Envy Engenders Spite

“I’m her bloody agent, Riddle. I think I ought to be the one deciding things here. Not someone who spends his time gallivanting around the continent after whatever trinket has caught Burke’s stingy eye this time.”

The voices were low murmurs. Fuzzy and distant, but they grew closer. Their familiar timbres slowly identified themselves.

“You weren’t here, Crockett. You didn’t see-”

“She looks fine. There’s not a scratch on her-”

“She’s been unconscious-”

“She’s breathing alright-”

“Thanks to me-”

“Save your opinions, Lestrange. Your mother might be a Healer but you are far from that.”

There was a shuffling sound, and someone let out an annoyed breath. 

“Dent can be without a Seeker for one practice-”

“It’s been forty-eight hours, Riddle. Nobody’s had any word from her. Glad to know you and your little gang have been hiding out here since the Minister’s Christmas party. Any longer and this would have become a Department issue. I’m not exactly inclined to have to tell Matt Lament one of the national team players is missing. If word got out there would be a scandal. Did you even let her family know?”

“Yes. And they evidently informed you, else you would not be here.” This voice was the closest. The annoyance within it was palpably rising.

“You’re lucky it’s me here. Dent would have come ready to tear the place down if she didn’t show for practice later today. Not that it looks like it needs any more tearing down. What in Salazar’s name did you lot do to the place?”

“Why do you think she’s unconscious?”

There was a silence. A muffled snicker. Then a soft sigh, “she did this?”

“I’ve told you that multiple times now-”

“I get it, Lestrange. Dawson, you can quit laughing-”

Natalie opened her eyes halfway, so as to not draw attention to herself. The voices continued around her, unaware of her regained consciousness as her senses kicked back in.

The last thing she could distinctly recall was a flash of scarlet within Lord Voldemort’s eyes before everything turned white and then lapsed into blackness. Everything else was a blur. There had been red and green and gold and silver — the Christmas party. Of course. At the Malfoy Manor. Wind and snow. There had been enchanted dragons, tussling about like best mates having a bit of fun but that fun had turned dangerous. There was irritation, morphing into rage like a catching fire. Dry wood was everywhere. She could still feel the embers burning. Overlapping it all was a rhythmic swaying movement. Ebulliosus.  

The world around her seemed soft, downy even. Peeking through her eyelids, she recognized the ceiling. The ceiling she’d enchanted to look like the sky. It was a dull, rain-laden gray at the moment, layers of clouds overlapping to form a thick, heavy blanket that seemed to weigh her down. That meant she was currently lying on her bed in the renovated Irish mansion.

The voices continued. Their cadences rose and fell as emotions fluctuated. She could hear the annoyance, which transformed so easily into fury. There was plenty of stubbornness, a good deal of cynicism, a strained anxiety, a candid degree of harsh logic, and a dogged loyalty within each of them.

The voices faded as she fell to calculating, her eyes closing entirely now. A feeling of impending stress filled her. It chipped away at the back of her mind, ticking in sync with the cold ring she could feel on her chest. Once her attention was drawn to it, the ring hanging around the chain she never took off grew warm. It seemed to melt through her skin, through her breastbone, and drip into her heart. Sending its beats cavorting upwards to intermingle with the ticking in her head. 

Forty-eight hours. She’d been unconscious for two days. That meant. . . it was December twenty-sixth? Or more likely it was the twenty-seventh. When had the Christmas party ended? The very early hours of Christmas morning, or the late hours of Christmas Eve?

A jolt went through her, almost causing her to shoot upwards. December twenty-seventh. . . Quidditch. . . the team. . . . She had a match soon! On New Year’s Eve. The Chinese team was due to arrive on December twenty-seventh, the same day the English team was to resume practicing after a short break for the holiday. If they won this round, the road to the Cup Final was a lot clearer — and quicker. She couldn’t miss practice. Not with this much on the line.

Now, she did shoot out of bed. Scrambling around the blankets someone had placed over her and the pillows nestled around her, as if she had been liable to hurt herself while unconscious. The voices erupted into astonishment as she flew to stand up. She stared at her bare feet, noting that someone had transfigured her dress into a long silver night shift. Suddenly dizzy, she felt herself crumble downwards, a strong arm catching her before she hit the floor.

“Bloody hell!” was exclaimed several times and Natalie blinked, studying the owners of the voices she’d been listening to for a while. 

Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson were goggling down at her. They were dressed in casual robes; Dawson’s caramel hair was ruffled and Lestrange clearly hadn’t bothered shaving in some time, as though they’d been hanging about the house for a few days. Winky Crockett stood near them, looking anxious but relieved upon seeing her awake. He must not have been there for long, his red hair was damp from the rain outside and he still wore his heavy black overcoat with the Malfoy family crest pinned on the left breast, right beside the official logo of the English national team. Tom Riddle had grabbed her before she fell. He’d pulled her back to sit on the edge of the bed and stood over her, one hand on her shoulder. His eyes met hers and she knew he was aware she’d been conscious for some time now.

His eyes also reminded her of the occurrences of the past. . . few days, apparently. A chill ran down her spine as she recalled their. . . argument. Somehow it had ended with herself nearly unconscious and her house in ruins. . . well, actually. . . if they were in her bedroom that meant someone had to have repaired the stairs in order for them all to get upstairs-

The look in his eyes dispelled that train of thought. She knew he’d seen her thinking about it. She blinked, trying to force him from her mind and crack into his. But his eyes grew cold and withdrawn, and she only had luck in removing him from her head.

Not quite certain if they were over their. . . fight, she shrugged out of his grip and pushed past him. Rising to her feet, she ran a hand through her blonde hair. She half expected it to be matted with dust and plaster from the collapse she could hardly remember, but it was smooth and clean, albeit slightly more tangled than she liked. Then she scanned her bare arms and glanced over the silver night shift she now wore. She expected to see bruises and blood. But there were none. He must have cleaned her up. And transfigured her dress. And repaired the house. At least enough to get upstairs. And then called upon Lestrange for help healing her. And of course, Dawson faithfully tagged along.

This somehow infuriated her. Glancing back at him, his eyes remained black and hard. He hadn’t said a word since she’d woken. Just looked at her. As if expecting something. She sure as hell hoped he wasn’t expecting an apology. Or a thank you. Both prospects made her nauseous, which did nothing but enrage her further.

The others had been chatting all the while, which she ignored. Crockett was trying to explain something to her. It sounded like a load of hogwash. She found herself glaring at him. He turned pale under his damp red hair and quickly shut up. Which was what she wanted. Some quiet. She had things to do. She had to get to the Quidditch pitch. She had to practice. 

But she should probably eat something first. If she had actually been unconscious for nearly forty-eight hours. . . she didn’t want to faint on the pitch. That would just drag Dent further into this mess. 

Dent. Dent. Shit. She had kissed him to get away from him at the party. And Tom had seen. And that had sparked their whole. . . quarrel. But it had been his fault for leaving her there-

“Fuck,” she muttered, pushing past the reaches of the boys who had all tried to get her to sit back down. Now her head hurt. 

She wasn’t sure how she managed to stumble out of the room but she did. The staircase had been repaired, as had most of the hallway leading through the first floor, but the entryway and the front room still looked like a warzone. Looking outside once she had hobbled down the stairs, the columns gracing the front doors were destroyed, nothing but chunks of their white marble remained. A slice of red hot rage flashed through her. So they had sat in her house for forty-eight hours and only cleaned up what was immediately convenient to them? Boys. 

“Hiram!” she snapped the name of the house-elf, craving a strong cup of tea and whatever food could be whipped up. When there was no crack of an elf appearing, she remembered she had freed the elf in a fit of rage a while back.

“Fuck,” she hissed again. But it was just as well. She could hear the others rushing down the stairs to keep up with her. Where was her goddamn wand? He probably had it. But she didn’t feel like facing him. Or asking him for it. She didn't want to ask him for anything right now. In fact, having to look into his eyes again sounded nightmarish.

It was no matter. She didn’t need it. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, blocking out the urgent voices of Lestrange, Dawson, and Crockett. And she disapparated with a pop just as Tom Riddle’s presence loomed. He would know where she went, of course. But she trusted that he’d leave her be. For now.

She apparated into the presence of the second person she least wanted to see at the moment. Eugene Dent was, for some reason, in the kitchens of the Malfoy Manor.

“Oh, look who decided to show her face,” remarked Abraxas. Her cousin sat atop one of the long tables used by the elves to prepare food. A cup of tea in one hand, he twirled his wand in the other. Dent stood nearby, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. An untouched cup of tea at his elbow. 

Pointing his wand at her in an accusing manner, Abraxas asked, “where’ve you been? Running from your problems? And what are you wearing? If you’re going to just turn up like this, at least do it in more appropriate attire. What would grandmother say?”

“Shut up, Abraxas,” Natalie wearily snapped at her cousin, ignoring whatever truth lay in his statements. She briefly met Dent’s eyes and watched him flush all the way to his neck. So he remembered the kiss. Shit. It didn’t help that she was in a thin, shimmery night shift.

Dent’s embarrassment at least kept him quiet. Natalie took advantage of it to bark at a house-elf. Jubbal came running over with a cup of tea, followed quickly by Burgwyn, bearing a heaping platter of eggs, buttered toast, and fresh fruit. Natalie was simply relieved they were not shrieking in pain by being around her. Fear she could handle. But their screams drove her mental.

Glancing down at herself, she took a moment to admire the gossamer fabric of the night shift. It flowed over her limbs like liquid mercury but felt like the softest satin. At least Tom had the sense to transfigure her dress into something comfortably stylish. And so very. . . her. 

Damn him.

“Can I borrow your wand?” she asked Abraxas after draining the first cup of tea and having Jubbal refill it. She wanted to change without needing to actually go upstairs. And she wanted to magically send the night shift to one of her closets. At the Manor or her own mansion, it didn’t matter. She wanted to keep it. Tom Riddle be damned.

“No,” said Abraxas, setting his tea down and crossing his arms. “Where’s your wand?”

 Natalie mumbled something incomprehensible, unwilling to go into the story. Dent looked like he wanted to vanish into the dark wood of the table he pressed himself against. She didn’t blame him.

“Speak up, dear. Grandmother would be so-”

“He has it!” she said, louder this time, feeling no need to elaborate upon who “he” was. They all knew.

“And where is our dear Mr. Riddle?”

Natalie scowled. Abraxas was intent on driving her mental. “At my house.”

“Yourhouse,” he snorted, clearly amused by her choice of words. “Funny how you’re here and not there. No matter, though-” Abraxas raised his wand and waved it in her direction, knowing what she wanted. There was a fuzzy, tingling sensation all around her and the silver night shift morphed into plain, casual black robes.

“No,” whined Natalie, “I wanted-”

“I sent it to your closet upstairs,” Abraxas had foreseen her desire to keep the silky shift. “It did look positively dashing on you. Though not something a witch ought to be seen wearing outside her own house.”

Ignoring the jab, Natalie tucked into her second cup of tea and began devouring the food laid out by the elves. Feeling more alive with every bite, she found her eyes drawn to Abraxas, as if some part of him was still speaking to her. Something was different about him. He was sitting on top of a table, for starters. That was something she would do. Not him. He fidgeted, flicking his wand around his fingers, running a hand through his hair. . . not sure if she had missed anything important in the past forty-eight hours, she finally decided to just outright ask him.

“What’s going on with you?”

Abraxas’s face hardened. His usual brotherly mischief vanished without warning. He shot Dent a look but shrugged off whatever concern he had about the Quidditch captain being present. It was clear there was something he wanted to tell her but hadn't wanted to bring up the topic himself. 

“Melania had a miscarriage.”

The toast Natalie had just swallowed got stuck in her throat. She snatched up her cup of tea and took several long gulps. Once she felt capable of talking, she wasn’t quite sure what to say to something like that. She tried to avoid looking at Dent, who now felt even less happy to be there.

“Oh, er, I’m sorry. That’s, um, that’s awful. . . is she okay-”

“Don’t start.” Abraxas dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. “Melania is fine. Just upset. You’ll still be an aunt someday.”

“Aunt?”

“Would you rather be some level of removed cousin?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

The kitchen fell into silence. Natalie continued cleaning off the platter of food until the previous conversation topic felt like it had been washed away. After several moments of them watching her eat, she addressed Abraxas, ignoring the captain. “Um, why is Dent here?” 

Abraxas rolled his eyes, which let her know he no longer wished to ruminate on what had happened with his wife. “I let him know we'd heard from you — or, from Riddle, at least — and he came to see if you were in any state to make practice today. Because, as you ought to be aware by now, you have a notorious inability to take care of yourself.”

“The Chinese team arrived about an hour ago,” Dent finally pulled himself together to speak up, jumping in before Natalie could bark something at Abraxas. He checked his watch, now with a facade of composure, though Natalie could feel the nervousness about him. “They should be starting their own practice soon. This is the first time we’re back from the Christmas break we’ve been allotted so-”

“We’re gonna start early, yeah?” Natalie let Jubbal pour her a third cup of tea.

“Precisely,” said Dent, gritting his teeth. “And I would very much like my team. . . back to normal. . . .”

“Are we? Are we back to normal?” asked Natalie, keeping her voice toneless. She hoped his response answered several questions. She very much preferred to avoid having to discuss the fact she had kissed him if possible. Hopefully it could all be washed aside as part of the bacchanalia of that night.

“I- yes, yes, I think so. I hope so.”

There was a glimmer of a question in his reply. A glance into his eyes confirmed it. He hoped for several things. Things which Tom Riddle would be very angry about. But Quidditch took precedence, of course. Natalie could work with that. Quidditch remained her trusted escape route.

“Glad to hear it,” she said, draining her third cup of tea and feeling much better. Her usual Quidditch-related excitement took over. “China versus England in a few days! Should be a good matchup. . . .”

Ian Rowle sighed. At one hundred and five years old, having been Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (or the DMLE, as he’d liked to call it for the past twenty five years) for going on fifty four years now, he, quite frankly, was getting too old for this shit. He should have retired thirty-something years ago. Back when Cassius Malfoy first launched his potions company and offered him a pretty piece of it. But he had refused. He had liked his job too much back then; catching the bad guys and coming home to tell his children extremely watered-down versions of fantastic chases and heinous curses. And he would rather resign than be accused of leaving one of the most respected posts in the wizarding world just to reap the easy profits of Cassius’s business adventure due to some speculation of a family monopoly because he and Cassius Malfoy were first cousins. 

But now Cassius was dead. Had been dead for years, decades, even. And with Cassius, the mindset that had once prevented Ian from jumping ship decades ago. It was the same mindset that made him nudge his own grandson, Zacharias Nott, towards Seamus Dawson’s offices rather than his own for a job after Hogwarts. None of it mattered now. Ian’s own children were grown, married into other respectable pureblood families, had children, and, thank Merlin, had jobs outside the walls of the Ministry. He suspected they had never quite let go of his storytelling. His daughter, Giuliana, had made her own fortune writing a quixotically adventurous novel that had popped up in every bookstore in the wizarding world and sold out faster than it could be restocked. Frederick, his son, was the most widely read columnist for The Daily Prophet. Which was owned by Rabastan Lestrange. Whose son was now engaged to Ian’s granddaughter. Ian wasn’t surprised Frederick received a pay raise and a promotion shortly after the engagement was announced. It seemed there were family monopolies on every desired job in the wizarding world. Cassius Malfoy’s own son was the Minister of Magic. Cassius’s grandson ran the company he had founded all those years ago. . . .

Ian shook his head and focused back on the problem at hand. The China versus England match was the first Quidditch World Cup match held on British soil that would also be widely attended by the public. Played on New Year’s Eve night and so doubling as a New Year’s party, the Department of Magical Sports and Games (or the DMSG; after he shortened his own department he shortened every department) ended up printing double the amount of tickets, so coveted did they become within the wizarding world. 

Except the DMSG had somehow forgotten to inform him they had sold twice the number of predetermined tickets and so attendance was now doubled. Which meant security needed to be doubled. Ian wasn’t even sure he had enough quality Aurors for the job. He still had a slight grudge against Tiberius Malfoy, who had snatched up Antonin Dolohov as his assistant before Ian could make him an offer. He’d have loved to have Dolohov working for him. And Tiberius’s own son, Abraxas, had taken Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson off the market. He’d considered retiring shortly after that, to bemoan his lack of foresight for not taking Cassius’s offer all those years ago. But Seamus Dawson persuaded him to stay on, using the upcoming Quidditch World Cup as an excuse to not have a new transition of leadership within the DMLE. 

The World Cup in which Cassius’s own granddaughter was in the run for. He sighed, again. His blasted cousin was mocking him beyond the grave with all this.

Pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and hummed to himself. Even his desk chair was getting too uncomfortable. He was retiring the second the World Cup was over. Then he’d leave for his house in the country and actually read the book his daughter wrote so he no longer had to fib about having read it.

“Tell me again,” he demanded. His Head Auror, Reginald Harlowe, stood before his desk. Harlowe was the only reason Ian now knew attendance would be double than what he had planned for.

“Of course, sir. Flavin Rookwood overheard Seymour Mulciber telling Evan Rosier the Department had made double the profit than anticipated because tickets sold so fast, they had to print more. . . .”

Evan Rosier. Another name he wished he had working for him. The good stock got picked up so quickly these days. At least he had gotten Barty Crouch. That wizard had talent and ambition enough to do something with it. Crouch breathed fresh life into the Department. But Ian was old. He couldn’t keep up anymore. He barely knew the faces he passed in the halls. They all looked too young. Far too young.

Harlowe had continued speaking, but Ian hadn’t heard, too caught up in his thoughts. Until his office door banged open and Ian Rowle found himself looking at one of his regrets.

“The Minister sent me,” said Antonin Dolohov with a smooth grace. His black eyes darted all around the office and a cool smile appeared on his face. “He wanted me to personally inform you that you might want to increase security tonight. We’ve sold twice the expected amount of tickets. Turns out the English team is more popular than we knew. . . .”

“We knew alright,” muttered Harlowe; perpetually hot-headed, the Auror was always looking for a fight. 

“What’s that?” Dolohov pretended not to have heard the retort, though the look on his face said otherwise. Harlowe glared, the color of his ears indicating his temper was rising.

Ian kept his face composed. He might desperately wish he had Antonin Dolohov working for himself, but the Minister’s assistant could still be an impertinent little bastard. If Ian had one thing left, it was his hefty reputation refined through over fifty years of dedication to his job. Nobody questioned his word.

“Thank you, Antonin. Give Tiberius my thanks as well, and inform him that Matt Lament must have forgotten to pass the word along to me. . . .”

“Oh, there must have been a mix-up,” said Dolohov with far too much cheeriness. As though he delighted in the muddled mess Ian felt this had all become. “Matt got elected to serve on the ICWQC, he’ll be needing the extra time to. . . look ahead. So Jack Lament is Director of Quidditch Operations now. He’ll be handling most of the affairs of the team.”

Ian couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at this statement. Partly because this was the first he’d heard of this movement. He shot a look at Harlowe. Reginald Harlowe centralized all gossip within the Ministry and reported it back to Ian. Yet Ian’s spiderweb only shrugged. Another Ministry department that was staffed through nepotism, Ian found Dolohov’s statement about Matt Lament to be a bit dodgy. With the unexpected retirement of Alphonsus Everstein, there’d been a vacant spot on the ICWQC, the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee, for the past few weeks. He hadn’t heard of them selecting someone to fill that spot until now and hadn’t expected them to even bother doing so. But the Head of the British Department of Magical Sports and Games being on the ICWQC gave the British Ministry considerable sway in selecting the location and controlling the marketing of the Quidditch World Cup final. . . .

What Dolohov’s statement really told him was that the DMSG, and, by default, the rest of the Ministry, was now functioning as if the team would be playing in the final for the World Cup. That was an enormous gamble — and the possibility of it happening gave Ian a headache. Security was difficult enough to handle when he was informed last minute that the expected crowd would be twice the size. He did not want to think about what would be required for the World Cup final. With Matt Lament now on the ICWQC, Britain would be expected to supply considerable security measures during the final match.

Ian cleared his throat, keeping his cool. Long ago he had been as hot-headed as Harlowe. He’d learned many lessons that way. The biggest being not being hot-headed enough to follow Cassius Malfoy on one of his wild adventures. “Then please inform Tiberius that Jack Lament must have forgotten to pass the word along to me.”

No further snide remarks up his sleeve, Dolohov dropped his head into a polite bow and left without another comment. Once he was gone, Harlowe closed the door and turned to look at Ian. The Auror was already onto solving this new development.

“We can pull up some of the new kids to help out. It’s a mid-round match. We just need bodies present. Patrolling the perimeter and the tunnels to the dressing rooms. Shouldn’t be any major issues. Coot, Scrimgeour. . . Leach is dying for an opportunity-”

“No,” Ian cut him off upon hearing this name. “Nobby Leach isn’t one for field work. Besides, there’s an element of politics involved, remember that, Reginald. Cassius would have my head if I assign a muggle-born to this.”

Harlowe stared at him. “Cassius?”

Ian sighed, realizing his thoughts had become jumbled together. “Tiberius. But, Cassius, too.”

The stadium was mid-sized. Not the enormous proportions used to host the World Cup. They were still a few months, and a few rounds, away from that. But it was no Hogwarts Quidditch pitch either. The stands were vast, wrapping entirely around the pitch. These were nearly full. Anyone who had followed the trajectory of the Cup in the British Isles had fought to obtain tickets. Of course, Ministry connections were helpful in that scuffle. The China versus England matchup was pivotal -- the last one of the year, and deliberately scheduled on the holiday. The winner would have a very happy New Year indeed.

The field itself was located in an entirely unsuspecting moor near the Scotland border. Selected by the Ministry and cloaked in an assortment of protection enchantments, it was also the primary pitch the English team used to practice on. All advantages in their favor, the only thing standing between the English team and victory was a formidable Chinese team.

Tiberius Malfoy, Minister of Magic, arrived just before the match began. He apparated outside the stadium, as several strong enchantments prevented apparation inside it. 

“Minister,” Reginald Harlowe greeted him with a curt nod. The Head Auror stood guarding the main -- and the only one accessible to the public -- entrance. Two young Aurors stood with him, trying their best not to look too fidgety. “Thought you might come in the back. I’ve got Tarold over there with Jameson and Crouch.”

Bertram Tarold was Harlowe’s second in command, and one of the finest Aurors Ian Rowle had groomed during his long tenure as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Tiberius was less familiar with Jameson, but knew Crouch as the brother of his daughter-in-law.

“Any issues?” he asked, knowing he would get an earful from Ian Rowle if there were any. That is, after the Lament brothers got an earful from Rowle. His eyes flicked over the two young Aurors. He believed their names were Coot and Scrimgeour.

“None,” reported Harlowe. “Day’s been sweeter than Helga Hufflepuff herself.”

“Excellent, let’s hope the game lives up to it,” declared Tiberius, as Harlowe muttered an enchantment to allow him entry. He stepped neatly through the glowing green rectangle that appeared in the air and finally set foot in the stadium. The Aurors muttered a farewell and he strolled into the tunnel leading to the stands. He could have slipped around the back and arrived at the Malfoy family box without traversing past the other boxes, but that simply wouldn’t be the proper thing for the Minister to do. This was a networking event, like any other gathering within the wizarding world. There were people to meet and hands to shake. He was very disappointed the Chinese Minister had not made the journey for the match. 

At the lowest level of the audience were throngs of Hogwarts students. Still on break for the holidays and apparently having abandoned their families, the teenagers were falling all over themselves as the match began. Tiberius skirted past this group -- which smelled very strongly of Firewhiskey. He snorted upon the realization that someone must have slipped the students alcohol, and a quick glance confirmed it. Dozens of them were openly drinking. He elected to pretend not to notice, moving past the clamor and approaching the private boxes that had been divvied up and sold for this match.

He first spotted Lucretia and Ignatius Prewett, sitting in a box with a few other redheaded Prewetts. He recognized Lancelot and Edgarton, with Edgarton’s wife, Dalmatia, and their two feisty twin boys. This group chirped him a quick hello, intent on the match, and the shouting of the boys much too loud to induce any further conversation.

Next was Dorea and Charlus Potter, joined by Charlus’s parents, Rebecca and Henry Potter. And another whom, from his messy black hair and lanky posture, Tiberius assumed was Henry’s other son. To his surprise, this group hailed him. He obliged, curiosity mounting, and paused by their box.

“Minister!” exclaimed Henry Potter over the roar that swept through the stadium now that the match had begun. “Wonderful to see you!”

“You as well, Mr. Potter,” said Tiberius with ease. “Enjoying the match, I hope?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly! Fleamont here is a big fan of the sport, played at Hogwarts and all,” Henry Potter nudged the son Tiberius hadn’t recognized. Fleamont Potter clumsily smiled and ran a hair through his mop of dark hair. He couldn’t be much older than Abraxas. “Fleamont’s also got a knack with potions, working on an interesting little project that’ll definitely make a fortune, right, Flea?”

“I’ve just started and all-” mumbled Fleamont, embarrassed by his father’s boasts.

“Potions, is it?” inquired Tiberius, now much more interested. He scanned Fleamont Potter with a scrutinous eye. The boy might be young but he had a determined look about him, hiding under his thatch of jet black hair and awkward aura. “Well, we all know where the best ingredients can be found. . . I do hope you all enjoy the match.” With that, he gave those present in the box a slight bow and continued ascending.

He was approaching the box of Irma and Pollux Black with their brood of children when Antonin Dolohov came rushing down towards him. 

“Minister,” breathed Dolohov, worry creasing his brow. “Your mother-”

“My mother?” Tiberius repeated, fear flashing through him. Domitia Malfoy was in all ways limitless, but aging nonetheless. She would be attending the match today, despite Tiberius’s warning that the atmosphere might grow overwhelming for the elderly witch. “What happened?”

“Nerves, I think. She’s fainted. Abraxas is trying to revive her-”

“Right,” said Tiberius, and networking was over once his family’s safety was involved. He and Antonin hurried up the remainder of the stands, Dolohov just ahead to clear the way and ensure nobody attempted to pull the Minister aside for a chat.

By the time they arrived at the box reserved for the Malfoy family, it seemed Abraxas had managed to revive her, though Domitia Malfoy couldn’t exactly be described as calm.

Abraxas kneeled beside her seat, trying to remove the goblet of what Tiberius suspected was some sort of intoxicating beverage, which would explain Domitia’s fiery energy at the moment. Melania sat near her parents, Charis and Casper Crouch, keeping her lips neatly pursed. The poor girl was still pale from all she’d gone through the past week, but Tiberius was pleased she felt well enough to attend the match. Melania was quietly listening to the conversation taking place. The Crouches, mostly just Charis Crouch, were apparently locked in a heated discussion with a fuming Domitia.

Tiberius glanced at Dolohov for an explanation, baffled as to what was going on.

“Charis asked if Natalie would be marrying soon. Sent Mrs. Malfoy -- Domitia -- on a tirade. Mentioned, er, Natalie’s mother, and all. She got worked up and fainted, which is when Abraxas sent me to find you.”

Domitia apparently was not done letting everyone know her opinions concerning this topic. “A perfect match! Theia and Rabastan. Perfect! He loved her, you know. But Theia stumbles upon a handsome Muggle and look-” Domitia jabbed a finger towards the air, in the direction where her granddaughter had just narrowly swerved around a Bludger.

“She looks just like her! Now Rabastan and Fabienne was a fine match, a fine match indeed! They’ve got a lovely son, Adolphus. I schemed of him and Natalie, yes, certainly! But he just got engaged to Savanna Rowle, did you hear?”

Charis Crouch, a former Black, was loving the gossip and urged Domitia on. “What about the Averys? They’ve got a son the same age, haven’t they?”

“As does Seamus Dawson, Clarence Rosier, and Terrence Nott! They’re all friends, you know! With my granddaughter as their little ringleader, her and that boyfriend-”

“Boyfriend?” gasped Charis Crouch, “I’d heard Irma was pushing her son, Alphard, to-”

“Not Alphard, no. They would be a good match. Both with tempers. I hear Alphard’s a case, too. But no, she takes after her mother, apparently. Comes home with a handsome halfblood who's got Salazar Slytherin’s blood in him-”

“What!” Charis’s gasp was even louder this time. “A descendent of Slytherin? A halfblood?”

“Merope Gaunt -- there’s a name I’ve not heard in some time. I had a run-in with her father, Marvolo, years back. He was an interesting bloke. Not too bright, not too handsome, either, like his whole family-”

“You’re letting your granddaughter see such a-”

“I wouldn’t, had the lad not been such a dashing wizard. Top of his class, Head Boy, striking looks -- charming too -- you’d never suspect-”

“Mother,” Tiberius was tired of the drivel. He stepped into the box and approached Domitia, laying a hand on her now frail shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Of course, dear,” she gave him a smile and patted his hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was informed you’d fainted-”

“Nonsense, a moment of fatigue. Just passing. Nothing serious. Come in, sit down, Tiberius. We’re having a lovely chat about the English team’s Seeker. . . .”

“Yes, it sounded rather lovely,” said Tiberius, taking the seat beside his mother. Abraxas occupied the other side. Tiberius dismissed Dolohov with a nod and watched him head down to join a box containing many of those just mentioned by Domitia. Adolphus Lestrange, Eric Dawson, Evan Rosier, Zacharias Nott, Lloyd Avery, Seymour Mulciber, Jonathan Shaw, Giles Morrison, along with Savanna Rowle, Quinn Bulstrode, Pamela Selwyn, and a few others whom Tiberius could not recognize through the crowd. His gaze lingered on Selwyn when his mother drew his attention back to their box.

“We never suspected we’d have a Quidditch star in our family. . . if anyone I’d suspected it would be you, Tiberius.”

Realizing he hadn’t paid a speck of attention to the match, Tiberius made a mental note to mention the name “Potter” to his son, before checking the score. It was seventy to fifty, China with the lead. He watched the Chasers battle for the Quaffle as Domitia droned on. Her words faded to the back of his mind as the match enthralled him. The new robes the Bulstrodes’ company had designed for the English team looked magnificent; dark blue with a neat red and white design flowing down the front, mimicking the shape of Saint George’s cross, with the players’ names and numbers stitched on the back in a bold white font.

The Chasers on both teams scuffled, rather violently, for the Quaffle. The English Beaters rushed in to drive Bludgers their way. One struck a Chinese Chaser, who dropped the Quaffle. An English Chaser scooped it up and barrelled down the pitch, making the audience erupt.

Flying towards the opposing goal posts, the Chaser attempted a fake on the Chinese Keeper, who saw right through it. The Quaffle was tossed to no avail, the Keeper easily scooped it up and passed it off to his own Chasers.

China now in possession, the Chasers dashed down the pitch, heading towards the English goal. An English Beater sent a Bludger towards the incoming assault, but he missed, and nearly hit the Chinese Seeker, who evidently liked to hover directly above the game play.

That was when Natalie dove -- streaking downwards like a hawk striking its prey. The audience flew to its feet, screaming as she dropped as if gravity did not exist. The Chinese Seeker, at first disoriented from dodging the Bludger, hastened to follow. 

Tiberius found himself on his feet, his mother clutching at the sleeve of his robes as he held his breath, watching the scene play out.

Natalie continued diving, robes flaring out all around her, a blur of blue, red, and white. The Chinese Seeker hot on her tail. Then she jumped up, leveling out right underneath the game play. The Chinese Seeker struggled to keep pace with her, he dropped lower than she had, not anticipating her to cease the descent so soon, and pursued her down the pitch. The English Chasers intercepted a pass between the Chinese Chasers as they were distracted by the excitement caused by the Seekers. The play reversed, with England driving back towards the Chinese goal posts. The three English Chasers tossed the Quaffle amongst themselves like the winking of a coy witch. They teased the Chinese Chasers by keeping it just out of their reach. 

Natalie flew beneath the English Chasers, with the Chinese Seeker slightly below her. The audience continued roaring, though Tiberius wasn’t quite sure where the Snitch even was. He assumed Natalie must have seen it though, as she bolted through the air at top speed, almost as if matching the rhythm of her fellow Chasers immediately above her.

Tiberius understood the strategy the instant before it played out in front of half the British wizarding population. Natalie adjusted her flying course, tilting her broom towards the sky and dashed in between the three English Chasers. The timing was impeccable, and clearly well-practiced. As she slipped between the English Chasers, the Chinese Seeker, focused more on following her than on what was going on around them, also attempted to jerk his broom up. Only to nearly crash into one of the English Chasers. He narrowly swerved around the English Chaser — but had been delayed long enough for Natalie to snatch the golden Snitch from where it buzzed above the heads of the Chasers.