Envy Engenders Spite

It got cold in the mountains during the night. The chill would linger in the village, seeping through the streets and into the brick houses. It wouldn’t burn off until the late morning sun chased it out. Blankets, jumpers, woolen socks and mittens displaying support for both national teams were the hottest item on the market that had popped up in Lauterbrunnen from the influx of witches and wizards. 

Lord Voldemort sat in his claimed armchair in front of a feeble fire in the house that had earned a reputation for being the place to be at night. He watched the weak flames slowly eat through the log that must have been placed on the fire last night. It was two days before the World Cup and it was hardly six in the morning, but he had been up for hours. Plagued with an inexplicable anxiety — like he was waiting for something to happen, but he did not know what. He did not like the feeling at all. So he had gotten fully dressed, made sure his wand was ready on hand, and moved to the front room of the house the lot of them were staying in. Last night had been the only night they did not host a party because he had insisted against it. But the bottles of Firewhiskey that the others had still consumed were scattered over the table behind him.

It really was ridiculous. The Quidditch World Cup. It was like the entire wizarding world stopped and moved to Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland — a tiny village in the middle of the Alps. Burke had closed the shop for the entire week, telling him everyone would be in Switzerland that week. Tom hadn’t realized that “everyone” really did mean everyone. Over the past few days, he had seen first years at Hogwarts, high-ranking Ministry officials, regular customers at Borgin and Burkes, and everything in between. Horace Slughorn had managed to track him down and begged him to join him for tea, which he promptly made up some excuse to avoid. He’d later spotted Slughorn and Domitia Malfoy walking down a street with foot-tall hats that flashed Natalie’s face every five seconds. Quinn Bulstrode’s family business had made a small fortune selling jumpers and cloaks bearing images of the national team that were bewitched to yell curse words at anyone wearing apparel supporting the Finnish team. The Minister of Magic had set up an office at one of the larger houses in town, and every other Ministry department that couldn’t afford to take a week or so off seemed to have done the same (there were very few). He had even spotted Albus Dumbledore chuckling over a pair of socks at one of the merchandise carts that lined every street in the village. 

He drummed his fingers against the armrests and thought about how irritating it was that the players were confined to the castle at the far end of the village. He supposed it was convenient for security and all — but it was highly inconvenient to him, personally.

She knew. He knew she had felt it the other day, when she had snuck out and then woke up in a panic the morning after. She would have called it a “bad feeling” — which was not wrong, he simply did not like that terminology for whatever it was that was making him feel so uneasy. It was the same feeling that had been under his skin for months, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it meant. Something wasn’t adding up somewhere. It was lurking below the surface, and now it felt like it wanted to burst out and drown him. 

The fire popped as the log finally flared up, sending a bit of warmth through the room. He ignored the cold. He had more important things on his mind. He usually had more important things on his mind. 

His leg involuntarily started bouncing, much like Antonin Dolohov was prone to. This annoyed him, so he stood up, twirling his wand around his fingers. He looked around the room for something to distract himself with; the front room was half a living room, half a kitchen. He eyed the bookshelves near the fireplace but the bottles on the table caught his eye. The more he looked at them, the more irritated he grew. Were Lestrange and Dawson really that lazy — really that spoiled — that they couldn’t have cleaned up their mess from last night?

Sighing between his clenched teeth he strode towards the messy table and glared at it. Along with the bottles, the table was littered with wrappers, remnants of sweets, scraps of parchment with wagers written on them, a broken eagle feather quill, and one of the idiots had even left their wand on the table. From the way the firelight fell on it, he could tell the table was sticky from spilled Firewhiskey and butterbeer. Closer inspection proved the wand to be Rosier’s.

He tucked Rosier’s wand into his pocket, made a mental note to tell him how much of a fool he was for leaving it out, and waved his own wand. The mess on the table vanished. Another wave and the wooden tabletop was sparkling clean. Much better. 

Except it did nothing to soothe whatever it was that was bothering him.

He hated the feeling. He had half a mind to sneak into the castle to see her, to check on her. Because he knew that she knew how he was feeling, and maybe her energy could clarify things. He had been furious when it hadn’t helped at all the other night. But maybe it would today. And he had no other solutions at the moment. 

He had just made up his mind to go through with this idea when he felt it. The ticking in the corner of his mind flared up to a roar that screamed inside his head. He had to clutch at the table as the room seemed to spin around him, his vision turned black as every shred of magic inside him told him that something was wrong. Something bad was happening and something was very, very wrong.

Breathing hard, he gripped the table and used its steadiness to force himself to focus. He needed to figure out what was going on but he was overtaken by a sudden wave of his own anger. He was furious — and he was furious at himself. He had felt a disturbing sense of foreboding the entire night and had just sat there, thinking about it. Now he knew something had happened and so his only course of action was reaction, not prevention. Why had he ignored the feeling? How could he have been so stupid-

Somewhere nearby, someone cleared their throat. He looked up. Antonin Dolohov stood by the hall leading down to the bedrooms, a strange look on his face.

“Everything. . . alright?” asked Dolohov, his eyes drifting down to the table. Following his gaze, Voldemort saw that where he clutched the table was blackened and burned. His wand was caught between his hand and the wood of the table and his anger must have caused a release of magic. He quickly stuck his wand and his hands in his pockets and stood up straight. 

“No,” he said flatly.

Dolohov stared at him in silence. Voldemort noted with interest that Antonin was also fully dressed, had a thick cloak over his shoulders, and his wand in hand.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Dolohov finally said. “Felt. . . dunno, stressed, I guess.”

Voldemort looked him over, realizing he was the perfect choice to tag along.

“That makes two of us then,” Voldemort said, summoning his cloak and already moving towards the door. He looked back at Dolohov. “Come on. I need to check on something of mine.”

Antonin didn’t need much more encouragement. It was clear he was eager to do something, anything. They were out of the house, down the steps, and into the street in an instant. At that hour of the morning, the village was quiet. The cobblestone streets deserted as gentle rays of sun began to peak around the mountains.

They drew their hoods and walked down the street as fast as he dared allow them. Tom desperately wanted to break into a run, but the logical part of him insisted on retaining as much composure as possible, despite the alarm bells blaring inside his head. To his relief, Dolohov did not ask questions, dutifully following him as they headed towards the looming castle that overlooked the town.

“Minister’s awake,” Dolohov observed as they passed the house Tiberius Malfoy had taken residence in. Gray smoke curled from the chimney of the red-tiled roof. The shiny Muggle automobile that the Swiss Minister insisted on driving around the town was parked out front, the driver asleep at the wheel. (Dolohov made sure to steer clear of it). The presence of the Swiss and English Ministers of Magic meant the Finnish Minister could also be found inside the house.

“The Ministers eat breakfast together everyday,” Dolohov said enviously as they left the house behind. 

Tom ignored Dolohov’s comment because it annoyed him. He didn’t particularly care about the Ministers’ morning routine and had a feeling their breakfast was not going to be that enjoyable today.

It felt like hours before they reached the dirt path that led through a small patch of woods to the castle. No sooner had they stepped into the shadows did they both freeze and draw their wands. It was obvious they were not alone in the woods.

“Natalie-” Dolohov started saying, realization dawning over his face.

“Stay quiet,” Voldemort whispered. He moved off the path and cut through the trees, Antonin following. Stepping softly, they headed in the direction of what sounded like dozens of footsteps.

Approaching the edge of the woods, they ducked behind the wide girth of an ancient oak tree and peered up at the bridge leading across the moat — any idiot knew it was the only entrance and exit to the medieval castle.

But Lord Voldemort was fairly certain the small army of dark-robed figures was not supposed to be running across the bridge and up to the castle.

His gaze darted to the doors of the castle. They opened with a creak that bounced around the surrounding mountains. Standing at the doors were two identical blond wizards. He watched in silence, his mind racing to make sense of everything. The black-robed figures entered the castle. The doors shut behind them. A shimmery haze seemed to blur out the towers and windows of the castle before fading. Silence fell across the mountains. A bird chirped somewhere nearby and a breeze rustled the trees as though nothing was out of the ordinary. 

“This is. . . I don’t think that should have happened,” whispered Dolohov. “Who were those guys?”

Voldemort did not respond. He continued staring at the castle. He felt curiously calm, but he was not quite sure if he was waiting for something to happen or if he was waiting for himself to make something happen.

A sound in the woods made him turn and Dolohov flinch. He immediately clapped a hand on Dolohov’s shoulder to get him to stay still.

“Don’t move,” he said, staring at the branched antlers and curious eyes of the stag that poked its head out of the brush nearby. He raised his wand, pointed it at the deer and muttered, “imperio.”

The stag’s head shot up and its eyes filmed over. Voldemort directed it with his wand out of the woods and towards the bridge leading to the castle. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to do-” Dolohov was looking at him as though he’d gone completely mental. 

“Be quiet,” he said, focusing on the stag. It trotted through the grassy clearing to the wooden bridge over the moat. As soon as it took a step onto the bridge, there was a flash of red, a crackling noise, and the stag was flung backwards through the air. It landed a ways in front of the tree the two hid behind. They watched it writhe in agony, flailing its antlers and kicking its hooves before slumping to the ground, dead.

“Bloody hell,” breathed Dolohov. “That is definitely not supposed to do that.”

Lord Voldemort turned to look Antonin Dolohov in the eye.

“You’ll need to interrupt the Ministers’ breakfast.”