Even More Complicated
Lord Voldemort was nearing the point where he wanted to tear down the entire castle brick by brick. But it wasn’t made out of bricks. It was made of stone and rock and magic. And now a lot of valuable people were inside it.
He had been taking the whole situation quite calmly, if he had to judge himself. He was not worried in the least. He had faith in his own and the Knights’ abilities. He had been cool and collected, which was required for the situation at hand.
But he didn’t understand why it was taking so long. It must have been hours since he first saw the Russians run into the castle. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t sighted a single Russian yet, save for the three when they first entered. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t found her yet. None of them had. He could track the ring she wore, yes. But since they’d entered the castle it was like being drowned with magic, especially Dark magic. He could sense that many, many people had died inside the walls of the castle over the centuries. Remnants of ancient magic permeated the air like a seeping gas and made his very skin tingle with its energy. It was no wonder Natalie was going mental from being in the castle for so long.
Of course, the pressing question was what they had done to her to ensure she didn’t drop the ceiling on them all. He could sense the wisps and echoes of all sorts of magic — except hers.
He turned a corner on what he had calculated was one of the main floors of the castle, as it showed signs of recent use by the Quidditch teams. Torches flickered on the walls, there were occasional posters of the Finnish and English teams on the floor with swears written on them in the opposing team’s language, and several suits of armor had been placed in rather obscene positions.
He paused when he spotted the bodies. They were motionless on the floor just down the hall, in front of a pair of tall wooden doors. Wand in hand, he hurried forward and the sounds of a duel grew distinct. The corridor widened near the doors, a staircase was just opposite them and a torch flickered on either side of them. Flashes of light danced on the stone floor near the bodies, shining through the slats in the doors.
He raked a quick eye over the bodies — from their black and red robes with golden insignias, he knew they were Russians. Dead Russians, at that. Ignoring them, he turned his attention to the doors and peered through the slats. He laughed to himself. Nott and Lestrange stood on the other side, back to back, dueling two Russians each.
He stopped laughing when he realized the hallway on the other side of the doors had to be where the teams were being kept. His hand was flying towards the handle when there was a surprised yelp of pain. He tugged open the door to watch Lestrange drop to the ground in an explosion of blood.
“NO!” Nott screamed as Voldemort slipped into the room, deliberately staying very quiet. The two Russians Nott was dueling had their backs to him. Nott ducked under a curse from one of the Russians Lestrange had been dueling and let out a roar of fury.
Lifting his wand, Voldemort hissed, “Avada Kedavra!” once — and then twice. The two Russians with their backs to him dropped in an instant. Nott shot him a look of intense relief before rolling away from a curse fired by one of the remaining Russians.
Ignoring Lestrange howling on the floor in a pool of his own blood, Voldemort darted down the corridor towards the two Russians. Shaking with rage, Nott was yelling spells and swears left and right.
“Fuck you! Crucio!Svalettum! Son of a bitch — Sangue Eruptus — Crucio!”
One of the Russians writhed on the floor under Nott’s onslaught of curses. The other managed to parry them off — until Voldemort cast a nonverbal Impedimenta Charm that froze him, and gave him enough time to mutter “Avada Kedavra” for the third time.
With only one remaining, the one Nott was unleashing his fury onto, Voldemort knocked Nott’s arm aside.
“Not the time for the Cruciatus Curse,” he snapped and nodded back towards Lestrange.
“Fuck,” Nott mumbled and whipped around to attend to Lestrange. Voldemort turned to the last Russian. By now he was on the floor, covered in his own blood and gasping for breath. He aimed his wand on him and said the Killing Curse for the fourth time.
Glancing around, Voldemort noticed there was another Russian present. A stocky-looking figure with a heavy glaze over his blue eyes was standing aimlessly near one of the doors. But as Lestrange’s breathing grew labored, the Russian began shaking his head. Knowing the effects of the Imperius Curse when he saw them, Voldemort hissed the Killing Curse yet again before turning back to Nott and Lestrange.
Nott was leaning over a pale, bloodied Lestrange, barking out every healing spell he knew to stem the flow of blood from the deep wound in Lestrange’s abdomen. Voldemort glimpsed intestines under Lestrange’s torn robes.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck — don’t you dare fucking die Adolphus!” Nott begged, his own robes sticky with blood and his hands shaking as he hovered his wand over the injury inflicted by a gruesome Dark curse. “Don’t you dare fucking die! Savanna will kill me! Hell, Eric will kill me!”
Lestrange’s yowls tapered off to whimpers of pain and Nott’s desperation increased.
“Fucking hell — vulnera sanentur — confervanto — malefactus medicor-”
“Move,” hissed Voldemort, he pushed Nott out of the way and knelt beside the wounded Lestrange himself. Lestrange was valuable. He didn’t feel like losing him.
Nott was too distraught for his spells to have any effect on the Dark curse. Voldemort began repeating the healing spells himself in a calm voice, at the same time glancing at the doors around them out of the corner of his eye and narrowing in on the prickling in the back of his mind. He had to be close.
A few minutes later, Lestrange was lying on the floor, looking very disoriented but with the wound more or less healed — albeit, he was covered in blood and very pale.
“You’ll need a Blood-Replenishing Potion,” Voldemort said. He cleaned the blood off his own robes with a flick of his wand. Nott stood weakly beside him, panting and still soaked with Lestrange’s blood.
“Bloody hell,” breathed Lestrange. Mumbling under his breath, Nott helped him to his feet. Lestrange started counting on his fingers, leaning on Nott for support. “I think I’ve got five. Can we count the bloke under the Imperius Curse as one of mine?”
“You — you almost died!” exclaimed Nott, “and all you care about is that stupid bet?”
“Almost dying isn’t the same as dying,” Lestrange said stubbornly, despite looking rather ill. “Fuck — watch out-” he leaned over to vomit directly into the pool of his own blood.
Nott made a disgusted noise and Voldemort turned his attention to the doors lining the hallway. He had a feeling they did not have a lot of time before the hall was swarming with more Russians, so he hurried towards the nearest door and attempted to open it.
It refused to budge so he pointed his wand at it and hissed, “Reducto!”
The door exploded, splinters of wood fell everywhere before he stepped into the room. His eyes immediately landed on the unconscious figure on the floor — the red hair identified him as one of the Chasers on the English team — one the Pottingers.
“Found Dent!” Lestrange called in a weak voice. Voldemort stepped out of the room to find Lestrange and Nott blasting open all the other doors.
“Here’s Webster,” Nott said from inside one of the rooms. “None of them look hurt, just stunned, looks like.”
Lestrange blew open another door. “Cadwallader.”
“Two Pottingers,” Nott reported, returning to the hallway. Voldemort studied the remaining doors, his gaze drawn to the farthest one near the doors he had walked through a few moments ago.
“Holy shit,” Lestrange drew his attention back down the hall. He was leaning against the doorframe and staring into another room. “Found the Aurors. . . .”
“I gotta see this,” Nott sprinted towards Lestrange to peer into the room. Voldemort headed in the other direction, towards the door that had caught his eye. He blew it open with a nonverbal Reducto and stepped inside.
The room was empty. He stared around it for a moment — noting the trunk in the corner, the pile of books beside the bed, the articles of clothing tossed onto an ancient armchair, the untouched tray of food on a table nearby, and the spilled mug of coffee on the floor — next to a very familiar looking wand. He tucked the wand into his pocket before dropping to one knee beside the splatters of coffee. The mug was in pieces. He ignored it, studying the coffee. It glistened with a noxious black sheen, swirling through the caramel liquid like some sort of disease. Glaring at it, he poked it with his wand and watched the blackness scuttle around in a manner not unlike an insect. Then he felt himself turn cold. Everything was silent as he had a crystal clear recollection of Chapter Four in Magick Moste Evile. He had found the chapter fascinating. It wasn’t as fascinating when it was being used against him — but things were starting to make a bit more sense now.
Voldemort muttered a swear under his breath as rage clawed up inside him. He stood and flung his wand towards the thick curtains obscuring the newly installed glass windows. The curtains dropped to the stone floor and the windows exploded, shooting shards of glass out into the air. Then he pointed his wand at the tainted coffee, trying to control himself enough for one simple spell.
His hand started shaking as the liquid swept itself into the repaired mug and hovered in the air. He levitated it towards the open window, clenching his jaw to focus on the spell. The mug trembled at the same speed as his hand — until it reached the open window and he jabbed his wand, sending the mug and coffee tipping out the window and down into the moat below.
Aware of nothing but the redness around his vision, he turned and slashed his wand through the air. The four-poster bed imploded, collapsing down into itself with a cracking of wood. He slashed the air with his wand again. The long table against the wall, holding the untouched tray of food, went up in flames. He slashed the air for the third time. The antique armchair with robes draped over it exploded with a bang, sending stuffing, silk, and splinters everywhere. Of course she was the only one not there. Nothing could be easy about this.
Nott and Lestrange appeared in the doorway just as he jabbed his wand at the remnants of the door and wooden splinters shot into the air. Lestrange ducked with a yelp, clutching at his wound. Nott conjured a hasty Shield Charm that sent the splinters bouncing back towards Voldemort. This did nothing but infuriate him. He slashed his wand and the splinters burst into violent balls of orange fire. Nott leapt out of the room. Lestrange peeked up at him, terror on his face. Voldemort stared at him, acutely aware of his own breathing. Nott stepped back into the room with an expression similar to Lestrange’s. They were silent, gazing at him as though waiting for him to curse them next. He considered it as ashes floated to the floor. Of course she was the only one not there.
Shouting in Russian drifted down the corridor. From the noise, it did not sound like a mere few wizards. Nott sucked in a breath that sounded rattled. Voldemort decided against cursing them, as Lestrange had already been weakened and they could still be useful.
“Um, incoming,” Lestrange whispered, breaking the tension that had arisen between them. He winced and placed a hand over his wound. “Where is-”
“She’s not here,” Voldemort said icily. They backed away as he strode past them. He fancied he could sense their fear of him and it sent a rush through him. The shadows dancing on the stone floor seemed to reach out to brush against his robes, whispering secrets of the castle. He closed the corridor doors with a quick spell to buy some time. There was a little too much force behind his spell and the doors ended up slamming shut, sending a tremor through the walls and floor. The shadows clamored for his attention.
He looked back at Nott and Lestrange. They stared at the floor just at his feet, as though they didn’t dare meet his eyes.
“What’s wrong with the Aurors?” he demanded.
“Er, some look like they’ve been slipped a potion,” Nott began.
“What potion?” he hissed. “What potion?”
“Draught of the Living Death,” Nott said. He glanced up to meet Voldemort’s eyes before quickly glancing away. But Voldemort knew he was not lying. “Reckon it was put in the coffee. Two are Stunned-”
“Moody and Harlowe,” Lestrange added. “Moody’s covered in blood and Harlowe’s missing an arm-”
This did not interest him beyond the fact that the Aurors had been given something different than what she had been given. Of course she had. He held up a hand and Lestrange and Nott fell silent. Voldemort stared at a torch on the wall, watching the yellow flames dance and focusing on the ticking in the back of his mind. It was dull but consistent. The initial feeling of overwhelming danger he had experienced was long gone. He briefly wondered if that feeling had been her death — but put this from his mind almost immediately. It would not be that simple, she was more valuable alive.
He could feel their burning curiosity so he looked between Lestrange and Nott and nodded, to indicate he would share with them his thought process.
“She wasn’t just Stupefied,” he said in a low voice and quickly summarized what he believed had happened. Lestrange turned, leaned over and promptly vomited.
“Well. . . fuck. . . .” Nott sounded nauseous. He avoided looking at Lestrange.
Lestrange recovered himself, wiping his sleeve over his mouth. “So. . . so what do we do?”
Voldemort’s robes whipped around him as he hurried towards the doors on the other end of the corridor, fury rising within him once again.
“Let’s go,” he spat. The Aurors and the other members of the team in that corridor meant nothing to him. He was competing against time now. He had a goddamn Seeker to find.