Hunting
It didn’t take very long for her to track down Vladimir Solokov. The castle was awhirl with magic, emotions, and something she finally decided was simple bloodlust. Sounds and scents blended together so that the ragged breathing of Dolohov and Dawson behind her was tinted with sweat and blood and the potent scent of magic.
Natalie thundered down what felt like yet another staircase, Lord Voldemort beside her. The others behind them, jostling about like a rabid pack of dogs. When she reached the bottom, she paused and whipped around. Dolohov, Dawson, and Rosier stumbled to a halt. Dawson let out a groan and clutched his chest.
“Where are the others?” she demanded. “If you’re all here, Adolphus and Zach must be too.”
“We split up,” Voldemort snapped, clearly irritated she had come to stop yet again.
“And we left Seymour Mulciber guarding our way out,” said Dolohov.
“Our way out?” she frowned, there was only one way in and out of the castle.
“Ancient tunnels,” Rosier grinned. “The rest of this place is surrounded by a curse. Even the air.”
She stared at him, absorbing this. “Oh.”
“Natalie-” Voldemort began but she pointed at the set of double doors a few steps in front of them.
“He’s in there — there’s a load of them, at least ten-”
Dolohov snapped his teeth together in a grin. “What’re we waiting for-”
“There’s ten of them?” Dawson said weakly.
“Exactly,” Natalie crossed her arms and tilted her head, listening. A faint murmuring, nervous laughter, a mumbled warning, then — a door closing. Footsteps hurrying along-
“Dammit!” she cursed and glanced around. The corridor spread out on either side of them, blackness beckoning her towards it. She could hear the Russians moving away, deeper into the castle. They were now two floors below the British Empire floor, she knew that. Think. Think. The Russians knew they were in the castle — they had to know she was out of their clutches. Solokov had the ring. She doubted he knew what it was, probably thought it was some valuable piece of booty.
Closing her eyes, she sucked in a breath, feeling her lungs inflate to their full capacity — to the point it was painful. This was a maelstrom she had been tossed into the middle of without even knowing all that had happened before she vomited up a black parasite. Someone grabbed her hand — Voldemort. For some reason, his made up name, the one she had found so amusing back at Hogwarts, made much more sense now. When running about a medieval castle, it seemed ludicrous to call someone “Tom.”
“They’re on the move-” the words died inside her mouth when she picked up on the distinct sound of footsteps moving towards them. A high-pitched whistling sound made her snap her eyes open as her whole body tensed, prepared for anything.
But then Dawson made the same whistling sound, Dolohov made a noise of annoyance, and she understood. Looking down the dark corridor to their left, she listened to the plodding footsteps — one of them was badly injured too — approach until Adolphus Lestrange, Zacharias Nott, and Seymour Mulciber appeared.
Several things happened immediately. Lestrange and Dawson practically fell into each other’s arms. Nott laid eyes on her, sighed with relief, and then sat down in the middle of the corridor. Lestrange and Dawson started comparing injuries. Rosier made a remark about the gang finally being all together. Dolohov made a nasty comment at either Nott or Mulciber or Lestrange or all three of them. Mulciber looked ready to cry under the furious gaze of Lord Voldemort.
“You were supposed to guard the tunnel!” Voldemort hissed, he let go of her hand and churned towards Mulciber in a flash of black robes. Mulciber took several steps back and Nott scooched out of the way, still on the floor.
“Uh, yeah, er, bad — bad news,” Mulciber stammered. “One of the — the Russians found it, and, er, well — we fought and all and — the tunnel, well — it’s caved in, it’s caved in. . . .”
Natalie wasn’t quite sure why the others reacted as though this was the equivalent of the World Cup being canceled. The thought shook her — the World Cup. She had no idea what time it was — or even what day it was. Was she supposed to be playing in the World Cup right now? Perhaps this was all a dream, and she would wake up to Dent banging on her door, yelling at her to get ready because today was the biggest game of their career-
Vladimir Solokov. Her eyes snapped shut and she inhaled, slowly, drawn out, painfully. Solokov. There. Yes. She could smell him, she could hear him; smell her own blood on him, hear his underlying fear, his vapid arrogance in every echo of his footsteps. The shadows of the castle whispered to her, directing her, instructing her. Yes.
And then she was running. The shouts of surprise from the others fading behind her. They could wait. She had business to take care of.
The stone floor was cool under her bare feet. The shadows reached out to her, pulling her onwards. There were no torches in this part of the castle, but she didn’t need them. Solokov’s pumping heart, the flush of his lungs directed her. She wanted to end both. So did the shadows.
She had no idea how far she had gone. Somewhere, buried in her consciousness, she knew exactly where she was inside the castle. But Solokov’s blood was more important. He had split from the rest of the Russians — they had all split up, spreading out. There was another with him. She didn’t care about him. She knew he would die too, but she had business to take care of.
The final door melted away from her and she darted down the dark corridor, towards the two pinpoints of light at the end.
They must have heard her coming. The lights vanished and the corridor was illuminated by the vivid scarlet of a spell. She stepped away, allowing it to fly past her and be eaten by the shadows.
“Crucio!” she hissed, wand up and ready without even being aware of it. One of the figures fell to the floor and began screaming, but she could tell by the intonation that it wasn’t Solokov.
It was far too dark in the corridor for her liking. The instant the thought popped into her head, the corridor was illuminated with a stark white light that threw everything into minute detail. She could see the cracks in the stone floor, the tiny beads of water glistening on the walls, the spores of green bacteria growing along the rust-eaten doorknobs. At the end of the corridor stood her prey. Solokov and the other Russian had thrown their hands up at the sudden appearance of the light. The other Russian was on the floor, limbs tense and reeking of pain.
“Vladimir, you bloody bastard,” she hissed, stalking towards him. They had nowhere to go. This ended here.
Solokov lowered his hands and stared at her. His face was contorted by fear for an instant before he laughed. The other Russian beside him lumbered to his feet, clutching his wand.
“Oh, it is only you.”
Natalie stalked forward until she stood only a few paces from them.
“Give me my ring!” she snarled.
Solokov’s face was blank with confusion. The other Russian lifted his wand, a spell on his lips. Natalie raised her hand, forgetting about her wand. A shiver ran down her spine and there was a flash of crackling light. The Russian flew backwards, surrounded by a shimmering white substance. He hit the wall and fell to the floor — dead. Natalie grinned.
Solokov watched it all in silence. He stared at his fallen comrade and laughed again.
“Oh, that is vhy-”
“Crucio!”
Solokov fell to the floor and thrashed around until he finally let out a scream. Natalie had never heard anything sound so sweet. She dashed over and knelt beside him, ending the curse as she leaned over him. His breathing was ragged and his dark eyes stared up at her, unblinking.
“Where is the ring?” she demanded.
“V-vhat-”
She grabbed the neck of his robes and pulled him up until their faces were nearly touching. He began whimpering in pain. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and upper lip. She could hear each thump of his heart and every rush of air in and out of his lungs.
“You heard me, where is the ring?”
“Oh-” he moved an arm and out of instinct, she slammed his head against the stone floor beneath him with a resounding crack. He screamed. She leapt to her feet, wand and palm ready to strike him dead.
A flash of silver. His hand rose from his pocket, chain and ring in sight. She exhaled in relief — and Solokov began howling in raw anguish. She froze, not quite sure what she was doing to him. And then she realized — it wasn’t her.
The hand in which he clutched the ring began turning a nasty reddish color as bubbles of flesh and sinew rose out of his skin and burst. Natalie moved away, disgusted but intrigued. As each bubble burst, the skin turned a sickly black color, sinking into his flesh and outlining the bones below. The curse continued until Solokov’s entire hand resembled the blackened, deadened hand of a corpse.
He let out one last scream before slumping to the floor, exhausted, breath coming in rattling gasps. Natalie snatched the ring from his cursed hand and returned it to her neck in one fluid motion. She found herself smiling as its comforting weight returned to her chest, all worries evaporating away in an instant as its ticking presence synced with her own pounding heart. All was as it should be.
But she had one last thing to do.
“Vladimir,” she purred his name and his eyes snapped open, staring at her with what could only be described as terror. Still smiling, she knelt back down, cupped his face with one hand, and let all lingering rage pour of her. A flash of light. A cracking noise. Solokov’s eyes widened until they — literally — burst. Blood spurted all over her, soaking her with its sticky, sweet scent until it burned away into nothingness and she was left staring at a few remnants of bone, fabric, and golden insignia.
Natalie exhaled and rose to her feet, dusting off the ashes and breathing in the cloying scent of ozone. Her cheeks hurt. Reaching up, she realized it was because she was still smiling. She laughed and wished the Quidditch World Cup was right now. She could conquer the world and then some with the magic buzzing within her.
Slow clapping made her turn around. The corridor was still illuminated with the brilliant white light. Lord Voldemort stood a few paces away, leaning against the wall and in possession of an aura of complete and utter arrogance.
She laughed. “How long were you there for?”
“The whole time.”
“Oh, thanks for helping, then.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I. . . I was being sarcastic. . . .”
“I wasn’t.”
“I killed him! You just stood there.”
“It was my curse on the ring.”
Natalie exhaled in annoyance. “It was my magic that killed him.”
“My curse.”
“My magic.”
“My curse.”
“My magic.”
His smirk was slow and smug. “My horcrux.”
“My magic!”
“Do you want to get married?”
She blinked at him. “We’re already married.”
“I know,” his tone was mischievous and taunting. “But seeing you murder these scum made me want to marry you again.”
“How romantic,” she said sardonically.
“If I was trying to be romantic, I’d have said something utterly boring, like that I’m madly in love with you.”
“Ugh, that’s horrifying.”
“Lucky for you, I find you merely tolerable.”
“No wonder we get along so excellently. I also find you mildly tolerable, but even less so when you’re using the Cruciatus Curse on me.”
“That was for your own good. Had I been burdened by cumbersome, as they say, romantic, feelings for you, you would still be useless while the parasite fed on your magic because I would have been too much of a sniveling coward to do anything about it.”
“Right, thank Merlin you are not burdened by cumbersome romantic feelings for your wife,” she let her voice adopt the same purr as when she had killed Solokov. “I suppose I ought to thank you for torturing me then, darling.”
“You’re welcome, love. Now if you don’t mind, might we get out of this bloody castle before another Russian finds the audacity to meddle with my possessions?”
She laughed. “Of course, sweetheart.”