I Need a Bath
“It was simple, really,” Lord Voldemort was showing her a chess piece — a knight — which, apparently, had allowed the boys to communicate within the castle. “A modified Protean Charm along with some crafty spellwork of my own creation, of course.”
Natalie ran her tongue over her teeth and nodded along to his words. He stopped talking and smiled rather smugly.
“I see you’re impressed yet don’t want to admit it for fear of inflating my ego.”
She scowled and pointed at the prostrate Russian, trembling on the floor between them, held immobile by her energy magic. “Where was your crafty spellwork when the scum snuck up on you?”
“Not one word,” his eyes narrowed and he hissed, “not one word to the others about the scum sneaking up on me.”
She smirked. “How’s your ego now?”
“Perfectly fine,” he said coldly, which only made her smirk widen. He glared at her as the group of Dolohov, Mulciber, Dawson, Lestrange, Nott, and Rosier appeared at the top of the stairs, summoned by the charmed chess piece that disappeared back inside Voldemort’s pocket. The boys tottered down the stairs, looking dazed by the scene in the entrance hall.
“You had fun without us,” accused Lestrange, gesturing to the bodies of the dead Russians around the hall. “And here I was, thinking you finally bloody lost it.”
“I had to make up for being unconscious half this time,” Natalie retorted.
They stared at her. Mulciber’s jaw visibly slackened. Voldemort laughed.
“Wait. . . you took out all these blokes?” Dawson counted the bodies. “By yourself?”
“Yes,” she crossed her arms and wiggled her eyebrows at Voldemort. “One could say I even. . . saved. . . the day.” Lord Voldemort stopped laughing.
“I’m never having a bet against her,” Dolohov whispered to Lestrange while Rosier’s snickers echoed around the entrance hall, fitting right in with the macabre atmosphere of the castle.
Lestrange elbowed Dolohov. “I won our bet.”
“Enough with the bloody bet,” Nott rolled his eyes.
Dawson stuck his hands in his pockets and said sheepishly, “I lost count.”
“Ha!” Lestrange exclaimed but then slumped his shoulders. “Yeah, me too.”
Dolohov made a triumphant noise, making Nott punch him on the shoulder.
“I think Natalie won whatever bet there was, mates,” Rosier said between snickers.
“Enough,” Voldemort said coolly and they fell silent, though Rosier’s laughter still reverberated off the walls.
Mulciber glanced around the hall. “So, is that all of them then?”
“Yes,” Voldemort nodded at Blue Eyes. “Here’s their leader.”
They stared at the writhing Russian on the floor. Rosier started snickering again. Natalie dropped beside him and lessened the energy coursing through him. The Russian glared at her, finally able to focus his eyes on something.
“Who told you about the castle?” she demanded, staring into his piercing blue eyes. They were clouded with pain by now. “Who told you about me? How did you make the Polyjuice Potion?”
His teeth gnashed together and he hissed up at her, eyes snapping shut to knock her Legilimency away. Instinctively, like she had done to Solokov, she seized him by the neck of his robes and repeated the question.
He shuddered, his whole body quaking under her touch. Slowly, with much effort on his end, his lips came together. He spat at her. Saliva hit her cheek. Someone hissed nearby but she smiled down at the Russian and without hesitation, smashed his head against the stone floor. His skull hit the floor with such a satisfying crack, she did it again. And then a third time. Around her came a chorus of whistles and “bloody hell”s. Dawson nudged Rosier and mumbled, “third times the charm.”
The Russian’s piercing blue eyes grew unfocused. Her Legilimency caught only a glimpse of burning spite, and something a bit more primordial than spite: envy, before his eyes rolled back into his head. He mumbled something in Russian. Natalie smelled blood. The shadows whispered to her of impending death. Someone handed her a cloth and she wiped her face clean of his spittle.
“Alright,” she purred, “don’t talk.” She grabbed his forearm and he let out a choked scream as her raging energy poured into him, making his limbs spasm on their own accord. She pulled him to his feet using nothing but her own rage.
The entrance doors burst open in front of her, sending a gust of wind and rain into the castle. The fresh air tasted glorious — but she had business to take care of. She marched out the doors, down the steps, and onto the bridge, dragging the leader of the Russians the way a child would drag a ragdoll. The others followed, laughing to themselves.
“Where’s this curse supposed to be?” she shouted through the howling wind.
“Other end of the bridge!” Dolohov yelled back.
Lightning flashed above, sending shadows dancing over the bridge and the moat below. The moat’s gray water churned with foam. She thought she saw a glimpse of scales and teeth in the water before the lightning vanished and thunder took its place. The wooden bridge shook under her bare feet and she nearly lost her balance on its slick surface. The Russian slipped through her grasp and fell to the planks like a bag of potatoes.
Voldemort had him back to his feet with a quick spell. He hovered in the air, struggling against the magic holding him limp. Natalie seized hold of his robes and continued pulling him along.
Lightning flashed again as she reached the end of the bridge. She looked back at the others. Their black robes were drenched, their hair plastered to their heads, but they were staring at her with something similar to hunger on their faces. She grinned.
“Here?” she pointed at the boundary of the bridge, the tiny space between the last wooden plank and the muddy ground on the other side.
Voldemort nodded. That was all she needed. She pulled the Russian towards her and pushed him towards the mud.
Except he never reached the mud. There was a tiny red spark and he was thrown backwards. Natalie jumped sideways to avoid him crashing into her. He fell to the bridge with a heavy thud and a groan. He was not dead, so the curse was weakened — but it was still there, preventing them from leading the castle boundaries.
She screamed at the same time thunder boomed across the sky. This day would not bloody end.
The others had ducked, clutching their ears or heads. She ignored them, seeing nothing but this one last Russian, preventing her from getting out of the castle, preventing her from playing in the World Cup, preventing her from taking a bloody bath.
She seized him by the robes for what would be the last time. He let out a gurgled scream that melted in his throat as she pulled him towards the side of the bridge. She did not know where this brute strength had come from but she let it wash over her, driving her actions surer than Mars driving his chariot into battle.
He was already dead by the time she hoisted him over the edge and pushed him down into the moat. The white light that seemed to be floating everywhere had taken care of that. She leaned over and peered down at the moat. Lightning illuminated the sky to allow her to watch his body hit the water with a rather clean splash. The water foamed and parted as though it was a deity, pleased she had offered a sacrifice to it. She watched a ghastly beast covered in scales and with teeth longer than her forearm leap from the water and tear the Russian’s body in half. Scarlet blood turned the gray water a midnight black before darkness descended.
Thunder cracked, followed by a long silence. Natalie looked over to find the others gawking down at the water, except for Voldemort. He stared directly at her. She turned and faced the end of the bridge. Beyond it stood the treeline that led to the village — and a bath.
“Natalie-” she heard Voldemort’s warning voice but she ignored it for the umpteenth time that day and launched herself off the bridge.
She landed with a decidedly non-magical splat in the mud on the other side.