A Lot More Complicated
There was no security at the Minister’s house. Given what Antonin Dolohov had just seen happen at the castle, this was astounding. Where the hell were all the Aurors?
He’d sprinted out of the woods, leaving Tom Riddle with the promise to report back with whatever the Ministers knew. Now, he stopped just outside the house the Ministers were breakfasting in. The Swiss Minister’s driver, a balding, middle-aged bloke (whom Dolohov had a suspicion was a squib), remained in the metal automobile thing, head slumped against that circular wheel thingy on the inside.
Dolohov was prepared for anything. He stepped closer, wand in hand, wondering if the bloke was stunned or even dead. A loud snore and the trail of saliva against the wheel thing confirmed the bloke was simply asleep.
Leaving him, Dolohov turned and hurried up the stairs to the house. The town was still silent. His mind was not — it was ablaze with frantic possibilities for what was happening. Perhaps the Ministers knew that dozens of black-robed figures had just been let into the castle? But why was there a deadly curse surrounding the castle? That seemed far too risky in a town full of drunk witches and wizards.
The door wasn’t even locked. A poster of the English team pasted to it fluttered in a soft breeze. Natalie had signed the top corner. On the bottom was a stamp from Borgin and Burkes. Dolohov stared at her signature and wondered if she knew a load of blokes had just entered the castle. It wasn’t even seven in the morning though, so he wondered if she was even awake.
Dolohov stepped inside and paused to listen. The house was quiet, save for the sound of clinking utensils and quiet chatter that drifted out of the open door at the end of the hallway. For a moment, a feeling of absurdity passed over him. He grabbed the coat stand near the door to steady himself. Everything else in the Swiss town was as it should be, it seemed that only he and Tom Riddle were plagued with the feeling that something was horribly wrong.
Five hats hung from the coat stand. He stared, silently counting and wondering who else was present. Shaking off his dizziness, he bolted down the hall, footsteps silent on the thick carpet until he reached the cozy dining room. He pushed open the ornate wooden door and stepped in.
The round table at the center of the room held Tiberius Malfoy and Rabastan Lestrange, along with Lars Oblinger, the Swiss Minister of Magic, and Aleksi Kalas, the Finnish Minister of Magic. The fifth person at the table made Dolohov freeze, breath sticking in his throat. It was the tall blond who he had just seen let dozens of unknowns into the castle where the Quidditch teams were staying. There was no way he could have gotten to the Minister’s house before Dolohov — they hadn’t seen anyone walk out of the castle.
“Antonin,” Tiberius drew his attention. He stared at the Minister, wide-eyed, wondering what was going on. Tiberius frowned. “Is everything alright?”
“Uh,” he didn’t know what to say. He found himself looking back at the blond wizard. “I’m not sure. . . .”
“Your face would say otherwise, son,” Rabastan pointed out. They were all staring at him. The Finnish Minister looked rather annoyed that their breakfast had been interrupted.
Dolohov sucked in a breath and decided to cut to the point. He pointed at the blond wizard. “I just. . . I just saw you — two of you — let dozens of people into the castle where the teams are. . . .”
The blond wizard frowned. “What? I’ve been here for the past hour.”
“What sort of nonsense is this?” said Lars Oblinger, lowering his coffee. “Hans has been here briefing us on how the castle security is faring — as he does every morning. He could not have been at the castle.”
“When did you see this, Antonin?” asked Tiberius. The Minister had exchanged a glance with Rabastan and the two had leaned forward.
“Just now,” said Antonin. “Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago.”
“Hans has been here with us this entire time,” Lars Oblinger looked bored. He shot a look at the English Minister. “I don’t appreciate your assistant barging in on our breakfast, Tiberius.”
“How many Hans’s are there?” Dolohov blurted out. Something wasn’t adding up. He could have sworn he saw two Hans’s at the doors of the castle.
Both the Swiss and Finnish Ministers looked offended at his outburst.
“I am the only Hans,” the blond said coldly. “What are you. . . insinuating?”
“I’ve just seen two of you — or wizards who look just like you — let over thirty unknowns-”
The Swiss Minister loudly interrupted him, sending a furious look at Tiberius. “This is ridiculous — accusing my country’s top Auror of some sort of. . . some sort of massive security breach! Is this the English’s idea of a prank?”
Tiberius did not look pleased at this. “Certainly not,” he said coolly and turned to Dolohov. “Antonin, is there anything else you saw?”
“Yes,” he nodded vigorously. “There’s a. . . a curse around the perimeter of the castle, to kill anyone who tries to cross over the bridge.”
“And how do you know that?” asked Rabastan Lestrange.
“I saw — I saw a stag try to cross. It set foot on the bridge and. . . and was thrown backwards. It died almost immediately.”
The Finnish Minister let out a little cough, as though he thought this funny. He quickly found his coffee to be the tastiest thing in the world. Lars Oblinger looked between Tiberius and Rabastan as though Dolohov had just proved that he was full of shit.
Hans scoffed. “There is no security charm around the castle that is that deadly. We could not have a child or intoxicated teenager attempt to get into the castle and end up getting killed.”
“Perhaps your assistant started celebrating a few days early, Tiberius, and hasn’t slept off the whiskey,” the Finnish Minister spoke up. “You English certainly seem supremely confident that you’re going to win the Cup. . . .”
“I know what I saw,” insisted Dolohov, but he was ignored. The Ministers were all glaring at each other now. Dolohov shifted on his feet — this was taking too long. What if the figures entering the castle planned to murder the Quidditch teams? They could all be dead already, while the countries’ Ministers squabbled like children.
“Gentlemen,” Rabastan cleared his throat and stood up. “Enough. There’s an easy way to resolve all this.” He turned to the Swiss Auror. “Hans, you ought to head over to the castle and see if what Antonin is saying is correct.”
Lars Oblinger muttered something in another language but nodded his agreement. Aleksi Kalas returned to his breakfast, no longer interested. Tiberius looked over at Dolohov.
“Antonin, go along with Hans-”
“Absolutely not!” snapped Oblinger. “I won’t have your assistant feeding my Auror these stories, Tiberius. For all I know, he could cast a Confundus Charm behind his back and next thing we know, Hans is playing along with this absurd tale.”
Tiberius narrowed his eyes. “Do not accuse my assistant of such behavior, Lars. And do you really hold your best Auror in such low regard, that he could not throw off a simple Confundus Charm?”
Oblinger’s face reddened and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hans did not seem bothered by the comment, he was glaring at Dolohov as though he’d ruined his day. Clearing his throat, Oblinger turned away from Tiberius.
“Go along, Hans,” he said to his Auror. “Report back here as soon as you’ve cleared this up.”
Nodding to the Swiss Minister, Hans stood and headed towards the door. Dolohov moved to allow him to exit. Hans shot him a dirty look, which he refused to acknowledge. Dolohov knew he was right. He briefly wondered if he’d ever see the blond again.
“Antonin, join us,” Tiberius clapped his hands and a house-elf appeared with a crack, carrying a fresh plate of food. Feeling numb, Dolohov dropped into the seat near Tiberius and Rabastan. The Swiss Minister was glaring at him. He kept his eyes on the dark wood of the table, his leg bouncing furiously. This was absurd — something was wrong and Tiberius had invited him to eat breakfast with him and the other Ministers. He mechanically took a bite of toast, chewing and swallowing without tasting it. Crumbs got everywhere. He watched his hand brush them off his robes. He wondered how much time had passed since he’d seen the figures run into the castle. It felt like hours.
“Antonin, can you tell us anything else about these. . . figures you saw enter the castle?” Rabastan casually asked as the others returned to their breakfast. The sounds of scraping utensils and slurps of coffee filled the room. It made his head spin — the scene was surreal. Somewhere, Tom Riddle was waiting for him to find out if they knew what happened, and here he was — drinking Swiss coffee with the Ministers of Magic.
“If they were real,” Oblinger muttered across the table.
“Er. . . their faces were hidden,” he said slowly, it dawned on him that he didn’t have a decent answer to Rabastan’s question. “They were robed in all black, they had hoods on. . . .”
Silence swept the room, save for the Finnish Minister’s quiet snickers. Dolohov felt a cold sweat trickle down his neck. He placed the mug of coffee back on the table, his hand trembling as he sucked in a breath. He knew what he saw.
“I’m sure the situation will be made clear once Hans returns,” announced Tiberius. Dolohov could feel the Minister’s eyes on him. He turned to make eye contact, silently begging the Minister to believe him. When Tiberius sent him a subtle nod, he exhaled in relief. He had a Malfoy on his side. That was enough.
“I’m sure it will,” Oblinger began a snide remark but a bang echoed through the room. In a burst of orange fire, a piece of parchment dropped out of the air and landed in the middle of the table.
There was a silence as they all sat, frozen in shock. A piece of omelet dangled on Aleksi Kalas’s fork, halfway to his mouth. Tiberius’s mug of coffee paused in midair. Rabastan stood and snatched up the parchment. He unfolded it and skimmed it over. A strange expression came over his face and he looked around the table as though to ground himself in reality. Dolohov felt a deadweight settle in his gut. His grip tightened on his wand and he shifted in his seat.
“What is it?” demanded Oblinger.
Rabastan slumped back into his chair and handed the parchment over to Tiberius. “It’s not from Hans. . . .”
Tiberius dropped his coffee with a bit too much force and took the parchment as though it would burn him. Holding it gingerly, he read it over. Dolohov pressed his tongue against his top right canine and watched Tiberius’s gray eyes dart across the letter. He knew what he had seen at the castle, and he knew whatever this parchment said would confirm it. He squirmed, leg bouncing furiously, toast and coffee forgotten. Across the table, the piece of omelet fell from Kalas’s fork.
Finally, Tiberius lowered the parchment, his face a mask.
“Well?” Oblinger drummed his fingers against the table. “What is it? Who is it from?”
Tiberius slowly ambled to his feet. Dolohov jumped up beside him and had to grab onto the back of his chair, feeling dizzy. His eyes could not leave his boss’s face. Tiberius was looking between the Swiss and Finnish Ministers, the planes and angles of his sharp face suddenly much more pronounced.
“Gentlemen, it seems the Quidditch World Cup has become a lot more complicated. . . there is a group of Russians holding both teams hostage.”