Slithering Persuasion
For a long moment within the castle in Switzerland, nobody moved. The only sounds were the persistent pattering of rain on the windows and Natalie’s ragged breathing. Until, finally, Lord Voldemort felt the gazes of Antonin Dolohov, Eric Dawson, and Evan Rosier land on him, awaiting orders.
All this did was cause the Russian with burning blue eyes to direct his attention towards him. Voldemort saw the perplexion on his face and smiled inwardly. Of the four who had just burst into the room, he had to be the sole individual whom this Russian did not recognize. Dolohov and Rosier worked for the Ministry. Dawson worked for Triple I. Lord Voldemort, to this Russian, was Tom Riddle — nothing but a schoolboy with an unknown face and a muggle name.
The Russian met Voldemort’s eyes and he felt a brush of curious Legilimency magic. When the Russian obtained nothing, he narrowed his vicious blue eyes and Voldemort felt much more than a brush against his Occlumency walls. Voldemort smiled — and launched his own Legilimency attack.
But the Russian quickly tore his eyes away. Voldemort used the moment to look directly at Evan Rosier, who gave him the subtlest of nods.
“Drop your wands or she dies,” the Russian repeated, sounding slightly taken aback this time. Voldemort had to prevent himself from smirking. This Russian wouldn’t know Tom Riddle for long.
“Why should we?” Voldemort asked, keeping his voice as casual and nonchalant as possible. “She’s going to die anyway.”
A thin smile split the Russian’s face. His wand moved to lift one of Natalie’s eyelids. Voldemort willed himself not to tense at the motion. This Russian did not need to know more than he already did. Voldemort could see the blackness within Natalie’s eyes even from his distance.
“Interesting little creature, isn’t it?” cackled the Russian. “Excerebratus Parasitus. A secret of the Far East for centuries — until Russia stumbled upon it.”
“Yes, truly quite fascinating,” said Lord Voldemort. “But an interesting choice when the victim is more useful. . . alive.”
The Russian continued smiling. Something about his smile was unsettling — so much so that Lord Voldemort tightened his grip on his wand, feeling anger rise within him. “Sounds like your school books are. . . outdated.”
“We’re not schoolboys,” Dolohov mumbled in annoyance.
“Shut up,” Rosier hissed.
Voldemort ignored them. Without lowering his wand, he began to walk around the room, slowly and with deliberate motions, drawing the Russian’s blue eyes to him. The four others beside the one with Natalie kept their wands on Dolohov, Dawson, and Rosier. But they did not send any curses at them. This told Voldemort several things. One, that the one with the piercing blue eyes was in charge. Two, that the other Russians would wait for Blue Eyes’s orders. Three, that Blue Eyes did not yet want to kill them. Four, the fact that they were not all dead yet meant Blue Eyes wanted to know something.
Voldemort drew in a breath and focused. He could hardly sense Natalie’s magic. Blue Eyes was holding her unconscious body against him — his grip would not be that tight if her energy had been raging. That was potentially problematic. He hoped it was just the spell keeping her unconscious. Voldemort exhaled. His horcrux was not in this room, but it was nearby. It had to be.
“I’m curious,” began Lord Voldemort, “this plan of yours. . . involves holding both national Quidditch teams hostage two days before the World Cup. If Triple I agrees to the deal, do you intend to allow the Cup to happen?”
“Certainly,” Blue Eyes seemed to take pleasure from the question.
“With the English Seeker in that condition?” Voldemort inclined his head in a glib nod at the motionless Natalie.
Blue Eyes chuckled and Lord Voldemort knew he had no intention of letting them out of the castle alive. “Her condition would be. . . satisfactory enough to play Quidditch.”
Voldemort paused near the empty fireplace, keeping his posture relaxed enough to not spook any of the Russians. “So you intend for England to lose the World Cup as well. I must applaud the. . . extent. . . of your plan. Quite a bit of gold would be lost by those you are. . . in disfavor with.”
“Very good,” Blue Eyes said sarcastically. “Figured all that out on your own?”
“It all seems rather straightforward. Though. . . I am wondering how exactly you concocted the Polyjuice Potion.”
“Gold is the weakness of many men.”
“This is true,” Voldemort said softly, rolling the words over in his head. He threw away his theory that the Auror Hans had helped the Russians. Blue Eyes had to be referring to someone higher, with more status. Someone who knew about Natalie.
“I am wondering myself,” the Russian said, “how you and these other schoolboys entered the castle.”
There it was. He wanted to know how they got around the curse, probably to assuage the wound to his own ego. The curse was too powerful for one wizard to have conjured it, but Blue Eyes must have been intricately involved with placing it around the castle. Voldemort continued walking, slowly, rhythmically, making his movements exceedingly obvious. He circled the Russians until he was opposite Rosier, Dolohov, and Dawson and directly in front of the windows. Blue Eyes turned to keep him in sight, keeping his wand on Natalie’s neck. He did not seem uneasy, or even nervous. Rather, he seemed the opposite — as though he believed he was still in control of the situation. Outside, thunder growled. Natalie’s eyelids flickered.
Voldemort studied the Russian’s scheming blue eyes before he let a smile curl across his face. “That’s an interesting story. Unfortunately, I don’t feel the need to tell it to you.”
“NOW!” yelled Rosier and there was a flash of silver. Dawson and Dolohov hit the floor as the four other Russians shouted curses.
“Avada Kedavra!” Voldemort hissed, hearing Dolohov say the same. Two Russians dropped. Voldemort saw Rosier’s dagger embed itself in the arm of the blue-eyed Russian holding Natalie. His arm flinched, he staggered, and Natalie dropped to the floor out of his grasp.
Blue Eyes let out an explosion of vitriolic Russian and fired a curse towards Voldemort. He smoothly stepped out of the way, trying to contain his own excitement. The prospect of dueling the Russian was making him giddy. It had been a while since he’d been in a duel that hadn’t been just for practice.
The curse hit the windows behind him and they exploded. Voldemort conjured a Shield Charm as glass flew everywhere. He saw Dawson fling a curse at another Russian out of the corner of his eye.
Voldemort aimed his wand at the Russian with the intense blue eyes, ready to fire off another Killing Curse. But the Russian jabbed his wand at the ceiling. A bang and a blinding flash of light forced him to duck and shield his eyes. He dropped to the floor, feeling the bite of glass tear into his robes. Someone yelled somewhere. There was a jumble of swear words that were drowned out by a loud crack of thunder outside. Finally, the light faded and he looked back up.
The Russian was gone. The bodies of the four other Russians lay around the room. He assumed Rosier or Dolohov had taken care of the fourth. Dawson was sitting on the floor, leaning against the far wall and clutching his prior injury. (He had reckoned that both Dawson and Lestrange would wind up getting themselves injured and mentally applauded his own foresight). Dolohov was running about the room, sounding ready to start tearing his hair out.
“The bloke turned into a bat, I swear-”
Rosier was staring where his dagger had fallen. It lay — looking entirely innocent while also being covered in blood — on the floor next to Natalie, who looked no less innocent and was no less covered in blood. She was limp, still unconscious despite all the chaos. Shaking glass out of his robes, Voldemort stalked forward and dropped to her side.
“Rennervate,” he muttered and found himself surprised when her eyes shot open as though waiting for his spell. She stared at him in bewilderment. He watched the black lines wiggle through the whites of her eyes. Rosier knelt to pick up the dagger and muttered, “ew.”
Dawson and Dolohov came over to stare down at Natalie. She blinked languidly up at them, the only indication she was conscious. The black lines darted around her eyes as though taunting them.
“How do you. . . uh, how do you get it out of her?” Dolohov asked.
“Well, technically, Excerebratus Parasitus gets itself out of you,” Rosier remarked.
“Once it’s finished feeding on your own magic,” said Voldemort, “it feeds on your body.”
“Until it’s out,” added Rosier.
“I’m gonna be sick,” mumbled Dawson.
“You don’t have anything else in your stomach, mate,” Rosier said.
Dolohov kicked a piece of glass on the floor and pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Am I the only one who feels like they never intended to. . . remove it?”
“You would be correct, Antonin,” Voldemort said.
“So,” Dawson stared at the streaks of blood on Natalie’s collarbone and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. “So, they did actually plan to kill her — just slowly, so they could strike their deal and all, have the World Cup go on. . . .”
“Seems like it,” Voldemort stood up. “Now all of you get out of the way.”
They scrambled back and he could feel their questioning eyes on him.
“What. . . what are you gonna do?” Dolohov asked.
“Experiment,” he pointed his wand at Natalie and hissed, “crucio.”