Envy Engenders Spite

Natalie Malfoy’s eyes opened. Someone held her chin. Pushing her backwards. Her lungs gasped. She was grateful for the reflex. A wizard. With burning blue eyes. It hurt to look. She did not know him. Her head ached. Her wrists burned. Everything felt sticky. She smelled something salty. 

Another wizard. Hooded. With something silver.

Behind him, a torch. She stared at it. It was pretty. It flickered back and forth. Very pretty.

Hooded Figure. Holding the back of her neck. Other hand on her chest. Breathing shallow. Spine pressed against the chair. She felt her eyes blink. Quidditch bathrobe. Quidditch bathrobe? What? Still barefoot. Floor under her feet — cold. 

Wizard with the blue eyes. Don’t look — don’t look. Movement. Crack. He slapped her. Hooded Figure holding her. Jaw snapped shut. Blood in her mouth. Her throat heaved. Eyes closed. Spinning. Spinning. Blood in her mouth. Spinning. 

Fabric tearing. Ripping. Cold air. Open eyes. Look down. Hooded Figure. Pulling away the robe. Tearing her clothes. Exposing her skin. Blood in her mouth. Her throat heaved — lean into the reflex — spit out blood — red liquid everywhere. Hooded Figure leapt backwards. Sounds of disgust. Anger. Hood fell off.

She stared. She. . . she knew him? Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp face. She knew him. Revoltingly familiar. Blue Eyes speaking. But she knew Hooded Figure. 

Blue Eyes grabbed her face. He was smiling. She did not like it. It looked like coffee. Coffee? 

“-Dawson his son’s head very soon,” Blue Eyes said. She stared. She knew that name. 

“-pureblooded schoolboy Seamus has working-” Still talking. She stared. Blue Eyes jerked her head up. Authority. Authority figure. Her neck was wet. Her shoulder was wet. Everything felt red. 

“-shame how much Triple I will cause others to lose-”

“-letting Vladimir have his way with you, seeing as we’ve yet to hear back from the Malfoys-” Blue Eyes was still talking. She blinked. She knew these names. Triple I. Vladimir. Malfoys. . . . Vladimir. Hooded Figure. She blinked once, twice, thrice. Her head hurt. Then she knew. Hooded Figure. Vladimir Solokov. Seeker for the Russian national team. 

She stared. What. . . what was happening? Triple I? Vladimir Solokov? Blue Eyes knew Seamus Dawson. Of all people. He was going to send — his son’s head? Wait — Eric? Nott? Rosier? They worked for Seamus. . . . but why. . . why were they. . . in the castle? What. . . .

Hooded Figure put his hood up. Solokov. Blue Eyes said something. She did not hear. Her wrists burned. Her skin felt sticky. She was cold. Blood in her mouth. Her throat heaved. She spat it out. Blue Eyes had a white handkerchief. It was pretty. Wiped his hands. It was not pretty.

A banging noise. The door flung open. More wizards. They said something. She didn’t know what. Blue Eyes shouted. He sounded furious. He yelled at the two. They vanished. He spat something at Solokov. Solokov said one word. Blue Eyes vanished. Door slammed shut.

Solokov in front of her. A gleam of silver. A knife in his hand. She closed her eyes. What. . . what was happening? More fabric ripping. His hands on her. Exploring, groping. He was laughing. Her skin was sticky. Her head hurt. Blood in her mouth. Spinning. 

Pain in her wrists. He grabbed her arms. He was still laughing. She peeked. Flash of silver. Knife running along her arm. It was wet. It was sticky. It smelled of blood. 

Pursued by three Russians with no hesitations over throwing Avada Kedavra around like it was nothing, Nott and Lestrange had whipped around another two corners when Lestrange grabbed Nott by the robes and pulled him to a stop.

“I have an idea,” he whispered, and pushed Nott towards a suit of armor. “Take cover.”

Nott ducked behind the armor and glared over at Lestrange, who had hidden himself behind the suit of armor directly opposite him. 

“This better not be a stupid idea-” he began but Lestrange shushed him as the Russians rounded the corner and came barreling towards them.

“When they’re distracted,” Lestrange hissed at him and leaned around the armor. Lestrange pointed his wand at another suit of armor down the hall, just in front of the Russians and muttered a spell. Nott grinned when the armor jerked to life, lifted its heavy metal arm and swung — hitting one of the Russians smack in the face and sending him to the floor, motionless. The other two immediately slowed with a shout of surprise. One shot a spell at the armor and it collapsed with a loud crash. Taking advantage of their distraction — and the evened odds — Nott and Lestrange jumped out from the armor they hid behind and flung a curse down the hall at the same time. 

The green light from Lestrange's Killing Curse hit one of them and he dropped to the floor. The other managed to block Nott’s Trip Jinx and fired Avada Kedavra back at them. Nott heard Lestrange swear and dive back behind the suit of armor as he flattened himself to the floor. The green light passed right over him, turning the armor nearby an eerie green. Peering up at the Russian, he muttered another Trip Jinx and hit him this time. The Russian toppled to the floor with a grunt and Lestrange darted out to bark “avada kedavra!”

Nott climbed to his feet as the Russian slumped to the floor, very much dead. Lestrange walked over and punched him rather hard in the shoulder.

“Ow!” He rubbed his shoulder. “What was that for?”

“A fucking Trip Jinx?” Lestrange hissed, his eyes flashing through the darkness. “Which of us is supposed to be bloody mental? Do you want to fucking die, Zack?”

Nott punched him back just as hard but Lestrange barely flinched. “I was hoping we could’ve interrogated them-”

“Fuck that!” Lestrange waved his hands around wildly. “I’m not saving your skin again because you’ve got some big picture strategy in mind! These motherfuckers had no problem sending Avada Kedavra at us! Cut the shit with the fucking Trip Jinxes!”

Antonin Dolohov was getting nervous. And he hated getting nervous. He wasn’t sure how long he had been wandering through the castle, but it felt like it had been too long to have not seen anyone. While nothing about the situation they were in was boring, he felt himself getting bored, which made him nervous. He had seen dozens of Russians enter the castle earlier that morning. Now he was in the castle, and hadn’t seen a single one. 

Muttering under his breath, he yanked open a wooden door, grimacing as rotted splinters of wood fell off. One wedged itself into the meat of his hand under his thumb and he cursed aloud. Ignoring it for the moment, he stepped into a dark corridor. Lighting his wand, he looked around and sighed. Another empty corridor that looked like it hadn’t seen a soul in ages. He tapped his wand on the splinter in his hand and hissed when it shot out. He inspected his hand. No blood.

“Yet,” he said to himself. He could smell the coming bloodshed. It thrilled him — and that terrified him, which only excited him further.

Dolohov started down the corridor, closing the rotted door as best he could without getting another stupid fucking splinter. Suits of armor lined the corridor, covered in dust like they had stood there in silence for centuries. He assumed they had. 

After walking for a few minutes, he froze. Voices drifted around the corner ahead. Rushing forward, he flattened himself to the wall and listened, clutching his wand tightly. 

“Someone has to be looking at the bigger picture here!” 

“So you elected yourself to that position? Why don’t we find the bloody teams first?”

“That would have been easier if we could have interrogated one of those blokes!”

Laughing to himself, Dolohov relaxed, lowered his hood and stepped around the corner. 

“Can you lot shut the fuck up?” He lazily walked forward to find Nott and Lestrange bickering to themselves. They both jumped and Lestrange went to shoot a spell but Dolohov disarmed him with a quick nonverbal Expelliarmus. He caught Lestrange’s wand as it sailed through the air and tossed it back to him. 

“Bloody hell, mate,” Lestrange tucked his wand into his pocket and pressed a hand to his heart. “Thought we were dead — again. Zack here just nearly killed us both-”

“No, I didn’t,” Nott snapped. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mr. Strategy, that’s working out brilliant for you,” Lestrange waved a hand and turned to Dolohov. “So — how many Russians have you nabbed? I just took down three all by my lonesome, no thanks to Zack here.”

 “Bloody hell,” muttered Nott. 

Dolohov scowled and scuffed a foot on the stone floor. “I haven’t seen a single Vladimir in this bloody castle. It’s like I’m on a tour of this bloody place all by myself.”

“Ha,” Lestrange laughed and looked pleased with himself. “I bet I can get more of these Russians bastards than you can.”

Dolohov immediately stuck a hand out, grinning. “You’re on.”

They shook on it and Nott groaned. 

“Merlin’s beard, can we at least remember why we’re actually here? To find the bloody Quidditch teams!”

“Can’t do that without running into a few Vladimirs along the way,” said Dolohov, adrenaline beginning to flow at the infusion of competition into the situation. He tossed his wand from hand to hand and nodded down the dark hall behind the two others. 

“You run into the Russians down there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Nott, shaking his head. “Keep an eye out, though. They love one Unforgivable Curse in particular.”

“The Killing Curse,” Lestrange voiced the obvious; Dolohov had to roll his eyes. He saluted the two and stepped past them.

“Don’t worry,” he snickered, “I’m a big fan of the Unforgivables too.”