DATE: 11 September, 1944 LOCATION: The Grounds / The Quidditch Pitch AVAILABILITY: Open to all.
He had always been quite addicted to the feeling of adrenaline - in all its forms, it was a drug of which he could not get enough. Of course he was indulgent in all things decadent, but there was nothing more so than the feeling of blood pumping, heart racing, head spinning; the thrill of the chase gave him cause - and if not the chase of the hunt, then that of the greatest sport known to wizard-kind. One would not look upon Antonin Dolohov and think of Quidditch, but his father had put him on a broom before he knew to walk - or so he liked to claim. His skill had been apparent upon arriving at Hogwarts; there had never been a question in his mind that he’d be handed a position on the team, nor had there been a question that he would excel. Antonin excelled in all things - his proficiency at the sport was no exception.
A braggart by nature, he could not help but hold his head a bit higher, shoulders a bit straighter, chest a bit stronger as he emerged from (yet another) successful practice, hair wet and tousled from a quick shower and robes hanging half-undone upon unashamed musculature. The high was something akin to sex - satisfaction tasted quite similar when it was as good as it was with he (and it was always good with Antonin). If ever there was superiority personified, it was here, now, slinging a leather pack over his shoulder and emerging from the Slytherin locker room with smirk upon his face. Each step was propelled by an adrenaline high; the cool fall air did nothing to dampen the flame beneath his ribs, but rather stoked the embers and made him strong.
All he’d need to complete the trifecta of thrill, adrenaline, and violence would be to hit something, he thought, with the smug satisfaction of assured victory. Were he a Beater, there would be no Gryffindors left come Sunday; perhaps he’d hit something else.
But, of course, the search for such bloody thrill had been what had damned him to begin with. Conscience, however, had never been his guide.
His shoulder bumped another as he stepped full into the night air, abandoning the quiet darkness of the locker room, for his mind remained upon the pitch; eyes wheeled, self-indulgent smirk turned to a toothy snarl of a smile. “Come for another show?” he snapped, at present not caring to whom he spoke, “If you wanted to touch, all you had to do was ask.” His tone toed the line between confrontation and seduction, as it so often did - it would take just the slightest touch to give a push.











