Envy Engenders Spite

Lord Voldemort kept looking at the castle. He expected it to explode, to burst into flames, to collapse, to implode, to be struck by lightning, to be toppled over — something, anything. But it remained poised at the end of Lauterbrunnen, nothing but serene as the sun rose over the mountains, illuminating the cloudless sky. Even the weather didn’t make sense. It should have been a raging thunderstorm, a hurricane, a tornado — something, anything. But the sky was a delicate, robin’s egg blue, suggesting it would be a beautiful day in the Swiss Alps.

He hated it. He hated a lot of things at the moment, but there wasn’t very much he could do, so he kept his wand in his hand, his hood up, and asked Salazar Slytherin for luck. Of course he, Lord Voldemort, was the only one capable of solving the problem at hand. He found the act of holding Natalie hostage and threatening to kill her personally offensive and even downright rude. He almost felt sorry for the idiotic Russians who had caused him this problem. They had no idea their actions would rope Lord Voldemort into the situation. 

He walked as fast as he dared through the village, leading the others towards the woods around the castle. There they would reconvene and execute his hastily constructed plan to retrieve what was his. 

“-some will say black is a boring color, but they’re wrong,” Adolphus Lestrange was rambling on about the group’s outfits. They were all in black robes with hoods, to maintain anonymity. Nobody needed to know who they were or what they were about to do. “There’s a sort of power in black, it’s subtle, but everyone knows it’s there.”

Evan Rosier apparently thought everything about the situation was absolutely hilarious and hadn’t stopped laughing since they’d left the house. At this, he started wheezing.

“Wow, I was unaware we had a fashion designer in our midst,” remarked Eric Dawson. “Evan, he might put Quinn out of business.”

Rosier couldn’t bring himself to respond, he just continued cackling. 

“You could be a little quieter in making your love for the color black known,” grumbled Nott. “The town’s waking up, and I don’t fancy getting asked what we’re doing.”

“Or you could all just be quiet,” Voldemort said, his eyes stuck to the castle. He didn’t understand why nothing seemed to be happening. Why wasn’t she doing anything dramatic? Unless, of course, she couldn’t. That possibility offended him even more.

“That’d be nice,” Nott agreed, making Rosier gasp with laughter at the irony. There was a scuffling sound, Rosier fell silent, Lestrange and Dawson sniggered, and Voldemort assumed Nott had hit Rosier. He rolled his eyes and continued on.

“Incoming,” said Nott, and Voldemort tore his eyes away from the castle to watch the door to the Mountain Skies Café open and the last person on the planet he wanted to see at the moment appear. Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the café, humming to himself and carrying a white paper bag. 

Voldemort instinctively froze and immediately cursed himself. Rosier bumped into him, tripping Nott, who swore as his hood slipped off. Lestrange and Dawson hadn’t realized he paused and walked past him — then spun around in confusion. 

The scene, of course, attracted Dumbledore’s attention. He spotted Nott before he could pull his hood back up and smiled cheerily upon seeing a former student. 

“Ah, Zacharias,” said Dumbledore, strolling towards them as though he hadn’t a care in the world. He eyed the others, his gaze lingering on Voldemort as though he knew exactly who he was in spite of the hood. 

“I assume you’re with your friends,” said the professor with a smile. He closed his eyes and nodded to himself. “Yes, let’s see — Adolphus, Evan, Eric, and Tom, of course.”

One by one, they all dropped their hoods and grinned sheepishly at Dumbledore. Only Voldemort refused to lower his hood. He didn’t want to play Dumbledore’s silly little games. He had more important things to do. He quickly looked at the castle. Nothing had changed. The others murmured polite greetings to the professor. Voldemort considered disapparating, despite the Anti-Apparition Jinx around the entire town.

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore chuckled, “only missing Lloyd and Natalie, I see.”

Voldemort couldn’t help it. He tensed at her name and glanced back at the castle. It was still peaceful. How incredibly rude. 

“It is a lovely place,” said Dumbledore, and Voldemort realized he was talking about the castle. “Magical too — this whole town is.” The professor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, smiling to himself. “Yes, you can feel it. . . .”

“What do you mean, sir?” Voldemort asked, keeping his voice calm but curious.

Dumbledore looked at him with his piercing blue eyes and Voldemort had the feeling Dumbledore knew something in Lauterbrunnen wasn’t right. The professor smiled cryptically. “Magic always leaves traces, Tom. Now, if you fellow Hogwarts graduates would excuse me, I’ve got a blueberry vanilla scone to enjoy. . . .”

They all watched the professor amble up the street until he vanished around a corner.

“That was dodgy,” said Lestrange, tossing his hood back on. The others did the same.

“Dumbledore is dodgy,” Nott said. 

Voldemort said nothing. He continued down the street feeling just a bit more annoyed about everything.

Antonin Dolohov had to stand through another ten minutes of arguing, mostly between the three Ministers and Domitia Malfoy. He rocked back and forth on his heels, clutching the burning knight in his hand and silently cursing out the Swiss and Finnish Ministers. Ian Rowle finished Aleksi Kalas’s omelet and pushed the plate aside to help himself to the pile of pastries on the table. Seamus Dawson and Rabastan Lestrange were speaking in low voices to each other. Matt Lament hurried towards the fireplace where he conjured a kettle and started making tea. Lloyd Avery and Jonathan Shaw dashed over to help him. Jack Lament had his head on the table while Fabienne Lestrange talked quietly to him. After staring at Rabastan and Seamus, Abraxas quietly crossed the room towards Dolohov.

“How did you plan on getting in?” Abraxas asked in a low mutter. Both of them ignored the dead body nearby.

Dolohov shrugged, taking the knight out of his pocket and rolling it between his hands. “I’ve a feeling we’ll figure something out.”

Abraxas studied him, making him grow uncomfortable under his sharp gray eyes. He nodded his head towards Seamus and Rabastan. “They know their sons are going in. I assume there will be. . . a few others.”

“Yeah,” said Dolohov, shifting on his feet. “The whole. . . the whole gang, I guess.”

A ghost of a smirk appeared on Abraxas’s face before vanishing. “I’ve a feeling you won’t be doing much. . . negotiating.”

“I’ve the same feeling.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you all spent the last two months dueling in the Manor.”

Dolohov snorted. “Yeah — but I don’t think we’ll be getting into very many friendly duels.”

“Your duels didn’t seem very friendly.”

“You know what I mean.”

Abraxas sighed, studying the room. “Make sure you’re all careful.”

“I know,” Dolohov assured him. 

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY WALKING ACROSS THAT BRIDGE, LARS?” Domitia Malfoy yelled across the room. The Swiss Minister of Magic looked infuriated, but apparently dared not clash heads with the elderly witch.

“Fine,” conceded Oblinger, falling back into his chair with a scowl. “Send him and any other English boys you want off to their deaths.”

“Thank you for your optimism, Lars,” said Tiberius.

The next thing Dolohov knew, Domitia Malfoy herself was in front of him. She held his face between both of her hands the same way he had seen her do to Natalie. Her eyes were burning with a coldness he had never witnessed in anyone else.

“Get her out of there,” Domitia said in a much lower, much calmer voice. “I don’t care what you have to do to do it. Get my granddaughter out of that castle.”

Dolohov could do nothing but nod. In that moment he acquainted himself with the idea that he could die that day. Because he would rather die than not get Natalie Malfoy safely out of the hands of the Russians. 

The next minute felt surreal. Domitia vanished and the only thing Dolohov was aware of was his own breathing and the knight burning his palm. Abraxas clapped him on the shoulder. Tiberius said something to him but the only words he heard were “Tom Riddle.” He didn’t know why this made perfect sense to him. With the knight feeling like it was lighting his hand on fire, he walked out of the house and into the street of the little Swiss town where so much had happened in a few minutes. Once outside, he held the wooden knight up and realized he had no idea where to go from there. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to think very hard about it. The chess piece jumped out of his hand, glowed with a mystical green light — and then began zooming down the street. 

Dolohov had to sprint to keep up. It led him past the Swiss Minister’s Muggle automobile thingy (where the squib was still asleep), and through the town towards the castle. Most houses were dark, as it was still early. A good sign — no one had heard about the hostage situation. 

The medieval castle that held the national teams loomed ominously as he approached the far end of the town. It overlooked the rustic houses like a watchful guardian of a bygone era. But it made him shiver. He wondered what exactly was going on inside it.

Just before the dirt path leading to the castle, the chess piece took a sharp left and bolted through the grassy area that straddled the edge of the town. Dolohov scrambled to keep it in sight, jumping over moss-covered rocks and the stumps of trees that had encroached too close to the village. Finally, a small wooden house came into sight, just under the shadows of the forest. It was covered in ivy, a few rose bushes with wilting petals grew around it. There was only one large window beside the door. The knight paused in front of the door and dropped out of the air. Dolohov picked it up and turned the doorknob to find himself face to face with someone who terrified him.

“Antonin,” Lord Voldemort moved to allow him to step inside. The interior of the house was dim, only a few candles were lit near the window. There was no furniture save for a spindly rocking chair that rocked itself, as nobody was sitting in it, and a table that was stained with something dark. Adolphus Lestrange, Eric Dawson, Zacharias Nott, and Evan Rosier were all present, standing around the room with grim faces. Nott was swaying to the same rhythm of the rocking chair. Rosier watched him the way one would watch a clock tick. 

Lestrange had a wicked grin on his face when Dolohov entered. “Got your knight, I see. That was my idea, by the way-”

Voldemort stopped him with a raise of his hand. He looked at Dolohov. “Well?”

“We’ve got the all clear. Negotiate, infiltrate, bargain, extract. . . .”

Lord Voldemort’s eyes flashed red. “Excellent.”

“Any stipulations?” asked Lestrange.

“Uh. . . let’s not all die,” said Dolohov and there was a knock on the door. It opened and Seymour Mulciber stepped in with another wooden knight. He looked around and laughed to himself.

“Anyone want to explain what this rubbish is?” Mulciber held the chess piece up.

Lestrange made an offended noise. “It brought you here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? Livia thought it was some prank, I had to tell her Matt was calling me in for something urgent to get away.”

“Livia Greengrass?” Lestrange raised an eyebrow. “What were you doing with her?”

Even in the dim light, Dolohov could see Mulciber’s face redden. Rosier started snickering. 

“None of your business-” began Mulciber.

“Enough,” Voldemort sounded annoyed. “Seymour, Evan said you helped select this location for the World Cup.”

“I did,” Mulciber frowned, “but why? And what is everyone doing in this shack? It’s seven thirty-”

“The national teams are being held hostage in the castle,” Lestrange dropped the news. There was silence. Even the rocking chair (and Nott) paused for a moment. 

Mulciber stared at him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as though trying to wake himself up. “I’ve no bloody idea what you just said.”

“A load of Russian subversives infiltrated the castle and are holding the teams hostage to force Triple I into opening sales with the Soviet Union,” Dolohov repeated back what he’d heard in the past hour. “They’re also threatening to kill Natalie if Triple I doesn’t agree.”

Mulciber stared at him, then shook his head, furiously rubbing his hands over his face. “I. . . what? This. . . that doesn’t make any sense — there are fourteen, no, fifteen — fifteen Aurors at the castle, plus another thirteen wizards — and a witch who’s absolutely mental. And there’s only one way in and out of the castle. How. . . how do you even get in to take that many people hostage?”

“Do you know that Hans bloke?” demanded Dolohov.

“Yeah, Head of the Swiss Aurors-”

“He’s dead.”

Mulciber stopped rubbing his face. “He’s what?”

“Dead,” repeated Lord Voldemort. “Do you need your hearing checked, Seymour?”

“We think at least two Russians used Polyjuice Potion to disguise themselves as Hans,” Nott explained, still rocking in place. Lestrange pulled out his wand and started inspecting it. He then procured a small white cloth to polish his wand. Everyone watched him for a moment.

Nott continued. “A few of them got into the castle, managed to subdue the teams and the Aurors early in the morning when they weren’t expecting it. It would have been easy if they were disguised as Hans. No one would have noticed until it was too late.”

“Antonin and myself watched two individuals who looked like the Head of the Swiss Aurors allow the rest of the Russians inside,” said Voldemort. He paced the tiny room, all eyes on him now. Lestrange handed the cloth to Dawson, who polished his own wand.

“When the real Hans got sent to check out the castle, he hit a curse the Russians put around it and was killed,” Dolohov finished.

“Okay. . . alright,” muttered Mulciber, “but. . . but how did they make the Polyjuice Potion? And how did they subdue the Aurors and the teams? They would have needed something from Hans, hair or skin or-”

“We can deduce that later,” announced Voldemort. He stopped pacing and stared at Mulciber. “What do you know about the castle?”

“Well,” Mulciber swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. It was clear he was still rattled about the whole situation. “It’s. . . well, Christ, it’s perfect for them, it’s a bloody death trap. There’s only one way in and out and that’s over the bridge-”

“Which currently has a curse on it that killed Hans,” Dolohov reminded him. “Are you sure there’s not any other way to enter it without getting ourselves blasted off the planet?”

Mulciber stared at the floor, mumbling to himself. “The castle was built to withstand sieges during Muggle wars — they had to know it was a good place to stage a hostage situation well in advance. . . . But all that info was classified, none of it was externally distributed. . . .”

“This isn’t a Muggle war,” Lestrange pointed out impatiently. Dawson handed the cloth over to Rosier, who polished his wand.

“Were we incorrect in assuming you’d done your research about this location?” asked Voldemort, beginning to pace again. He twirled his wand through his fingers; every so often, red sparks would shoot from the tip. A dark aura had sprung about him. Dolohov found himself staring, unable to look away. 

Mulciber vigorously shook his head, taking a deep breath. “There’s plenty to know about the castle. There’s a load of rubbish Muggle myths around it. Matt had me separate the hogwash from the important stuff-”

“And you found nothing in all that which could help here?” Lord Voldemort asked in a slow, velvety voice that made Dolohov’s mouth grow dry. Voldemort stopped pacing and looked at Mulciber. “Nothing at all?”

Mulciber snapped his eyes shut, furrowing his eyebrows as though trying to recall something. But his eyes quickly flew open and he stared at the chair that slowly rocked itself as though it was speaking to him.

“What is this place?” he asked, looking around the dark room.

“Abandoned house,” Lestrange shrugged. “Found it while we were exploring the town a few days back. Will it help?”

“It might,” Mulciber continued staring at the rocking chair. “There. . . there’s a load of Muggle legends about this place — ghost sightings in the village, the sharks in the moat myth — and secret passageways out of the castle and into the mountains-”

Dolohov felt a sinking feeling in his chest. Mulciber was grasping at threads. He couldn’t blame him; he would say anything he could think of to get Lord Voldemort to stop looking at him like that too.

“Muggle legends,” Lestrange sounded disappointed. Nott and Rosier groaned their agreement. “I’d rather try my chances on the bridge.”

“Sometimes Muggles play off magic as myths and legends,” Dawson pointed out. Rosier snorted and handed the cloth to Nott. He looked over at Lestrange as though blaming him.

“He’s related to you.”

Lestrange slung an arm over Dawson’s shoulders, pulling his head down to ruffle his hair. “He’s a bit diluted. Halfbloods for parents.”

“Sometimes it shows,” said Rosier.

But Mulciber was shaking his head. He pointed at the rocking chair. “Muggles would call this a ghost sighting. There aren’t sharks in the moat, but I know there are plenty of grindylows, and — and probably worse. Which means-”

“Where are these secret passageways supposed to be?” demanded Lord Voldemort. Everyone fell silent, staring at him. Dawson pushed Lestrange off him with a scoff of, “diluted?”

“North side of the castle,” said Mulciber, nodding his head now. “They open somewhere in the woods.”

“That’s specific,” Lestrange said sarcastically. “Very helpful, thanks Seymour.”

“It is helpful,” said Voldemort, not a trace of amusement in his voice. He stared at a spot on the ground as though performing calculations. Lestrange looked around wildly, receiving shrugs from everyone else. Dolohov watched Lord Voldemort in awe, wondering what was going on inside his head. 

Without saying anything, Lord Voldemort walked out of the house. It was silent as everyone else stared at each other. The rocking chair creaked softly. An animal made a rustling noise in the dark corner. 

“Well, lads,” Lestrange finally said. “Looks like we’re following him.” 

And they sprinted after Lord Voldemort.