Envy Engenders Spite

Abraxas Malfoy paced about the room in the large house that now felt like the epicenter of a crime. The only one who seemed like he didn’t really care what was going on was Ian Rowle, who had continued to eat through the remaining food left on the table, and summoned the house-elves to supply more when he finished it. Fabienne Lestrange was trying to coax Jack Lament to drink a cup of tea (Abraxas was fairly sure Jack had suffered a full breakdown in the past hour). Matt Lament circled the room every few minutes to refill everyone’s tea cups with shaky hands.

His father, Tiberius, paced the other side of the room while Rabastan Lestrange and Seamus Dawson sat near the Swiss and Finnish Ministers, speaking quietly to each other. Both Lars Oblinger and Aleksi Kalas were refusing to speak to each other after they had nearly ripped each other’s throats out when Tiberius revealed that Lars was betting on the outcome of the Cup. Kalas had finally dropped into an infuriated silence when Oblinger let it slip that he was betting twice as much on Natalie catching the Snitch than Kalas was betting on his own country winning.

Domitia was faring well for all that had happened. She had returned to her large armchair and settled herself in with a cup of tea, occasionally sending a glare when someone said something she disagreed with.

The goblin, Kregmar, had sat himself in the middle of the round table and was leering at all the food the house-elves produced with disgust. But Abraxas had caught him sniffing at and then swallowing a danish. Giles Morrison had helped himself to the food as well, while Lloyd Avery and Jonathan Shaw set up shop nearby, working on a copy of the Prophet while occasionally ducking out to take a walk through the town, to see if anyone had realized what was happening at the castle.  

“It’s been nearly an hour,” muttered Lars Oblinger. He watched Tiberius pace as though it annoyed him on a personal level. “I cannot believe the English Ministry authorized a schoolboy and some friends to enter a castle held by an unknown number of Dark wizards!” Oblinger rounded on Aleksi Kalas, the Finnish Minister. “And Finland readily agreed!”

Kalas, slumped in his seat and watching Ian Rowle eat with envy, shot Oblinger a glare. “You had no other alternatives — and Triple I refuses to meet the demands.”

He’s certainly not a schoolboy,” retorted Tiberius, pausing his pacing. “Antonin Dolohov is my personal assistant. He might be young but I would have him as my second in a duel any day.”

“Teenagers, then,” sniffed Oblinger. “Pathetic. Is this the best we can scrounge up?”

“Yes, actually,” Abraxas stopped pacing and allowed Matt Lament to pour him a cup of tea. “And they might manage to peacefully negotiate with the Russians.”

The goblin made an amused noise, as though the thought of peaceful negotiations with the Russians was incredibly funny. Matt Lament handed Abraxas the teacup before hurrying over to refill Domitia’s cup.

“Who did this Dolohov even take with him? You all seem supremely confident in their abilities,” demanded Oblinger.

“As you said,” snapped Abraxas, “some friends.”

“Lars, you are more than welcome to follow them in yourself,” Domitia spoke up from her chair. “If you think you would make a better match for these Russians.”

Oblinger deflated under her scathing gaze and remained silent. Abraxas dropped into the seat beside Giles Morrison to sip his tea. He barely tasted it, staring at the same platter of pumpkin pasties that the goblin was eyeing and wondering what exactly was going on inside the castle.

A flash of fire illuminated the room and a thick envelope dropped onto the table, right on top of the pumpkin pasties. Kregmar scrambled away, jumping off the table and onto one of the chairs with a hiss. Abraxas pushed his tea aside and lunged for it. He froze when he picked it up — it was heavier than he’d expected, there was clearly something inside it. 

Tiberius and Domitia flew over as he cautiously inspected it. Upon deeming it safe, he slit the envelope open and peered inside. 

“What is it?” asked Tiberius, voice barely above a whisper.

Abraxas felt bile rise to the back of his throat as he stared at the contents. How dare they. How dare they — what an affront to the Malfoy family. He stumbled back, falling into his seat as he flung the envelope to the table, where blood-stained, platinum-blonde hair spilled out for all to see.

Eric Dawson and Evan Rosier wandered down the left side corridor and came to a stone staircase with extremely narrow steps. With a shared look and a shrug, they climbed it until doors began appearing off it.

The first door was rotted almost all the way through and fell apart at their touch. It led to nothing but a small, closet-like space that contained the remnants of a skeleton strung up by its wrists. They shared a morbid laugh and moved on.

The second door had a heavy circular handle of rusty iron and refused to budge no matter how many spells they tried.

When they reached the third door, Dawson paused and glanced at Rosier.

“Third time’s the charm, right?”

Rosier frowned. “What’s that mean? Our charms didn’t work on the last door.” 

“Nevermind.” Dawson reached forward and tugged the door open. He peeked inside and immediately slammed it shut.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” demanded Rosier.

Dawson turned to him, heart racing. “There’s like twenty blokes on the other side-” he never finished, as the door flew open and they found themselves staring at the wands of at least five wizards they did not recognize. All of them wore black and red robes with golden bars and insignias along the shoulders and, on two of them, the left breasts. They reminded Dawson of the photographs of Muggle military leaders his dad had shown him to remind him how silly Muggles could be. Except nothing looked silly about these wizards. 

For a moment there was a standoff. Dawson held his breath, knowing the instant he began to mutter a spell, there would be half a dozen spells fired back at them. He did not like those odds one bit. Finally, Rosier inched forward, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Er, hi,” he began, “we’re the. . . the castle caretakers-”

Two wizards fired disarming spells at them. Dawson’s wand flew from his hand and one of the wizards snatched it up. The same thing happened to Rosier. He cursed to himself — they fucked up big time. Next thing he knew, someone grabbed him by the robes, yanked his hood off and dragged him through the door. There was a lot of muttering of a foreign language — he assumed it was Russian. One wizard with shoulder length hair barked something that sounded like an order before he hurried down the corridor. 

Two wizards with thick beards hustled Dawson down the hall lined with doors, two others dragged Rosier along. They pushed them through one of the doors into a large room with a low ceiling. A long wooden table was at the center of the room and a weak fire flickered in the enormous fireplace. The wizards slung him and Rosier onto the bench beside the table and all four immediately trained their wands on them. 

“We’re royally screwed,” Dawson muttered under his breath. Rosier just sighed. 

“Who are you?” one of the wizards asked. He had a thick accent that seemed to be muffled even more by his bushy beard.

“The castle caretakers,” Rosier repeated. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice. Dawson wondered if he could sneak a hand into his pocket, where the wooden knight lay. Though Adolphus would never let him live down the fact that they had gotten caught so soon. And his dad would kill him if he got himself killed.

It was obvious none of the wizards believed what Rosier said. The four wizards conversed among themselves in Russian. Dawson’s eyes darted to the wizard on the far left — his and Rosier’s wands were sticking out of his pocket. Slowly, he nudged Rosier and narrowed his eyes, ever so slightly pointing his chin towards the wizard who had their wands.

He heard Rosier draw in a long breath. Dawson tore his eyes away from this wizard and looked around. There was a long table on the far wall as well as a small door. Dawson memorized the setup before his attention was drawn towards the door leading to the corridor. It flew open and another wizard entered. He was tall, clean shaven with cropped dark hair; dressed similar to the others — in the same black and red robes — but he boasted many more golden medals and other insignia. He surveyed the scene with piercing blue eyes and muttered something to the two wizards near the door. These wizards nodded and darted out of the room.

“What have we here?” the wizard asked in smooth English. He strolled forward, hands in his pockets. His eyes darted between Dawson and Rosier. The four wizards in front of them took a few steps away, though still kept their wands aimed at them.

“Must be the big boss,” Rosier whispered. Dawson just grunted in agreement. This wizard looked slightly older than the others, but still young, possibly mid to late thirties. 

“We’re the castle caretakers,” said Rosier, loudly this time. 

The wizard smiled. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Neither he or Rosier responded. Dawson dared not look back at the bloke who had their wands. Beside him, Rosier squirmed. The wizard’s smile faded as his eyes lingered on Dawson.

“You,” he said quietly. “You work for Triple I.”

Dawson said nothing. He stared at the wizard, keeping his eyes on the Russian’s forehead and his face expressionless despite the churning in his gut. The wizard’s gaze moved to Rosier.

“And you — you work for the English Ministry. Department of International Magical. . . Cooperation. . . .”

Rosier said nothing, still squirming. Finally, the wizard let out a cold laugh.

“Amusing. Is this Tiberius Malfoy’s way of negotiating with us? Sending in schoolboys?”

“We’re not schoolboys,” Dawson muttered.

“I apologize,” said the Russian with another laugh. “The castle caretakers.”

“Yeah,” said Rosier aggressively, “that’s right.”

Dawson tensed as the wizard raised a hand. In a flash there was a loud slap and Rosier’s head jerked sideways. 

“How did you get in the castle?” demanded the wizard. 

“We’ve been here,” Dawson said immediately. Rosier straightened up beside him, wincing and rubbing his jaw. “We’re the castle caretakers. We were on one of the lower floors and heard some noises up here.”

The wizard looked at him and Dawson knew he didn’t believe any of it. The wizard smiled and Dawson went to duck but the wizard was too quick. His head jerked to the side and his jaw snapped shut as pain flashed across his face. The bloke could land a hit.

“Seamus Dawson, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation within the English Ministry, would never send his son to be a castle caretaker,” the wizard hissed.

Dawson was silent, glaring up at the wizard and wondering if Rosier meant to keep tapping him on the ankle with his foot.

“I will ask again — how did you get in?”

“Front door,” said Rosier, he smirked and leaned on the bench so it tipped forward underneath them, like they were in a rather boring class at Hogwarts. Dawson had an insane urge to start laughing, but he kept his mouth shut, willing himself to focus. This wasn’t school. This was real life — and they could very well end up dead.

The wizard turned to glare at Rosier. “Again, do you take me for a fool?”

“I’m telling you,” Rosier insisted. He kept nudging Dawson with his foot, out of the wizard’s sight. The bench stayed tilted forward, balanced on its two front legs. “We walked in the front door.”

His comment earned him another whack across the face. Rosier licked blood off his lips. 

“And none of my men saw you?” barked the wizard.

“I guess not,” remarked Dawson. The wizard looked at him now and a slow smile spread over his face. It sent a chill through him. He involuntarily shivered as the wizard turned away and headed towards the door.

“You schoolboys interrupted my business here, but maybe you will make this quicker.” He opened the door and paused, still smiling as he turned to address the four other Russians in English.

“Kill them. I want to send Seamus Dawson his son’s head.”