Envy Engenders Spite

Tom Riddle appeared back on the Muggle street where St. Mungo’s was hidden. A Muggle woman carrying far too many shopping bags nearly walked right into him. He managed to duck through the glass windows hiding the entrance to the hospital before she did so, to his extreme relief. 

The reception room of the hospital was another chaotic scene. Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson were locked in an argument with the wizard they had nearly run into earlier, who had cacti as arms. Antonin Dolohov had vanished and the welcome witch was trying to pull the cactus-limbed wizard into one of the wards while trying to avoid getting hit by the flailing cacti his arms had turned to. Everyone else in the lobby was watching the scene with amusement.

Tom paused for a moment, not at all feeling like getting involved in the cactus fight when his senses were on overdrive. Thankfully, Dolohov burst out of the doors leading to the staircase with Tiberius Malfoy right behind him. 

“Gentlemen,” Tiberius rushed over to the confrontation between Lestrange, Dawson, and the half-cactus wizard. Upon the arrival of the Minister of Magic, the witches and wizards watching the scene dropped their gazes and went back to whatever they had been doing. 

“I’m sure we can sort this out in a rational manner,” Tiberius said soothingly. The cactus-wizard reluctantly backed down with another retort of “no bloody respect from young folk these days” and followed the flustered welcome witch into a ward. Lestrange and Dawson sent him dark looks behind his back until Tiberius cleared his throat.

Tom Riddle crossed the room towards Lestrange, Dawson, Dolohov, and the Minister. Their eyes landed on him and Lestrange and Dawson both made noises of astonishment.

“Where-” began Lestrange but Tiberius cleared his throat for a second time.

“Not here, boys,” said Tiberius, beckoning them all after him. They followed the Minister through the doors and up the stairs, all the way to the fourth floor and to the private ward Natalie had been in. The walk did wonders for Tom’s head, his senses returned to normal now that he was no longer in Natalie’s presence, though he had a lingering headache and felt rather on edge, as though the windows were about to burst or the ceiling cave in.

A very distressed Fabienne Lestrange paced about the ward. Abraxas Malfoy and Winky Crockett sat in the chairs surrounding Natalie’s now empty bed, watching the Healer pace and trying not to look too amused by the whole situation. 

“Well?” demanded Fabienne upon the arrival of the others. 

All eyes fell on Tom Riddle. He gave them a quick smile, to assure them all was well — or as well as it could be. He still hadn’t formulated what felt like the correct explanation for what was going on.

“She apparated to Ireland,” he said calmly. “Wanted to go there. . . to blow off some steam. Her words.”

“I take it she’s feeling alright, then?” asked Tiberius, now that they were in a more private setting, he sounded and looked like he hadn’t slept since before the Semi-Final match. 

“Yes,” said Tom, only because he knew they needed to hear it. He wasn’t sure if Natalie could ever be considered to be feelingalright. “Just a bit. . . jumpy at the moment.”

“Jumpy,” repeated Fabienne, as though this was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. The Healer looked just as exhausted as Tiberius. “Jumpy? I was ready to declare her dead less than twenty-four hours ago — and she wakes before scheduled, sprints out of the hospital, manages to apparate — and is now alone, feeling jumpy?”

Everyone fell silent, looking to Tom for further explanation. He relished in the kernel of dark pleasure floating through the back of his mind — in spite of having to flee from her presence, the effects of Natalie’s trail of chaos was exhilarating to watch. But he kept this feeling to himself, giving the others a simple shrug.

“Yes, that’s an accurate assessment.”

“I mean, are we surprised?” asked Abraxas, “we all know how she is.”

Fabienne turned to Abraxas, as though he wasn’t quite understanding the situation. “Abraxas, she was dead.”

“And now she’s jumpy,” pointed out Adolphus. His mother shot him a look that clearly indicated she did not want his opinion right now. 

“Jumpy is fine,” said Tiberius, waving a hand to garner their attention. “She’s alive. My mother might not be if she hears a word of any of this. She doesn’t need the stress.”

Fabienne looked around at everyone. “Where is Domitia, anyway?” 

“The Manor,” said Abraxas, “Melania is keeping her there, away from all of this. . . mess.”

“Not a word of this to her,” announced Tiberius, meeting the eyes of everyone present. A collective nod ran through the room.

Crockett stood, straightening his robes and placing his hat back on his head. “Right then, if we’re all set here, I’ll be off to tell the team they’ve still got a Seeker. Dent’s downright furious we wouldn’t let them visit.”

“Pass the word along to Matt and Jack too,” said Tiberius.

“Will do,” said Crockett, sending a nod to all present before slipping out into the hallway.

“She really should not be alone,” said Fabienne, looking at Tiberius as though the whole situation was his fault. The Minister did not look happy with this.

“She insisted,” said Tom, secretly enjoying their befuddlement.

Tiberius sighed and pulled out a pocket watch. He watched it tick for some time, as looks were exchanged between Lestrange and Dawson, and Abraxas and Dolohov. Tom stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the room, deciding who he’d like to come with him to go retrieve Natalie. He finally settled on Dolohov or Abraxas, as those were the most likely to be selected by Tiberius — and Lestrange and Dawson would probably do nothing but be incredibly unhelpful and cause more chaos.

When Tiberius looked at Tom Riddle, Abraxas, and then Dolohov, Tom knew he had been correct.

“Give her five minutes, you three,” said the Minister, returning the pocket watch to the inside of his robes.

Fabienne narrowed her eyes. “Five minutes for what?” 

“Let off steam,” Tiberius vaguely waved a hand. 

Fabienne did not seem satisfied with this answer so the Minister nodded at Tom, Abraxas, and Antonin and the three boys quietly slipped out of the room while Adolphus moved to cajole his mother as she started yapping at the Minister.

“So where is she?” asked Dolohov when the three headed down the stairs.

“She has a house in Ireland,” explained Abraxas, “her father used to own it. She uses it now to. . . decompress.”

“Her father owned it?”

“Yes,” said Tom, “and never mention that again.”

“I didn’t know she was an animagus,” muttered Dolohov, sounding impressed.

“Yes,” repeated Tom, “and never mention that again.”

Dolohov looked spooked but remained silent. Abraxas shot a look at Voldemort.

“How bad is she?”

“Bad,” he replied, recalling what being in her presence felt like. “I think. . . she’s overloaded, between whatever happened at the match and whatever they gave her to keep her unconscious.”

“What the bloody hell even happened during the match?” asked Dolohov as they walked out through the reception room. They kept their voices low. The wizard with the cacti arms had long vanished but the three wizards themselves attracted a lot of interested looks and a few witches’ giggles from around the room.

“No one really knows,” said Abraxas, “could have been foul play by the American Seeker.” 

“But her heart stopped,” said Dolohov, “that would take some serious Dark magic, it’s impossible a Quidditch player could have done something like that to her in the middle of a match.”

“Well, what could have done it?” Abraxas sounded rather rhetorical with his question. Tom decided to hint at his abundance of theories concerning the storm, thunderbirds, and her energy.

“Lightning,” he said casually as they stepped out into the bustling Muggle street.

“What?” exclaimed Dolohov, Abraxas looked momentarily startled before a ponderous expression came over him.

“They were flying in a storm,” Tom pointed out. “She could have gotten struck.”

“What are the odds,” Abraxas began but then shook his head because he knew who they were talking about. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” asked Dolohov, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk. Muggles streamed around them as if they weren’t even there.

“Boyle Street,” said Lord Voldemort with a smirk.

Dolohov looked between him and Abraxas in bewilderment. Tom knew why. The name sounded so simple, so unsuspecting. “Boyle Street? What’s that mean?”

“It’s near where she is,” explained Abraxas, glancing around and preparing to disapparate. He stuck his arm out to Dolohov. “C’mon, you’ll see.”

The three wizards turned and disapparated away. Tom Riddle appeared with a small pop in the middle of a wide street in the Irish countryside. Here, estates melted into forest before melting into another estate. A few luxurious Muggle automobiles dotted the scene, the latest models, boasting the latest upgrades. Each estate possessed at least a Quidditch pitch size area of land around the mansions that arrogantly sprawled out, showing off their courtyards and rose gardens and fountains. Even the pavement of the street screamed money, despite it being drenched from the rainstorm that looked to have just passed through. Sluggish gray clouds were moving off in the east, allowing the sun to poke through and gleam against the water-soaked world.

Abraxas and Dolohov appeared nearby with two loud cracks. Dolohov looked around with interest.

“Bloody hell,” he said, “this is a Muggle neighborhood?”

“Yes,” said Abraxas, and the two fell into step beside Tom as he started down the street. “One of the wealthiest you’ll find.”

“I didn’t know Theia married into money like this,” said Dolohov, gawking at a mansion with a gleaming fountain that rose high into the air in front of a facade of imposing Corinthian columns.

“Muggle money,” scoffed Abraxas.

“Muggles clearly don’t know what to do with their money,” Dolohov peered into a Muggle automobile with interest. He pulled out his wand and tapped the door of the automobile as if to see what would happen. 

A loud alarm started blaring from the automobile, making Dolohov flinch and instinctively fling a spell at it. A jet of red light from his wand hit the automobile and a fireball erupted from the front of it.

“Shit!” said Dolohov as all three of them scrambled away from the burning piece of metal.

“Antonin!” snapped Abraxas, whipping out his own wand and sending an assortment of spells at the mess Dolohov had created. “Don’t touch the Muggle contraptions!”

“I didn’t know it would do that,” Dolohov said solemnly as the fire went out, leaving an enormous black scorch mark on the front of what had to be one of the most expensive Muggle automobiles on the market.

“If we wanted more chaos, we would have brought along Lestrange and Dawson,” Tom pointed out with annoyance.

“Right, sorry,” said Dolohov, sticking both his wand and his hands into his pockets and glancing at the houses. “So, er, which one is her’s?”

“None of them,” said Tom, and he continued down the street towards a particular dense patch of woods that separated one vast estate from another. Abraxas and Antonin followed.

Dolohov looked all around the street, on edge after lighting the automobile on fire. “Why couldn’t we have just apparated directly inside wherever she is?” 

“Because you don’t have access, so if you tried to apparate inside you would be incinerated. Also — we’re giving her more time to calm down,” Voldemort explained in a slow voice as they neared what looked like a large cluster of dense trees and tall grass.

“Why don’t I have access?” Dolohov sounded offended.

Tom pointed his wand at Antonin and muttered a few words only he and Natalie knew. A green light glowed around Dolohov’s head. Then he looked him in the eye and said, “silver Snitch.”

“Silver Snitch,” Dolohov repeated mechanically. The green light turned white and then vanished. 

“Now you have access,” said Abraxas, snickering at Dolohov’s awed expression.

“Wicked-” Dolohov began, but Tom stepped into the thicket of trees, had the brief sensation of being doused in cold water, before the grounds he had been on earlier sprawled out before him. It looked nothing like it had when he had been there before.

Abraxas and Dolohov appeared beside him and Dolohov let out a disappointed noise.

“I expected. . . something nicer looking.”

The estate was a scene of total destruction, as though a tornado had just spun through. Every single one of the steps leading up to the front entryway were destroyed — ground into a fine sand that had scattered all over everything. Bushes, shrubs, trees had been torn up and flung dozens of yards away and the lawns were peppered with enormous black spots of dead grass. The house itself looked no better. The columns of the front entryway had collapsed, as had the arches above them so that the front doors weren’t even visible. The entire west wing of the house had been torn off, wood, marble, plaster, and other debris lay scattered everywhere. Tiles had been ripped from the roof and lay at random. There was a sharp chill in the air and everything was wet — as though a torrential rainstorm had just blown over. 

A groaning noise drew their attention and they watched a heavy support beam drop from the skeleton of what remained of the west wing. It hit a pile of debris and cracked in half, sending up a spew of glass, clumps of wet dirt and other rubble.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have left her alone?” suggested Abraxas.

“She’s fine,” said Voldemort, strolling up the grounds towards the house. The atmosphere was much more calm than it had been when he left. In fact, in spite of the utter devastation, the grounds seemed relaxed, peaceful even. There was a refreshing vibrance in the air, as though nature had restored its balance. 

They skirted the front entryway, as it was almost completely obliterated, clearing away debris to circle the mansion until they arrived at the rear entrance. The curling bannisters surrounding the back porch had been blown off, but the stairs remained intact, though covered in wet leaves, splinters of wood, shards of glass, and broken shingles from the roof. 

The back doors had vanished, likely flung somewhere far away. The house was silent as they entered. Dolohov had his wand out and his head on a swivel as though expecting an attack to come out of nowhere. 

“Where do we think she is?” asked Abraxas in a lighthearted voice, as though this whole thing was amusing to him. Their trip did feel as though they were picking up a runaway pet.

“Kitchen,” said Tom, narrowing in on the perpetual ticking in the back of his mind. He stepped over a fallen beam of wood and headed straight towards the kitchen, the others following. The damage grew less catastrophic the deeper they moved into the house. Entering the kitchen, they came upon a serene scene that was so untouched it was almost absurd.

Natalie sat cross-legged on top of the long island counter in the kitchen that did not have a single mote of dust out of place. She had somehow changed into baggy joggers and a jumper with the English national team logo on it. A plate of breakfast food and a goblet was before her. She glanced up at their arrival, mouth full and a completely unbothered expression on her face. 

Voldemort laughed to himself as Abraxas made an astonished noise. Dolohov simply stared at Natalie as though she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“What. . . what are you doing?” demanded her cousin.

Natalie waited until she had finished chewing to respond, which Tom suspected she dragged out, simply to bother Abraxas. Tom sauntered across the kitchen and dropped into one of the stools near where she sat on the island to soak in her presence, which was much more pleasurable now that she had blown off all her excess energy. The remnants of his headache vanished and he felt noticeably buoyant and confident in himself.

“Eating, obviously,” her voice was buttery and content. “There’s not enough for you three, so. . . sorry.”

“You’re aware you were dead less than twenty-four hours ago?” asked Abraxas, moving to stand beside the counter. Dolohov slid into the stool next to Tom, not having removed his gaze from Natalie. 

She waved a hand as though this was an annoying bit of information, then took a long sip of her goblet and shrugged. “Yeah. I’ll also be playing in the World Cup Final in August.”

Abraxas ignored her comment, looking suspicious. “Did you make that food yourself?”

“Yes,” she said, and Tom knew she was lying.

“You called a house-elf here didn’t you,” accused Abraxas, crossing his arms and looking at her with annoyance. “You wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t freed Hiram.”

Natalie tapped a finger against her goblet to refill it. She glared at her cousin over the rim. “I can’t keep elves here.”

“That’s obvious,” drawled Abraxas, gesturing to the kitchen around them. “Is this the only room that’s not completely ruined?”

“It might be.”

“Riddle thinks you were struck by lightning in the Semi-Final,” Abraxas casually dropped this. 

Natalie turned to look at Tom. She raised her eyebrows as they made eye contact and the familiar rush of exchanged thoughts and feelings occurred between them. When she looked back at Abraxas, he was left with a sense of sweet tranquility, as well as the sudden urge to snog her.

“That could have happened,” she said offhandedly, shoveling a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. It was clear she wasn’t too concerned with the events of the Semi-Final match, save for that they won.

“Unless the American Seeker cursed you or something,” said Dolohov, leaning forward with interest.

“No,” Natalie shook her head, “she couldn’t have.”

“Then our leading theory is lightning,” said Abraxas. He cleared his throat and grew grave. “Natalie — you mustn’t tell any of this to grandmother.”

“Any of what?” she asked, becoming distracted by stabbing tiny roasted potatoes onto her fork.

“Grandmother wasn’t at the match, father insisted she not travel for her health. She has no idea you. . . died and have been at St. Mungo’s — and then ran out of the hospital like a raving lunatic.”

Natalie laughed, “oh my God, I can hear her screaming at me.”

“Yes, so don’t tell her,” pleaded Abraxas.

She swallowed her last bite of eggs. “I won’t”

“Excellent. Now, you’ve got to return to the Manor. You’re still under orders to not be seen in public.”

Natalie tossed down her fork and groaned. “Seriously? Allegedly, I bloody died! Can’t I be allowed to live a little?”

“Absolutely not,” said Abraxas with a grin. He sat in one of the stools around the island and settled down to wait. “Whenever you’re ready to return to reality.”

Natalie mumbled something under her breath that sounded like a high-pitched mockery of what her cousin had just said.

“What was that?” asked Abraxas.

“Nothing,” she grabbed her goblet, draining whatever was in it. Tom suspected pumpkin juice. She flung the goblet to the floor and it vanished as she vaulted off the counter and landed smoothly on her feet right beside Tom. Pulling him off the stool, she proceeded to fling her arms around him and rest her head on his chest as though hugging him was some sort of mandatory ceremony that had to be performed before she could move onwards. He was not going to complain — and wrapped his arms around her in turn. It was nothing like earlier. It felt like bathing in a magical spring deep within a forest, flowing over him with a deliciously cool touch. He wanted to soak in it forever, lapping up its ancient, divine power. 

Abraxas and Dolohov had moved to stand near the door, finding an assortment of household objects to be the most interesting thing in the world. Finally Abraxas coughed.

“This is cute and all but-”

Natalie tore herself away from him and huffed. “Oh, alright. Back to reality, I guess. . . .”