The morning of the fifteenth of February dawned grey and bitter cold, but the chill did nothing to dampen the excitement that crackled through Hogwarts like wildfire. By seven o'clock, the castle was awake—students from all three schools rushing through breakfast, their voices high, their eyes bright. The Quidditch pitch, transformed overnight, stood ready. The stands had been expanded to hold nearly two thousand spectators, their wooden frames reinforced with enchantments that shimmered faintly in the pale light. A special section had been erected for Ministry officials, their high-backed chairs draped in purple velvet, their nameplates gleaming with gold leaf. Beside them, the press section bristled with quills and enchanted cameras, reporters from the *Daily Prophet*, *Le Cri de la Gargouille*, and *Der Zauberer* jostling for the best views.
Edmund sat at the Slytherin table, his breakfast untouched. His wand lay beside his plate, hawthorn and thestral hair, warm to the touch. The ring on his finger pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm—not anxious, not eager. Waiting.
"You're not eating," Cassius said, pushing a plate of eggs toward him.
"Not hungry."
"You need to eat. The task could last hours."
Edmund looked at his friend. Cassius's face was flushed, his eyes bright with excitement—not for himself, but for Edmund. He had been like this since first year, the first to cheer, the first to believe.
"I'll eat after," Edmund said.
Cassius nodded, understanding.
---
The Great Hall began to empty. Students filed toward the pitch, their breath misting in the cold air. Edmund walked with his friends, but he did not speak. He was thinking about the forest, about the challenges, about the reporters and the Ministry officials and the eyes of the world. The first two tasks had been private, almost intimate—tests of wisdom and judgment. This was different. This was a spectacle.
The pitch was transformed. The grass had been replaced by dark earth, churned and scarred. At the center of the pitch, a massive wooden gate stood—the entrance to the Gauntlet, as the professors had called it. Beyond the gate, a path led into a labyrinth of enchanted barriers, visible only as shimmering walls of light. The crowd filled the stands, a sea of black, blue, and crimson robes. The Ministry section was full: Edmund recognized the Chief Warlock, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and a dozen other officials whose faces he had seen in the *Prophet*. The press section was a frenzy of activity, quills scratching, cameras flashing.
A raised platform stood near the entrance, where the three headmasters sat. Beside them, a podium had been set up for the commentator—a wizard Edmund did not recognize, his robes a garish orange, his voice magically amplified to carry across the pitch.
"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, welcome to the third task of the Triwizard Tournament!" The commentator's voice boomed, and the crowd cheered. "I am Barnaby Fingle, and I will be your guide through this morning's proceedings. The task before us is called the Gauntlet of Embers—a series of magical challenges designed to test the limits of our champions' courage, skill, and endurance. Wizards have died in this task before. Let us hope that today, we will see only triumph."
The crowd murmured. The word *died* hung in the air like smoke.
---
The champions were summoned to the pitch. Dolohov walked first, his Durmstrang robes immaculate, his face a mask of cold determination. The Durmstrang section roared. Colette followed, her Beauxbatons robes flowing, her chin high. The Beauxbatons students cheered, their voices a melodic wave. And then Edmund—Slytherin green and silver, his wand in his hand, his face calm. The Hogwarts stands erupted. He heard Cassius shouting, Arthur whistling, Horace clapping. He saw Astrid, her hands still, her eyes fixed on him.
They stood before the wooden gate. Barnaby Fingle's voice rang out. "The rules are simple. Each champion will enter the Gauntlet alone. They will face seven challenges, each more dangerous than the last. They will be timed. The champion who completes the Gauntlet in the shortest time, with the fewest injuries, will receive the highest score. The champions will enter in the order of their current standing. First—Edmund Prince of Hogwarts!"
The crowd roared. Edmund stepped forward. The gate groaned open, revealing a dark corridor lined with torchlight. He did not look back. He walked inside.
---
The gate closed behind him with a sound like thunder.
The corridor stretched before him, narrow, the walls made of rough-hewn stone. Torches flickered, casting long shadows. The air was cold, damp, smelling of earth and old magic. Edmund walked slowly, his wand raised, his senses alert. The first challenge came quickly—a chasm, wide and deep, its bottom lost in darkness. The far side was twenty feet away. He could not jump it. He could not fly—broomsticks were forbidden.
In the stands, Barnaby Fingle's voice narrated. "Edmund Prince faces the Chasm of Shadows. A simple Levitation Charm would suffice, but the winds in the chasm are treacherous. How will he—"
Edmund raised his wand. He did not cast a Levitation Charm. He did not cast a bridge. He spoke a single word, his voice steady, and the air around him solidified. The crowd gasped as Edmund stepped onto a platform of crystallized air, invisible yet solid, and walked across the chasm as if on stone. Each step created a new platform beneath his foot, dissolving behind him. He crossed in seconds.
Fingle's voice cracked with excitement. "What was that?! That was no ordinary charm. That was a master-level application of atmospheric transfiguration—turning air into a temporary solid. That is N.E.W.T. material! No, that is beyond N.E.W.T.! The judges are speechless!"
In the stands, Professor Marchbanks leaned forward, her eyes wide. "He's using theoretical magic that hasn't been taught in decades," she murmured to Wainwright. "Where did he learn that?"
Wainwright shook his head. "He taught himself."
---
The second challenge was a wall of fire, stretching from floor to ceiling, its heat intense enough to blister skin from twenty feet away. The flames roared, fed by enchanted fuel, their heat shimmering in waves. Dolohov had used a flame-freezing charm in his run, but the flames had singed his robes. Colette had used a water-summoning spell, but the steam had blinded her.
Edmund stopped. He did not cast a flame-freezing charm. He did not summon water. He raised his wand, and the air around him turned cold. Not a simple cooling charm—a localized temperature inversion that dropped the air to below freezing. The flames flickered, dimmed, and then, impossibly, began to shrink. The heat dissipated. The fire wall collapsed into a line of dying embers. Edmund stepped over them without breaking stride.
Fingle's voice was nearly a shout. "He didn't just counter the fire—he removed the heat! That's a thermodynamic inversion, a spell usually reserved for containing dragonfire! He's a seventh year! The crowd is on its feet!"
The Hogwarts stands erupted. Cassius was screaming. Arthur had his hands on his head. Horace was laughing. Even Astrid was clapping.
---
The third challenge was a creature—a Manticore, its body that of a lion, its wings leathery and wide, its tail ending in a cluster of venomous spines. It stood in the center of the corridor, blocking the path, its eyes glowing with intelligence. Dolohov had fought it, earning a gash on his arm. Colette had attempted to reason with it, losing precious minutes.
Edmund did not fight. He did not negotiate. He raised his wand, and from its tip erupted a beam of brilliant silver light—a Patronus, not a wispy thing, but a fully formed silver lion. It charged the Manticore, roaring with silent fury. The Manticore, a creature of darkness, recoiled, its spines flattening. It turned and fled down a side passage, whimpering.
Fingle was breathless. "A Patronus! A fully corporeal Patronus! And not just any Patronus—a lion, the symbol of courage! Do you understand what that means? Most wizards never cast a Patronus in their lives. He just cast one in the middle of a life-or-death challenge, and it banished a Manticore! The judges are—yes, the judges are giving him a standing ovation!"
In the Ministry section, the Chief Warlock turned to his neighbor. "That boy is seventeen?"
"Seventeen."
"Remarkable."
---
The challenges continued. A river of molten metal—Edmund froze it solid with a cryogenic charm that turned the liquid fire into brittle black rock. A storm of enchanted blades—he conjured a rotating shield of telekinetic force that deflected every blade, not one touching him. A labyrinth of mirrors that showed not reflections, but fears—he closed his eyes, raised his wand, and shattered every mirror with a single, precisely aimed curse, walking through the shards without hesitation.
Each spell was different. Each was executed with a precision and power that left the crowd gasping. The reporters' quills could not keep up. The cameras flashed continuously. The Ministry officials whispered among themselves, pointing at Edmund.
Barnaby Fingle had abandoned any pretense of neutrality. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing something unprecedented! This young wizard is not just competing—he is redefining what a seventh year can do! I have been commentating on the Triwizard Tournament for twenty years, and I have never seen anything like this!"
---
The sixth challenge was the most dangerous yet. A dragon—not a full-grown Hungarian Horntail, but a young one, still large enough to swallow a man whole. It crouched in the final chamber, its scales glistening, its eyes tracking Edmund's every movement.
The crowd fell silent. Dragons were deadly. Even young ones. In previous tournaments, champions had been killed by dragons.
Edmund did not retreat. He did not try to sneak past. He raised his wand, and the air around the dragon shimmered. A cage of pure kinetic energy formed around the creature, invisible but unbreakable. The dragon thrashed, roared, breathed fire—but the cage held. Edmund walked past it, the dragon clawing at its invisible prison.
Fingle's voice was a whisper, amplified across the stadium. "A kinetic cage. He just trapped a dragon in a kinetic cage. That spell requires a level of control and power that most wizards never achieve in their lifetime. He is seventeen years old."
---
The seventh and final challenge was a door. Not a physical door—a magical seal, woven with ancient runes and complex enchantments. It could not be broken. It could not be picked. It could only be understood.
Dolohov had spent twenty minutes at this door, trying to blast it open. Colette had attempted to unravel the runes, but had given up after fifteen minutes.
Edmund walked up to the door. He did not touch it. He raised his wand, and silver light washed over the seal, reading the enchantments, understanding them. The *Veritas Revelio*—his own spell, the one he had developed for the Register. The seal glowed, revealing its layers, its weaknesses, its purpose. Edmund smiled. He spoke a single word in Parseltongue—not to command, but to understand—and the door dissolved into mist.
He walked through.
---
He emerged from the Gauntlet into the sunlight, his robes unmarked, his wand steady, his face calm. The crowd rose as one, cheering, screaming, crying. The Hogwarts stands were a frenzy of green and silver. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students applauded respectfully. The Ministry officials were on their feet. The reporters were frantically scribbling.
Barnaby Fingle's voice boomed across the pitch. "Edmund Prince has completed the Gauntlet of Embers in thirty-one minutes! That is the fastest time in tournament history! No injuries! No hesitation! A perfect run! Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed history!"
Edmund stood in the center of the pitch, the sun breaking through the clouds, the ring warm on his finger. He had done it.
But the tournament was not over. The fourth task was only weeks away. And it would be harder.
---