Chaos
Tom Riddle burst into the house that had hosted so many parties the past week. Now it felt alien. He wasn’t sure if the air itself was buzzing with something, or if there was just a perpetual ringing in his ears. Either way, he knew that action was imminent. He also knew that he was the only one capable and competent enough to carry through with it.
Adolphus Lestrange and Savanna Rowle were awake. They were sitting at the kitchen table (he would get no thanks for having cleaned it earlier and expected none), giggling to each other as Savanna placed raspberries on Lestrange’s tongue, one by one. Lestrange would then swallow the berry and swoop over to kiss her on the mouth. The scene made Voldemort want to vomit.
“Adolphus,” he hissed, striding forward and making his presence known. The couple quickly broke apart, Lestrange nearly choking on a raspberry as he stared at Lord Voldemort.
“Wha-what,” gasped Lestrange. “What’s going on? Why do you look-”
“Wake everyone up,” he said, making his voice cold and authoritative. He wasn’t entirely certain what was happening. Images of dozens of black-robed figures sprinting into the castle kept replaying on the back of his eyelids. He wanted wands loyal to him right now.
Lestrange hesitated. “Everyone?”
Voldemort eyed Savanna, who looked bewildered. “Nott, Rosier, Dawson, Avery,” he clarified. Their girlfriends would add another, emotional, layer that he didn’t need right now. He didn’t need emotion. He needed cold, killer logic.
“Ah,” Lestrange jumped to his feet. “The Knights.” He dashed out of the room. Savanna remained, blinking her confusion at Tom Riddle. The bowl of raspberries remained forgotten on the table.
“Is. . . is everything alright?” she quietly asked.
He paused, knowing the answer to that question was a resounding no, but he didn’t exactly know why this was so, and certainly didn’t want or need Lestrange’s fiancée involved.
“Everything is fine,” he said smoothly, giving her a charming smile that seemed to reassure her. “Just ran into something interesting on a walk this morning.”
“Oh,” said Savanna, sounding slightly unsure. She went to say something else but several loud noises were heard down the hallway and Lestrange burst back into the room with Dawson, Nott, Avery, and Rosier. None of them looked pleased to be awoken so early.
“The hell is this about?” moaned Rosier, dropping into a seat and eating the raspberries left on the table. Lestrange quickly snatched them away for himself until Voldemort met his eyes. Lestrange shoved the berries towards Dawson (who happily ate the rest, to Rosier’s fury) and leaned down to whisper something in Savanna’s ear.
Voldemort began to pace, staring intently at the linoleum floor. The symmetrical gray tiles seemed to mock his fevered brain. He sucked in a slow breath and forced himself to remain composed. First, he had to understand the situation. Then he could be furious about it.
Dolohov had to be with the Ministers by now. Hopefully they had more information about what was going on at the castle — how could dozens of people enter the castle where the national Quidditch teams were staying without the Minister of Magic knowing something about it? He hated the fact that he had to turn to others for clarity but he accepted it as a necessary evil, given the enormity of this potential problem and the various parties already involved.
Someone cleared their throat. He looked up to find Savanna gone and the five boys staring at him.
“Something’s going on,” Lestrange said slowly. He looked around. “Where’s Antonin?”
Antonin Dolohov would only ever be able to describe what happened over the next few minutes on that day in August as total chaos.
The initial response to Tiberius’s statement was silence. Followed soon by scoffs of disbelief — then nervous denials. Tiberius passed the parchment over to the Swiss and Finnish Ministers so they could read it themselves. Kalas finally dropped his fork and Dolohov watched terror and shock wash over the two other Ministers.
Next thing Dolohov knew, Rabastan waved his wand; a pile of blank parchment, quills, and several pots of ink landed on the table. And then Tiberius and Rabastan were barking out letters to be sent. Throwing himself into a chair, Dolohov hastily tried to keep up, scribbling out the letters summoning a various assortment of people to the house while Tiberius himself carefully wrote out a singular letter.
“Ian Rowle, Seamus Dawson, Matt and Jack Lament, Abraxas — only Abraxas, not my mother — send one to both the goblin Kregmar at Gringotts and Giles Morrison,” Tiberius rapped his knuckles on the table. The other Ministers had slumped in their seats, still in shock, their breakfast forgotten. “We need to find out if what’s in this letter is correct.”
“Get Jonathan Shaw and Lloyd Avery here too,” added Rabastan, pacing the room. “And we’ll need to keep this quiet. If word gets out there’s a hostage situation, there’ll be mass panic.”
“Hans should be back by now,” Lars Oblinger muttered, shaking off his initial astonishment.
Dolohov continued dashing off the letters, tapping them with his wand and muttering the name of the individual they were to be sent to. He managed to send one to Tom Riddle, filling him in on the situation. Dolohov assumed the hooded figures they had seen enter the castle were the Russians holding the teams hostage. He wasn’t quite sure what Tom Riddle would do with this information, but for some reason when he sent this letter off, he felt immensely relieved.
Lord Voldemort had just finished filling the others in on what he and Dolohov had witnessed at the castle when there were two small pops. A piece of parchment dropped out of the air and landed in front of Avery. Another appeared in front of Tom Riddle. He tore it open, reading every word it contained, and then reading every word again. He felt his mind still as he stared at the word Russians. He had to close his eyesas he started making connections, entwining tidbits of knowledge together. Of course. Of course. His gut feeling had been right all along, everything was adding up. Why hadn’t he figured it out before? Triple I. The Malfoy family. Tiberius Malfoy as Minister of Magic. The Quidditch World Cup. An international company. An international sporting event. Natalie with ties to them all and her unconscious habit of getting herself into ridiculous situations.
“I’ve got to go,” Avery was saying, leaping to his feet. “Rabastan says there’s an emergency. Wants me to check on the castle with Jonathan and then report back to him.”
“What emergency?” demanded Lestrange, “what is it?”
“Bring them the body,” Voldemort said, staring directly at Avery.
Avery froze. “What. . . what body?”
“You’ll see when you get there,” said Voldemort, waving his own piece of parchment. He knew if the Head of the Swiss Aurors was dispatched to the castle, he would not be in for a very pleasant experience. Avery looked disconcerted for a moment before nodding. Shoving the letter into his pocket, he hurried out the door.
Voldemort turned back to the remaining four. They were staring at him, awaiting answers. He reached into his pocket where he had stowed the wand Rosier had left on the table last night. Crossing the room, he dropped the wand in front of Rosier.
“You’re going to need this.”
The first to arrive at the house where the Ministers had been enjoying breakfast just moments ago were Abraxas and Domitia Malfoy. The door banged open and the Malfoy matriarch flew into the room, making everyone flinch.
Tiberius looked pained. “Antonin, I said only to Abraxas.”
Dolohov pointed at the letter he was about to send off, addressed to Abraxas Malfoy. Tiberius stared at it, jaw slackening as he looked at his mother and son.
“What is going on here?” demanded Domitia, holding up a piece of parchment for everyone to see. “Why has Triple I just received this pathetic excuse of. . . of some sort of ransom note for my granddaughter?”
Tiberius exhaled and folded the letter he had been working on. “I’ve also received something similar.”
“So it’s true?” asked Abraxas, staring at his father in shock. “There’s a group of Russians threatening to kill Natalie unless Triple I agrees to begin sales to the Soviet Union?”
Dolohov paused, he watched the tip of his wand tremble and vanished the letter he had been about to send to Abraxas. The Swiss and Finnish Ministers straightened, looking over at Tiberius, who had frozen, about to send his own letter off. Rabastan Lestrange quietly swore. Dolohov dropped his wand to the table with a clatter that echoed in his ears.
Tiberius picked up the letter he had received, his hands slightly shaking. He gave it to his mother, who read it with furious eyes.
“We. . . well, I was told that the Quidditch teams would be detained indefinitely until the English Ministry mandates Triple I begin sales with the Soviet Union,” Tiberius slowly explained. “Seeing as the entire wizarding world expects to watch the Cup Final in two days. . . but there was nothing about. . . murder.”
“This says the Aurors are incapacitated,” snapped Domitia. She flung both letters to the table. “What in Merlin’s name does that mean?”
“Not sure,” said Rabastan. He looked to Tiberius. “You ought to send that letter. . . .”
Lars Oblinger narrowed his eyes. “What letter?”
Tiberius tapped the letter with his wand and it vanished. “To the Russian Minister. He’s not arriving for the match until tomorrow, but I’m asking if he knows anything about this. . . plot.”
“Which he’ll obviously deny!” Domitia scoffed. Abraxas tried to help her into one of the seats around the table but she began pacing the room.
“This wouldn’t have happened in Finland,” muttered Aleksi Kalas.
Oblinger banged a hand against the table, rattling the silverware. “You know the Cup has to be held in a neutral location! You can’t get much more neutral than Switzerland!”
Tiberius cleared his throat. “The Russians are holding both teams hostage, gentlemen. Let’s remember that and work together on this.”
“If this is about a deal with an English company, why hold both teams hostage?” Kalas looked infuriated. “Why not just kidnap Natalie Malfoy any other day of the week?”
“More leverage, obviously,” snapped Domitia. She pointed at the letter Tiberius had received. “Threatening to delay the World Cup puts twice the pressure on us. And need I remind you that Finland purchases from Triple I too-”
“But why couldn’t the Aurors have prevented this?” interrupted Kalas. “What was the point of assigning Aurors at a ratio of one-to-one if we’re going to end up in a hostage situation?”
Lars Oblinger sent Tiberius a dark look. “Maybe if the English hadn’t insisted on using young, inexperienced Aurors-”
“Oi!” a voice called from down the hall, sounding rather urgent. Abraxas crossed the room to peer out the door. Everyone heard him mutter several swears. Jonathan Shaw and Lloyd Avery appeared in the doorway, carrying Hans. His face was pale and there was blood in his blond hair.
Oblinger shot out of his seat in an explosion of German curse words.
“What happened?” he demanded as Shaw and Avery slowly laid the unconscious Hans on the floor. Rabastan placed a hand on Dolohov’s shoulder.
“Get my wife here,” he said. Dolohov nodded, dashed off another letter with the latest updates to Tom Riddle before he grabbed a piece of parchment to summon Fabienne Lestrange.
“Checked out the castle, as asked,” explained Shaw. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath for some time. “It’s all quiet up there, but we found this bloke just near the bridge. Couldn’t get him to wake so we brought him with us.”
The next several minutes made Dolohov’s head spin.
Ian Rowle, Seamus Dawson, and the Laments all showed up at the same time. Tiberius and Rabastan were quick to fill them in on the situation at hand. Several things followed this nearly simultaneously.
Ian Rowle announced his retirement on the spot. Aleksi Kalas bit his head off over assigning young Aurors to guard the team. Rowle redirected the blame to Matt Lament, who was looking extremely faint. Fabienne Lestrange burst in and began attending to the still unconscious Hans. Jack Lament dropped into a seat around the table and actually tore out some of his graying hair. Domitia threatened to cease sales to Finland. Abraxas analyzed the two letters from the Russians and announced they were written by the same hand — except nobody was listening. Seamus Dawson kept insisting he knew something like this was going to happen. Lars Oblinger sarcastically asked Seamus why he hadn't given them some warning if he knew this was going to happen. Seamus responded by asking Oblinger if he knew that his model of automobile was outdated in England. Oblinger shot back and asked if Seamus knew his wife was going to die from Dragon Pox ten years ago. Seamus proceeded to ask if Oblinger’s wife knew he had cheated on her two nights ago with a Veela in the village.
Then Fabienne Lestrange pronounced Hans dead, making everyone fall silent.
And then there was a bang as another letter appeared on the table.
“That’s Djugashvili,” said Tiberius, unfolding the letter and looking it over. “He says he knows nothing about the hostage situation, and will hurry his arrival here to assist if he can.”
“Tell him not to bother,” Domitia’s laugh was cold. “We all know Djugashvili speaks rubbish and thinks hogwash. He probably helped orchestrate this entire thing.”
Tiberius made eye contact with everyone except Jack Lament, who had dropped his head to the table. They all seemed to collectively ignore the fact that there was a dead body in the room with them. “The fact that all Russian — and Eastern Bloc — apothecaries are owned and run by the Russian Ministry casts a considerable degree of doubt on Djugashvili’s insistence that the Russian Ministry has nothing to do with this.”
“To make this exceedingly clear to everyone here,” Domitia slowly walked around the room, an aura of power exuding from her. One by one, everyone took a seat around the table, deferring to the elderly witch. Ian Rowle pulled an abandoned plate of food towards him and began eating it. “Triple I has absolutely no intention of bowing to these. . . demands.”
The Finnish Minister made a disgusted noise. “Typical! Profit over innocent lives! And your own granddaughter, too. I didn’t think the Malfoy family could be that cold-hearted.”
“This could delay the World Cup,” Matt Lament sounded nervous. He looked between Tiberius and Domitia. “What do we tell the entire wizarding world?”
“That will go over well,” Oblinger laughed darkly. He raised his hands as though framing the newspaper headlines. “‘Triple I prevents playing of the Quidditch World Cup because they refuse to sell to Russia’.” Oblinger pretended to be writing something in mid air. “In smaller letters, ‘Natalie Malfoy dead due to the capitalistic greed of her own family’ — I’m sure the wizarding world will love that.”
None of the Malfoys looked pleased with this melodramatic demonstration, Dolohov noted. He knew the family well enough to understand that there would be no choice between Natalie or Triple I. Both belonged to the Malfoy clan and so they would stand by both.
Matt Lament jumped in before Domitia could snap something at Oblinger.
“Lars is right about Natalie’s life being at stake here.” He ran a hand through his hair. Dolohov caught a glimpse of sweat on Matt’s forehead. He stared at him with interest, finding it fascinating to see Matt nearly as stressed as his brother for once. Antonin then felt a weight drop into his pocket, burning with an intense warmth. He cautiously reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against a small wooden object. He held it out of sight in his lap. It was a Wizard’s Chess piece. A knight. He quickly stuck it back in his pocket and rose to his feet, pushing the chair in and drifting towards the door.
“I don’t see many options here,” said Kalas. He was watching Ian Rowle eat what had been his omelet minutes ago. “The easiest would be for Triple I to open sales, agree to the deal, or whatever they want. It would ensure Natalie Malfoy’s safety — and the playing of the World Cup. This could be all over in a matter of minutes, and the wizarding world wouldn’t need to ever know this happened.”
“It seems my prior statement was not abundantly clear to some of you,” Domitia sniffed at the younger men with disdain.
“We are not bowing down to the demands of these. . . these terrorists!” snapped Tiberius. “I speak for the English Ministry here — this Ministry will back the decision of Triple I to decide who they do and don’t do business with.”
“Of course you will,” Kalas muttered under his breath. “All of England reeks of pureblood nepotism.”
“What did you plan to do about the hostage situation then?” Oblinger sneered, “wait for these Russians to get bored? We have no leverage here — we can only assume the Aurors in the castle are dead.”
Rowle stopped eating. “Dead? Merlin’s beard, what a bloody waste. . . Harlowe was my favorite. . . .” he looked over at Tiberius. “I’m retiring.”
“Yes, thank you, Ian,” Tiberius ground his teeth and Rowle returned to finishing the omelet.
Oblinger continued raving. He pointed to the corpse of Hans, his Head Auror. “We’re obviously dealing with a group of wizards trained in the Dark Arts — challenging these Russians is suicide, Tiberius! What did you plan to do? Walk into the castle and try to negotiate with them?”
Dolohov, standing near the door and avoiding looking at the lifeless body of Hans, made a loud coughing noise. Nobody noticed, so he continued coughing until everyone was staring at him. Dolohov scanned the room before making direct eye contact with Tiberius.
“I can go,” he said, keeping his voice calm. The wooden knight was still burning in his pocket, urging him to hurry. “I can go — to negotiate, infiltrate, bargain, extract. . . whatever’s needed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Antonin,” Tiberius scolded him like a son. “There’s only one of you and dozens of them.”
“Well,” Dolohov reached into his pocket and curled a hand around the wooden knight. He gave the room a toothy smile. “I wouldn’t be all by myself. . . .”