I Told You So
The next thing Natalie knew, she was standing, dripping wet and covered in mud, in a room full of people that reeked of cigars. Her grandmother appeared and nearly suffocated her in a hug as the room erupted with noise and the floor seemed to pretend an earthquake was happening.
“Ow,” she mumbled and Domitia pulled back, patting her face, her shoulders, her arms- “ow!”
“Fabienne!” Domitia was then calling across the room. It was Tiberius’s and Abraxas’s turn to bombard her. She watched their mouths move and their eyes flash and did not hear a word. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Two men she vaguely recognized as the Swiss and Finnish Ministers were yelling at each other, both with wild gestures and spittle flying from their mouths. Rabastan Lestrange and Seamus Dawson were fussing over their sons, who both seemed to be acting very demure in the presence of their fathers. Lloyd Avery and Jonathan Shaw were pestering Rosier, who was showing off his missing teeth. Giles Morrison was listening to a smug Antonin Dolohov. Ian Rowle was interrogating Nott, who couldn’t explain what had happened fast enough to his grandfather. Jack Lament took one look at her and fainted. Nobody seemed to notice. For some reason, there was a goblin sitting in the middle of the table. The goblin was the only one not speaking. Instead, he was grinning at her as though Christmas had come early. Mulciber was trying to speak to Matt Lament, but Matt could do nothing but stare at her. She met his eyes and he paled.
The floor buckled under her feet. A hand gripped her shoulder. She looked to find Tom Riddle. He said something she didn’t hear.
“Need a bath,” she wasn’t sure if she said the words aloud or not. The quiet hallway beckoned to her. She let her bare feet carry her down the hall and up the stairs, clinging onto the bannister and betting on a bathroom being upstairs.
She bet right. Teetering into the room, she found her wand still clutched in her hand. With a flick, the enormous, claw-footed porcelain tub began to fill with sweet-smelling soap and warm water. Before she could strip off her filthy robes, a loud coughing made her pause. Voldemort, Abraxas, and Tiberius stood in the doorway.
“Bloody hell, turn around at least!” she snapped. They did so with a few laughs. Another flick of her wand and she slipped into the tub full of bubbles, naked save for the ring on a chain around her neck. The water embraced her sore body like a magical salve. She lay there for a few minutes, soaking in the delicious warmth and feeling her muscles loosen before ducking her head completely under the water. She didn’t resurface until her lungs burned.
Resting her head against the side of the tub, she decided there were enough bubbles to maintain some level of decency.
“Come in,” she called.
The three shuffled into the bathroom. Tiberius must have had it magically expanded to mimic the ones at the Manor. There was a Malfoy family crest, a Triple I logo, and an English team poster adorning the walls.
“You’re in my bathtub,” Tiberius said lightly. He leaned against the sink, the nub of a cigar still between his lips. Voldemort conjured a chair for himself at the end of the tub and sat down as though he had no intentions of leaving anytime soon. Abraxas conjured his own chair and handed Voldemort a cigar.
Natalie stared at the gray-eyed logo of the Malfoy family company until it blinked at her. “Jubbal’s dead,” she began.
Abraxas coughed out a cloud of smoke. “What the fuck does that have to do-”
“Abraxas,” Tiberius sighed as though his son’s foul language was the most upsetting thing that had happened all day.
Natalie looked to Voldemort. He nodded and stuck the unlit cigar between his teeth. In a detached voice, like he was some muggle financial broker explaining the basics of stock prices, he began recounting the events of the day. Tiberius listened in silence. Abraxas coughed on smoke or mumbled something when appropriate. Most of the story was as new to her as it was to them. She sat in the tub, occasionally scrubbing at her hair and body, listening intently to what sounded like an outrageous adventure.
When he arrived at the part that she came in, he conveniently forgot about his horcrux and paused to light the cigar. She took it as her cue to chime in. Tiberius demanded details on everything she could remember after drinking the coffee that Hans, or who she thought was Hans, had given her. She grudgingly mumbled through the bits concerning Solokov running his hands over her, which had all three of them tense and made sparks shoot out of Voldemort’s wand without him realizing it.
Domitia and Fabienne entered shortly after that while Voldemort explained how they had stumbled upon using a house-elf to apparate the players out of the castle. She quickly interjected to add that two of the Finnish players were already out. Rabastan Lestrange, Ian Rowle, and Seamus Dawson stepped into the room as Voldemort smoothly finished the tale, glossing over the more gruesome parts that mostly involved her killing Russians, including how she threw the Russian leader into the moat.
Natalie filled the tub with more bubbles, seeing as the room was now bursting with people, all of whom seemed to find her exceedingly interesting to stare at. The room was thick with silver cigar smoke. She heard nothing but the soft lapping of the water in the tub before Tiberius finally cleared his throat.
“So, I take it it is — safe — to assume that all of these Russians have been. . . neutralized.”
Voldemort blew out a cloud of smoke. “Yes.”
“Good,” announced Domitia. But Natalie straightened up enough to slosh water over the edges of the tub without exposing herself to the entire room.
“Matt Lament sold us out!” she snarled. The door creaked open again and the two men who she believed were the Swiss and Finnish Ministers curiously peeked in.
“What?” exclaimed Rabastan. Seamus Dawson’s eyebrows twitched and nothing more. But Tiberius had dropped the remains of his cigar, and Natalie jumped to explain.
“He sold us out! Who else would know all about the security and layout of the castle? And he’s on the ICWQC too, so he had inside information about the Cup! The Russians knew the design of the castle, they knew about me — why would they use Excerebratus Parasitus on me but only stun the other players? Matt’s the one who picked the Aurors out too! Why would he assign inexperienced Aurors to us? And I saw Matt in the castle with Hans’s hat-”
“Natalie!” Domitia barked and she snapped her jaw shut — she was raving in front of some of the most powerful men in the wizarding world. The foreign Ministers were gaping at her. Ian Rowle looked deep in thought but Seamus Dawson had a shrewd smile on his face.
“He betrayed us,” she mumbled and dropped her head back against the tub. But she quickly lifted it again. “Get the rest of my team out.”
Tiberius shared a look with Rabastan Lestrange before clapping his hands. Half a dozen house-elves appeared in the crowded room, squeaking their confusion.
“I suppose I ought to thank Lars for lending me the elves,” Tiberius admitted. One of the foreign Ministers near the door gave a little bow.
“Glad to be of service,” he said, eyes on Natalie. She stared at him until he looked away, blushing. She shared a glance with Voldemort, who smirked with only his eyes.
Tiberius instructed the elves to retrieve the remaining members of both teams and the Aurors. The elves vanished with small pops. Tiberius cleared his throat and looked round the bathroom.
“We should stop being so terribly rude and allow my niece some privacy,” he said.
“Yes, please,” she sighed and closed her eyes. Though she pointed across the tub to where she knew Voldemort still sat. “Save you.”
Someone chuckled and Domitia made a soft tutting noise. Fabienne said something about injuries, but Voldemort gave her a smooth reply that seemed to reassure her.
“We ought to go explain this to the teams ourselves,” Tiberius mentioned several people by name, including Rabastan, Ian, and Seamus. There was a murmur of assent and a lot of shuffling towards the door.
Natalie finally opened her eyes when silence fell. The room was empty, save for Voldemort, who remained in his chair, lazily blowing smoke rings in her direction. She sighed, knowing exactly what was about to come out of his mouth.
“I told you so.”
She scowled and dipped herself under the water again until she needed to come up for air.
“I told you so,” he repeated smugly as she wiped water from her eyes. “I told you so.”
“I get it!” she snapped.
“I had a feeling,” he continued.
“Your precious little bad feeling,” she muttered.
“Which turned out to be right.”
“You didn’t know what would happen in advance so the feeling alone was useless,” she argued.
“I told you it was about Quidditch,” he smirked and kicked his feet up on the edge of the tub.
“This was about Triple I! Quidditch was hardly involved.”
He gestured around the bathroom. “Everyone is in this boring town because of Quidditch.”
She glared at him, about to snap a response when there was a sharp rapping on the door. It opened before she could tell whoever it was to fuck off.
The goblin she had seen downstairs stood in the doorway. She finally recognized him.
“Kregmar,” she said the name of the goblin she had met when she signed her first contract with Gringotts months ago.
“Miss Malfoy,” he gave her a squat little bow. Voldemort removed his feet from the tub and straightened, narrowing his eyes at the goblin. She knew what he was feeling. Kregmar gave off the distinct energy that he was not to be trusted, more so than any goblin.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Been here all morning,” Kregmar grunted as though this was somehow her fault. “I came to see if Gringotts would be losing any gold.”
“Why would-” she stopped herself, recalling the stipulation within her contract that entitled Gringotts to a percentage of her World Cup winnings, and then a percentage of her winnings for the rest of her Quidditch career. “Oh.”
“Yes,” he bared his teeth and came far too close to the tub for her liking. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Voldemort’s wand drift over his knee. When Kregmar tried to take another step further, it was as though he’d walked straight into a solid wall. He grunted and stepped back, rubbing his beaky nose and pretending as though he had not been trying to get as close to the tub as possible.
“The Russians demanded one hundred million Galleons from us,” Kregmar hissed, “that or your life.”
She stared at the crook in his nose. “Okay.”
He did not seem pleased by her lack of reaction. “I’ve come to see if Gringotts can still expect you to be as lucrative an asset as you were when you first signed your contract.”
She laughed, it made sense now. “I’ve every intention of winning the Cup in two days — and continuing with my Quidditch career.”
“Excellent,” Kregmar showed his pointy teeth in a smile. “Gringotts is not in the habit of maintaining contracts with assets it views as. . . finicky.”
It was a thinly veiled threat. Natalie nearly bit her tongue. She did not want to explode on the goblin. Goblins were finicky themselves. Snarling a threat back would only cause more problems.
“Thank you, Kregmar,” she droned, contemplating jumping out of the bath fully naked. Perhaps that would entice him to finally leave. At the very least, he would see that she was not so injured as to be unable to play in the World Cup. “Is there anything else or might I be able to finally take a bath in peace?”
“That is all, Miss Malfoy,” he bowed to her again. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
She remained silent as he stalked out of the bathroom without closing the door behind him. She waited to see if anyone else felt the need to intrude before looking over at Voldemort. He closed and locked the door with a wave of his wand.
“I believe I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted,” he said in a silky voice, “that I told you so?”
“I thought we were discussing how much of an irritating bastard you are.”
“It’s an impossible feat, to be more irritating than you are.” He leaned forward, holding the cigar out.
“I don’t smoke,” she said. “Dent doesn’t like-”
“Be quiet and try it.”
With a scowl, she snatched the cigar and fumbled through taking a drag. Almost instantly, her muscles loosened, even more so than the warm water had, and her head slumped back against the tub.
“Bloody hell,” she sighed.
“They’re infused with a less potent version of a Draught of Peace,” he smirked and grabbed the cigar back before it slipped through her fingers.
“You’re still an irritating bastard,” she hummed and began combing through her hair. Hands running up to her scalp to find the spot where a chunk of her hair had been roughly shorn off. The spot was still tender. It burned as she touched the area and she swore, pulling her hand back to see red on her fingers. In fact, the red trailed down her entire arm. . . she swore again. She had forgotten to heal the wound on her arm.
“You healed everyone but yourself?” Voldemort’s voice was accusatory.
“I was busy,” she muttered and laid a hand on her bleeding scalp, focusing her energy. She watched the reflection of the white light in Voldemort’s eyes, feeling a warm tingling run over her head. When she removed her hand, his eyes narrowed.
“There’s a scar,” he said slowly, raising an eyebrow as she understood what this meant.
“Solokov’s knife was bloody cursed,” she swore again, looking at her bleeding arm this time. She repeated the process, running a hand over her inner left forearm. The wound healed — but left a jagged white scar along her skin. She swore for the umpteenth time.
A knock on the door jolted her from her thoughts.
“Who the fuck could that be?” she wondered aloud — and they both heard a familiar chuckle from outside the door. She met Tom’s eyes. He had grown rigid, Draught of Peace cigar forgotten.
“Open the door,” she breathed, rested her head against the edge of the tub and then added, “please.”
He stiffly stood and crossed the bathroom. Natalie conjured more bubbles in the tub, wondering why everyone felt the need to interrupt her bath. Voldemort unlocked and opened the door without magic and with a polite murmur of “hello, Professor.”
Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, wearing a long maroon cloak with an English flag pinned on the left breast. Natalie couldn’t help but laugh.
“Hello, Professor,” she said, raising a hand above the bubbles in greeting.
“Hello, Natalie,” he said as though they were out for tea somewhere. She wanted to laugh again. This day was absurd. Voldemort returned to his chair, leaning an elbow on the tub, his wand loose across his lap. If it was a threat, Dumbledore didn’t seem to notice. He took a seat in the chair Abraxas had sat in earlier.
“I met Tiberius in the town just now,” Dumbledore explained in a light voice. “Along with Lars, Aleksi, Rabastan, and Seamus.”
Natalie smiled. “I assume they filled you in on. . . um, the events of the day.”
“They did indeed,” he replied, blue eyes twinkling behind his half moon glasses. He looked between her and Voldemort, almost with amusement. “I daresay it’s been an interesting day for everyone.”
“Very,” she sighed.
“When I decided to have breakfast from the Mountain Skies Café this morning, I hadn’t realized how strange the day would become,” he continued. At the mention of breakfast, Natalie’s stomach let out a loud grumble. She swore under her breath — she hadn’t eaten all day.
Dumbledore chuckled. “I won’t delay your own breakfast — or bath — any longer. Tiberius mentioned you had an encounter with Excerebratus Parasitus.”
Natalie wanted to share a look at Tom but avoided doing so. She could feel his eyes on her.
“I did,” she said. “It wasn’t. . . wasn’t fun.”
“Neither was my own experience,” Dumbledore smiled. She lifted her head off the edge of the tub and stared at him.
“Did you — how did you — when?”
“Some years back,” he said, “I was passing through a jungle village in the Southeast of Asia. I found the villagers remarkably pleasant. Unfortunately, it was too late before I realized I ought to have been slightly more. . . wary. . . of their dining habits with foreign guests.”
“And. . . how did you — how did you get it out of you?” she asked.
“The Imperius Curse,” he said lightly.
“What?!” she exclaimed, nearly sitting all the way up in the tub. Water splattered over the edges and onto the floor.
“Yes,” Dumbledore said, “I wasn’t much older than you. I was told that Dark magic could be repelled with Dark magic. I had my. . . companion. . . put me under the Imperius Curse.”
“And — and then what?”
“Well, we did the first thing that came to mind when you eat something that doesn’t, ah, sit well. We used the Imperius Curse to force myself to regurgitate it, despite being on the edge of unconsciousness.”
Natalie finally looked over at Voldemort, giving him an accusatory glare. He shrugged, spreading his hands as though to explain that he had no other options.
“And it worked?” she asked, not removing her gaze from Voldemort.
“Only just,” replied Dumbledore. He gave an involuntary shudder. “Struggling with it lasted hours. Of course, it didn’t help that my mind kept throwing off the Imperius Curse.”
Voldemort’s face turned victorious. He grinned at her like a cat over a bowl of fresh cream, viciously pleased he had solved a problem in much less time than Dumbledore had.
“The Russians had modified this one,” Tom finally spoke up. He kept his voice polite, but Natalie could hear the thread of triumph within it. “They seemed to be able to control it from inside her using spells.”
She reluctantly nodded in agreement to this statement, recalling the Russian’s confusion when his spell sent nothing but a puff of air racing past her, and then a murkier memory of the same Russian pointing his wand at her and everything going black.
Dumbledore made an intrigued sound. “Tiberius wasn’t detailed, which is why I offered my. . . experience. . . .”
She anticipated his following question. “We got it out of me.” She looked directly at Voldemort and raised her eyebrows.
“We used the Cruciatus Curse,” Tom emphasized the plural we, as though it had also been her idea. “To. . . remarkably quick effect.”
Natalie half-expected Dumbledore to frown over the usage of the Unforgivable Curse. Instead, he made the same intrigued sound as before and gave Tom a rather piercing look until he looked away.
“That possibility had not occurred to myself back then.”
“So,” she spoke to Dumbledore but eyed Voldemort. His jaw was clenched and his eyes bored holes into the floor. “Should I expect any side effects?”
“I can’t speak for the Russians’ modification, but I was overwhelmed by extreme dehydration for several days.”
Natalie looked back at Dumbledore. He gave her the same piercing look he had given Tom. She dropped her gaze immediately and he continued speaking.
“And I was quite unable to eat any food I had not thoroughly inspected. It was a rather miserable experience for several months after.”
“Brilliant,” she tried to dim the sarcasm but failed. “Well, I doubt I can play in the World Cup dehydrated and underfed. . . .”
Thankfully, Dumbledore took it as his cue to leave. He stood in a twirl of maroon cloak, nodded to Tom, and then to her.
“I’d recommend a Hydrating Potion. And do write to me of any lingering side effects,” he said, “I’ve a rather morbid fascination with Excerebratus Parasitus since my own run in with it.”
She promised she would. He stepped out of the bathroom and had the decency to close the door behind him. They heard him whistling on his way down the stairs. She only had a chance to share a look with Voldemort before loud footsteps and panicked breathing carried up the stairs.
“Oh, bloody hell,” she groaned, knowing exactly who was about to burst into the room next.
“Who-” Voldemort began to ask but the door flew open and Eugene Dent stood in the doorway, hair askew and eyes wild. Voldemort casually moved his chair from the end of the tub to the side, placing himself in between her and Dent. He draped an arm along the edge of the tub in a clear display of possession.
Dent didn’t even seem to notice Voldemort was in the room. His gaze landed on her and he exhaled as though he’d been holding in a breath for a long time.
“I tried to stop him but he insisted on sprinting across the town to see you,” Abraxas called from the hallway.
“Thanks,” she called back as Dent threw himself into the seat Dumbledore had just been in.
“What in fuck’s sake is happening?” he exploded.
Natalie sighed and began combing through her hair again. “The Ministers didn’t tell you?”
“No, they did alright. Apparently we’ve all been held hostage by a group of bloody Russians!”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“So what happened to you?” he demanded. “We all woke up in town, but they said you were here.”
“And they didn’t bother adding in that I’m trying to take a bath,” she muttered, making Voldemort snort. Dent didn’t seem to hear. He pointed at the scar on her left forearm.
“What happened to you?” he repeated, his voice rising in panic. He stood up as though to see her better, then finally seemed to realize she was naked in a bathtub. He turned bright red and took a few steps back.
“Had a bit of a run in with the Russsians,” she casually said, studying the scar. “If we win the Cup, I’ll get a tattoo, how about that?”
“If we win — are you even able to play?” he barked, “you look — you look-”
“Like I just ate death?” she asked.
He blinked and then nodded. “Yeah, actually, that’s exactly what you look like.”
“I’ll be fine to play,” she assured him.
Dent did not look convinced.
“If you want to help instead of yelling at me, get me a Hydrating Potion, a Blood-Replenishing Potion, a Pepper-Up Potion, and some goddamn breakfast!” she snapped. Her stomach growled painfully, making her wince.
“It’s nearly dinner-”
“And I haven’t eaten breakfast yet!” she yelled and the water in the tub started frothing, soap bubbles bursting in the air. Voldemort gave her a sharp look but she sprang to her feet in the tub, conjuring a large towel to wrap around her — but not without giving both of them a glimpse of her naked body. Dent’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Voldemort just sighed.
“Really?”
She glared. “I’m going to that bloody café.”
She did not go to that bloody café. After finding something more appropriate to wear than a towel, Abraxas informed her that both she and Dent were needed at the house where the rest of the players were.
Natalie had very much wanted to stamp her foot and throw a tantrum. She felt she deserved at least that. But Abraxas had handed her several vials of potion, and he, Voldemort and Dent collectively managed to force them down her throat. She immediately felt much better. Her raging thirst and the headache she wasn’t even aware she had vanished. Her hunger, however, remained.
She ended up trudging through the rain to the house that had usually hosted uproarious parties, flanked by Dent and Tom and leaving Abraxas to squabble with Kregmar.
The house was almost as full as it had been during a party. Both Quidditch teams occupied the front room, wrapped in blankets and huddled on the couches. It was obvious they were simply confused, rather than injured, a fact which Natalie found herself bitterly envious of for a moment. None of the other Quidditch players had been tricked into consuming a magical parasite.
Melania was handing out cups of tea to the teams, ignoring their goggling. The Aurors who had been in the castle clustered in the kitchen, looking shell-shocked while Fabienne Lestrange tended to the few injuries among them. Natalie noticed Reginald Harlowe was missing an entire arm and counted herself lucky to have retained all limbs throughout the course of the day. Pamela Selwyn and Quinn Bulstrode were doting over Nott and Rosier, who were quietly recounting their epic tales. Savanna Rowle and Adolphus Lestrange were nowhere to be seen. Dolohov stood at Tiberius’s elbow. The Minister of Magic, along with the Swiss and Finnish Minister, Seamus Dawson, Rabastan Lestrange, Ian Rowle, and Matt Lament were explaining what had happened in Lauterbrunnen that day to the teams and Aurors. It sounded like a very censored version.
Natalie elected to stay near the door, unwilling to attract the entire room’s attention to her as Tiberius finished up with whatever rubbish he had concocted. But several glances were shot her way. Leonard Cadwallader’s jaw dropped. Melania smiled in relief. Harlowe muttered something under his breath. Moody gave her a little wave. Selwyn said something to Bulstrode that sounded like “I knew it.” Dolohov ambled over to lean against the wall near her, Dent and Tom, who had both remained at her side. She found herself glad for it — because she could not tear her eyes away from Matt Lament, suddenly feeling threatened despite being in the midst of so many people. He had sold them out. She knew it. But she couldn’t prove it.
“You can’t possibly expect to keep this quiet, Ministers,” Lassila was saying. The Finnish captain gestured around the room. “This many people already know it. The whole town will know by tonight.”
“We can try,” the Swiss Minister said grimly. None of the other Ministers looked convinced.
“We can, at the very least, wait to make an official statement until after the World Cup,” said Tiberius.
“Well, I’m not going back to that ruddy castle where I’m woken up before the sun just to get Stunned,” announced Ricky Webster.
“You won’t be,” said Matt Lament. Natalie tensed at his voice, it sounded strained, not at all like his buoyant self. Voldemort grabbed her hand and squeezed it so tight, her racing thoughts about how Matt had betrayed them vanished.
“Ow,” she growled.
“Calm down,” he hissed. “Not the time to explode.”
She huffed in annoyance. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him as Matt continued speaking.
“You’ll be staying here for now,” he said.
Lassila looked shocked. “Here?!”
“That’s alright by me,” Ricky said eagerly, winking at Melania as she poured him a cup of tea. Melania pretended not to notice. Most of the Finnish team seemed onboard with the idea as well, throwing glances at Pamela and Quinn who had volunteered to help Fabienne with the Aurors. Natalie assumed Nott and Rosier had disappeared to take much needed showers.
“The house will be expanded, of course,” Tiberius explained. “We’ll have Aurors as well as some additional staff from my Ministry as security-”
Dolohov leaned over to whisper. “That’s me.”
“I feel so safe,” she replied with heavy sarcasm but knew full well that so long as she was conscious, she would murder anyone who merely looked at the Quidditch teams. The World Cup would not be ruined on her watch.
Tiberius continued, “this location is. . . random enough that your presence shouldn’t be suspected until we can come to a decision about the upcoming World Cup.”
“Wait,” Lassila knitted his eyebrows together, sharing a look with his teammates. “Aren’t we still playing the match? It’s the day after tomorrow.”
For a moment, the group at the center of the house hesitated. Seamus Dawson shrugged. The Swiss Minister growled something about money. The Finnish Minister let out a strangled laugh. Tiberius and Rabastan exchanged a look. Ian Rowle wandered over to his Aurors. Matt Lament finally spoke.
“I think. . . given the. . . unexpected circumstances we are in. . . if both teams came to some sort of. . . agreement over whether or not they wanted to play-”
Dent cleared his throat loud enough to silence the whole room. He remained leaning against the wall beside Natalie, even inching closer to her, but glared around at every individual present. He finally locked eyes on Lassila and they seemed to communicate something. Lassila nodded and Dent looked between Matt Lament and the three countries’ Ministers.
“The match is on.”