Standoff
Lord Voldemort ran after her. Dolohov, Dawson, and Rosier on his heels. He did not recall going down the stairs. The stone seemed to fly beneath his feet. All he could see was the glimpses of her hair, bloodied and matted, through the darkness. It was completely and utterly backwards. He had spent the last few — hours? — scouring the castle for her, only for her to turn and flee the instant he laid eyes on her.
But everything was getting worse. How could he have dared think this would have been easy? Now something else of his was involved in this mess. His horcrux.
It had to have been taken from her. There was no way she would have voluntarily given it up; she would not betray him like that. He was confident that whoever had taken it did not know what it was. She would not have told them; she would not betray him like that. Unless they forced her. . . the thought infuriated him. He let it stew in his mind for a few moments. Could they have? Would she have given in and told them? Was it possible?
He ushered the thought from his head, reminding himself of what the Russians actually wanted. This was about Triple I. The Russians did not know who he was, what he had done, what he was capable of. The ring was a valuable magical object in and of itself. The logical situation was that one of the Russians with an eye for shiny objects had spied it on her neck and snatched it, perhaps hoping to gain a few extra Galleons from this situation. He wondered if she had even been conscious while it happened. In fact, he wondered how she was even conscious at all. He tried to recall the chapter from Magick Moste Evile. The pages flickered on the back of his eyelids each time they involuntarily blinked, never staying closed long enough for him to glimpse them thoroughly. He wanted to snap his eyes shut so he could remember — but he was running full speed down a dark corridor, pursuing the bloodied platinum hair. The sound of her ragged breathing filled his ears. He ignored how grating it was, how indicative it was of what was happening.
She might not have voluntarily given up the horcrux but she still did not have it and he was sickened by the thought of one of these Russians prowling around the castle with his horcrux. A piece of his soul. And the fact that she was running away from him told him that she didn’t know where it was, which was astronomically infuriating. He recalled the last time the horcrux had been taken from her. When he had taken it himself, briefly. She had turned utterly destructive. The memory calmed him — he hoped something similar could happen here, if that was even possible. He wondered if the curse had taken hold on the culprit yet. They would have to touch the ring itself. It couldn’t be long. It was a fascinating little object — it invited curious eyes and greedy hands.
Behind him, Dawson started wheezing and slowed, clutching at his chest. Ahead, Natalie stumbled and then ran faster than he had expected her to be able to. He had followed her down the staircase, down a dark corridor, through a cavernous room where water dripped down the walls. Now he chased her down yet another dark corridor. A dim light was at the end, illuminating a wide staircase. It looked ominous.
He should have put the curse around the entire thing — it was hanging from a silver chain after all. How foolish of him. He would not be so blind next time — he would not be so blind about many things after this was all over.
“What’s wrong with her?” groaned Rosier.
“At the moment, a lot of things,” he hissed. They were making too much noise. The Russians would be drawn to this place like Nifflers to gold and then they would be in a situation he would prefer to not be in.
She hurried up the staircase, towards a set of double doors illuminated by a torch on either side. The fire waved him onwards, sending shadows dancing about. Annoyance made him run faster. It would be easier if she just stopped running and he could calm her down enough to focus on finding his horcrux. Well. . . he would likely have to solve the most pernicious problem he had on his hands first. He kept trying to visualize the pages from that chapter in Magick Moste Evile.
His frenzied brain had just offered him the solution of using a Trip Jinx or Freezing Charm to stop her when the doors flew open with a bang, blowing out the torches and letting the shadows consume the stairs. Natalie dashed through the doors — right into a group of black and red-robed Russians.
“Oh, fuck!” Dolohov groaned. Voldemort jumped onto the landing at the top of the stairs as one of the Russians pointed his wand at her. She crumbled. The Russian grabbed her by the arm and held her upright. He looked up. Voldemort caught a glimpse of burning blue eyes before the doors slammed shut in his face.
“Fuck!” Dolohov repeated, tugging furiously on the door handles.
“Antonin, get out of my way,” hissed Voldemort.
Dolohov stepped back and Voldemort raised his wand. He muttered a spell. Nothing happened.
Rosier laughed nervously. It echoed off the stone walls, as though the shadows were laughing back at them.
“Be quiet,” said Voldemort. He tried another spell. Still nothing. He illuminated his wand and glared at the doors. They were dark wood inlaid with rusty metal rivets. The handles were circular rings, coated with a thick layer of brown rust. He narrowed his eyes and laid a hand on the wood, running a finger over one of the round rivets. It was cool — and damp to touch.
He stepped back and heard the others scramble down a few stairs. This time he said, “giacco frigidilors.”
The doors let out a loud cracking noise and seemed to swell. A few metal rivets trembled. One of the handles popped off with a clang.
“Bombarda maxima!” he snapped and immediately ducked as there was an explosion. Wood and metal flew everywhere with a roar that was accompanied by a cloud of dust. Drops of water fell on the hand he had raised to shield his face and he wanted to grin. Instead, he stepped through the dust and remains of the doors and found himself staring down an empty corridor.
“Fuck!” Dolohov said for the third time. It was beginning to grow annoying, mainly because Voldemort was thinking the exact same thing.
“Hurry up,” he hissed, “they can’t have gone far.”
Darkness cloaked the corridor. A single torch burned at the end, sending shadows swirling over the stone. The shadows urged him on, beckoning him down the hall like the persistent servants of the castle itself. He ignored the doors branching off the corridor, heading straight for the door at the end. It seemed to mock him.
The others were behind him. He could hear Dawson’s breathing, hurried and raspy, like Natalie’s had been. Dolohov was nearly beside him, his excitement for the chase palpable. For some unfathomable reason, Rosier was laughing. It bounced off the stone walls, blending with the sound of their footsteps and synchronizing with the flickers of the shadows.
The door couldn’t come quick enough.
He pointed his wand straight ahead. The door blew open. He leapt through it, only to freeze. He was in a large room, dark, cavernous, like all the other rooms in the castle. It was empty. The other spilled in beside him.
“Fuck,” Dolohov said yet again. Voldemort considered putting a Silencing Spell on him.
“N-no,” Dawson pointed at a door across the room. Voldemort watched it click shut, as though whoever had closed it was taking care to not attract attention. He narrowed his eyes and stalked across the room, shadows swirling at his feet. Dolohov was practically dancing. Rosier drew his dagger and stopped laughing.
He placed a hand on this next door — it was locked using only a simple charm. Easy.
Alohomora, he thought. The door clicked just as he realized it was too easy. But it was too late. The door swung open to reveal another cavernous room. Nearly identical to the other, but tall windows stretched along the far wall, allowing a view of the mountains outside and lending the room a solemn gray light. It was raining, he noted.
This room was not empty. Four Russians had their wands trained on him in an instant. Behind them, was a fifth. The one with the sharp blue eyes. He held Natalie by the arm. She was limp, eyelids fluttering as though trying to fight through the spell keeping her unconscious.
The Russian with the fierce blue eyes held his wand to her throat and sneered.
“Drop your wands or she dies.”