Envy Engenders Spite

The day after the next, the day of the England versus France match, Natalie was once again awoken by a pounding on her door. 

“Stupid Dent,” she groaned and went to roll out of the bed only to find herself pulled back by a painful tugging on her head. “Ow!”

She glanced over to find Tom Riddle staring at her in annoyance, his fingers threaded through her hair, half a blonde braid forming. “I was busy.”

“Stop playing with my hair. It’s game day and the captain of the national team is gonna break the door down in two seconds.”

Rolling his eyes, he released her hair from his grip and gestured her towards the door with a dismissive wave. She shot him a glare but bounded up from the bed, swinging her bathrobe over herself before darting towards the door.

She opened it a crack and peered out. There stood a very agitated Dent, already dressed in his Quidditch robes. 

He took in her tousled hair, bare legs, and bathrobe embroidered with Snitches. Biting his lip and closing his eyes as though trying to control himself. Then he took a deep breath, snapped his eyes open and glared at her. 

“Get up and get ready to go. It’s game day.”

“That’s my line,” she retorted.

“What?”

“It’s game day. That’s my line.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t need your shit today, Malfoy. Get ready to catch the goddamn Snitch.”

“I am ready,” she sneered and heard Tom laugh from within the room. Instinctively, she started to close the door to prevent Dent from hearing anything.

But his eyes narrowed and he grew suspicious, wedging a foot in the door so she couldn’t shut it all the way.

“Got someone in there with you, Malfoy?”

“I, uh, no,” she argued, her cheeks and neck growing warm. She did not want Lord Voldemort and Eugene Dent meeting. Just the thought of them being in the same room sounded awful. “No one’s here. I’m all alone.”

His facial expression made it obvious he did not believe her. “Are you taking after Ricky?”

“Uh, no, what?”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Er, yeah, so what?”

“So you are taking after Ricky.”

“No, I’m not!” she shrieked and kicked his foot away. “Gotta go get ready!” she slammed the door shut and turned to find Tom sitting up in bed, an enormous smirk upon his face.

Natalie groaned, “shut up!”

“Hey, beautiful,” Ricky Webster called across the locker room as the team readied for the game. “A little birdy told me you weren’t sleeping alone last night.”

Natalie ignored him, staring down at the custom dragon-hide gloves in her hands. Tugging them on and adjusting them until they molded to her skin. Abraxas had bought them for her the instant he found out she would be playing for the National team. They were red, to match their uniforms, and had their surname embroidered in black across the back of the palms. She adored them. 

“Wait, what?” gasped Leonard Cadwallader, “what do you mean, she wasn’t sleeping alone?”

“Well, you see, Caddy, she was shagging someone,” explained Ricky in a slow voice.

Natalie could hear the Pottingers begin snickering from across the locker room and cursed that Dent was meeting with the officials and the French captain before the game, and so she was left with these buffoons. Dent might be obsessed with her but he was the sanest of them all.

“Shagging?” Caddy sounded shocked, “who? You?”

“No!” Natalie couldn’t restrain herself from looking up and snapping this. The thought of shagging “Pretty Ricky” was sickening. Though she bit her tongue in annoyance when Ricky looked delighted to have finally gained her attention.

“Sadly it was not me, Caddy,” crooned Ricky, running a hand through his blond curls and sending Natalie an obvious wink. “I don’t think it was her boyfriend either — what do you say he’s always doing? Traveling?”

Natalie scowled. “Don’t you have a girlfriend, Webster?”

“Yeah. A bloody knockout she is too. Veela. Hair whiter than yours. Much fitter than you too, sorry not sorry-”

“Alright!” the door slammed open and Dent burst back in, looking irritated. Natalie sank back against the wall of her stall in relief.

“Caddy, Ricky, shut up,” snapped Dent, “Malfoy, stop looking so happy, we haven’t won yet. Ted, Tucker, Tommy — stop laughing, this is serious.”

“Doesn’t the French team bloody blow?” asked one of the Pottingers, nobody was sure which.

“Well, thanks to our Seeker here, the French team isn’t too pleased to be playing us,” said Dent, shooting a look at Natalie. She avoided his gaze, picking up her broom and brushing off some imaginary dust.

“They’re out for blood,” Dent continued, glaring around at his team. “So unless you lot have anything relevant to say, shut the bloody hell up. Everyone play your game, keep your heads up — Ricky, Caddy, I don’t care how mad Malfoy is at you lot, keep those bloody Bludgers away from her. Pottingers — score. Malfoy, catch the bloody Snitch as soon as possible so we can go home. Sound good?”

There was silence around the room as they all stared at their captain. Evidently, he was satisfied with this. Nodding, he stepped forward to grab his broom. Natalie leaned over to toss it to him and he snatched it out of the air with a swift flourish.

“Don’t screw this up,” he whispered to her, a note of pleading in his voice. Natalie met his pale eyes and nodded, feeling remarkably calm now.

“Don’t plan on it,” she grinned and Dent sucked in a deep breath, glancing around at them all.

“This is only the first round. . . it’s a long way to go between now and the Cup. . . .”

Leonard Cadwallader raised a hand, confusion written across his pimply face. “So then. . . what’re we waiting for?”

“Someone’s gonna bloody die!” Natalie screamed at Dent as she streaked past the Keeper’s hoops on the English side. The game had been brutal since the balls had been released and got dirtier by the second. The French were really not happy.

“Make bloody sure it’s not you!” Dent yelled back as she passed him.

Natalie grunted, flinging her blonde braid out of her face and squinting around the field as she rose back up into the air. She always liked having a bird’s eye view. So long as she wasn’t too far.

The Pottingers had notched seventy points for England and they were only ten minutes in — the rumors were true, the French team was bloody awful. Natalie wondered how they had even made it into the first round. Bribery was not out of the question, especially with how the referee was calling the match. So far, France had received three penalty shots. One because Caddy had aimed a Bludger a little too well, and given a French Chaser a bloody nose. Another because Ricky had apparently made a remark to the one female French Chaser. Natalie hadn’t heard what the remark was, and did not wish to know either. The third penalty shot was because Natalie had swooped down into the match and frightened the French Chasers so bad, they had dropped the Quaffle. Dent had stopped all their penalty shots, save one. It had been their only goal thus far.

“Nice shot,” muttered Natalie under her breath as she watched Ricky knock the Quaffle directly out of the arms of the female French Chaser he had made a comment to. The scarlet ball dropped in the air, and was swiftly scooped up by a Pottinger. Tucker, maybe. He darted down the field and took a direct hit from a Bludger sent sailing by the French Beaters. The Quaffle slipped from his grasp as he appeared to nurse a hand for a moment. Another Pottinger — maybe Tommy — retrieved the Quaffle, only for a French Chaser to fly right into him in mid-air. 

“Wow,” Natalie hummed, astonished neither of the players had fallen off their brooms from the collision. “That had to hurt — bloody hell, go. . . Ted?” She watched as the third Pottinger scooped up the Quaffle and bolted down the pitch, two enemy Chasers in fast pursuit. 

“Cmon, cmon, cmon!” She urged whichever Pottinger it was on from her vantage point in the air, peeking at the French Seeker out of the corner of her eye. 

“Bloody brilliant!” Natalie whistled as Caddy sent a Bludger careening towards the pursuing French Chasers, knocking one off course. He spun directly into his teammate and Ted had free rein to take a shot. 

She clapped as the Quaffle sailed through the French hoop and they notched another ten points. Eighty-ten after fifteen minutes. Now — to catch the Snitch. 

Tilting her broom upward, she hovered high above the pitch, scanning the field. The French Chasers had recovered the Quaffle, dodging and slamming their way past the Pottingers. Caddy and a French Beater seemed to be playing hot potato with a Bludger. Sharp movement below her drew her eye. Looking down, the French Seeker, a twenty-something year old wizard with a bushy handlebar mustache, streaked upward — directly at her. 

The Snitch. It had to be close. Why else would the bloke look ready to murder her? Well, besides that she had caused a complete scandal a few days ago. Frantically glancing around, a glint of gold flickered in the air just to her right. A flash of wings and she flung her broom in that direction, French Seeker hot on her tail. 

The Snitch dropped. Natalie swore, diving downward after it. It was never easy. She could hear the French Seeker muttering under his breath, cursing her, cursing the Snitch, cursing Quidditch, cursing God, cursing the Germans. She would have laughed had she not been tunneling in on the tiny golden ball. 

Once she caught it they could go home. And she could redesign another wing of her father’s old house. No, actually, maybe she’d go down to the basement for the first time in years and get rid of what was left down there. She been too afraid to touch it. But now she felt it had to be done. 

The Snitch was right in front of her. Brilliant gold against the green of the pitch below — or the brown of the pitch below, that was getting bigger and bigger as she flew down, hurtling up towards her like an incoming comet, spinning and shrieking. . . Wait a second-

Natalie swerved as the incoming Bludger whistled past her, it grazed against her left shoulder and spun past. She heard the French Seeker yelp as it hit him directly — just as she wrapped her hand around the golden Snitch.