Envy Engenders Spite

Natalie found herself staring at Seymour Mulciber in horror. Eyes wide as her breath seemed to stick on the inside of her throat. She was a murderer. . . . Well, she knew that. Nobody else should know about how she poisoned her father years ago. Of course, Tom knew — he didn’t count. So who had found out about the parricide she had committed when she was in school? Who had told the Department? Why did they send Mulciber? To arrest her? He seemed pretty relaxed for a homicide situation. Besides, wasn’t her Uncle working on a new set of laws which would technically make her actions legal? Theodore Borealis had, after all, killed Theia Malfoy, her pureblood witch mother.

“But it was only a Muggle so it’s not too much of an issue,” Mulciber continued from where he lounged on the couch and she grew more confused. Why was her father’s murder being brought to light now? It had been years ago. Was it because they were embarking on a chase for the World Cup? And now she was in the spotlight, her face and name and autograph were circulating throughout the entire wizarding world — so any sordid events of her past were being dug up to slander her?

“Um. . . what?” she stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, scared to move a muscle for fear Aurors would burst out of the walls and drag her off to Azkaban and-

Mulciber’s laughter shattered her spiraling thoughts. “Right, so you just killed a Muggle — accidentally or deliberately, that’s what I’m here to find out — Matt and Jack Lament are currently trying to clear it all up. The French Ministry isn’t too happy. Seamus Dawson sent over people from the Department of International Magical Cooperation to help out too. He should be showing up himself, actually.”

Natalie’s jaw dropped as a tsunami of understanding washed over her. The Muggle in the café — he had died? How was that possible? Well. . . she knew how it was possible — she had felt rage like a thousand wildfires burning out of control in that café — but she didn’t imagine that it could happen like that. Where the Muggle had just. . . dropped to the floor. Dead, just like that. She hadn’t intended to kill him.

“I, uh, I didn’t plan to,” she began in a shaky voice. Not quite sure how she was going to explain this latest disaster.

Mulciber raised a hand to stop her. He stared at the fireplace. Green flames spun around until someone popped out. 

Tiberius Malfoy, the Minister of Magic, brushed soot off his robes and glanced around until he spotted Mulciber on the couch.

“Seamus isn’t here yet, then?” he asked conversationally, sounding remarkably calm for someone whose niece had just accidentally committed a murder. 

“Should be on his way,” Mulciber checked his watch. “With Jack and Matt.”

“Excellent,” said Tiberius and he took a seat on the couch with incredible ease. He then seemed to notice how pale Natalie looked.

“It was just a Muggle,” he assured her, “you’ll only have to explain what happened to myself and Seamus and we’ll handle the French Ministry.”

“Oh,” she said blankly. Now wishing she had never followed Tom Riddle into the café. It was all that stupid blonde slut’s fault.

“You can sit down,” Mulciber gestured at the couch. 

Taking a minute to register his words, she slowly made her way towards the empty couch and forced herself to sit. Hand flying up to play with the ring around her neck and wondering how she was going to explain this. How did you say that a Muggle had touched your shoulder and dropped dead in an instant without sounding completely mental? Tiberius knew about her energy power, but the others didn’t. Nervous, she tried to catch her Uncle’s eye to hint at that, but he was intent on staring at his pocket watch. Watching the seconds tick by.

The hotel doors opened. All eyes turned towards them. In marched a very irritated Seamus Dawson, robes flicking around him. He was followed closely by Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott. Natalie’s eyes widened upon seeing her two friends. They looked remarkably pleased to be there, shooting her grins as they walked in.

“Matt and Jack can’t make it,” said Seamus Dawson as he approached the group. “French team started making a fuss. They want England to forfeit the game over this.”

Natalie sucked in a breath, despite the reassuring looks Nott and Rosier gave her. They hadn’t even played their first game for the Cup and they already looked to be out of the running. And it was all her fault. Just because a stupid Muggle had mentioned her father.

“That’s ridiculous,” snorted Tiberius. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.”

Gazes turned to her. She reddened, dropping her eyes to stare at the fleur-de-lis patterns on the carpet. Nott and Rosier stepped forward and settled on the couch on either side of her. Rosier clapping a supportive hand on her shoulder, though she felt him shudder as a bolt of energy went through him. But he did not die like the Muggle had — so that was good news. . . .

“I, uh,” she stammered before shaking her head. She could at least not embarrass the Malfoy family name. “I didn’t mean to kill him — I hadn’t known he was even dead until Seymour told me just now.”

“What spell did you use?” asked Seamus Dawson from where he stood between her and the Minister, sounding more curious than angry. A wave of gratitude rushed over her. She was related to or friends with essentially the entire British Ministry of Magic. They’d find some way to clear this catastrophe up. After all, her Uncle was the bloody Minister of Magic.

“Er. . . well, I didn’t exactly. . . use a spell. . . .” she latched onto her Uncle’s gaze, hoping he would understand.

To her relief, he gave her a nod and a small smile. Tiberius then cleared his throat and met Seamus’s confused eyes.

“This would be an example — albeit, a rather morbid one — of what I had spoken to you about after my son’s wedding, Seamus,” Tiberius explained in a composed voice and understanding dawned over Seamus Dawson’s face.

“Ah, I see.”

“Er, what exactly is this an example of?” asked Mulciber, glancing around. Nott and Rosier shared a small snigger, making Mulciber glare at them.

“Come here,” Natalie ordered, beckoning Mulciber towards her. He was trustworthy, she decided.

Hesitantly, Mulciber rose and closed the distance between them. Standing before her, Nott, and Rosier in bewilderment.

Natalie stretched her hand out towards him, gesturing for him to take it. Mulciber stared for a brief moment before clasping her hand in his.

Instantly, he leapt backwards, shock adorning his face as he gaped at the hand he had just held hers with.

“What the bloody hell-”

Behind her, Rosier whispered to Nott, “should we make him a Knight?”

“Not yet,” Nott muttered while Tiberius explained everything to Mulciber. Natalie gave the boys a pointed look and they sheepishly grinned.

“-going to ask that you keep this quiet, Seymour,” the Minister sounded deadly serious. “But do you understand now?”

“Er, yeah, yes. . . .”

“This doesn’t change the fact that the French Ministry is furious the English national team killed a Muggle and over three dozen more had to be Obliviated,” Seamus Dawson reminded everyone.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Natalie insisted, “it was just that. . . he touched me and I-”

“He what?” demanded Tiberius, leaning forward as harsh lines appeared on his forehead. Everyone else fell silent. 

Natalie hastened to explain, feeling the room turn cold as gazes grew sharp. “Well, he stopped right in front of me and wouldn’t let me walk away — kept asking if I knew some. . . some, er, some Muggle. . . I think um, football player — then, um, when I went to leave. . . he tried to stop me and went to grab me. . . .” she mimicked the motion of reaching out to grab someone’s shoulder before falling back against the two boys beside her. 

Tiberius clapped his hands together and settled back against the couch, looking as though the problem had solved itself. Even Seamus Dawson looked relieved, his shoulders slumping under his Ministry robes. Nott wrapped an arm around her and gave her a grin.

“The French will have a tough time arguing against that,” said Tiberius, “a Muggle laying hands on a witch. She acted in self-defense. The Defensia Supra Omnia bill hasn’t been voted upon yet but this is sure to get it passed in days. The French won’t want to bring this to the courts then.”

“The Muggle was past middle-aged, anyway,” added Nott, “any little spell could have killed him. . . .”

“He could’ve had a heart attack,” Rosier pitched in with a conspiratorial grin.

Seamus shot his assistants a shrewd glance. “Yes, but the French are going to ask if there were witnesses to support her claim. There were only Muggles in that café. And they’ve all been Obliviated.”

“Oh, we have a witness,” Nott piped up. “Two, actually.”

“Who?” asked Tiberius, looking astounded. Natalie sank against Nott in relief. She knew they were going to joke about the “Knights saving the day” for all eternity after this. But she didn’t care. She still had a shot at the World Cup because of it.

“Lor- er, Tom Riddle,” said Rosier with a grin and Natalie snapped her head towards him. She had completely forgotten Tom had been in the café too. “And Celeste Buisson.”

Celeste. The name sounded familiar. Natalie frowned. It had to be the dumb blonde who wanted to carve Tom’s eyeballs out and eat them. But. . . Ricky Webster had slept with a Celeste last night. Was it the same girl? She had a sneaking suspicion they were connected. How many Celestes were there? But wouldn’t Ricky have recognized the girl he just shagged? He was stupid, but she doubted Ricky would be that stupid, especially concerning the one thing after Quidditch he proclaimed himself to be an expert in.

“Excellent, you two,” Seamus Dawson praised his assistants. “Bring them in. I’ll insist the French meet us here and we can get this taken care of.”

“On it,” Nott and Rosier jumped up. Natalie managed to meet Rosier’s eyes before they left — and he nodded with a smirk, understanding her request.

“Uh, excuse me,” a voice called from the hallway leading to the upper floors when the doors closed behind Rosier and Nott. There stood Dent clutching a broom and in his Quidditch robes, looking unnerved in the presence of so many important Ministry officials.

“We, er, have practice now,” he said, glancing at Natalie. “And we need our Seeker.”

“You can have her back,” said Tiberius with a chuckle. “Everything’s been sorted out, or it will be very soon.”

“Right, fantastic,” said Dent, “c’mon Malfoy.”

Natalie hesitated. Debating if it was worth it to insist she stay so she could see Tom, see this blonde Celeste character, and see this problem solved. But Dent glared at her reluctance.

“Now, Malfoy.”

“Right,” she squeaked and leapt up. Shooting a nod at Tiberius, Seamus, and Mulciber before darting out after Dent.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Dent demanded from Natalie once the team had flooed to the Quidditch pitch they were allowed to use to practice for the upcoming game. It was on the rural outskirts of Paris, and was cloaked in an abundance of Muggle-repelling charms. They sat in the visiting locker room, pulling on equipment over their robes.

“Uh,” Natalie hesitated, staring down at the strap of her arm guard, not sure if the situation was supposed to be kept quiet or not. 

Dent paused in securing his Keeper’s shoulder pads. “Malfoy. . . .”

Natalie sighed, flicking her gaze up to meet his quietly panicked eyes before dropping her gaze. “Okay, well, you know how we had to leave the café?”

“You mean how you bloody freaked and came out screaming that we leave?”

“Yeah, that,” she grunted in irritation, pulling the strap tighter than normal. Then having to readjust it back to usual with another sigh. “Well, when I was inside, some Muggle came up to me and started talking to me and all — I tried to leave but he grabbed me and. . . he fell.”

Dent rose to his feet, equipment all ready, and picked up his broom, giving her a sharp look. “Why do I have the feeling he didn’t just fall?”

“Because he’s dead,” she snapped, jumping up and grabbing her broom. “And Jack and Matt and my Uncle and Seamus Dawson and the French Ministry-”

“Malfoy,” Dent stepped forward and snatched her broom. She kept her grip on it, and so he dragged her towards him until she could see the anger raging in his pale eyes. When he spoke, his voice rumbled with danger. “Is this going to get us kicked out of the Cup run?”

“No,” she growled, trying to tug her broom from his grasp but he tightened his hold on it and held her in place. “It’s not. My Uncle’s dealing with it. There’s witnesses to what happened. It’ll be fine.”

He released her broom so suddenly she nearly fell, his blue eyes burning. “You had best hope it’ll be fine.” Dent gave her one last look before surveying the rest of his team. 

“Let’s go.” He moved towards the locker room door, Natalie glaring at his back. 

“Someone’s in trouble,” sang out Ricky Webster as he pranced after Dent. “Wouldn’t have happened if you’d joined me last night.”

Natalie turned her glare on him, lips curling into a sneer at the aggravating Beater before her eyes widened as a thought struck her.

“Wait, Ricky!” she called, hurrying after him and nearly knocking Leonard Cadwallader to the floor. 

Ricky swivelled to face her, astonishment written on his face. “What’s this? Come to beg forgiveness for having missed your shot to shag me?”

“No,” she brushed aside his bawdiness. “What was the name of that girl you slept with last night?”

“Celeste,” he said with a smirk. “Why? Still into girls? Seems we have similar taste, then.”

“No,” she hissed at the thought of being similar to Ricky in any manner. The Beater just smirked as they followed a fuming Dent onto the field. “What was her last name?”

“Oh. Dunno. Usually don’t ask that. Kills the mood, you see.”

“Do you remember anything else about her?” Natalie immediately realized this was the wrong question to ask.

Ricky’s smirk widened. “You mean, besides how enormous her-”

“No, no, no,” she hastily said, unwilling to hear a full description of Celeste’s physical anatomy. “Nevermind.”

“They did seem to get bigger as the night went on, that was a first-”

Groaning, Natalie pushed past him, preferring Dent’s anger to Ricky’s lewd commentary.

“Sure hope this isn’t our last practice as a team,” Dent remarked with extreme hostility as she hustled towards him and away from Ricky.

“Oh, shut up,” she groaned, beginning to wish she had insisted on staying to see Tom and Celeste come in.

To Natalie’s disappointment, the team didn’t return to the hotel until later that evening. Dent decided “team nap” wasn’t going to happen despite Caddy almost passing out in the middle of what turned into an hours-long practice (Natalie suspected Dent actually was terrified it would be their last practice, and so he did not want to end it). He finally called it quits as the sun started sinking in the horizon. Several French house-elves then served them dinner in their locker room in silence because they were all too exhausted to speak.

Once the elves started acting concerned around Natalie, she insisted they head back to the hotel.

When they arrived, nobody was there with news of how the situation had progressed. But nobody was there to tell them to pack up and go home because they had been forced to forfeit — so she took it as a good sign, despite Dent’s grumbled comments about it.

“Right to bed,” ordered Dent as the seven trudged to their rooms. “Not as early tomorrow morning but the match is the day after, so this is an important night’s sleep tonight.”

“Anyone wanna join me for an important night sleep?” asked Ricky with a pointed look at Natalie.

“I’m sure Celeste would like to join you,” she said distractedly, wondering who she ought to owl to find out if the situation was cleared up.

Before Ricky could snap a retort, the door to his own room opened and there stood a strawberry-blonde witch in deep burgundy robes with a coy smile on her face.

“Someone say my name?” she giggled in a slight French accent but paled upon realizing the entire Quidditch team stood staring at her.

“Oh,” she shuffled a bit, “hello.”

“I assume you’re Celeste,” said Dent with barely disguised annoyance.

“The one and only,” crooned Ricky, darting towards the witch, picking up her hand and laying a dramatic kiss on it. 

But Celeste was too busy studying the rest of the Quidditch team. Her smoky green eyes darted between the Pottingers (who, one by one, were slipping down the hall to their own rooms), passed right over Caddy, and landed on Natalie. Dent, as if he saw a threat in her gaze, stepped in front of Natalie and cleared his throat.

“I like your hair,” Celeste told Natalie before Dent could say anything. “Very blonde. . . .” and her hair changed from strawberry blonde to platinum blonde, identical to Natalie’s, before their very eyes. 

Natalie sucked in an astonished breath. She found her gaze drawn to the girl’s hands. Her fingertips were manicured a brilliant scarlet. The same nails she had seen stroking Tom Riddle’s face in the café. 

“Woah,” exclaimed Ricky, twirling Celeste’s hair around his finger. “Do it again.”

Celeste giggled and began flashing her hair different colors — brunette, black, ginger, blonde — and Ricky began rating each of them.

“Excuse me,” Natalie interrupted, stepping around Dent and staring directly at Celeste. “Didn’t you stand witness for an incident today?”

Celeste turned to look at her and Natalie was hit with a barrage of the metamorphmagus’s memories and thoughts. She blinked, trying to control her Legilimency; though she did eagerly observe the memories and thoughts that contained a certain handsome dark-eyed wizard until shutting out the onslaught, nauseated by the witch’s mind.

“Oh, yes,” said Celeste in a bored voice. “You’re the Seeker? It was for you, I think. . . and an old Muggle or something. Yes, the English Minister cleared most of it up with our Minister.” She paused and then turned dramatic. “Yes. . . I barely did any talking. It was all the English Minister. . . and someone I thought was in love with me.”

Ricky gasped, “me? I’m in love with you!”

“You can’t be, darling,” sighed Celeste, her accent thickening with emotion as she patted Ricky’s arm. “I am mad at you.”

“What? Why?” exclaimed Ricky and Natalie glanced around to spy Caddy watching the interaction between Celeste and Ricky with fascination and Dent looking ready to throw Celeste out of the hotel.

“You did not tell me your teammates were so handsome,” she purred, running a hand over Ricky’s chest and then looking directly at Dent, completely ignoring Caddy.

“Oh,” Ricky shot a look at Dent as if telling him to scram. Dent, however, looked horrified at this turn of events.

“He and Malfoy are shagging,” Ricky hastily said and Natalie made a choking noise.

“Seriously?” Shaking her head, she took a leaf out of the Pottingers book and continued walking down the hall towards her own room. Leaving Celeste’s flirtatious purring and Dent’s furious scolding behind her.

“Stupid Paris,” Natalie muttered under her breath as she opened the door to her room. “City of Love more like City of — oh, bloody hell. . . .” slipping into her room, she realized it was crammed full of people. She hurriedly clicked the door shut behind her and gawked around. 

Seymour Mulciber sat in the desk chair, enchanted so it spun in slow circles as he read through a stack of parchment. Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott had conjured chairs for themselves and had a game of Wizards’ Chess floating between them (Nott was obviously winning). Eric Dawson and Adolphus Lestrange were sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the bed, in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap, though it seemed very likely they were occasionally shooting a spell at Mulciber’s chair to make it spin faster. And on her bed, lounged Tom Riddle, book in hand.

“What the hell are you all doing here?” she finally asked.

“Well, I’m the only one who is actually supposed to be here,” Mulciber jumped in before Lestrange could make a joke. 

Rosier stopped glaring at the chessboard to pipe up, “hey, we were told to come too.”

“No, you asked if you could report what I was told to report — and Seamus just let you come because he lets you two do whatever you want,” Mulciber looked annoyed about this. 

“We are also very much supposed to be here,” remarked Lestrange, wanting in on the action. 

Dawson smirked, “yeah, Mrs. Malfoy wanted us to tell you to stop killing Muggles while you’re on the national team — no matter how much they deserve it.”

“Merlin, it was an accident!” she groaned, striding across the room and throwing herself onto the bed. She looked directly at Tom Riddle until he laid his book aside and stared her down.

“I was here first,” he droned, amusement playing upon his smirk. 

“I know,” she hissed, noting the brief surprise that flicked through his eyes at her tone. “I told Evan to bring you here.”

“Had a bloody hard time getting that Celeste witch away from him,” Rosier had overheard their conversation and Natalie snapped her head towards him.

“Is that the slutty metamorphmagus?” asked Lestrange. He and Dawson climbed up from the floor to sit on the foot of the bed. “She tried to flirt with me. I told her to flirt with Eric, then she started wailing about how men always broke her heart. Bloody awful, if you ask me.”

“Yes, the slutty metamorphmagus,” Natalie said testily, glaring at Tom as she recalled the way Celeste had looked at him in the café. 

She watched realization flash through his eyes. He smirked. “Jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she spat, “she’s already shagged one of my teammates and is trying to shag another.”

“That’s an accomplishment,” snorted Lestrange. “Sleeping with the whole national team. Imagine having that to brag about?”

“Sounds disgusting,” drawled Mulciber and the older wizard stood to command everyone’s attention. “Well, I’m here to inform you that the whole situation with the Muggle has been resolved. Tiberius took care of it. Riddle here helped charm up the French, too,” he sent a nod at Tom Riddle and continued. “You lot are all set to play the French — though I doubt they’re going to be very happy, so keep your wits about you.”

“French team is bloody awful this year,” Nott reported with relish. “It’ll be an easy first round win.”

“Good,” grunted Natalie and she nodded at Mulciber. “You should probably tell Dent before he has another tantrum.”

“On it,” Mulciber chuckled and moved towards the door.

“That slutty metamorphmagus might be in his bed, though, so be careful,” she warned him.

“Yeah, or she’ll be in your bed next,” joked Dawson and Lestrange hooted with laughter.

“No,” Natalie scolded the duo as she settled back to lean against the headboard of the bed, deliberately keeping a space between her and Tom and pointedly ignoring him. She could feel his annoyance at this. “We don’t like the slutty metamorphmagus.”

“Yeah, we don’t like the slutty metamorphmagus,” Dawson corrected himself, though Natalie caught Rosier rolling his eyes and shot him a glare. He sent her a smirk as Mulciber walked out, muttering something about “children”.

“So, why are you lot here?” she demanded of the others. 

“Well, we already explained that,” teased Lestrange. He and Dawson stood and shot looks over at Nott and Rosier. They rose and vanished their chessboard and chairs.

Nott cleared his throat and nodded at Dawson. “Your father is expecting us back, to make sure she knows it’s all cleared up.”

“Ask him if he can get us tickets for the game,” said Dawson with a grin.

“No!” Natalie said in a loud voice. The thought of having her old teammates watching her play for the national team was unnerving. Dent and Ricky and Caddy and the Pottingers existed outside the door to the hotel room. Tom and the Knights existed within it. As it should be. She didn’t want the two worlds colliding. That felt wrong. 

“We want to see you play!” whined Lestrange, sounding very much like a petulant child.

“It’s just the first round,” she snapped, “and you heard Zack, the French team is bloody awful. It’ll be a boring game anyway. Besides, don’t you all have jobs to do?”

“If you mean helping the French Ministry Obliviate a bunch of Muggles, then yes,” said Rosier with a snort. “At least that was fun.”

“Glad to be of service,” she hissed, “now get out.”

“Are you lot flooing?” she heard Dawson ask.

“We apparated,” replied Nott. “This is usually a Muggle hotel.”

“Yeah, there’s barely any fireplaces,” said Rosier. “Makes no sense.”

Natalie grabbed a pillow and flung it at them. “Just disapparate!”

They laughed as the pillow missed all of them. 

“Thank Merlin she’s not a Chaser,” remarked Lestrange before one by one they turned and vanished with small pops.

Once they had gone, she glanced at Tom out of the corner of her eyes. He was still glaring at her.

“So. . . why are you in Paris?” she finally asked, voice steely as she studied the painting of the Eiffel Tower across the room.

“Business,” he replied coldly.

“Business,” she mocked, turning to face him fully. “What does your ‘business’ have to do with meeting some slutty metamorphmagus at a café near the Eiffel Tower? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Paris?”

He stared at her, dark eyes flashing. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m overreacting? What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re overreacting,” he sounded impatient now, turning so he too faced her. They both sat cross-legged on top of the bed, leaning forward and glaring at the other, an arm’s length of space between them. “I’m only here on business your Uncle asked me to conduct.”

Natalie instinctively bared her teeth as an image of the blonde-haired, red-nailed Celeste flashed through her mind. “What could Burke’s business have to do with that-”

“Joan of Arc’s goblin-wrought armor from the 1400s,” he snapped. “You know the Buisson family is one of the oldest pureblood families in France. Celeste Buisson is the spoiled, bratty only-child of the line that have both forgotten what such a heritage means and are in possession of the armor. Burke wants it. I took the way most likely to get it.”

Natalie scowled at him, hands clutching at the bed sheet between them as her muscles grew taut from anger. “Well, did it work? Hope it didn’t require too much. . . effort. . . on your end. She seemed intent on. . . eating you in that café.”

“And you seemed intent on murder in that café.”

“That was an accident! He was in my way and spoke about things which he shouldn’t have!”

Tom let out a soft but chilling laugh that reminded Natalie of his other name. “I wasn’t referring to the Muggle.”

“Oh,” she blinked, momentarily thrown off guard before she sneered, “well — did you get the armor? Did your flirty charming work on her?”

He rolled his eyes. “Unlike on you.”

“That’s because I know it’s fake,” she growled.

“I used what I could to get what I needed,” his voice was terse. It did nothing but infuriate her further.

“And did it work?” she seethed, “did she give you Joan of Arc’s precious armor? Or did you have to-”

“Yes, it worked,” he interrupted with a hiss. “She signed the rights to the armor to Burke and I’m taking it back with me to London by the end of the week. Although your little stunt with that Muggle almost ruined it. The scene was crawling with French Ministry officials just seconds later. Buisson wasn’t too pleased about being asked to bear witness to the deadly actions of an English national team Seeker who can’t control her temper.”

He dragged out the last few words and they ushered in a raging silence between them. Natalie glared at him. He glared right back. There was a wand length of space between them by now. Natalie realized that in their arguing, they had inched forward ever so slightly towards the other until she could see the coals burning within his eyes, whipped up into a frenzy. She briefly wondered how much of the gale fanning the flames was from her before he reached forward and snatched hold of her chin with a hand.

Tilting her head towards him, his eyes snapped between either of hers. A tingling in her head signaled the familiar feeling of his Legilimency magic as a shudder ran up his arm.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked, voice low and demanding.

She blinked, “didn’t you stand witness?” 

“Yes. All I testified was that he laid a hand on you. Which was wrong in itself. But that’s not why you killed him, is it.”

“No,” she growled, images flashing through her mind — and she knew he had already seen the truth. “He mentioned. . . my father,” she spat the last two words out, feeling contaminated by speaking them aloud.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. They were now sitting so close she was nearly in his lap. His hand remained on her chin, the other coming to rest on her hip as if to hold her in place before him. Then she realized how much she was shaking. 

Natalie felt the need to joke about the amount of energy that trembled within her. “You should probably be dead. . . .”

“I can’t die,” there was no humor in his voice, his face remained grave.

Natalie stared into his eyes, watching the fires burn before shoving his hand from her face and launching herself forward to attach her lips to his.