Envy Engenders Spite

Abraxas Malfoy started pacing the room just like his father. Antonin Dolohov had long gone and the room had fallen silent, save for Ian Rowle’s scraping of utensils against his plate. Both Abraxas and Tiberius kept shooting glances at Domitia, fearing everything that was happening might strain her temperamentally frail health. Domitia Malfoy had conjured a large armchair and settled herself in it so she could keep an eye on everyone in the room. At the moment, she did not look pleased with anything that was occurring.

“Will both of you stop looking at me like I’m about to fall into my grave!” she finally snapped. Abraxas nearly tripped on the carpet. “For once this disaster is not something my granddaughter brought about herself. I’ve nothing to be exceedingly furious about, save for the opinions of our dear Ministers over there.” She gestured towards Lars Oblinger and Aleksi Kalas. Oblinger looked ready to bark something back but the door flew open. Jonathan Shaw and Lloyd Avery, who Rabastan had sent to monitor the status of the people in the town, burst into the room. Behind them were Giles Morrison and an extremely grumpy-looking goblin. 

“Ah, Kregmar,” Tiberius gave the goblin a slight bow. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’m sure you have,” the goblin sneered without returning the bow. Kregmar brandished a thick piece of parchment. “Gringotts has just received this letter from a group of Russians claiming to hold the English and Finnish Quidditch teams hostage-”

“Yes,” Tiberius interrupted. “I have also received a similar letter. As has Triple I.”

“So, it’s true, then,” the goblin looked infuriated. “One of Gringotts’s assets is being held under threat of death unless we agree to grant Russia a loan?”

The room grew so silent, Abraxas thought everyone had collectively stopped breathing. He knew he certainly had. For a moment it seemed that nobody dared move as they all realized that there was yet another piece to this. Not only were the Russians demanding Triple I agree to their deal for the sale of potions ingredients, but they were also demanding a loan from Gringotts. 

Finally, Domitia stalked across the room and snatched the parchment away from the goblin to read it for herself. Giles Morrison cleared his throat as Kregmar tried, unsuccessfully, to grab the parchment back from Domitia.

“Yes. . . er, as Kregmar was saying, we’ve just received a note stating that if Gringotts does not agree to grant Russia a loan, they will, um, eliminate Natalie Malfoy. Seeing as we’ve signed her to quite a. . . a generous sponsorship-”

“Generous is an understatement,” hissed the goblin as Domitia finally returned the parchment. She looked enraged at what it contained. Abraxas crossed the room to hold onto the back of one of the chairs around the table. “You have no idea what we would lose if she was killed. No idea.”

“I think we can imagine,” retorted Domitia Malfoy. She returned to her seat, a steely glint in her eye as she shot Abraxas a glance. His eyes widened. Months ago, an envelope had turned up on his desk from Gringotts — he had suspected Morrison himself had sent it. Inside that envelope was a parchment detailing additional stipulations to Gringotts’s contract with Natalie — none of which could be considered legal, but all of which could be considered invaluable.

Abraxas tightened his grip on the chair and cleared his throat. “So. . . so let’s see, Gringotts received a note threatening to kill Natalie unless they grant Russia a loan. Triple I received a note threatening to kill her unless we agree to their demands for potions ingredients at a ridiculously low price.”

“I think it’s obvious the Russians put quite a lot of. . . thought into this little plan of theirs.” Tiberius stepped over to stand beside his son. Abraxas met his eyes and Tiberius gave him a slight nod. Abraxas had filled his father in on what that letter from Gringotts had contained only days ago, as his grandmother had asked. 

Kregmar’s beady eyes darted around the room. “The Russians have also upped their demand for a loan-”

“They want one hundred million Galleons,” said Morrison and Kregmar looked furious at having been interrupted yet again. Kalas mumbled something in astonished Finnish at the number. Rowle coughed on a bite of egg.

“By Salazar,” Seamus Dawson whispered in shock. Rabastan Lestrange looked flabbergasted. 

“Yes,” snarled Kregmar, “one hundred million Galleons or Natalie Malfoy’s life.”

“Have you responded?” demanded Domitia. “And why are they asking for so much? They haven’t increased their offer to Triple I.”

Kregmar’s face curled into a sneer. “Well, I received a rather rude letter summoning me here, as if the situation was not already being solved at Gringotts.”

Tiberius gripped the chair in front of him, just as his son did. “Kregmar, if you have come here to tell me you’ve told the Russians to take her life-”

“You just said we have no idea what Gringotts would lose if she were to be killed,” growled Abraxas. His knuckles were growing cramped from clutching the chair but he ignored the pain. “Now Gringotts is willing to let them kill her?”

“Yes, Kregmar,” said Tiberius in a silky voice, attempting to control the situation. Domitia looked ready to murder the goblin on the spot. Abraxas could not blame her. “Tell me, what is Gringotts exact plan?”

“Depends on yours,” grunted Kregmar, sounding not at all disconcerted by the tension and fury he had caused within the room. “Is Triple I bowing to their demands? Will the Ministry mandate it?”

“Certainly not!” snapped Abraxas, and Tiberius placed a hand on his son’s shoulder in warning. Abraxas sucked in a breath and tore his gaze away from the goblin. Nobody else in the room had moved. Even Ian Rowle had stopped eating, a piece of omelet quivering on his fork as his eyes darted between the goblin and the members of the Malfoy family.

“What if I told you these demands will mean nothing,” said Tiberius, sounding calm and deliberate. “As we have. . . a group of wizards inside the castle. . . who may very well have both teams out and safe shortly. . . .”

Kregmar almost looked impressed. He hid it under a scowl. “That is leaving far too many factors up to chance. Who are these wizards? Aurors?”

“No,” it was Rabastan Lestrange who said this. “Not Aurors. They aren’t. . . affiliated with the Ministry.” It was a partial lie. 

Kregmar glanced between Rabastan and Tiberius, obviously suspicious. “And this is all. . . legal?”

Tiberius shrugged. “About as legal as the amount of betting Gringotts is engaging in on the outcome of the Cup Final match-” Kregmar let out a hiss of outrage but Tiberius continued without missing a beat. “But I don’t think even the amount of gold Lars here bet on Natalie catching the Snitch would match the percentage of Natalie’s winnings that Gringotts would receive if England wins.”

At his words, Lars Oblinger, the Swiss Minister, visibly paled, avoiding the scathing gaze of the Finnish Minister, Aleksi Kalas.

“You bet on England winning?” snarled Kalas, spittle flying from his mouth as he emphasized the words. Apparently he cared more about the illegal actions of the other Minister than the illegal actions of Gringotts. “Do you know how many international statutes that violates? The host country’s Minister can’t place bets!”

Oblinger could do nothing but glare. “Don’t tell me you don’t also have lumps of gold on Natalie Malfoy catching the Snitch! We all do!”

While the two foreign Ministers growled at each other, for the briefest of moments, Kregmar the goblin looked nervous. As if he hadn’t even dreamed Tiberius would know about what he had just said to an entire room of wizards, all of whom held considerable sway in the wizarding world. Abraxas enjoyed this immensely. “I did say you have no idea what we’d lose-”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Domitia. “We know all about the nefarious activities performed by Gringotts in regards to its assets. Need I remind you the asset at stake is my granddaughter?”

Kregmar sneered, though it was clear he had been thrown off guard. “The asset at stake is one of Gringotts most lucrative-”

“Oh, is that using legal or illegal means?” demanded Abraxas, unable to help himself.

“Abraxas, sit down,” Tiberius muttered as Kregmar glowered. Abraxas reluctantly obeyed his father, dropping into the seat he had been clutching the back of for the past few minutes. 

Tiberius turned to the goblin. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement. If our plan works out, neither party will have to lose anything.”

“Gringotts will be willing to wait — if this plan works — given the Ministry agrees that this situation. . . never happened. . . . And the Prophet does not print a word throwing Gringotts in an. . . unfavorable light,” at this demand, Kregmar looked directly at Rabastan Lestrange. 

Rabastan nodded and gestured to Jonathan Shaw and Lloyd Avery. They had remained near the door and watched the showdown in the room like it was a Quidditch match. “I’ve got my two best ready to work on the headlines for tomorrow. Or at least, they were before you so rudely interrupted.”

Kregmar bared his pointed teeth in a savage smile and ignored the insult. “Glad we’re of the same mindset. But, I’ll say this now — should this plan fail — Gringotts will move to make our own decision about this. . . situation.”

Lord Voldemort found himself leading the group of Antonin Dolohov, Adolphus Lestrange, Eric Dawson, Evan Rosier, Zacharias Nott, and Seymour Mulciber through the woods outside the town of Lauterbrunnen, skirting the castle and heading towards the looming mountains. He couldn’t explain what it was he was tracking — only that something Albus Dumbledore himself had said was ringing in his ears. Magic leaves traces. Lord Voldemort knew there was a truth within those words, he just wasn’t quite sure how it made sense. But he knew that the tunnels from the Muggle stories must have been built by wizards, because he could feel them. Hiding below the ground like snakes, he knew they were there, of course, but he couldn’t yet speak to them. It was like gazing up at the night sky, where the stars seen out of the corner of the eye vanished when you stared directly at them. You had to look around them. 

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rosier muttered under his breath. 

“It’s been five minutes, Evan,” Voldemort said coldly. Rosier was always the one complaining. He stepped over a fallen tree and scanned the area. They had to be close. He could feel it — somewhere nearby, slithering softly, hidden by centuries of soil and rock. He paused, studying the ground. The morning sunlight dappled the forest around them. The weather was far too nice for the situation at hand.

Rosier dropped onto a moss-covered boulder and sighed. The others spread out around him, kicking at the dirt, tapping their wands on trunks, pulling leaves off trees. Lestrange chucked a stone at Rosier, hitting him on the arm. “Don’t you have a watch, Evan?” 

“No, actually,” said Rosier. He crossed his arms and settled in to pout. “Didn’t think I’d need it.”

Dolohov scoffed loudly and retrieved a pocket watch and a dagger from his robes. He dangled both under Rosier’s nose. “Always come prepared, Evan.”

Rosier knocked the dagger away from Dolohov, grabbed it before it hit the ground, threw it up in the air, caught it, and twirled it around his fingers with a dexterity that made even Voldemort stare.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Lestrange exploded. 

Rosier shrugged. “Druella and I used to throw knives at each other when we were little.”

“Your mother let you?” Lestrange was astounded. He marched over and stared at the dagger. Rosier held it out to him as though daring him to take. Lestrange seized it immediately and began attempting to spin it like Rosier had.

“She never found out,” Rosier grinned and moved further up the boulder, away from Lestrange, who threw the dagger in the air and tried to catch it. He missed and it fell to the ground.

Mulciber muttered, “oh my fucking God” under his breath.

“This’ll end well,” said Nott.

“That’s mine,” Dolohov reminded everyone.

Dawson punched Dolohov’s shoulder. “You could’ve brought one for everyone.”

“I didn’t realize you were all so obsessed with daggers,” he retorted. “All those bloody Dark curses you know not enough for you?”

“Apparently they’re not enough for you, Antonin,” Lestrange tossed the dagger in the air again and tried to catch it. His hand grazed the sharp blade of the dagger and opened a shallow cut that sent blood dripping across his palm. He yelped and the dagger dropped to the ground. 

“Idiot,” said Dolohov, snatching it up and cleaning it off. Rosier was roaring with laughter as Dawson mockingly started applauding.

Mulciber groaned, “are you fucking serious?”

“Knew it,” Nott sighed.

Dolohov studied the dagger for a moment before holding it out to Rosier, who stopped laughing and stared at him.

“Weapons should only be used by the steadiest hand,” said Dolohov. Lord Voldemort had to agree with this logic. 

Rosier grinned and accepted the dagger with a salute. He had just hidden it inside his robes when there was a sudden rumbling noise that seemed to be coming from below them. Everyone froze, glancing around, but Voldemort’s eyes landed on the boulder Rosier was sitting on. Flecks of blood from Lestrange’s hand had fallen onto the moss covering the rock. The boulder began to shake, Rosier quickly scrambled away as they all took a cautious step back. 

The moss and stone cracked and fragmented until the boulder collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust. When it cleared, all that remained of the boulder were broken pieces of rock and clumps of moss. A gaping hole was in the ground. Voldemort approached it and peered inside. He could see nothing but darkness. The scent of damp earth and musty water flew out to greet him, and the tingling of magic was much more obvious now. 

Dolohov walked over to stand beside him and stuck his head over the black hole in the ground. “Who’s going down first?”

“You,” said Voldemort. He pushed Dolohov in, sending him through the hole, yelling loudly. The others flew over to watch and listen. There was a soft thump, a muttering of swears, and a blink of light when Dolohov lit his wand. 

“I’m alive, if anyone asked,” Dolohov called up to them. 

“Nobody did,” muttered Mulciber.

“It’s a soft landing,” said Dolohov. “Ladder’s all rotted but the ground’s spongy.”

“Perfect,” said Dawson, and he shoved Lestrange into the hole. Lestrange landed with a groan and yelled, “fucking traitor!” up at Dawson.

“Hurry up,” Voldemort said to the others before leaping in himself. The ground was spongy — damp and soft from centuries of mountain runoff. He lit his wand and peered about. The tunnel gaped before them, another black hole leading to the south — towards the castle. Somewhere, the steady plunking of water dripping onto rock could be heard. 

Once the others dropped down, Dolohov had the sense to shoot a warding spell at the entrance of the tunnel, making the hole in the ground invisible and undetectable. And then they were off — sneaking through the underground passage in silence. There were no jokes to be made along the journey, as any humor about the situation had vanished. Tom kept thinking he heard something, only to realize it was his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. It took a few minutes to realize his heart was not racing from fear, or nervousness, or even rage. But from excitement. He was pleased with himself. He had discovered the hidden tunnel that would allow them to avoid the curse around the castle and enter undetected. The rest of the task had to be just as easy — just some swift calculations and precise magic.

After about ten minutes of walking, the tunnel changed from damp earth to stone. Plunging stalactites dropped down to greet them like solemn mourners. Their footsteps echoed and were swallowed by the darkness that seemed to keep encroaching, despite their lit wands. 

They finally came to a blank stretch of stone wall. Rivulets of water ran down it as though it were weeping. 

Dawson made a frustrated noise. “Dead end?” 

“No,” said Voldemort, “Adolphus, is your hand still bleeding?”

“Er, no, I healed it-”

“Then unheal it.”

“I’ve got it,” said Rosier. There was a gleam of silver as he drew the dagger, grabbed Lestrange’s palm and flicked open another shallow cut. 

“That fucking hurts-” Lestrange began muttering but Voldemort grabbed his wrist and placed his bleeding palm against the rough stone wall. Then he withdrew it and stepped back. The blood glistened on the wall, mixing with the water and dripping down the surface before there was a rumbling noise. A large crack appeared in the middle of the stone, growing wider and wider until a space large enough for two men to jump through appeared. Beyond it, was darkness. 

Voldemort stepped forward, lifting his wand to illuminate what was beyond. It looked like another subterranean passageway carved into stone. But he knew it was deep within the bowels of the castle itself. The corridor before him looked like it hadn’t seen a human being in centuries. 

Lord Voldemort turned to the group behind him, looking each of them in the eye before he began speaking quietly.

“Mulciber — stay here, watch this tunnel. It could be our only way back out. Don’t let the Russians find it. Everyone else: I’ll split you up once we’re in. Then start from the bottom and work up. Use the knights to communicate if you have to. And try not to die, it would be very inconvenient for everyone.”

Lestrange raised a hand. Voldemort stared at him, wondering what he could possibly have a question about.

“What?” he demanded.

“Are we. . . er, so, I’m assuming we’ll run into some of these Russian blokes. . . so are we, er, aiming to kill or just neutralize?”

“Those are synonyms,” Antonin Dolohov remarked without a hint of sarcasm.

Voldemort laughed softly before stepping into the underground corridor, feeling the weight of the castle above him. He peered back at them, lips curling into a smile. “I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough.”