On the Right Trail
When the group of Adolphus Lestrange, Zacharias Nott, and Lord Voldemort came to a split in the corridor, Voldemort directed them to the left while he took off to the right. Lestrange was not going to complain about the separate ways. He had never been so terrified of Tom Riddle.
“I think. . . I think we should move the wedding. . . up,” he said to Nott as they hurried along as fast as they could. His wound was making things significantly more difficult. There was a persistent pain in his lower abdomen in spite of the healing spells. He was not looking forward to seeing his mother after this. Fabienne Lestrange never liked having to use her healing expertise on her own son. It would mainly consist of him getting yelled at.
“Why?” Nott asked.
“Why? Why?!” Lestrange gasped. It was obvious — he had nearly died. He had seen Savanna’s eyes when the curse struck him. They were blue and tear-filled and longing and he wondered if she had ever fallen back to sleep that morning. He knew she had been faking it earlier. It made him love her all the more.
“Save your breath,” said Nott. “We aren’t out of here yet.”
“I think we should move it up,” Lestrange repeated. “Eric’ll agree too.”
Nott just sighed and continued walking. The corridor was dimly lit, only a few torches flickering beside the occasional suit of armor. Lestrange swore they had been walking down this one hallway for hours. His wound pinched at every footfall and his heartbeat echoing in his ears was giving him a headache.
“So,” he said slowly. Talking seemed better than silence. He was sick of listening to his own ragged breathing. “You. . . and Pamela, huh?”
Nott glanced at him as though to make sure he was still alive. “What about us?”
“Are you two. . . gonna get married soon?”
“I. . . I dunno. Dunno if she wants to.”
“Well. . . do you wanna marry her?”
Nott was silent for a moment too long. Lestrange let out a strangled laugh.
“Bloody hell, mate-”
“Shut up, Adolphus!” snapped Nott. “It’s. . . it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” Lestrange snorted. The action made him wince and he slowed their pace a bit more. “How?”
“It just is,” Nott said in a nasty tone of voice that sounded very much like he wanted to drop the topic. Lestrange had no intentions of letting him get out of the conversation.
“You lot. . . certainly seem to love shagging all the time,” Lestrange said. He wanted to smirk but ended up grinding his teeth together from the incoming migraine.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well. . . didn’t you fancy her in school?”
“Why are you using the past tense?”
“You didn’t say you wanted to marry her-”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to marry her.”
They were silent as they came to the end of the corridor. Nott tugged on the door handle. It opened without a sound. He peered into the corridor beyond and signed the all-clear to Lestrange. They entered and closed the door behind them. This corridor looked identical to the one they had just left.
“So you don’t want to marry Pam,” Lestrange said after a few minutes.
Nott made an annoyed sound. “I don’t know, Adolphus, okay? Can’t we have this conversation another time, like when our lives aren’t at risk?”
“No. . .” Lestrange grinned and lightly patted his injury. “I think now is a good time.”
“You’re a real fucking bastard, you know that, right?”
“Of course.”
“You’re welcome for saving your life.”
“That was you? I thought it was. . . I thought it was Lord Voldemort.”
Nott shivered. “I hate that name.”
“Then let’s talk about you and Pam.”
“Fine,” groaned Nott. They came to a wide staircase and began climbing. “But really. . . I dunno — we fight a lot. . . and now she’s working for the Minister and all. . . .”
“Is that bad?”
“Not. . . not in itself.”
“Then. . . .”
“I did say it’s complicated,” Nott said as they reached the top of the stairs. A dark corridor continued to the left and right, a tall wooden door stood directly in front of them. “It just. . . seems like we’ve been fighting more ever since she took the job and all. . . .”
“Does she. . . want to break up?”
Nott moved to open the door. “I dunno. Our parents like us together. My dad’s all pleased she’s a Selwyn — a strong pureblood family, you know. My uncle, Cantankerous, is happy with the match too-”
Nott never made it to the door. It burst open itself and Lestrange found himself staring at two Russians, their wands pointed directly at them. Nott went to fire a curse but there was a flash of light from the left and one of the Russians’ wands went flying.
“The fuck-” Nott whipped his head around. Lestrange raised his wand.
“Stupefy,” he hissed, knowing he couldn’t manage the Killing Curse in his current state. One Russian dropped. The other, now defenseless, turned and bolted away, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Lumos,” Nott flicked his wand and sent a ball of light down the dark corridor to their left. A figure emerged from the darkness, grinning and covered in dust.
“Glad to see you two aren’t dead,” said Seymour Mulciber.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Nott. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the tunnel so we can get out of here?”
Mulciber’s grin vanished. Lestrange felt a sinking feeling in his stomach that made his wound twinge.
“Yeah. . . I’ve got bad news about that. . . .”
Dawson wouldn’t shut up. Evan Rosier considered casting a Silencing spell on him but he also wanted to know if Dawson was still breathing. Rosier wasn’t sure how long his spell would hold — it was more of a blockage than a healing spell, preventing the curse from doing further damage. He reckoned Dawson was going to need some time at St Mungo’s but didn’t want to tell him that. He was already both irritated and irritating enough.
“-how Adolphus is doing right now?” mused Dawson.
“Can’t be worse than you,” said Rosier, leading him up a narrow staircase. They had been following sounds, but the castle had grown silent, so now Rosier was just following the prickling feeling on the back of his neck. It felt like the direction he shouldn’t be heading in. So he knew it had to be the right direction.
“He gets in more trouble than me,” snapped Dawson.
“No, it’s about the same,” Rosier said. “That’s why you’re his best man.”
“Oh, yeah. Ha, nearly forgot about the wedding. They should have it sooner. I’ll mention that to him, thanks Evan.”
“Uh, you’re welcome.”
“So. . . so you and Quinn?”
Rosier shot a look at him, wondering if the combination of Dark curses and blocking spells were making him loopy. He read the pain in Dawson’s eyes and realized Eric just wanted a distraction.
“Me and Quinn,” he said, “what about us?”
“You lot getting married?”
“Probably.”
“Can I be your best man too?”
“Uh, I haven’t thought about it, but sure.”
“Brilliant. When’s it happening?”
“Not as soon as Adolphus and Savanna. Quinn wants to focus on her family’s business for a bit. I’m fine with waiting. Your dad keeps me busy at the Ministry anyway.”
“Wow, you two are just perfect,” Dawson said sarcastically.
“What about you, then?”
They arrived at the top of the staircase and Dawson paused. Rosier looked back at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Huh?” Dawson asked.
“Getting married anytime soon? Got a girl we don’t know about? At least — one more. . . consistent than all those witches you shagged at our parties?”
“Oh,” Dawson went to shrug but stopped himself, pressing a hand to his injury. “Nah. Don’t like any of them.”
Rosier tugged the door open and beckoned Dawson after him. This corridor was well-lit, but most importantly, had a terrible sense of foreboding. A door was ajar at the far end. Rosier kept his pace slow, so Dawson could keep up without straining himself. But he wanted nothing more than to turn around and run away from the open door.
“That Travers girl fancies you,” Rosier said casually.
“Who? Oh, Euphemia Travers — yeah, Adolphus said that too.”
“So. . . .”
“So. . . ?”
Rosier sighed. Dawson could be so tremendously stupid concerning matters like these. “So. . . why don’t you do something about it?”
“Why?” Dawson asked bluntly. “I don’t care. And she’s boring.”
Rosier couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter that he hastily tried to muffle.
“She’s. . . she’s boring?”
“Well, yeah,” said Dawson. “She’s not nuhhh — you know, she’s just. . . not fun.”
Rosier had the feeling Dawson had meant to say something more along the lines of who Euphemia Travers was not.
“She’s a pureblood,” Rosier quickly said. “Her uncle was big in the Ministry before he passed. And her aunt was married to Tiberius Malfoy.”
“My dad’s big in the Ministry,” Dawson fired back. “And I work for a Malfoy.”
“She’s still a pureblood.”
“My grandmother was a Greengrass.”
“So. . . what, you want to dilute the blood even further?”
“That’s not what I said!”
“Well, then what are you saying? Because all I’m hearing is that you don’t like Euphemia Travers because she’s not Natalie, and that makes her boring.”
Dawson started walking faster towards the door, grunting all the while. “Shut the fuck up, Evan.”
“No,” Rosier hurried to keep up, hoping his spell work could survive Eric’s stubbornness. “I think you-”
Dawson stopped short just in front of the door and Rosier nearly walked into him.
“Shut the fuck up!” he repeated with much more insistence. Rosier fell silent, realizing — or more feeling — what it was that unnerved Dawson. There was a chill within the air, seeping out the door and sending a shiver down his spine. A steady pressure grew at the base of his neck. He clutched his wand and jumped in front of Dawson to enter before him.
Rosier knew the lumps on the floor just ahead were bodies. And he knew they were dead. He stood in silence to listen.
“Homenum revelio,” Dawson whispered behind him. When nothing happened, he clanked forward. “They’re dead.”
“I know,” said Rosier. He lit his wand and peered down at them. Russians. Three of them. Hit with some rather nasty spells.
“This gotta be Antonin,” he observed.
Dawson grunted something and peered into a doorway. He hurriedly stepped away, leaning against the wall and looking sick.
“That-” Dawson gagged. Rosier rolled his eyes when he vomited whatever was left in his stomach again. Dawson wiped his mouth and gestured at the doorway he had just looked through. “That wasn’t Antonin.”
Rosier stepped over. He felt it before he saw it. A squirming in his gut telling him to run. His wand illuminated the room — and what was left of a human being. Blown to bits like no curse he’d ever seen before. A brief spell of nausea came over him but he steeled himself, thankful his stomach was so sturdy.
“Definitely wasn’t Antonin,” he said with a snicker.
He stepped back to find Dawson pointing towards the floor. Rosier ran an eye over the drops of dried blood leading down the corridor and grinned. Dawson laughed with relief. Rosier knew why — they were finally on the right trail.
Antonin Dolohov had only gone down a few corridors and started up one staircase when he picked up on the distinct sound of terrified breathing. Pausing on the bottom step and tightening his grip on his wand, he peered up the stairs and glimpsed movement in the darkness.
He immediately knew who the figure was. Maybe it was the tingling down his spine or the increase in his heartbeat or that breathing became just a bit more difficult or that his hands started shaking. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he dropped a hand into his pocket and squeezed the wooden knight as hard as he could until his shoulder roared with pain and he had to release it.
“Natalie!”