Envy Engenders Spite

For such a large group, they were surprisingly quiet as they made their way out into the corridor and the lurking dangers of the castle. Natalie was impressed, but attributed it to whatever they had gone through prior to finding her. She had no idea what the group had experienced in the hours she had been held by the Russians. She gleaned some of it from their wounds and a bit more from glancing in Voldemort’s eyes — most of it was bloody, full of Dark magic and brushes with death.

Natalie led the way through the dark corridors, still riding an adrenaline high from Solokov’s death. Having explored the castle relentlessly for the past two weeks was paying off immensely. She could tell the boys were impressed with her quick decisions and sharp turns, and knew most of them wanted to make a remark about it, but kept silent for the sake of their task. 

Voldemort had informed her that the rest of the teams had been left unconscious in their own rooms. Which meant the floor the Finns were on was closest if she took a shortcut to enter through the kitchen. She led the group there first while trying to apply her mind to the challenge of getting out of the castle. The simplest solution was to get rid of the curse around the castle. That would involve facing the Russians again and somehow convincing them to drop the curse. The simplest solution to that problem was to simply kill Blue Eyes and whichever Russians had helped put the curse around the castle. 

She had led them up the stairs and into the tiny room that had been the kitchen’s supply room (and that Mikko Takkala had more than once suggested they snog in) when Rosier sucked in a rather loud breath.

“Bloody hell, we’ve been through here!”

“Shut up,” Dolohov immediately told him.

“He’s right,” Dawson added in a strained whisper. “There’s gonna be-”

Natalie stepped into the kitchen to glimpse the chaos that had occurred in the room. Four figures in red and black robes were motionless on the floor. Dead Russians. She began to wonder just how many Russians had been — and still were in the castle. The long wooden table at the center was completely destroyed, nothing but bits of wood remained. The benches had both been flung aside and there were splatters of blood everywhere. It was centralized around one of the bodies, which boasted a gory wound in its chest. The head was unattached as well.

The others filtered into the room behind her. Rosier sauntered over to the Russian with the unattached head and began pointing and miming the actions he had evidently undergone to put the Russian in such a state. Ignoring him, Natalie stepped over the splintered wood, taking care to avoid the blood and corpses with her feet still bare, and rested an ear against the far door that led to the corridor. Voldemort remained at her side as though he’d attached himself to her using a permanent Sticking Charm. She sucked in a breath and focused. The corridor beyond was empty.

She sent Voldemort a grin before she opened the door and stepped out, hearing the astonished noises of the others behind her.

“She just walks out-”

“I would have died three times today if I had done that-”

There were more bodies in the corridor, more dead Russians. Like the one in the kitchen, a few of their deaths had been bloody and violent. Other than that, the corridor was deserted, which made her uneasy. Hoping she had just beat the Russians to this corridor, she darted over to Takkala’s room. The door was ajar, as though someone had peeked in. 

“Eric and I were here.” She looked over her shoulder to find Rosier on her heels. The mirth had vanished from his face. His eyes were cold — those of a killer. 

“This was where he idiotically injured himself,” Voldemort’s question was more of a statement.

“Yes,” Rosier replied. Natalie pushed the door open to find Mikko Takkala unconscious on the ground. He did not appear injured and she could detect no traces of anything beyond a simple Stunning spell having taken him by surprise. 

“Commendable thinking on your end, Evan, freezing the curse like that.”

Natalie turned away from Takkala to find Rosier pink from Lord Voldemort’s praise.

“He’ll, uh, still need to see a Healer,” admitted Rosier.

His words made her pause, recalling what she had wanted to attempt earlier. Voldemort’s eyes flew to her, sensing her reaction.

“Or see me,” she breathed, finding Dawson in the corridor. The others had spread out and were peering through doors at the other members of the Finnish team. “Eric!” She beckoned him towards her.

Dawson approached warily, walking stiffly from the injury. She studied it as he neared. The curse had slashed through robes and flesh from his shoulder down to his chest. A glimmer seemed to cover it all — Rosier’s magic holding it steady to prevent the curse from having full effect.

“Is there time for this?” Voldemort asked her with annoyance.

“The injuries are just going to slow us down,” she retorted and looked at her palm. Silvery-white light began to pool in her hand. Dawson gaped at it.

“Uh, is this gonna hurt-”

“It might sting a bit,” she said.

He let out a litany of swear words that had Rosier snickering. “I’d bloody do anything for a Firewhiskey right now.”

Natalie snapped her head towards Voldemort. “What happened to my Ebulliosus?”

“Antonin drank it,” he remarked with a petulance that reminded her that he was a nineteen year old boy. 

She stared into his charcoal eyes until she couldn’t help but laugh, knowing exactly why Lord Voldemort wasn’t pleased with Antonin Dolohov at the moment.

“What’s funny?” whispered Dawson.

“Nothing,” she said and then called, “Jubbal!”

The elf appeared with a crack, immediately bowing to her.

“I need another bottle of Ebulliosus.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The elf vanished and Natalie turned to Dawson, who had returned to gaping at her. 

“Ebulliosus will have you feeling even better,” the last word was barely out of her mouth when the elf returned with another bottle. Natalie shoved it into one of Dawson’s hands, ordered him to drink it and then pushed his arm aside. She rested her glowing palm on his shoulder where the curse began and ran it across his chest. He shivered and let out a squeak.

“Nuh-nuh-Nat-” he mumbled urgently. “Natalie, the-”

“Shut up,” she said and ran her hand over the wound again, watching the white energy meet the glimmer and the blood and vanishing it all. Dawson’s skin knitted itself back together and so did his robes, mending themselves as though brand new.

She grinned. “There-”

But he grabbed her wrist as though she had just cursed him instead of healing him. His green eyes wide, the bottle of Ebulliosus remained untouched. 

“The elf,” he couldn't seem to get the words out fast enough, pointing at the tiny house-elf that had remained beside them. “House-elves have stronger magic. . . they can apparate through Anti-Apparation-”

It struck her like a lightning bolt, the very air seemed to crackle. Dawson let go of her with a yelp but Voldemort leapt towards her.

“Of course!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Think of what?” Voldemort demanded. The others had abandoned staring at the Finns and circled around her.

“House-elves’s magic allows them to apparate and disapparate at will despite any Anti-Apparation jinxes around an area,” she said, nodding at Dawson, who was inspecting his newly healed shoulder and chest with delight.

Mulciber sounded nervous. “But are they able to side-apparate through an Anti-Apparition jinx?”

All eyes turned to the tiny elf standing in their midst. Jubbal tugged her ears and let out a squeak. 

“Why isn’t it saying anything?” Dolohov demanded.

Rosier rolled his eyes. “Again, you know rubbish. Elves don’t have to respond to anyone who isn’t their master-”

Voldemort nudged the elf with his wand. “Is it possible to perform side-along apparation through an Anti-Apparation jinx?”

Now the elf replied. “Jubbal isn’t sure, but-”

Natalie turned back to the door leading to Takkala’s room. She pointed at the unconscious Finnish Seeker.

“Can you apparate him out to — what’s the matter with you lot?” she turned around to find the group with thunderstruck expressions on their faces.

Rosier pointed between her and Voldemort and made several spluttering sounds before finally blurting out, “it — it answered him — which means. . . you — you — you’re married?”

She drew her wand and aimed it first at Rosier, then Lestrange, Mulciber, Nott, Dawson, and Dolohov in turn. “If any of you tells a single soul, even your own bloody girlfriends, I swear to Salazar it will be the last thing you do.”

They collectively paled and murmured assent until she was satisfied.

“Thank you for pointing that out in such a charming manner, Evan,” Voldemort’s voice was bored, but he could not restrain the smugness within it. “Now if you all could return to the task at hand, that would be ideal.”

There was a slight muttering among them but they remained silent for the most part. Natalie knew Lestrange was eager to bite her head off over getting married before him and Savanna, however.

She thought he might not be able to contain himself when he cleared his throat and looked at her. But he gestured to his own wound and gave her a toothy smile. 

“Do you, er, mind? I don’t fancy my mother finishing the Russian’s job. . . .”

Dolohov jumped forward and began unravelling the bandages wrapped around his arm and shoulder, adopting a look rather like a begging puppy. “Me too?”

She rolled her eyes and beckoned them towards her, giving orders to Jubbal at the same time.

“As I was saying, can you apparate that bloke,” she gestured to the unconscious Takkala. “To. . . er. . . .”

“To our house,” offered Nott. “It’s not that far for apparation.”

“Savanna is there,” Lestrange said blankly as Natalie ran a hand over his wound, energy glowing.

“So are Quinn and Pam,” Rosier continued when Lestrange had nothing further to add. “They’ll be in for a shock.”

Voldemort was staring at the hand she placed on Dolohov’s bloody shoulder. “That’s the least of our concerns.” He broke off to look at Jubbal. “Take him to the house I’ve been staying at in the town. If anyone else is there, tell them. . . tell them everything will be explained shortly.”

Jubbal bowed and everyone watched as the elf teetered through the door towards Takkala, lifted up his limp hand, and vanished with a crack. Silence ensued, save Lestrange’s and Dolohov’s relieved sighs at their newly healed states. Lestrange and Dawson began comparing her handiwork, murmuring their delight.

Unable to stand around waiting, Natalie stalked over towards the next door and peered inside. Arto Lassila, the Finnish team captain, was on the floor, unconscious, just as Takkala had been. She wondered how in the hell this would be explained to the Finns — how the hell would this be explained to Dent. How did you explain to a bunch of Quidditch players that they had been held hostage as part of some international trade situation? She hoped she would not have to be the one to explain it to them. 

A cold chill ran down her spine as she realized the World Cup might not even happen. Would it be canceled because of this? The possibility made her teeth come together with a clack that seemed to echo in her ears. To come all this way — hell, to be held hostage — only for the World Cup to be canceled? No. No. That could not happen. She would not allow it. There was no reason why they couldn’t play, right? None of the other players were injured, according to the boys. Her eyes dropped to her arm, bandaged beneath her robes. She’d forgotten entirely about the wound. She ought to heal it as well, like she had with the others-

A crack had her whipping around, pulled from her thoughts. Jubbal reappeared, looking buoyant.

“It worked,” echoed around the hall as everyone realized the same thing — they had a way out.