinking of imposing some restrictions on the bank’s negotiations with the Soviets.”

“We got kicked out by goblins after being there for five minutes,” Nott informed them with annoyance.

“Well, obviously,” said Dawson, as though he wondered why they were so upset.

Everyone stared at him until he scowled and continued. “My Dad knows it’s stupid to try to impose anything on Gringotts. We already restrict goblins enough, it’s useless to try to go after Gringotts as well.”

“So then why’d he bother sending us?” demanded Rosier, now looking very ticked off.

Dawson rolled his eyes. “Probably to get a feel for what way they’re leaning. That’s what we’re going to do for Triple I right now.”

“Well, all I got out of it was that goblins hate the Ministry and they hate Russia and they only seem to like making sure their name and credit don’t get damaged,” Nott summed up sourly.

“They don’t hate Triple I,” Lestrange bragged with a toss of his dark hair. “We hate Russia just as much as Gringotts hates Russia.”

“At least you got something going for you,” grumbled Rosier. “Anyway, we’re going to see Quinn and then getting drinks at the Leaky — you lot want to join later?”

“We just did both of those things but hell yes,” Dawson grinned, visibly brightening up. 

“Brilliant,” said Nott, “see you two later then.”

Lestrange and Dawson farewelled their friends and continued towards the snowy white marble of Gringotts bank, not quite sure what they should be prepared for.

“At least we’re meeting with Giles, not goblins,” muttered Lestrange as they entered the cool building and headed towards the offices. 

Dawson handed a security goblin a stack of parchment. The goblin shuffled through it for a moment before grunting and leading them through the bank to the offices. 

“Morrison,” said the goblin once he stopped outside a closed door bearing the name “Giles Morrison” on it. The door clicked open as if expecting their arrival and the Triple I representatives stepped in. 

“Oh,” upon sighting them, Giles Morrison settled back in his seat. “It’s you two. Come in and sit.”

“Who were you expecting?” asked Dawson, though he knew the answer.

“Russian delegation,” said Morrison with barely disguised annoyance as they settled into the comfortably cushioned seats in front of his desk. There was an absurd amount of parchment stacked onto the desk, separated into little piles and color-coded using some obscure organizational system.

Lestrange grinned and launched into the real reason for their visit. “Well, we aren’t them. Things still dodgy with the Soviet Union? Last we heard you said they were bringing in all sorts of ridiculous things for collateral.”

“Yes,” Morrison rolled his eyes and snatched up a piece of parchment from the desk. “I can tell you this because it’s so ludicrous even the goblins are making fun of it. They want to use some sort of enormous explosive bomb, some Muggle invention, as collateral for a loan for fifty million Galleons.”

“Fifty?” Dawson gaped at the number. “Triple I isn’t even asking that much!”

“That’s not even what’s funny about it,” Morrison tossed the paper back onto his desk and crossed his arms. “They forgot to mention that whatever Muggle device — they refer to it as an atomic bomb — hasn’t even been invented by them yet.”

Lestrange and Dawson laughed at this. 

“Why are they trying to use Muggle inventions as collateral? Not saying that a giant bomb doesn’t sound fun, but, still,” Lestrange looked dumbfounded.

“They insist it’s going to change the world,” Morrison was clearly unconvinced, forehead lined with irritation. “All we really care about is that they don’t have it and that we don’t have a use for it.”

Dawson tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “I’m sure the goblins would find some reason to be interested in it, right?”

Morrison shrugged. “I’m sure they would too but I spent two weeks in Russia just to find out that they don’t have the actual bomb yet.”

“Muggles are awfully obsessed with bombs, huh,” realized Lestrange, glancing between the other two. “Didn’t America just drop a bunch of huge bombs?”

“Yeah, America developed this atomic bomb. Finally ended their bloody war,” said Morrison with a shake of his head. “But now Russia is panicking and developing their own — as if they can afford to do so.”

“Are we talking about Muggles or wizards in Russia, because I can’t tell anymore,” Dawson sheepishly smiled.

“Honestly, neither can I,” sighed Morrison. “But if you two are here to find out if we’ve given them a loan — the answer is we definitely have not.”

“Don’t want to use giant bombs as collateral, huh,” snickered Lestrange. “If I was running this show, I might consider it.”

Dawson gave him a pointed glance. “A Muggle bomb.” 

“Oh, right. Nevermind then,” an amused look came over Lestrange’s face. “This is like Russia trying to use Natalie as collateral — imagine that. Liable to just blow up on you whenever.”

“We’d definitely rather have her as collateral,” Morrison chuckled, leaning forward to place his elbows on his desk and rest his chin in his hands. “At least we know she’s actually useful and worth a bloody lot.”

Dawson shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s on the bloody national team and she didn’t even tell us.”

“The players weren’t supposed to, you git,” Lestrange rolled his eyes but grew excited at the mention of Quidditch. “They’re going over to play France for the first game in a few days. It’s definitely a guaranteed win. How’s that for collateral?”

Morrison smirked and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and looking rather smug. “Brilliant, but Gringotts would be more interested in the fact that she’s estimated to be worth almost as much as Triple I from her sponsorships alone.”

Dawson let out a slow whistle. “That much, huh?”

“They’ve barely even begun the Cup run,” Lestrange looked flabbergasted. “How’s that even possible?”

Morrison seemed exceptionally self-satisfied as he moved some papers around on his desk. “Well, let’s see — she’s the only pureblood Quidditch player on an English national team that was handpicked by Jack Lament — who won the Cup himself twice when he played — she’s young, bloody attractive, and between the three of us, we know there’s something a bit more about her. Who wouldn’t want to sponsor her?”

“Is Gringotts sponsoring her?” asked Dawson with suspicion.

Morrison grinned, delighted at the question. “Yes. I wrote the contract myself.”

“How come you haven’t got any posters hung up around here?” Lestrange raised an eyebrow. “All the businesses have them.”

Turning to check the ornate clock on the wall behind him, Morrison pointed at it and explained, “expecting them to arrive before the end of the day. So are the Russians, but they’ve never been on time to anything yet.”

“Shocking,” remarked Dawson with heavy sarcasm. He shared a glance with Lestrange and they both stood to leave. 

“We’ll let you get on with that serious business,” remarked Lestrange. “If the Russians don’t ever show up, feel free to stop by the Leaky. Us, Zack, and Evan will be there, toasting to the success of the English team. And maybe to some Muggle bombs. Who knows.”

“Might take you up on that,” said Morrison, looking very much like he needed a drink.

Lestrange and Dawson laughed and slipped out of the office, leaving Morrison to his thoughts.

Not long after they left, the door opened again. Morrison glanced up, irritated at the failure to knock by whomever had entered.

But this was quickly explained, as a goblin hobbled into the office, carrying a large box.

“Bunch of these just showed up for you,” announced the goblin, heaving the box onto Giles’ desk and sending the meticulously organized stacks of parchment collapsing all over each other.

Morrison held his tongue as his carefully constructed system was destroyed before his eyes. The goblin was called Agnel. He was the son of Kregmar, who was technically Giles’ boss. All it really meant was that Agnel ran around the wizard liaison offices, ruining everybody’s day and getting away with it because his father would fire anyone who dared speak a word against his son.

“Thanks, Agnel,” said Morrison, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Agnel just grunted and climbed onto the chair Dawson had been sitting in. Leaning over and slicing open the box with his razor sharp nails. Morrison contented himself with watching the young goblin open the box and inspect its contents.

“Oh,” Agnel sounded disappointed as he peered inside. “It’s those posters you wizards are disturbingly fond of. Thought it might be some Russian gold.”

“The Russians haven’t got any gold,” sighed Morrison. He already knew the expected Russian delegation wasn’t showing up. Maybe he would leave a bit early and head over to the Leaky. . . .

Agnel ignored Morrison as if he hadn’t spoken. Which was his usual behavior. Picking up the topmost poster, the goblin inspected it with beady black eyes.

“That’s her then,” said Agnel, turning the poster and shoving it in Morrison’s face. A stumpy finger tapped the grinning Natalie Malfoy. “Our newest asset?”

“Yes,” replied Morrison, well-accustomed to the goblin obsession over their “assets” and “property”.

“Don’t know why my father trusted your judgement on this one,” Agnel said rather nastily. “Gringotts hasn’t sponsored a professional Quidditch player in decades. Last time we did, the player died. Then you come along and talk this one up just because you went to school together.”

“It will pay off,” Morrison ground his teeth. He always had a problem keeping his temper under control when Agnel was around. “Your father was very pleased with it. Especially when she came herself to sign the contract.”

Agnel dropped the poster back into the box and jumped down from the chair. Once again ignoring Morrison’s words. He went to amble out of the office, but pulled himself to a stop right in the doorway, making sure to scrap his sharp nails against the doorframe, effectively ruining the woodwork. 

“Oh, my father wanted me to tell you that the Russians won’t be coming in today.”

“Knew it,” sighed Morrison, but Agnel had already vanished.

“I need you to go in before me, and don’t make a scene, and don’t look at anyone, and don’t make eye contact-”

Abraxas Malfoy scoffed over Natalie’s increasing demands. They stood outside the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, ignoring the spitting rain that dampened London that evening. Winky Crockett had taken leave after Domitia Malfoy kept them at dinner longer than expected, and the two cousins decided to drop in at the Leaky Cauldron.

“You’re not the only one who’s well-known in the wizarding world.”

She scowled at him. “Yeah, well, we’ll see who has their face plastered all over posters when we walk in.”

“The Leaky is sponsoring you?” snorted Abraxas with a shake of his head. “What, do you have to publicly announce it’s the favorite spot of the national team for post-game drinks?”

“No, but I do eat here a lot,” she grudgingly admitted. “Sometimes I’ll bring some of the team. Do you know how many autographs I’ve signed? Tom says they’ve made more money the past month than they have in years just from people coming in to get a look at us all.”

“Tom?”

“Not mine. Bartender Tom.”

“Ah, yes. Yours doesn’t like to be referred to as-”

“Of course he doesn’t,” she snapped and gestured at the door. “Are you gonna go in?”

Abraxas rolled his eyes but stepped forward anyway. “Yes, princess.”

“Don’t know why everyone calls me that,” she muttered as she followed him in. “Not like we’re actual royalty or anything.”

“Depends on how you define royalty,” he shot back, “but it’s also because you’re a bloody prima donna.”

“Am not,” she growled as they stepped into the dark pub. Her manner morphed from annoyance to smugness as a national team poster came into view on the wall beside the door.

Flouncing over, she slapped a hand against it and turned to Abraxas. “Don’t see you on here. . . that’s funny. . . .”

“OI! No climbing on the bar!” a voice called out, drawing her attention across the pub. The bartender, Tom, was waving his hands and running over to where two wizards were attempting to climb over the bar and hide behind it. Several others sitting in stools around the bar weren’t bothering to hide their laughter at this.

She recognized all the wizards instantly. So did Abraxas. The two cousins shared a look between themselves before stalking over. 

“Hello, Giles,” Abraxas greeted his former classmate, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

“Abraxas,” Morrison nodded, still chuckling at Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson. Natalie hopped onto one of the empty stools and peered over the bar to where the two were attempting to hide.

“What’re you afraid to be seen drinking now that your boss is here?” she called down to them. On her left, Evan Rosier held his hand up and she high-fived him with a snort. On Rosier’s other side, Zacharias Nott slid his goblet down towards her.

“Can’t drink,” she told him, “national team rules.”

“Boring,” Nott snorted but had no issues finishing his drink.

“Oh, hey, what’re you doing here, princess?” Lestrange popped up from behind the bar and pretended to ignore Abraxas. Dawson stood beside him, snatching up a clean glass.

“Can we get you anything to drink?”

“You two don’t work here,” Tom the bartender snapped at them, scurrying behind the bar and shooing them away. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, the two trooped around and claimed the empty stools beside Natalie.

“Oh, hey, what’re you doing here, Abraxas?” repeated Lestrange, this time sounding much more nervous.

“I knew you two were going to come here,” Abraxas rolled his eyes and gestured for Tom to make him a drink.

“This is the second time today,” muttered Tom before he gave Natalie a brilliant smile. “Hello, my dear, can I get you anything?”

“Just water today,” she returned the smile as Abraxas shot Dawson and Lestrange a sharp look. They shrugged, innocence plastered over their faces.

Tom the bartender placed a glass of water before her and a glass of gin before Abraxas. Natalie took a sip and eyed the group sitting around her. Abraxas, Morrison, Dawson, Lestrange, Nott, Rosier-

“We saw him today,” Lestrange whispered to her. He sat on her immediate right, just as they had at school. “In Diagon Alley. Said he had business to do.”

“Why didn’t you invite him here?” she asked in annoyance and gestured to the others. “Seems like you invited everyone else.”

“Er, well-” he hastened to explain but was interrupted by someone popping up right behind them. Natalie spun on the stool to face whoever it was, instinctively leaning towards Adolphus. At the same time, Lestrange turned and snatched the hand that had stretched out to tap her shoulder.

The two stared at the stunned wizard for a moment before relaxing.

“You’re Lancelot Prewett,” said Lestrange, releasing the wizard’s wrist and recognizing him. He wore Healer’s robes and looked as though he’d just finished a particularly grueling shift at St. Mungo’s.

“That’s me,” he shuffled nervously under their gazes — and now the gazes of all the others at the bar. “Didn’t, er,  mean to frighten you. . . .”

“It’s alright,” Natalie faked a smile, reading the flickers in his chocolate brown eyes. “You want an autograph?”

A smile appeared on his face. “Er, yes, if it’s not too much trouble. For my nephews. . . .”

“Sure,” she said, flicking her wand and producing a quill and a pot of ink. Dawson slid a napkin her way. She tapped it with her wand and it morphed into a stiff piece of parchment.

“What are their names?” she asked, quill poised over the transfigured parchment.

“Fabian and Gidgeon,” said Lancelot with excitement. 

With a nod, she wrote the two names, the first generic Quidditch-related statement she could think of, sketched a little drawing of a Snitch (ignoring the snickering and commenting from her former teammates at her art skills), then added her looping signature which she was now so accustomed to making. Despite it looking different every time she scrawled it on something. Dent’s autograph always turned out the same, she had no idea how he managed that.

“Here,” she held out the parchment to him.

“Thank you!” Lancelot exclaimed, accepting the parchment as though it was a priceless artifact. He dipped into a slight bow, sent a nod at Abraxas, and vanished into the smoky pub. 

“Ahem,” Lestrange grabbed her attention by clearing his throat. A smirk on his face, he pushed a napkin towards her. “Excuse me, princess, can I get a personalized autograph?”

“And me?” whined Dawson, flinging another napkin her way.

“And me!” Rosier added yet another napkin to the pile

“Me!” called Nott and a fourth napkin joined the stack.

“We don’t want personalized autographs,” Abraxas spoke for himself and Morrison. “Because we’re not five years old.”

Natalie glared at the four wizards her age. “Seriously, you lot?”

They gave her pleading looks until she sighed and acquiesced.