Raw Terror
“Natalie!” Antonin Dolohov whispered as loudly as he dared and the figure stumbled over the last stair and fell with a snarl. He hurried up the stairs as she turned around, sitting on the top step. Dolohov lit his wand and nearly tripped on the stairs himself.
She looked terrible. He couldn’t help but stare. Blood streaked across her face and a painful looking red mark was on one cheek. Her usually bright hair was smeared and matted with blood, and a chunk of it seemed to have been roughly shorn off. She was wearing only a bathrobe that looked just like the English team Quidditch robes, though it was dark with blood and looked like it had been hastily thrown on. More blood trailed down her neck and all along her collarbone, streaking down her bare shoulder, vividly red against her pale skin. She clutched her left arm to her chest, though it looked more like a gory bundle of robes, flesh, and blood.
Confusion crossed her face when she spotted him. “An-Antonin?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. He took a few steps closer and saw black lines wiggling through the whites of her eyes — they squirmed and writhed about, giving him the distinct sensation that he was staring at some sort of insect. He was certain this was not something included in the Hogwarts’ Care of Magical Creatures curriculum. A wave of nausea gripped him and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He quickly swallowed and clutched his wand, telling himself not to look her in the eye.
“What — what the fuck happened?” he asked.
“Hhh-huh?” she looked like she hadn’t understood a word.
Dolohov dropped onto the stair beside her and placed a finger to his mouth to shush her as footsteps echoed from the corridor just ahead. He darkened his wand and pointed it towards the sound of approaching footsteps. “This place is crawling with Vladimirs. I’m in a bet with Adolphus over who can take out the most. I’m at least at seven right now but I think the last bloke was an Ivan.”
“I — w-what?” she whispered, but then let out a giggle and Dolohov found himself wrapped in a fervent, one-armed embrace. His head throbbed from the hug and he could practically taste blood as she squeezed him in excitement. It made him dizzy and the nausea returned. His shoulder burned with more fire than ever. He had to push her off him. He avoided looking at her eyes. He did not want to see what was moving within them.
“Bloody hell — I, Merlin — yeah, yeah, there’s, um, six of us here — Adolphus sent me, sent me this,” he pulled the small wooden knight from a Wizards’ Chess set from the pocket of his robes and held it up so she could see.
She took the piece in her right hand. The other hand hung limply in her lap. Dolohov could smell the blood. The burning had subsided but his injured shoulder gave a painful throb. He wanted to run, to get away from her as soon as possible. The feeling irked him, it was so contrary to what he usually felt around her. He was glad Lord Voldemort ought to be hurtling in their direction.
She had the strangest look on her face. “Kn-knights. . . hm. . . .”
“Er, Natalie, look — what happened?” he asked, voice growing serious. He took the knight from her bloody hand and avoided touching her skin. “How’d you get here? Why are you covered in blood? What happened-”
She started shaking her head, making droplets of blood fly everywhere. Dolohov wiped some off his cheek and winced as his shoulder pulsed. He slapped a hand to it — it was warm and wet beneath his touch.
“Find,” she pulled herself to her feet with a hiss. “Find — kill him-”
“Who?” he asked, jumping to his feet beside her. She started heading down the corridor, towards the sound of approaching footsteps. There was a yell and Dolohov went to grab her arm but she slipped out of his reach. Down the dark corridor came a flashing of light, the frantic casting of spells — and then silence.
“Kill,” she mumbled. The sound of footsteps could be heard again and Dolohov hurried to keep up with her. He had no idea who she was talking about, but assumed it must have something to do with why she looked freshly assaulted. He avoided thinking about what he had seen in her eyes. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light?
“Who?” he asked again, “Natalie, what-”
“Shut up, Antonin,” a voice remarked from just ahead of them down the dark corridor. “Every single Russian in here will hear you.” Evan Rosier emerged from the darkness, giving them a somewhat toothless grin.
Natalie froze mid-step. Dolohov was nearly overwhelmed with the urge to turn and run.
There was a muttering of Lumos and Eric Dawson appeared beside Rosier, holding his lit wand and looking very pale. Dolohov noticed his robes were torn and he was nearly as bloody as Natalie.
Natalie pointed directly at him. “You — your head-”
Dawson placed a hand on his forehead. “It’s still on.” He glanced at her and winced. “You, er, you look-”
“Like shit,” Rosier said.
“What — why’re. . . why’re. . . .” her question faded as she shook her head as though trying to figure something out. She mumbled under her breath and clutched her bleeding arm against her chest.
“Uh. . . we’re here to get you out,” Rosier offered. He shot a look over at Dolohov and raised an eyebrow.
Dolohov winced as his shoulder throbbed again. “She’s bloody loopy right now.”
“Find,” Natalie muttered, staring at the stone floor.
“Find what? Or who?” asked Dawson. But there was a noise from behind them and he quickly muttered, “Nox,” plunging them into darkness. Dolohov found himself shivering. He gently felt his injured shoulder and ground his teeth at the jab of pain.
A shout rang down the corridor and someone flung a spell towards them.
“Duck!” yelled Rosier. He and Dawson hit the floor, Dawson doing so with an explosion of swears. Dolohov went to push Natalie down as the jet of light flew over their heads, hitting the wall above the staircase with a bang. But she slipped through his grasp, leaving him with a horribly ominous feeling. Pieces of rock rained down onto the stairs behind them. Dolohov glanced up to hear several pairs of footsteps pound towards them. He let out a yelp as Natalie suddenly brushed by him. It felt like she’d sent a curse through him, his skin tingled, his hair stood on end and his wounded shoulder seemed to let out its own scream.
“Natalie, no-” he began, struggling to his feet. He heard someone hiss a curse from down the corridor and Dolohov saw the four figures running towards them drop to the ground one by one. He hoped they’d been Russians. He did some mental calculations — they had to be Russians.
An eerie silence filled the corridor as darkness returned. Dawson and Rosier cautiously stood. Then Natalie’s ragged breathing announced she was on the move. Dawson let out a hiss of surprise. Rosier muttered a warning to her as she attempted to rush past them.
“Bloody hell,” Dolohov groaned and darted after her. Rosier barked something, he couldn’t hear what — his shoulder was throbbing and the stone floor seemed unsteady under his feet and his stomach lurched-
And he nearly ran right into her. She froze mid step and stumbled. Dolohov felt the air rush out of his lungs. A dark feeling came over him; he didn’t know how he knew that she was hearing something he couldn’t. But whatever it was — it made a voice in the back of his mind scream at him to run.
“Lumos,” Rosier had the sense to say. Natalie took a step back and Dolohov practically dove out of her way.
Lord Voldemort appeared out of the darkness and his eyes landed on Natalie. Dolohov glimpsed relief on his face before he scanned her over. His eyes moved to her neck and he swore they flashed a scarlet red. A type of silence Dolohov had never experienced before fell over the corridor. He could hear the rush of blood in his own ears and the last bit of breath leave his body.
Dolohov stumbled backwards, his legs moving on their own accord. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be anywhere near either of them. He didn’t know why — just that some base survival instinct was telling him to keep his head down and his mouth shut, to not interfere with whatever matter was going on between the two. It was not his business. Mortals did not get involved with the cosmic affairs of the gods. That was inviting an early death.
But the scene was so. . . so mesmerizing. Dolohov found himself looking at Natalie. She was staring at Voldemort — Dolohov had never seen her so terrified. It moved him — it felt more significant than the sun rising in the morning or the twinkle of stars at night. Suddenly, he felt ashamed to be looking at her, ashamed to have fancied her, ashamed to have loved her. What a fool he was. He flung his gaze to the floor, overwhelmed by the rush of fear that threatened to drown him. Using tiny, slow movements so as to not attract attention, he wiped away the cold sweat that broke out on his forehead. He peeked out of the corner of his eye to see Dawson and Rosier. They looked no better. Rosier had pressed himself to the wall and even thrown his hood back up, keeping his wand and dagger out of sight. Dawson was steeped in shadows, something told Dolohov he had lost the contents of his stomach again.
Natalie mumbled something incomprehensible, drawing his attention back to her. He didn’t want to look. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help it. It was horrifying. It was fascinating. He wasn’t sure if he was smelling blood or fear or some tantalizingly sinful combination of both. Then it struck him — was it her blood? Her fear? Or was it all his own?
Natalie turned around so quickly, she nearly fell. She managed to catch herself, drops of blood flying all around her, and she darted back towards the stairs and away from Lord Voldemort.