Envy Engenders Spite

Dawson and Rosier crept back down the staircase they had climbed, wands ready to fire the first spell that jumped into their head. The noises faded as they descended, so they picked up the pace. By now, Dawson assumed that every Russian in the castle was aware there was someone else inside it with them. He wondered if their big boss would also consider sending Adolphus’s head to Rabastan Lestrange if Adolphus got himself caught. Though knowing his best mate, Adolphus would probably bring the ceiling down on their heads rather than give the Russians the satisfaction of having bested him in a duel. Dawson grinned at this thought as he and Rosier continued down the stairs. He swore if it had been him and Adolphus together, rather than him and Rosier, they would have managed to find Natalie already. It probably would have been messy, sure. But it’d have been a memorable experience. Of course, not that this whole thing wasn’t already a memorable experience. . . .

“What I don’t get,” Rosier huffed as they started passing doors. “Is why the princess hasn’t done something exceptionally dramatic by now.”

“I reckon the Russians know what she’s like,” said Dawson. “They’ve got to — to pull off something like this.”

Rosier made an annoyed sound and they both slowed, coming to a stop outside one of the doors. It was completely silent now, whatever noises they had heard before had vanished or moved off into the castle.

“Bloody hell,” Rosier ran his tongue over his missing teeth and nodded his chin towards the door. “Reckon we should just try it out.”

“Yeah,” said Dawson. He was beginning to feel uneasy and looked all around the staircase. Nobody else was in sight, but he had the urge to constantly check behind him. The door swung open with a quick spell and Dawson caught a glimpse of a wide corridor lined with many wooden doors. Torches flared between each one — it was one of the best lit corridors in the entire castle — but the group of black and red robed Russians at the far end of it caught his attention. 

“Perfect,” Rosier whispered and jumped into the corridor. Dawson saw a flash of silver leave his hand before he hissed, “Seco Collum!”

One of the Russians dropped in a spurt of blood, the other hunched over with a yell, clutching at his abdomen.

Dawson snapped, “Incarcerous!” and another toppled to the floor, securely bound in thick ropes. 

“Really?” Rosier snorted, parrying a spell fired back at them. Dawson dropped to the floor and rolled out of the way, flicking his wand at one of the doors nearby. It leapt out of the doorframe to block a Killing Curse sent their way. The door exploded, sending splinters of wood everywhere. Dawson snapped, “Protego!” and a Shield Charm jumped around him and Rosier, the wood bounced harmlessly off it.

“I’ve a good feeling about this hallway,” Dawson said. He dropped the Shield Charm only for a jet of light to bounce off the floor and blind him. He flew backwards and hit the door they had just walked in, landing heavily on the stone floor as pain exploded all along his left shoulder and down his chest. Everything was spinning, black spots crossed his vision as his entire body felt like it was burning. He heard Rosier bark, “Avada Kedavra!” and there was a moment of silence. 

Dawson glanced down and saw only red before his eyes focused and he understood that it was blood — his own blood. His robes had been slashed from his left shoulder directly down over his chest. He quickly looked up, unwilling to know the extent of the damage.

“Well, fuck,” was all he could mutter. He glanced down the hall to watch Rosier tug his dagger out from one of the Russians and finish the bloke off with a quick spell that made the Russian contort unnaturally before slumping over on the floor.

Dawson managed to pull himself up to lean against the door behind him. All he could smell was blood. Rosier hurried towards him, cleaning the dagger off on his robes. 

“How’s your good feeling now?” Rosier asked, kneeling beside him and peering at the damage the curse had caused.

“Wet,” he kept his eyes on Rosier. The wound was beginning to throb and his chest was growing warm. He reckoned he had seconds before the shock wore off and the real pain set in. He laughed to himself. This was all hilarious. But then he could see the look on his dad’s face and stopped laughing. His dad would kill him if he died. 

“Don’t move,” Rosier said, poking his torn robes away with his wand. He narrowed his eyes in focus and began repeating a spell. “Confervanto. . . Confervanto. . . Confervanto. . . .”

Dawson held his breath, snapping his eyes shut as a warm, tingly feeling engulfed him. The pain still throbbed but it slowly began to fade until he felt like he was wearing a very heavy bandage over his chest that applied more pressure than the wound caused pain.

He opened his eyes when he heard Rosier move away. “I wouldn’t look at it, if you can help it.”

Dawson couldn’t help it. He immediately glanced down to look at the mess of ragged robes, blood, and lacerated flesh. It was all squirming together from Rosier’s spell, freezing the curse and preventing the wound from continuing to bleed out.

“Fucking idiot,” Rosier muttered as Dawson felt his stomach start churning. He rolled forward onto his hands and knees and groaned as nausea gripped him. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was puke all over the stupid stone floor of this stupid castle.

He was vaguely aware of Rosier walking around the hallway, opening doors, and making sounds of surprise. Dawson finally gave into the nausea and lurched, shutting his eyes and feeling his stomach heave as he vomited. Throat burning and with the taste of blood on his tongue, he backed away, the wounds across his chest pulsing.

“Gross,” he heard Rosier say. A spell was mumbled and Dawson opened his eyes, grateful Rosier had vanished whatever he had just thrown up. He wiped at his mouth and spat whatever saliva he could muster until his mouth felt a little less disgusting. He briefly wondered how Adolphus was faring at that moment.

“Can you stand?” Rosier asked.

“Shut up,” he immediately said, using the door behind him to pull himself up. He went to press a hand against his chest but thought better of it. Rosier handed him his wand — he had no idea he had even lost it. 

“Well, your feeling was sort of right,” Rosier said. He gestured to the doors off the hall. “This is where the Finnish team is.”

“What?” Dawson said blankly, managing to walk over to the nearest doorway — the one he had blown the door off of, and peer in. On the floor just inside was one of the Finnish players — he wasn’t sure who — wearing nightrobes, obviously stunned.

“They’ve all been Stupefied,” said Rosier, “none of them seem hurt.”

“Huh,” Dawson blinked at the unconscious player before turning away. He fought the urge to press a hand to his wound and stuck his hands in his pockets instead. He did not give a damn about the Finnish team at the moment. “But where’s the English? Where’s Natalie?”

“Floor below, maybe? Or above.”

Dawson grunted, shooting a look over at the bodies of the Russians. Rosier had taken care of the one he had tied up so there would be no interrogating happening. 

“He was the one who shot that curse at you,” Rosier said, following his gaze. “Don’t know what you expected — bloody amazing you’re not dead. You got lucky with that bounce off the floor.”

“Whatever,” said Dawson, the bet they had entered with Dolohov floated through his mind but the throbbing across his chest quickly put it out of his head. His dad would kill him if he died trying to win a bet with Antonin Dolohov. The bet suddenly seemed stupid. Everything suddenly seemed stupid. Why couldn’t they just find who they were actually there for and get the fuck out?

“We should-” Rosier began but quickly stopped. He stiffened, eyes wide as they shared a look. Dawson knew he had to be feeling what he was — like a cold wind swept through the hallway, giving him goosebumps and making his spine tingle. His wound pulsed and he winced. He drew his wand, clutching it tightly in his hand and realized his hands were trembling. 

The distant sound of a door slamming shut echoed from somewhere in the castle. There was muffled shouting, then silence. Dawson looked at Rosier, who grinned and tapped a finger against his remaining teeth.

“Sounds like we’re expected.”

“Eat shit,” spat Antonin Dolohov as he flung a curse and the Russian who burst out of a door right in front of him dropped to the ground. It was the third he’d taken down so far and that number was definitely going to go up. Ever since he’d split from the others in the staircase, the castle had started crawling with black and red robed Russians who yelled in a harsh northern tongue. It was clear they knew the castle had been infiltrated by a group who was definitely not friendly towards them. He had mostly seen them in groups of twos or threes, occasionally there would only be a single one, like the one he had just taken down. He would not be admitting to anyone that when he opened a door that had at least seven Russian blokes on the other side, he had locked the door and sprinted as far away as he could. 

He had a bet to win and didn’t plan on coming out of this mess with a sullied reputation. But the bet was slowly slipping from his mind as his shoulder started bleeding again. He’d patched it up as best he could but the constant throwing of curses, ducking curses, and running from curses was taking its toll. 

Pausing in the middle of a dark corridor, his wand unlit, he conjured a bandage and hastily wrapped it around his arm and shoulder. He cursed himself out for not thinking to bring Dittany with him, but the problem of blood loss would have to wait. He wasn’t feeling too light-headed just yet — and the adrenaline of taking out Russians was a fabulous painkiller. 

Dolohov secured the bandage and looked around. He reckoned he was somewhere on the upper floors of the castle, having prowled up three staircases and even climbing up one rickety wooden ladder that looked like it hadn’t been used in centuries. His shoulder had definitely not liked that part. 

He continued down the corridor and arrived at a door that had been left ajar. A sudden feeling of trepidation washed over him and he froze for an instant as the hair on the back of his neck stood up and his shoulder let out a rather painful throb. Raising his wand, he slipped through the open door and into the corridor. It was just as dark as the one he had just left, but this one tingled with magic — like there had just been a tremendous duel. 

Dolohov found himself shivering. Nobody was in sight, so he lit his wand and stepped forward, raising it above his head and peering down the hallway. The first thing he spotted were splatters of liquid outside one of the doorways in front of him. Approaching, he realized the splatters headed away from the door and led down the corridor in front of him. He lowered his wand and confirmed what he already knew. It was blood. It glistened ominously in his wandlight. 

“I’ve a bad feeling about this,” he mumbled to himself. Lifting his wand, he stepped over towards the doorway and peered inside. 

A gruesome scene met his eyes. He spent some time staring about, fascinated. The remains of what had to be a human body lay directly in front of him. But it had been so brutally — destroyed was the only word for it, it looked like someone had mashed it up from the inside out — that it was hardly recognizable. The remains of the black and red robes the Russians wore were visible underneath the blood and guts. Dolohov glimpsed a few tufts of matted hair and a single eyeball, staring up at the ceiling in death before he looked around the rest of the room. 

There was a pile of splintered wood and twisted metal near the doorway and he realized it had been the door to the room. Stepping in and taking care to avoid the remnants of the Russian, his eyes fell on what looked like a cluster of sticks, wood and ashes in the center of the room. Dark liquid covered these and he knew it was blood. Something told him this blood was the same blood that dripped down the corridor. His own wounded shoulder was tingling but he ignored it. The room seemed to pulse with a type of magic that made him shiver. He gripped his wand and grinned to himself. Something catastrophic had happened here. 

The squeak of a door drew his attention back to the situation. He stepped out to hear footsteps approaching. Darkening his wand, he hurried down the corridor, heading the same way as the blood splatters on the floor. He jumped behind the corner and flattened himself to the wall, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He could feel the blood seeping through the bandage but put it out of his mind at the moment.

Focusing on the footsteps, he estimated it to be three Russians. He heard them pause at the doorway he had just been standing in and let out a noise of horror. He grinned, knowing exactly what they were witnessing. One of them must have lit their wand — he could see the light throwing shadows on the floor from around the corner. The scarlet blood gleamed up at him, almost as if it was sharing a secret with him. 

He gave himself a little shake and tightened his grip around his wand, a curse floating to his head. Edging around the corner, he pointed his wand towards one of the figures in the doorway and fired the nonverbal curse down the corridor. It struck the wizard he aimed for and he dropped instantly. The others, taken by surprise, scrambled out of the room and into the corridor with a yell. 

One fired a poorly-aimed curse back. Dolohov ducked back around the corner and it sailed past, blasting a chunk out of the wall opposite him.

Now it was his turn. 

Jumping back out as the other remaining Russian barked a curse, he jabbed his wand in their direction and one collapsed to the floor, writhing and howling about. Dolohov ducked under the curse that sailed over his head and winced to himself. 

The Russian was screaming far too loud. That wouldn’t do. Looking up, he sent another curse their way — and silence returned, save for his own excited breathing and the blabbering of the last remaining Russian bastard.

The Russian fired off a slew of curses. Dolohov rolled back behind the turn of the corridor wall, hissing as his shoulder twinged from the movement and enjoyed the array of flashes of light and rain of stone as the curses bounced off the walls. The blood on the floor seemed to glitter underneath it all. 

The bloke had horrible aim, really. You’d think the Russians would know how to aim.

Silence fell as the Russian thought he’d taken care of him. Well, he’d find out the truth soon. Just before Dolohov finished him off. The thought made him grin. He could hear the rattling breath of this last wizard — but then paused when he realized it was actually his own breath, coming in short, excited gasps. His shoulder let out another painful throb and he grunted, pressing a hand to the bandage. It was soaked through, his hand was wet when he removed it. But he could take care of it later.

Crouching to his knees, he peered around the corridor and aimed his wand in the direction of the last Russian. He fell immediately, thrashing about — in silence, as Dolohov had calculated how to adjust the curse — until he grew still. Excellent.

With a jolt, Dolohov realized he had lost count of how many Russian bastards he had taken out. Seven? Eight? Nine? He wondered what Lestrange was at. A cold feeling sliced through him. He wondered if Lestrange was even alive.

Using the wall to push himself up, he prodded at his shoulder with his wand and the bloodied bandage replaced itself with a fresh one. Blood immediately started staining it. With a huff of annoyance, he tapped it gently and doubled the bandages. It would have to do for now. The blood splatters on the floor that led down the corridor were much more interesting to him at the moment. 

With one last look at the bodies of the Russians, he turned and headed down the corridor, following the trail of blood.