Envy Engenders Spite

Abraxas Malfoy had lost count of how many cups of tea he’d drank. He kept pausing his pacing to stare at the ornate golden clock on the mantelpiece above the fire. The clock had a metallic eagle head on top of it, with metal wings curling out around it, as though it was taking off. The hands of the clock were metal feathers that seemed to only move either astonishingly slow or astonishingly fast. 

It was somehow both only ten in the morning and already ten in the morning. He had been there for over three hours — at least, that’s what he was telling himself. Lars Oblinger, the Swiss Minister, had been commenting on the time with what he thought was going on in the castle — until Domitia threatened to cease Triple I’s sales with Switzerland.

Ian Rowle had long finished the breakfast food left out and kept summoning house-elves with extremely specific requests for food. Aleksi Kalas, the Finnish Minister, got so aggravated with Rowle that he started ordering his own food — would remark how delicious it was — until Rowle abandoned whatever he had first requested and ordered what Kalas was eating. Kalas would then proceed to order something else, and so on. Jonathan Shaw, Lloyd Avery, and Giles Morrison, the youngest of the group, sat around the table and ate whatever food Rowle abandoned, while Shaw and Avery worked on editing the next copy of the Prophet. Every so often, one of them would take a short walk through the town to see if anyone in the town suspected something was amiss. So far, nobody seemed to have noticed that there was a hostage situation.

But Abraxas could not stand it. The waiting around for news. He had considered entering the castle with Dolohov and the others but knew he was better where he was. He had a wife and a company to think about. He paced along the room and wondered how his father was so calm. Tiberius, Rabastan Lestrange and Seamus Dawson had drawn up armchairs near the fireplace and were smoking thick cigars. The Ministry’s big three, as Abraxas saw them, chatted quietly to themselves in voices too low to hear. Jack Lament sat nearby; he weakly puffed on a cigar and nodded along to whatever Fabienne Lestrange was saying to him. Matt Lament seemed almost as nervous as Abraxas. He bounced around the room — sitting at the table with the Swiss and Finnish Ministers, moving over to the fireplace to make more tea for everyone then circling the room with the hot kettle, standing near Tiberius, Rabastan, and Seamus as though he wished to join their conversation, peeking at the piles of paperwork near Shaw and Avery. Kregmar the goblin sat in the middle of the table watching Matt with amused eyes and avoiding looking at Domitia. Abraxas’s grandmother now sat in her armchair beside the door, as though making sure everyone in the room stayed put. She only allowed the men out to use the lavatory, and then had house-elves tail them the whole way.

The envelope with the bloody hair had been pushed onto an empty chair, which stood away from the table. Abraxas, along with everyone else in the room, refused to look at it. He wanted to burn it, but his father was adamantly against the idea. They had not received anything further from the Russians holding the castle, and Abraxas hoped it would stay that way. He knew his father, along with Seamus and Rabastan did not hold onto the same hope of this. 

Abraxas waved away Matt Lament and the kettle of tea he clutched like a lifeline and dropped his empty teacup to the table. Kregmar the goblin shot him a glare but he ignored it and drifted towards the group of Tiberius, Seamus, and Rabastan to eavesdrop on what the three were discussing.

“-before the Final. . . they had to plan on having the players actually play the World Cup,” Rabastan tapped his chin with his cigar, a distant look in his eye.

Seamus was nodding to himself, drumming his fingers against the armrests of his chair. A cloud of blue smoke was gathering around his head. “If that’s true, then the hair has to just be a ploy — get us to squirm a bit to hurry it along. Christ, the entire threat to kill Natalie has to just be that — a threat — if they plan to have the World Cup go on as. . . normal.”

“Can we do that?” asked Rabastan. He looked over at Tiberius, who was sitting more slouched in his chair than Abraxas had ever seen him. “Can we have the players play in the Cup — after they’ve been held hostage like this? Even if they’re physically fine, we won’t know about their. . . mental state. . . .”

Tiberius stared at the ceiling and let out a long puff of smoke. It swirled through the air like a snake rearing to strike before dissipating. “The alternative would be to make up some excuse to delay the Cup. I haven't exactly got any ideas of what would be legitimate enough to convince the entire wizarding world that the Quidditch World Cup needs to be delayed.”

“A hostage situation,” Seamus joked with a twisted smile.

Rabastan let out a wry laugh that turned into a swear muttered under his breath. He shot a look at his wife and took a steep drag from his cigar. Abraxas had to take a few steps closer to hear what he said next. “-conditions of my son, your son, and the others at this rate. Maybe the Russians want the teams to be able to play in the Cup but Adolphus and Eric don’t have that. . . diplomatic immunity.”

“Diplomatic immunity,” Seamus growled the phrase and shook his head, sending smoke whirling. “I’m pulling everyone we have working in Russia out the second this is over. And I’m trying not to think about what my son could be doing right now, Rabastan.”

At this, Tiberius’s gaze shot towards Abraxas, making him freeze in his step. His father blinked slowly for a moment, and the corner of his lips twitched up around the cigar. Abraxas sent him a slight nod, knowing his father was relieved he had not joined the others in entering the castle. 

Tiberius’s gray eyes drifted back to the ceiling. He sighed smoke out of his nostrils. “What I’d love to know. . . is how the Russians became so. . . knowledgeable. . . about everything. How is it they knew the design and security measures of the castle? How is it they knew about Natalie’s contract with Gringotts? How is it they knew exactly how to target all of us?”

After hurrying up what felt like yet another flight of stairs, Nott and Lestrange arrived in a wide corridor that had two large double doors just before them. Torches flickered on either side and there were slats in the wooden doors at eye level. The stretch of the corridor to their left and right was dark. 

“Shh!” Lestrange said immediately.

Nott gave him an annoyed look. “I wasn’t even talking-”

“Shut up!” Lestrange darted forward and peeked through the slats. Nott drew to the side of the doors, wand clutched in hand, serious now. He could hear a low murmuring of voices on the other side of the doors.

Lestrange ducked and moved to the other side of the doors. “There’s seven of them down there. It’s an enormous hallway, and the best lit one I’ve seen.”

“This must be where they’re operating from,” Nott whispered, starting to feel giddy. They’d finally stumbled upon the base of the hostage situation. “The teams have got to be around here too.”

“Two of us and seven of them,” Lestrange was nodding to himself.

“I don’t exactly fancy our odds,” said Nott.

“Yeah, well, I’ve a bet to win. How many do you want?”

“Why don’t we just see what happens?”

Lestrange rolled his eyes. “Boring, but fine.”

“Let’s try to draw them out,” Nott said, twirling his wand between his fingers. His mind was buzzing and his heart started to pound as excitement washed over him. They could use their surroundings to their benefit. “Bottleneck them at these doors to give us an advantage.”

“Now we’re talking, Mr. Strategy,” Lestrange gave him a toothy grin from the other side of the doors. “How do we get them to come out one by one though?”

“Uh,” Nott blanked — his brain had jumped a few steps ahead of that. He was already thinking about signalling the others to help them get the teams out, if this was where the teams were being held.

“Great,” Lestrange said sarcastically. He stepped over and banged loudly on the door with a fist.

“Adolphus!” Nott hissed, his heart skipping a beat. He wasn’t done planning this ambush. “What the fuck-”

“Shh!” Lestrange stepped back beside the door, his wand ready. “I’ve just had a mental idea.”

Swearing under his breath, Nott could hear the voices pause beyond the doors and there was the distinct sound of footsteps echoing on stone. The door closest to Nott opened. He pressed himself against the wall and saw a head with dirty blond hair pop out. From the other side of the door, he heard Lestrange mutter, “Imperio” — the head snapped straight up and then relaxed. The Russian turned and walked back down the corridor, closing the door behind him. 

Nott stared at Lestrange. He had a wild look in his eyes. 

“I’ve a plan,” whispered Lestrange. “Take out the next one that walks out — if you’re not too coward.”

Nott scowled but remained silent as he heard more footsteps approaching. He raised his wand and readied himself as the door opened again. Another Russian, this one with a long dark beard and tattoos swirling along his neck stepped out of the doors and turned right, where Nott stood waiting. 

Wasting no time, and with the Russian so close he could see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, Nott muttered, “extraho aeris” and watched the Russian drop to the ground with a choked gasp. He stepped over and pushed the door shut. 

Lestrange was giving him an impressed look as the Russian writhed on the ground between them in silence.

“Was that curse what I think it was?”

“Yeah,” Nott said gruffly. “Removes the air from someone’s lungs and traps it in their esophagus.”

“That was in Notorious Curses of the Dark Ages,” Lestrange recalled with a grin. “They used it a lot in the 1260s.”

Nott gestured to the castle corridor around them as the Russian finally stopped moving and grew still. “Reckoned it was appropriate for the location.”

Lestrange slumped his shoulders and stared up at the ceiling with a groan. “And now I’ve got to be more creative than you, thanks Zack.”

“Not everything’s a competition,” he shot back and froze, hearing more footsteps.

“I’ve got this one,” Lestrange said with an excited shake. Nott rolled his eyes and stepped over to hide behind the door just as it opened and another black and red robed figure stepped out. He heard Lestrange mutter a curse and the Russian clutched his head and dropped to the floor beside his comrade. Nott pushed the door shut and studied their latest kill. Then he looked over at Lestrange, who was immensely pleased with himself.

“Stroke?” he asked.

“Yup,” Lestrange popped the “p” and dipped into a little bow. “His blood pressure rose quicker than Natalie’s temper — burst some important blood vessels in his brain. Poor bastard.”

“Indeed,” Nott snorted and settled back to await the next Russian to step out of the door.

Lestrange started shuffling about impatiently. Nott shot a glance at him. He knew the look in Lestrange’s eyes. 

“You’re bored,” he stated.

“Yeah,” said Lestrange, tugging at his earlobe. “What if we just — walked in?”

Nott pointed at the two they had already taken care of. “What about my plan of bottlenecking them here?”

“Yeah, but that’s not like. . . a fun plan. . . and if we bust in, we’ll take them by surprise. We’ll still have the upper hand.”

Nott sighed. “Fine.”

Savanna Rowle hadn’t gone back to sleep, like Adolphus had asked her to earlier that morning. Instead she slumped in bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what in the world Tom Riddle had seen that was so interesting. She had pretended to be asleep when Adolphus rushed around their room, changing into all-black robes before he snuck back out. She had heard Dawson, Rosier, and Nott doing the same. Pamela Selwyn had gotten into an argument with Nott that had to be broken up by Rosier. Then the boys had left and the house grew silent again. It had stayed like that for what felt like hours. 

When she heard Pamela stumbling out of her room and cursing when she accidentally closed the door a bit too loud, Savanna decided she may as well get out of bed. Peeking out the window, she noted the dark clouds approaching from the mountains and shivered. The house was always chilly in the morning, so she tugged on a thick jumper supporting the English team, stuck her feet in her fluffy blue slippers, and headed downstairs after Pamela. 

Savanna stepped into the kitchen to find that in fact everyone in the house was awake. Pamela sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee before her that was stirring itself. Her hazel eyes were narrowed in on the stirring spoon, and Savanna knew Pamela was not happy with Zack Nott. 

Quinn Bulstrode stood by the stove, using her wand to flip pancakes and add cheese to an omelet. Her high ponytail bounced with every flick of her wand. 

“Smells wonderful,” Savanna said with a smile. She slid into the chair farthest from Pamela and directed her attention to Quinn. 

She was taken aback when Quinn turned around so quickly, several pancakes dropped to the floor. Quinn’s brown eyes were enormous as she stared at Savanna, nostrils flaring.

“Did Adolphus tell you anything?” she demanded.

Pamela snapped her head over, loose blonde hair whipping about. “Did he? Did he say anything? Why did they all leave early this morning with Tom Riddle? What’s going on?”

Savanna felt her face grow warm from their stares. She dropped her eyes to the kitchen table and started tugging on her hair. “Um — I’m not sure. He didn’t say much. Just that he would be back soon-”

“It’s been hours!” snapped Pamela. She grabbed the spoon in the cup of coffee and started furiously stirring it herself. Quinn turned back to the food and vanished a few blackened pancakes. With another wave of her wand, she floated the omelet onto a plate and sent it towards Pamela. 

“Can you eat?” asked Quinn. “You’re a bloody bitch when you’re hungry.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Pamela hissed and started attacking the omelet with the same spoon she had been stirring her coffee with. “It’s not everyday my boyfriend wakes me up at the bloody crack of dawn dressing like he’s off to commit a fucking murder!”

Quinn scowled and flicked her wand so more eggs cracked into the sizzling pan, the shells vanishing immediately after. “Savanna, do you want an omelet?”

“Oh, um, yes, please,” she said hesitantly. She had the feeling she was getting an omelet whether she liked it or not.

“Great,” said Quinn, waving her wand again. Savanna watched a flurry of cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes and spinach fold themselves into the eggs. She did not have the heart to tell Quinn that she despised mushrooms. 

Pamela shot glances at her in between bites of omelet, as though it was her fault all the boys were gone. Growing uneasy from it, Savanna looked around the kitchen, spotted the coffee pot and jumped up to pour herself a cup. 

“Adolphus didn’t mention anything?” asked Pamela. Savanna wondered if the two could see how shaky her hands were as she poured the coffee. She nearly dropped the pot while trying to set it back on the counter. Quinn handed her a plate with the steaming omelet and a few pancakes. It seemed to take all her strength to carry both the coffee and omelet to the table. She fell back into her seat with relief and avoided Pamela’s eyes.

“No, nothing,” Savanna said slowly. She stared at the omelet and wondered if she could sneakily vanish the mushrooms out of it without Quinn noticing. Eating raspberries with Adolphus felt like ages ago. “Tom Riddle said he had come across something interesting in the town, though.”

Pamela dropped her spoon and a chunk of egg fell into her lap. She didn’t seem to notice. “You saw Riddle?”

“Yes,” said Savanna, slipping her hand into her pocket where her wand lay. She quietly pointed it directly under the plate with the omelet, keeping it out of sight from the other girls. “He came in early this morning. Asked Adolphus to wake everyone up, then that was when Adolphus told me to go back to bed.”

“So Riddle wanted you to go back to bed,” Pamela muttered. “That means he wanted us out of the way. . . . They’re up to something.”

Quinn flipped a pancake with a bit too much force and batter splattered all over the pan. She mumbled a swear under her breath and cleaned up the spill with a wave of her wand. Savanna took advantage of this to whisper a spell to get rid of the mushrooms. Except, to her horror, the spell ended up vanishing an entire half of the omelet. This morning was off to an awful start. Her eyes began prickling and she quickly hid her face in the coffee mug. But even the coffee tasted too strong, too bitter. 

Feeling her face burning, Savanna peeked over at Pamela and Quinn to see if they had witnessed her disaster with the omelet. To her relief, they didn’t seem to notice anything. So Savanna grabbed a fork and began to eat the remaining half of the omelet as though she were ravenous. She had to control a gag when she got a bite of mushroom. Apparently the spell hadn’t worked on the mushrooms at all. Merlin’s beard. . . .

“I don’t think it’s actually murder,” Quinn said, finishing up at the stove. She turned and eyed Pamela’s and Savanna’s plates. Savanna hastily forced herself to swallow another bite of mushroom and egg and sent Quinn the brightest smile she could muster given the awful taste in her mouth.

“It’s delicious, Quinn,” she said. 

Quinn smiled and dropped into a seat at the table. She stared at her own plate and then pushed it away. 

“I’m not even hungry,” she admitted. Savanna immediately pushed her own plate away. She was also hardly hungry, but felt it rude to refuse anything from Quinn at the moment. “I just wanted to do something.”

“We should have followed them,” Pamela banged her empty mug onto the table. “Hours ago.”

“They obviously didn’t want us tagging along,” said Quinn. Savanna clasped her hands in her lap, keeping her eyes on the remains of the omelet. She had a horrible feeling that whatever the boys were up to, it was dangerous. She had been trying not to think about it all morning.

“Which is why they’ve got to be up to something not entirely. . . legal,” said Pamela, her eyes glittering. She looked at the front door. “We could go after them now-”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Quinn sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You’ve no bloody idea where they went.”

Pamela scowled but remained silent. For a while, nobody spoke as they sat around the table, plates of food abandoned. Savanna found herself wishing she had the taste of raspberries on her tongue again, not bitter coffee and mushrooms.

“Do you think she’s involved?” Pamela finally muttered.

“Who’s she?” asked Quinn.

“Oh come off it — Natalie,” snapped Pamela. “Riddle was here — and you know the lot of them are all still mates.”

Savanna knew she was right. Quinn voiced it.

“Well, yes, she probably is. But I’ve a feeling it’s not something. . . good.”

“I’ve a feeling none of this is good,” Pamela stood to refill her coffee. Savanna could see her hands trembling and was relieved she was not the only one who was shaky. Thunder rumbled outside, and then reverberated back across the mountains. The glass window panes rattled. Savanna shivered.

“Great,” remarked Pamela. “Even the bloody weather isn’t good today.”