Envy Engenders Spite

Rabastan Lestrange apparated into the sweeping entrance hall of the Malfoy family mansion. His wife, Fabienne — a former member of the Avery family — on his arm. They both had donned their best dress robes and arrived a tad bit late to Tiberius’s Christmas party — as an argument had broken out between Fabienne and Adolphus over when a certain Savanna Rowle would officially be joining their family.

Looking around for his son, who had apparated right behind them, Rabastan sighed. “What could have distracted him this time? All his friends will be here.”

“Perhaps he’s too busy thinking about his little girlfriend. He could at least wait until she graduates Hogwarts to marry her,” scoffed Fabienne, still flushed from the squabble with her son.

A loud pop and Adolphus appeared beside them, looking suave in his charcoal gray dress robes. He rolled his blue eyes, having heard his mother’s comment.

“Yes, mother, I am going to wait until after she graduates to marry her. But that doesn’t mean I can’t propose to her before she graduates. I believe father proposed in your seventh year at Hogwarts.”

“Well,” spluttered Fabienne Lestrange, “that was a different time!”

“Fabi!” called a voice from down the hall, interrupting the family bickering. A tall wizard emerged from a room off the hall, the candles on the walls flickered against his burgundy dress robes and made his light brown hair look black. A cheery smile crossed his face upon spotting the trio.

“How characteristic of you to be late.”

“Duncan!” Fabienne greeted her elder brother with an elegant wave of her hand. “Where’s Terese? And my niece and nephew?”

“Been here for nearly an hour,” remarked Duncan Avery as he approached the group. “What was it this time that kept you? House-elves disobeying?”

“An ill-timed quarrel concerning Adolphus’s love life,” droned Rabastan, sharing a look with his son as his wife turned red.

“Ah, at least he has one!” joked Duncan Avery. “I can’t get my Lloyd to talk about a witch besides the star of the Malfoy family.”

“Oh, is she here?” Adolphus eagerly jumped into the conversation at the mention of Natalie Malfoy, making his mother whisper under her breath. 

“Duncan, what’s all this commotion?” another voice entered the scene. Tiberius Malfoy popped out of the doorway to the main room. A thin glass of fizzing liquid in his hand, his dress robes were an immaculate forest green as he gazed down the hall at them.

“Ah, Rabastan! Fabienne! Adolphus! Welcome! Come in, come in. Apologies the house-elves couldn’t meet you, they’re all tad busy — it seems we’ve gone through more Ebulliosus than expected so I’ve had to send some to fetch more. And my bloody niece set the one my mother gave her free a month ago or so.”

“I heard she had a good reason,” piped up Adolphus.

“Yes, well, I hope she has a good reason for staying upstairs for so long,” remarked Tiberius with a somewhat amused, somewhat exasperated shake of his head. “All her friends have gone up there by now, I believe. If you’d like to join them — or attempt to convince them to come downstairs-”

“Of course, my pleasure!” exclaimed Adolphus and he set off down the hallway towards the grand staircase leading up into the manor. He jogged up the stairs, taking care to not trip over his dress robes as noises swirled through the hall. 

The party was in full swing; merry laughter, lively conversation, the clink of glasses and silverware, and the soft lilting of a piano drifted through the Manor. The babble faded as Adolphus approached the upper floor, though different noises drifted towards him. The laughing and joking of very familiar voices made him grin as he hurried towards the door left slightly ajar.

“Did you miss me?” bellowed Adolphus Lestrange as he burst into Natalie Malfoy’s bedroom.

Natalie yelped at his sudden arrival, dropping her wand in the middle of muttering a charm to curl her hair and making it shoot across the room with a bang. 

It landed directly in front of Tom Riddle. He lounged in an armchair across the room, looking polished in a set of sophisticated dress robes, a thin glass of dancing liquid in his hand. His gaze, which had been on Natalie, moved to study her dropped wand. When it settled to a stop at his feet, he picked it up and tossed it to Evan Rosier, who handed it to Quinn Bulstrode, who handed it to Zacharias Nott, who handed it to Pamela Selwyn, who handed it to Eric Dawson, who handed it back to Natalie.

Lestrange watched this near-comedic act and realized he was the last one to arrive. Evan and Quinn sat on the foot of the large, unmade bed; Quinn adorned in an elaborate maroon dress that was clearly her own design. Zack and Pamela lounged on two floating circle chairs that must have been conjured up; Zack looked to be in the middle of a heated discussion with Evan. And Eric was sitting on top of the ornate dresser beside where Natalie was getting ready, a goofy smirk on his face now that Adolphus had arrived.

Lestrange gaped around at them all. “How bloody late am I?”

“Bloody late,” Dawson commented without missing a beat.

Ignoring his best friend, Lestrange noted only Lord Voldemort and Natalie had glasses of the same drink Tiberius Malfoy had downstairs. If it was Ebulliosus, as Tiberius had mentioned, Lestrange already knew it would be a bloody enjoyable party. He had only seen (and not tasted) Ebulliosus once, when he was ten years old. He had heard tales about the magical — and alcoholic —drink and was eager to get his hands on some. 

“What’re you lot even doing here? Isn’t there a party downstairs?”

“Somehow they all found out I was still getting ready and decided to gate-crash,” snapped Natalie as she took her wand back from Dawson. She was barefoot, wearing only a silver-colored bathrobe, with her hair half-curled and dark circles under her eyes. Lestrange stared at her, not having seen her look so awful in a long time. The only thing that didn’t look weary about her were her eyes, they had a distinct, luminous glaze about them. As she flicked her wand again, he caught a glimpse of yellowed bruises on one of her forearms. She saw him looking and ran a hand over the bruises. They vanished instantly and she went back to curling her hair.

“Mate, what’re you gonna say?” demanded Dawson as Lestrange gaped, looking towards Lord Voldemort to determine if he should be alarmed or not.

“Huh?” asked Lestrange in bewilderment. Lord Voldemort had a mask for a face, slowly sipping from his glass. Though he hid it well, Natalie did not -- Lestrange knew it was not his, or Natalie’s, first glass of the drink. “Uh, that she looks like shit?”

“It’s her birthday,” said Pamela Selwyn with a roll of her eyes. She gestured to where Natalie stood in front of the mirror, hair all curled, she now completed her makeup with another flick of her wand, wiping away the weariness from her countenance. 

“I knew that — happy birthday-”

“Close the damn door,” said Natalie and she pointed her wand at the bedroom door. It slammed shut after Lestrange, bumping him a few more paces into the room.

Immediately, there was a knock on the door. 

“Who could that be?” wondered Dawson, glancing around the room and counting their numbers. “Savanna?”

“She’s, er, coming later,” said Lestrange, hastily stepping out of the way as Natalie shot across the room to whip the door open. 

Antonin Dolohov stood in the doorway. He grinned upon sighting an incensed Natalie wearing only a bathrobe.

“What do you want?” she demanded, making those present laugh.

“Well, hello to you, too,” said Dolohov and he stepped past her and into the room, noting who was inside. He sent a nod at Lestrange, the closest to the door, and smirked. “Didn’t know this was where the party was happening.”

“It’s not,” explained Rosier with a toothy grin. “This is our group therapy session.”

“Yeah, you should try it,” pitched in Nott.

“Group therapy,” repeated Dolohov in disbelief. His gaze landed on the unmade bed, with green and silver sheets and blankets tossed askew, and his eyes narrowed. “Is that. . . code for something?”

“Yes, complaining,” said Tom Riddle while everyone else launched into their own explanations.

“I was just telling Evan about how annoying the Russians are,” announced Dawson.

“All we hear about is the bloody Russians,” groaned Nott and Rosier mockingly gagged at the words, indicating his agreement.

“I was telling Quinn how annoying you are to the Minister’s new interns,” said Selwyn — and Dolohov shot the Minister of Magic’s new secretary a glare at this.

“I was telling Natalie that the national team’s new uniforms should be ready for their next match,” Bulstrode declared with pride. 

“Which they better win,” interjected Dawson.

Bulstrode agreed with a flourish of her dark hair. “Which they better win.”

“Shut up!” yelled Lestrange and Natalie at the exact same time. They awkwardly looked at each other before Natalie continued.

“What happened is this,” she seethed, still staring at herself in the mirror. Her gray eyes trekked all about the room within it, meeting everyone else’s gaze. “I was in here enjoying my break and then someone-” she whipped her head over to shoot a look at Lord Voldemort, “-let himself into my room and got me drunk. We were then. . . having a fun time -- until Eric, Zack, Evan, Pam, and Quinn just strolled in because Abraxas and Melania told them I have Firewhiskey in here-”

“You’ve got Firewhiskey?” asked Lestrange, casting a glance between Lord Voldemort and Natalie.

“No!” she groaned, slamming her wand on the dresser. She turned and glared at them.

“And then everyone started complaining-” (Lord Voldemort smirked at her usage of this word), “-about their jobs and lives and whatnot and then Evan called it ‘group therapy’ because he overheard Nobby Leach talking about the ‘group therapy’ sessions he has with his staff at the Ministry-”

“Okay, okay,” Dolohov waved a hand through the air before pointing at the empty glass on the dresser beside her. “But do you have Firewhiskey?”

Natalie glared at him until he took a step backwards and everyone else snickered. Without saying a word, she marched across the room and tugged open the door to her closet. She slipped inside and they heard a lot of stomping, cursing, and shuffling about.

Dawson turned to Dolohov while this happened. “Why are you actually here, though?” 

Dolohov laughed, “oh, yeah, the Minister told me to come and see what was taking his niece so long. He invited the rest of her teammates as a surprise and they’ve just arrived.”

“The rest of the national team is here?” exclaimed Nott and Rosier practically started jumping up and down in his excitement.

“Let’s get their autographs,” a delighted Rosier schemed, making Quinn giggle at his antics.

A loud popping noise from the closet Natalie had entered made them all pause and look around at each other. Lord Voldemort stood and crossed the room with his empty glass. He picked up the glass Natalie had left on the dresser near Dawson, before slipping into the closet, all eyes on him. The others heard a giggle from inside and then Natalie reentered the room. She was now dressed in a long-sleeved dark green dress that hugged her body and ended just above her knees, though she was still barefoot. A glittering bottle of a sloshing liquid in one hand and her now full glass in the other. Lord Voldemort, also with a full glass, and a guilty looking house-elf right behind her.

“Burgywn just purchased this bottle and Mistress Malfoy said not to give the young mistress any more-”

“Be quiet, Burgywn, my friends are here!” snapped Natalie, and the house-elf vanished out of sight with a small pop as Antonin Dolohov’s and Adolphus Lestrange’s jaws dropped for entirely different reasons.

“Bloody hell,” whispered Dolohov, unwilling to say anything else when he felt a sharp gaze scour his face. He briefly met the dark eyes of Lord Voldemort and shivered, trying to clear his mind of the dirty thoughts that crossed it when looking at Natalie Malfoy.

“Bloody hell!” screeched Lestrange, looking outraged. “You bring the drinks out for him but not me? He wasn’t even on the team!”

“I didn’t bring it out for him or you,” she sneered, sauntering across the room and handing the glimmering bottle to a thrilled Eric Dawson. “I brought it out for Eric.”

Another knock on the door interrupted the outburst of laughter that echoed around the room. Though Eric Dawson was the only one to ignore it, as he conjured glasses and started pouring drinks, the Ebulliosus shimmering as he did so.

“Are you bloody serious?” sighed Natalie. Her shoulders slumped, she allowed Lord Voldemort to guide her across the room towards the chair he had been sitting in. He retook his seat and she jumped into his lap, surprisingly agile for wearing a tight-fitting dress though she just missed spilling their drinks. 

“Oops,” she muttered as the tinkling liquid nearly ruined both their outfits. She snatched the drink from his hand and downed half of it, gave it back to him, then took a long sip from her own glass and wrapped her other arm around his neck. Once comfortable, she turned and locked eyes with the person closest to the door.

It happened to be Antonin Dolohov. “Get the door, Antonin,” she ordered and he immediately moved to open the door.

Eugene Dent stood in the doorway, shifting about nervously. When he realized how many people were in the room, he blanched and took a step back.

“Er, hi-”

“Dent?!” exclaimed Natalie, nearly falling out of Tom Riddle’s lap in her astonishment at seeing the national team captain in her family house — and in the doorway to her bedroom. Voldemort managed to hold her steady, removing the glass from her hand and finishing off the remaining Ebulliosus in it. His own glass had already been emptied. “What’re you doing here?”

“Er, the Minister invited me,” he explained, now blushing upon sighting his Seeker in a flattering dress and in the lap of someone who definitely looked capable of murdering him without a second thought.

“He invited you?” she gaped at him. The rest of the room had gone silent, glancing from Natalie to Dent like an entertaining Quidditch match.

“Wait,” said Rosier, narrowing his eyes between Natalie and Dent before recognition flashed across his face. “This is — you’re the captain of the national team!”

“Er, yeah, I am-” began Dent but the room seemed to explode.

“YOU WEREN’T GONNA INTRODUCE US?” an apoplectic Lestrange turned bright red as he glared at a taken-aback Natalie Malfoy.

“Eugene Dent, right?” Nott had flown across the room to shake his hand. “I’m Zacharias Nott. You can call me Zack-”

“I wanna shake his hand, too!” insisted Dawson, abandoning the newly cracked bottle of Ebulliosus, he pushed Nott out of the way and scooped Dent’s hand up in his own. “An absolute pleasure, Mr. Dent-”

“Get out of my way, Eric,” snapped Rosier and he was next to vigorously shake Dent’s hand. “I’m Evan Rosier, it’s lovely to meet you-”

“Let him breathe,” groaned Pamela as she and Quinn attempted to restrain their boyfriends from smothering the Quidditch player.

Antonin Dolohov pulled Dawson away from Dent just so he could step around him and shake Dent’s hand himself.

“Antonin Dolohov, I can spell it if you need-”

“Alright!” yelled Natalie from Tom’s Riddle’s lap. “Get away from my captain, you lot.”

“Woah, that sounds weird,” commented Lestrange as Dawson went to offer Dent a glass of the dancing liquid, which he refused.

“Dent, what’re you doing in my bedroom?” asked Natalie and snickers erupted.

Eugene Dent blushed again. “Er, the Minister sent me up to see what was taking his assistant so long to see what was taking you so long-”

“Group therapy,” remarked Dolohov with a smirk. He had snagged one of the glasses Dawson had poured and now lounged on the unmade bed, lazily sipping from the glass. 

Dent blinked, looking to Natalie for understanding. “What?”

“Everyone here has bloody bitched about their issues while I’ve tried to get ready,” Natalie rolled her eyes, resting her head on Tom Riddle’s shoulder. “You can tell my Uncle that.”

“Can’t the Minister’s assistant tell him that?” asked Lestrange with a smirk as he raised a sarcastic eyebrow at Dolohov.

“I’m not telling the Minister that-” began Dolohov but Natalie let out a feline yelp, scrambled out of Tom Riddle’s arms and flew to her feet. She gazed at Eugene Dent with enormous gray eyes, her breath coming in short gasps and making everyone freeze and stare at her. A taut silence seemed to stretch across the room, making all present shift in discomfort as they watched her shoulders rise and fall with every breath until she could choke out a few words.

“Wait, if you’re here — is the rest of the team here?”

“Yes,” Dent replied with a wince. “Ricky already asked Melania Malfoy if she was single and Caddy asked the Minister of Magic what his job was.”

The former members of the Slytherin Quidditch team looked at each other before bursting into hoots of laughter.

“No,” groaned Natalie and she dramatically fell to the floor at Tom Riddle’s feet, somehow managing to sit in the tight dress with her legs criss-crossed. “And the Pottingers?”

“Also here,” said Dent, “they saw me coming up here too, so I dunno-”

“Shit!” she leapt back up to her feet, and tension bloomed as a sudden wave of trepidation hit everyone in the room. “Close the door!” she pointed wildly at the open door and Dent immediately clicked it shut behind himself. Natalie retrieved her wand and squeaked a spell to lock it.

“The Pottingers?” frowned Lestrange. He was now sprawled across her bed beside Dolohov with a glass of Ebulliosus in his hand. Dawson joined the two of them, pushing Rosier and Bulstrode off. (Quinn conjured a couple of the same circle seats that Selwyn and Nott sat on). “Aren’t they the national team Chasers?”

“Yes, but I’m convinced they aren’t real,” said Natalie with a shudder. She dropped back to the floor, settling herself between Tom Riddle’s feet with a sigh.

“What?” asked Rosier, sounding incredulous. He, Nott, Bulstrode, and Selwyn all had glasses of Ebulliosus in their hands by now while Dolohov was already on his second glass. It was clear the effects of the magical drink were being felt. The witches had started giggling under their breath and the wizards looked a bit dazed.

“Where do we begin,” laughed Dent. Dawson and Lestrange insisted he join them on the mass of pillows they had piled up on Natalie’s bed. They all lounged on the green silken blankets and pillows like Roman patricians with their Ebulliosus and dress robes.

“Ugh,” groaned Natalie, leaning back against Lord Voldemort’s legs and pointing her wand at the nearly empty bottle of Ebulliosus. It hovered over towards her and emptied itself into her waiting glass. She took a long drink and then snapped, “Burgywn!”

The house-elf reappeared again with a crack. Bowing low to the ground and trembling as it addressed her. “Yes, Mistress-”

“We’ll need more,” Natalie let the empty bottle of Ebulliosus float towards the elf. It was almost as big as the elf’s entire head. Burgywn took the bottle from the air and disappeared. Instantaneously, a fresh bottle appeared between Dolohov and Lestrange. They crowed their delight and popped it open immediately.

Natalie returned to addressing the room. “Wait till you lot hear about Ricky Webster.”

“Oh, who needs group therapy now?” teased Rosier as he slowly spun on his floating chair. 

“Shut up, Evan,” she shot at him, though she closed her eyes and grew still as Tom Riddle started absent-mindedly playing with her curled hair. But then she grew stiff and snapped her eyes open again. “Actually, I do.”

“Seriously?” exclaimed Nott, “you play for the national team. How hard could your life be-”

“Zacharias!” she exclaimed, leaning forward so she could easily glare up at him from her position on the floor. Tom’s grip on her hair holding her back from jumping forward. “Let me tell you a thing or two-”

“Hold up!” yelled Lestrange, he clutched his glass of Ebulliosus and glanced around at them. “Where’s Lloyd?”

The room was silent for a moment before Natalie exploded. “Somebody go get him!”

“Not it!” rang out from around the room while Dent just looked confused. 

“Who’s Lloyd?” he asked.

“Works for the Prophet, guess you could say he’s our friend, bloke’s got the nicest handwriting I’ve ever seen — nicer than Eric’s here,” explained Lestrange, eager at having something to talk about with the English team captain.

“Adolphus!” called Natalie. “Go get Avery!”

Lestrange looked flabbergasted as he turned away from Dent to stare in shock at Natalie. He gestured to his comfortable position on the bed beside the national team captain. “Why me?”

“Lestrange, go get Avery,” repeated Lord Voldemort, sounding bored and impatient. 

“Fine, alright, I will,” said Lestrange and he hopped off the bed and crossed the room, bringing his drink with him. “Can someone unlock the door-”

Dolohov lazily lifted his wand and muttered “alohomora”. The door clicked open and Lestrange slipped out, muttering under his breath.

“Why would you bother locking it if it could be opened with alohomora?” asked Rosier. Quinn Bulstrode had pushed their floating seats together and laid her head on his shoulder. 

Dent scoffed, “it would keep Caddy and Ricky out. I don’t think the blokes even know alohomora.” Then he looked directly at Natalie before his eyes slid above her to Tom Riddle. “So. . . this is the boyfriend?”

“No,” she said with heavy sarcasm and an air of finality. Everyone else dropped into silence and after a few seconds, sweat could be seen beading on Dent’s forehead. Lord Voldemort allowed a vicious smirk to grace his face, enjoying the fear emanating from the national team captain.

“I, er, what-”

“I’m joking, Dent,” giggled Natalie after she savored a few moments of her captain floundering. “He is. Told you he’s real. Maybe we should bring Ricky up here to prove it to him.”

“Ricky Webster?” asked Nott as he refilled his and Pam’s glasses. “I heard he’s got the best arm this side of the Atlantic.”

“Do not, do not say that within his hearing,” said Natalie with a groan. “He’s already unbearable enough.”

“Is it true his girlfriend’s part Veela?” inquired Rosier, making Quinn Bulstrode glare at him. He shrugged, mouthing to her, “I just wanna know.”

Dent pressed a hand to his forehead and Natalie let out a strangled noise, slumping back against Tom Riddle. Dolohov and Dawson hid their laughter behind their half-emptied glasses.

“This is why,” Natalie said weakly, “this is why I need group therapy.”

“Beautiful!” crooned the voice of the very wizard they were discussing. “You need group therapy? Is it because your boyfriend dumped you?”

Natalie, in the middle of taking a swig of Ebulliosus, started choking on it as Ricky Webster stepped into the room through the door they hadn’t bothered closing after Lestrange. Leonard Cadwallader tailing him like a lost puppy. While Webster looked suave and arrogant in brilliant scarlet dress robes, Caddy kept shifting awkwardly and looked awestruck by the number of people in the room.

Adolphus Lestrange and Lloyd Avery slipped in behind them, quietly closing the door and looking rather guilty. Avery quickly moved to sit in the corner, out of the way of what was bound to become a scene.

“They, er followed me up-” began Lestrange, his sheepishness evident.

“Her boyfriend dumped her?” asked Caddy and he looked to where Natalie was now trying to hide her face in Tom Riddle’s dress robes after he muttered a spell to clear her throat. “So you’re single now?”

“No,” Dent sprang to his feet and attempted to take control of the situation. He could feel its potential to go downhill rising as all eyes latched themselves to the newcomers. “Ricky, Caddy, you aren’t supposed to be up here.”

“What’re you lot doing up here, then?” demanded Ricky. His eyes then landed on the bottle of Ebulliosus between Dolohov and Dawson. “Wait, you’ve got drinks-”

“They’ve got drinks?” repeated Caddy, now excited. “And Malfoy’s single? This is a great Christmas-”

Natalie, by this point, had completely turned around and was staring up at Tom Riddle from the floor at his feet. He hadn’t reacted to the new arrivals, merely sipped his drink and stared back at her. She could see the amusement dancing within his dark eyes and a laugh rose within her. She buried her face within his robes and attempted to stifle her uncontrollable laughter.

“Say, aren’t you two the Beaters on the national team?” Eric Dawson called from the bed, drawing Ricky and Caddy’s attention.

Ricky, ego stroked, straightened his back and flexed his biceps through his dress robes. “Why, yes, of course. I will say I’m rather recognizable off the field as well-”

“Yes, we are!” Caddy piped up in excitement, walking right into Ricky, who was quick to shove him away. Ricky smoothed out his dress robes and ran a hand through his hair (which had very meticulously been gelled or charmed), glancing at Selwyn and Bulstrode and noting their close proximity to Nott and Rosier. 

“Is everyone in here taken?” Ricky frowned as his gaze slid back to Natalie, still sitting on the floor at Tom Riddle’s feet. “Except Malfoy? Knew I woke up feeling lucky.”

“Is this bloke bloody dense?” Dolohov snorted from the bed, glass of Ebulliosus nearly gone, he looked around the room, smirking when Dent sent him a subtle nod.

“Hey, Eric’s not taken,” Lestrange pointed across the room to Dawson, lounging beside Dolohov. “Neither is Antonin -- right?”

Ricky’s scouring gaze studied the two wizards with the most attitude lounging on the bed. After a moment of silence, he shook his head with a definitive air.

“Not my type. I’m extremely selective-” a sputtering sound interrupted him and the room turned to watch Natalie pop up from trying to hide in Tom’s robes to gawk at Ricky.

“You? Selective? You sleep with any witch -- or muggle -- you lay eyes on!”

“Well, they aren’t witches, are they, Malfoy?” snapped Ricky, once again running his hand through his hair and pushing Leonard Cadwallader away from him. He shot a wink at Quinn Bulstrode, who giggled and started wrapping her dark curls around her fingers, to the distress of Evan Rosier.

“He’s just a Quidditch player! I played Quidditch!” Rosier whined at his girlfriend. “I can’t get his autograph but you can flirt with him?”

“Oh, shush,” Bulstrode lightly whacked him across the arm. “He’s famous.”

Adolphus Lestrange cleared his throat, obviously about to make a scene. He gestured at Ricky Webster and addressed the entire room. “I think we should talk about how this bloke here called my best mate Eric ugly. You too, Antonin, but we aren’t best mates.”

“I don’t think they’re ugly,” Caddy pitched in, hopefully glancing around the room for attention but being ignored.

“Yeah, what’s with that?” Rosier loudly took Lestrange’s bait after Ricky’s attempt at flirting with his girlfriend. “Calling my mates ugly? Who do you think you are?”

Ricky looked completely unperturbed. “I’m Ricky Webster-”

“Alright!” barked Dent, silencing the room. He stood near the door and surveyed all present with sharp eyes. “Everyone-” Dent stopped himself because he saw Natalie snap her head towards him. He knew her well enough to know from the look on her face that she was listening to something he couldn’t hear. So he turned just as there was a brisk rap on the door behind him and a demanding voice from the hallway outside called, 

“What is going on in there?”