Get Me Some Ebulliosus
“Why did we leave this idiot guarding our only way out of the castle,” Zacharias Nott grumbled, not out of the hearing of Seymour Mulciber. Adolphus Lestrange simply laughed. After Mulciber explained what had happened to the tunnel, Lestrange had very quickly made peace with the fact that he would be dying today.
“Oh, it’s my fault the tunnel collapsed, is it?” Seymour snapped, “do you know how bloody old this place is?”
Nott crossed his arms. “It’s just funny how the tunnel has stood for all these years and then we leave you in it and it collapses.”
Lestrange patted his injury, where his insides had spilled out a short while ago. He briefly wondered if dying would hurt, before shaking his head. He was still alive for now. He’d get the most out of life while he still could. Perhaps he should send Savanna a letter. . . .
“As much as I love to see Zack whine like a crotchety old lady, we are still in here for a reason,” Lestrange interrupted before Mulciber could bark a response.
“Of course,” Mulciber’s whole demeanor changed. “Have you found the teams?”
“Yeah, we found the English — bloody Russians nearly killed me though.”
Mulciber stared between them. “Well. . . well, where are they? And where’s everyone else?”
“Natalie wasn’t with the rest of the team,” Nott reported. “He had us leave to go find her, but we split up a while back.”
“He?”
“Lord Voldemort,” Lestrange said with a grin. Mulciber hadn’t been a knight at Hogwarts, he was too old to have been a part of their little circle.
Mulciber looked at him as though he’d gone mad. “Who the hell is that?”
“Tom Riddle,” Nott explained with a shudder. “He likes to be called that.”
Lestrange smirked, enjoying Nott’s discomfort and Mulciber’s bewilderment. “Zack here is afraid of the name.”
Nott glared at him. “It’s a bit. . . a bit dark.”
“Then why don’t you just compromise and call him dark Lord if you’re such a coward,” remarked Lestrange, thinking himself tremendously witty. Nott moved an arm as though to hit him but Lestrange quickly placed a hand over his injury and let out a groan of pain. Nott’s arm lowered but his expression remained murderous.
“Bloody hell, you all have gone absolutely mental,” Mulciber shook his head. He studied the corridor they stood in and narrowed his eyes. Lestrange watched him for a moment before realization dawned.
“Oi, you picked this place! Tell me you know what floor we’re on.”
Mulciber hesitated but quickly nodded. “I think I do. . . . Where did you find the teams?”
“In what looked like their rooms,” Nott said. “The English, at least. They’re all just stunned. All the Aurors are on that floor too.”
“Wait, what happened to the Aurors?” demanded Mulciber.
“Draught of the Living Death,” said Nott. “Strong dose, seemed like. A few are stunned, and Harlowe and Moody are injured.”
Mulciber slowly exhaled. “Merlin, I knew Matt assigning young Aurors to this was a mistake.”
“Why did he?” Lestrange asked.
“No idea,” said Mulciber. He brushed some dust off his robes and tossed his wand between his hands. “But c’mon, we need to tell the others we’re gonna need a new plan to get out of here.”
Natalie had only gone down one corridor when she came to a stop, the others behind her. Voldemort grabbed her arm as though expecting her to fall down. She nearly did, feeling the floor sway under her feet and her vision turn black.
“What?” he asked.
She stared at him, blinking away black spots. She felt somehow both numb and woozy — her joints ached and her muscles felt sluggish, as though she had just walked out of a grueling Quidditch practice. She had the urge to vomit but quickly swallowed it down.
“I. . . I need to. . . to think. . . think,” she mumbled, shaking her head. The corridor was dark. The others shuffled impatiently. Dolohov’s breathing was running high and Dawson’s was ragged. Rosier’s heart rate was surprisingly slow. All three of them smelled like blood. She knew where they were in the castle — but she didn’t. Everything seemed to hit her at once. She grabbed hold of Voldemort’s arm to anchor herself in reality as images and sensations overflowed her brain. Hans and the coffee. The Russians holding her hostage. The parasite that had crawled inside of her and hijacked her magic. Blue Eyes. Solokov running his hands over her. Blood on her head. Blood on her arm. She glanced down — her arm was a mess; upon sighting it, it roared with pain, turning her vision black again. How had she ignored it up to now?
Voldemort shivered beside her. She blinked until her vision became a bit less hazy and quickly let go of his arm, realizing he had just borne witness to all the images in her head. She looked at him but could not see him — the only thing she was aware of was his own anger. It was somehow both red and black, both fiery and cold, visceral yet focused. It swept over her and met her own anger, making her pause. It dawned on her that she had been so caught up in her rage that she hadn’t thought to consider his own.
“Find Solokov,” Voldemort said as though this was the only thing that mattered. She supposed it was the only thing that mattered. That bastard had stolen the Gaunt family ring right off her neck. She’d snap his own neck.
“I know, I know,” she mumbled. It should have been easy. But right now it felt like the most difficult thing in the world. She felt blood drip down her arm and a cold draft brush against the bare skin of her neck. If she could just think, just focus. . . .
“Jubbal,” she said immediately. There was a crack and the small house-elf stood in front of her. Voldemort’s wand came up in response but she grabbed his arm and half hugged him against her again. She needed to think.
“Yes, Mistress?” the elf squeaked.
“What the fuck,” breathed Dolohov, “how’d that get in here?”
Rosier snorted. “You know rubbish about house elves. They have to come when called by their master.”
“Get me some Ebulliosus,” Natalie said.
Voldemort made an astonished sound as the elf vanished with a pop. “You want to get drunk right now?”
“Not exactly,” she sighed and hugged his arm tighter. She glanced down at her bloodied robes and cursed to herself. She was not dressed properly for the murder she wanted to commit at the moment. The Quidditch bathrobe was torn and bloody and nearly in tatters, at this point showing more skin than it covered. And she was still barefoot. Natalie stared down at her toes blankly. Blood had gotten all over them and there was a painful red mark developing on the top of her right foot. She had no idea how that had happened.
Jubbal reappeared with another pop, clutching a bottle of the sparkling liquid.
“Thanks,” Natalie mumbled as she took the bottle from the elf. Jubbal beamed so hard tears began leaking out of the elf’s enormous eyes before it vanished. It took her a rather long time to tug the cork out of the bottle using only one hand before she tipped it up and took a long swig. She could feel the others’ stunned gazes on her.
“I’m literally in love with you!” Dolohov blurted when she lowered the bottle. The effect from the Ebulliosus was instantaneous. A warm tingle seeped down her throat, into her stomach, and through her whole body. She shivered, feeling the pain and soreness fade and bubbliness take its place.
“I know,” she sighed and held the bottle towards him. “Want some?”
Dolohov stared at her, his jaw hanging open. “Uh. . . .”
Voldemort snatched the bottle from her grasp with a hiss. “Focus!”
“I am!” she snarled and drew her wand. The bathrobe needed to go. Bare feet were fine but there was no way she wanted to snap Solokov’s neck half naked and covered in blood. She would have preferred to take a long, hot bath but there was no time for that. With a flick, the bathrobe seamlessly transfigured itself into all black robes like the others wore. She raked an eye over their matching robes and laughed. They were all so cute.
“Are we sure she’s okay?” whispered Dawson.
Another flick of her wand — get rid of all the blood. She felt her hair braid itself away from her face, wincing when her scalp burned. She lifted a hand and gingerly touched her head. It felt like someone had taken a knife to her skull. Smelling blood, she glanced down at her left arm. It limply hung at her side, the pain reduced to a dull throbbing from the Ebulliosus. Peeling the robes back, she didn’t give the injury a glance before she conjured clean white bandages and wrapped them around it.
Much better.
“Okay, hello,” she glanced around at them and smiled. Voldemort looked relieved before he scowled.
“Are you finally ready?”
“Yeah,” she tugged the bottle from his hand and took another swig. Rosier snickered and she sent him a wink through the darkness. He pretended to swoon.
“Antonin and Eric reek of their own blood,” she remarked.
“Yeah, I had a good feeling that turned into a bad feeling,” Dawson said.
“I just got nicked,” bragged Dolohov.
“No, you didn’t,” she snorted and beckoned him towards her. “Come here. I need to experiment.”
Terror flashed across his face in the dim lighting. Voldemort made an irritated sound.
“This can wait, Natalie,” he hissed. “We have. . . business. . . to take care of.”
His tone reminded her of his own anger. She found herself laughing again. It was not she who people ought to be afraid of.
“Right,” she pushed the Ebulliosus into Dolohov’s hands before turning to Voldemort. She looked in his eyes before snapping hers shut and taking a deep breath. Focus. The castle. They were on one of the upper floors, four above what was nicknamed the British Empire floor, to be exact. Solokov. With the ring. His ring. Her ring.
She opened her eyes and smiled. “I know where he is.”