## Part Seven: The Mist Beast
The sixth circle flared. The symbol was a cloud.
Round Six: Mist Beast.
The creature that materialized was not solid—a shapeless mass of grey mist, with two glowing red eyes. It drifted toward Dolohov, cold, silent. The Mist Beast could not be harmed by physical spells; it fed on fear and despair, weakening its victims until they collapsed.
Dolohov raised his wand and cast a Patronus. He had never been good at the charm, but he had practiced. Silver mist emerged from his wand—not a corporeal form, but a shield. The Mist Beast recoiled, but did not retreat.
He needed a stronger memory. He thought of the day he had been chosen as champion, the roar of the crowd, the pride in his father's eyes. He thought of the moment he had first held a wand, the surge of power, the certainty that he was meant for greatness.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The silver mist coalesced into a wolf—not a lion, not a stag, but a wolf, grey and fierce. It charged the Mist Beast, and the creature dissolved.
"Round six! Antonin Dolohov has cast a corporeal Patronus—a wolf! He has banished the Mist Beast!"
The Durmstrang section wept.
---
## Part Eight: The Erlkönig
The seventh circle flared. The symbol was a crowned figure with a staff.
Round Seven: Erlkönig.
The figure that materialized was an elf-like creature, tall and gaunt, with long fingers and a crown of twisted branches. It was an Erlkönig, a dark fae from German folklore, capable of casting curses that aged its victims decades in seconds.
The Erlkönig raised its hand, and Dolohov felt his strength drain. His skin wrinkled, his hair greyed. He was aging, fast.
He raised his wand and cast a counterspell—a spell of preservation, of holding back time. It slowed the aging, but did not stop it.
He needed to kill the Erlkönig. He cast a Blasting Curse, but the creature deflected it. He cast a Severing Charm, but the Erlkönig vanished and reappeared behind him.
The creature was too fast.
Dolohov closed his eyes. He stopped trying to track it. He cast a wide-area fire charm—a ring of flame that expanded in all directions. The Erlkönig screamed as the fire caught its robes. It stumbled, and Dolohov cast a Killing Curse.
The green light struck the creature's chest, and it dissolved.
"Round seven! Antonin Dolohov has defeated the Erlkönig! He has aged ten years—his hair is grey, his face lined—but he is still standing!"
He looked older, weaker, but he walked to the eighth circle.
---
## Part Nine: The Basilisk's Shadow
The eighth circle flared. The symbol was a serpent's eye.
Round Eight: Basilisk Shadow.
The creature that materialized was not a full basilisk—that would have been impossible. It was a shadow, a construct of dark magic shaped like a giant serpent, its eyes covered to prevent instant death. But its bite was still venomous, its coils still crushing.
The Basilisk Shadow lunged. Dolohov dodged, but his aged body was slow. The serpent's tail caught his legs, sweeping him off his feet. He fell, and the creature coiled around him, squeezing.
He could not breathe. His ribs cracked. His wand was pinned against his chest.
He cast a fire charm—not at the serpent, but at himself. The flames erupted around him, burning his robes, his skin, but also the serpent. The creature shrieked, loosening its coils. Dolohov rolled free, gasping.
He raised his wand and cast a Severing Charm at the serpent's head. The construct dissolved.
"Round eight! Antonin Dolohov has defeated the Basilisk Shadow! He is burned, aged, broken—but he is still standing!"
He was not standing. He was on his knees, his breath ragged, his wand shaking in his hand.
... The ninth circle flared. The symbol was a skull.
Round Nine: The Dementor Lord.
The creature that materialized was a Dementor—not an ordinary one, but a Dementor Lord, taller, more powerful, its presence sucking the warmth from the arena. It glided toward Dolohov, its bony hand reaching.
Dolohov raised his wand to cast a Patronus, but his strength was gone. The silver mist that emerged was thin, formless, barely there. The Dementor Lord brushed it aside.
It reached for his face.
Dolohov thought of his mother, who had died when he was young. He thought of his father, who had never hugged him. He thought of the loneliness of his childhood, the endless training, the pressure to be perfect.
He had no happy memories left.
The Dementor Lord's hand touched his forehead.
Dolohov collapsed.
---
## The Death
The crowd screamed.
It was not a cheer. It was not a gasp. It was a raw, primal sound—thousands of voices rising in a single, terrified wail. The sound echoed off the black stone of the arena, amplified by the enchanted acoustics, becoming a wall of noise that seemed to shake the very foundations of Hogwarts.
Barnaby Fingle's voice, amplified though it was, could barely be heard over the din. "The Dementor Lord has taken—has taken—I cannot—"
He stopped. His microphone went silent. The crowd heard only themselves, screaming.
In the Durmstrang section, the students had risen as one. Their crimson banners, which had waved so proudly, hung limp. Their faces were masks of horror. Some were crying. Some were shouting. Some were simply staring, their mouths open, their eyes fixed on the crumpled figure on the arena floor.
Katerina Volkov ran to the barrier. She pressed her hands against the enchanted glass, her knuckles white, her face contorted. "Antonin!" she screamed. "Antonin!"
But there was no answer. There would never be an answer.
In the Beauxbatons section, Colette's classmates covered their mouths with their hands. Some turned away, unable to watch. Others wept openly. The song they had been singing for their fallen champion died in their throats.
The Hogwarts students sat in stunned silence. They had known Dolohov only as a rival, a competitor, a cold and distant figure. But he was a student, like them. He was seventeen years old. And he was dead.
On the judges' platform, Headmaster Black had gone pale. His usual sneer was gone, replaced by something that looked almost like fear. Beside him, Headmistress Delacour of Beauxbatons had her hand over her heart. Headmaster Ivanov of Durmstrang sat motionless, his face carved from stone, his eyes fixed on the body of his champion.
Professor Marchbanks was already on her feet, shouting instructions to the mediwizards. Professor Merrythought was rushing toward the arena. Professor Dumbledore stood apart, his face unreadable, his eyes sad.
The mediwizards reached Dolohov's body. They knelt beside him, casting diagnostic spells, checking for signs of life. The crowd watched in silence, hoping against hope for a miracle.
The lead mediwizard looked up. She shook her head.
A wail went up from the Durmstrang section—a sound of pure grief, raw and uncontained. Students fell to their knees. Banners were torn. The rhythmic stomping that had celebrated Dolohov's entry was replaced by the shuffle of feet, the rustle of robes, the sound of tears.
Barnaby Fingle's voice returned, hoarse, broken. "Antonin Dolohov... the Durmstrang champion... is dead. The Dementor Lord has taken his soul. There is... there is no bringing him back."
The crowd absorbed this in silence. The enormity of it settled over them like a physical weight. A student was dead. A champion was dead. The tournament, which had seemed so exciting, so glorious, so full of promise, had revealed its true nature.
---
## The Aftermath
The mediwizards covered Dolohov's body with a crimson shroud. They carried him off the arena on a stretcher, his head lolling, his hands cold. The Durmstrang students followed, their steps slow, their heads bowed. Katerina Volkov walked beside the stretcher, her hand on the shroud, her face wet with tears.
The crowd did not applaud. They did not cheer. They simply watched.
Barnaby Fingle spoke again, his voice subdued. "The tournament will... will continue. One champion remains. Edmund Prince of Hogwarts will now enter the Gauntlet. But... but we ask for a moment of silence. For Antonin Dolohov. For the fallen champion."
The arena fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause. Students bowed their heads. Professors removed their hats. The flags of the three schools were lowered to half-mast.
The silence lasted a full minute. It was broken only by the sound of weeping from the Durmstrang section.
Then Fingle spoke again. "Edmund Prince... please step forward."
---
## The Weight of the Moment
Edmund stood at the champions' entrance, his wand in his hand, his face pale. He had watched Colette surrender, battered and bleeding but alive. He had watched Dolohov die—his soul taken, his body crumpled, his life extinguished.
He thought of the first task, the Griffin, the egg. He thought of the second task, the riddle, the stone. He thought of the third task, the Gauntlet, the Patronus. He thought of the fourth task, the Circle of Endurance, the exhaustion. He thought of the fifth task, the poison, the blood. He thought of the sixth task, the runes, the numbers. He thought of the trial, the seven gates, the legacy.
He had trained for this. He had prepared for this. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of a seventeen-year-old boy, cold and still, covered in a crimson shroud.
He stepped into the arena.
The crowd watched him in silence. There were no cheers, no banners, no stomping boots. There was only the weight of the moment, the knowledge that he was about to face the same Gauntlet that had killed Dolohov.
He looked at the ten circles. The ninth circle was still dark, its symbol faded. The tenth circle, the final one, glowed with a faint, golden light. The Triwizard Cup waited beyond it.
He raised his wand.
Barnaby Fingle's voice was barely a whisper. "Edmund Prince of Hogwarts... the final champion... will now face the Gauntlet."
The first circle flared.
Edmund walked forward.
---