Augustus Dolohov - Triwizard Tournament

Morana shifted on the charred fence post, her talons scraping wood as her head tilted, one gleaming black eye fixed on him. She croaked, a low rasp that carried more judgment than most words ever could.

“I do not need a sermon,” Augustus muttered, crouched low in the grass. His knuckles tightened on the wand as he breathed in the smoke-heavy air. “Not from you, Featherbrain.”

The raven gave a throaty kraa and spread her wings in agitation. She fluttered down, striking his shoulder with the edge of one wing, sharp enough to sting.

He hissed at the contact and swatted her away with the back of his hand. “Enough. You will ruin everything.”

Morana croaked again, a sound like a curse, and then beat her wings, rising into the haze. She circled once above him before melting into the smoke, leaving only the whisper of feathers and the sting of her judgment.

The silence she left behind made his chest feel tight. Augustus ground his teeth. No bird, no conscience, was going to decide this for him.

The air stank of dragonfire, burning grass, and the iron tang of risk. He kept to the shadows at the edge of the enclosure, where torchlight did not reach, every muscle taut with anticipation. Hogwarts always reeked of false safety. Too many rules, too many pampered children chasing glory in games, while he lived in the grit beneath it all.

Through the shifting smoke, Cedric Diggory danced into view. Golden boy Cedric, with his neat hair and easy smile. The Labrador he had conjured barked and bounded, all wagging tail and bright distraction, holding the Short-Snout’s attention long enough for him to lunge for the egg. Augustus’s lip curled. All show, all charm, never any consequence. The crowd would cheer him no matter how he won.

But Augustus was not here for cheers. He was here for Krum.

His pulse throbbed at his temples. Krum was strength, Krum was precision. He deserved more than the fickle whims of fate. Augustus would make sure of it.

He whispered the counter-spell under his breath, wand tip glowing faintly in his grip. One flick, and the Labrador would be nothing more than stone again. The dragon would turn, the boy would stumble, the egg would tumble out of reach. He could see it already. The sweat dripping down Cedric’s neck, his golden-boy mask stripped away, the crowd gasping as their darling faltered. The thought made Augustus’s mouth curve into something sharp, almost hungry.

Augustus stilled intuitively. The brittle snap of a step on dry grass reached his ears. His breath caught in his chest. Someone was here.

“Bloody hell,” he spat, lowering his wand a fraction. His gaze sliced into the shadows until he saw the figure. Not Karkaroff. Not Krum. Someone else.

He rose from his crouch slowly, straightening his spine, masking unease with a sneer. “You picked the wrong place to wander,” he said, voice low, edged with danger.

The roar of dragonfire shook the enclosure, but the silence between them pressed hotter against his skin, charged and suffocating. His grip on the wand tightened until his knuckles ached. One word from them, one scream, and everything would unravel.

But he did not wait for their answer. His wrist snapped, wand lifting, intent sharp as a blade. Better to silence them now, better to cut away the risk before it grew.

But then there was a rush of wings and a furious cry.

Morana struck him hard across the back of his head, the whip of feathers sharp and humiliating. Her claws raked his sleeve as she veered past, forcing him to stumble and break his spell. Her croak rang shrill, scolding, as if she would not allow him to take this step.

Augustus snarled, eyes flashing upward. “Traitorous bird,” he hissed through his teeth, though his grip faltered. He could feel her judgment heavy as stone pressing against the dark hunger that had urged him forward.