The feast had ended, but the Great Hall still hummed with the residue of celebration. Students lingered at the tables, their voices hoarse from cheering, their faces flushed with the warmth of the fire and the wine. The enchanted ceiling showed a sky of deep winter stars, indifferent to the chaos below. Edmund sat at the Slytherin table, his friends around him, but he was not listening to their chatter. His mind was still in the Gauntlet—the chasm, the fire, the Manticore, the dragon. The spells he had cast echoed in his memory, each one a testament to years of study, of failure, of relentless perseverance.
Cassius was recounting the run for the hundredth time. "—and then he just walked across the air! No bridge, no charm, just—walking! I thought I was hallucinating!"
Arthur nodded vigorously. "The Patronus was the best part. A lion! He banished a Manticore with a lion! That's poetry."
Horace, ever the analyst, was dissecting the thermodynamics of the ice shield. "The temperature drop was instantaneous. He didn't just cool the air—he inverted the thermal gradient. That's sixth-year theory, at least. Maybe seventh."
Astrid said nothing. She sat beside Edmund, her rune stones in her hands, her eyes distant. But her presence was a comfort.
Edmund let their voices wash over him. He was tired—not just physically, but deep in his bones, the kind of tired that came from pushing every limit he had. He had shown them what he could do. He had shown the world.
And the world was watching.
---
The next morning, the *Daily Prophet* arrived with the breakfast owls. Edmund had expected a mention—perhaps a small article on the third page, buried beneath the Ministry's budget disputes and the latest goblin negotiations. He had not expected the front page.
**PRINCE OF HOGWARTS: THE GENIUS WHO WALKED ON AIR**
The headline was bold, black, and spanned the entire width of the paper. Beneath it, a photograph of Edmund stepping across the chasm—his foot suspended on nothing, his wand raised, his face calm—moved in a loop, the crowd behind him frozen in mid-cheer. The article was long, detailed, and gushing.
*By Barnaby Fingle, Special Correspondent*
*Yesterday, at the Triwizard Tournament's third task, the Hogwarts champion Edmund Prince delivered a performance that will be talked about for generations. In a grueling series of magical challenges known as the Gauntlet of Embers, Prince completed the course in an unprecedented thirty-one minutes—without a single injury—using spells that most wizards never master in a lifetime.*
*Prince, a seventh-year Slytherin and the last heir of the ancient House of Prince, began his run with a display of atmospheric transfiguration that left the judges speechless. Turning the air itself into a solid platform, he walked across the Chasm of Shadows as casually as crossing a drawing-room floor. "I've never seen anything like it," said Professor Aldric Wainwright, Hogwarts' Transfiguration master and one of the task's judges. "That spell is not in any curriculum. He invented it."*
*The surprises did not stop there. Confronted by a wall of enchanted fire, Prince did not simply extinguish the flames—he removed the heat itself, collapsing the fire wall into a line of embers. Confronted by a Manticore, he cast a fully corporeal Patronus—a silver lion that charged the creature and sent it fleeing. Confronted by a young dragon, he trapped it in a kinetic cage of pure force, walking past as the beast clawed harmlessly at its invisible prison.*
*The crowd, which included representatives from the Ministry of Magic, the Wizengamot, and the international press, rose to its feet as Prince emerged from the Gauntlet. His time shattered the previous tournament record by nearly fifteen minutes.*
*"He is the most talented student I have taught in forty years," said Professor Minerva Marchbanks, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. "But more importantly, he is the most dedicated. He has earned every ounce of his success."*
The article continued for three more columns, quoting Edmund's friends, his professors, and even his rivals. Dolohov had been characteristically terse: "He was better. I will be better next time." Colette had been gracious: "He is a wizard of rare gifts. I am honored to compete against him."
Edmund set the paper down. His eggs were cold. He did not care.
Cassius snatched the paper from him, his eyes scanning the article. "Front page. They put you on the front page. My father is going to lose his mind."
Arthur was already reading the copy he had grabbed. "They called you a genius. They actually called you a genius."
Horace pointed to a paragraph near the bottom. "They're already talking about your N.E.W.T.s. Fifteen subjects—they mentioned it. The whole world knows now."
Edmund looked at the photograph again. His own face stared back at him, calm, steady, unreadable. He did not feel like a genius. He felt like a boy who had worked very, very hard.
---
The reaction was not confined to the newspaper. Throughout the day, Edmund was stopped in the corridors by students he had never spoken to. They wanted to shake his hand, to congratulate him, to ask him about the spells he had used. Beauxbatons girls smiled at him with new interest. Durmstrang boys nodded with grudging respect. Even the ghosts seemed to linger near him, their translucent faces curious.
Professor Merrythought caught him after Transfiguration. "You've done more for the reputation of Hogwarts in one morning than the entire Board of Governors has done in a decade," she said, her sharp eyes warm. "But do not let it go to your head. The tournament is not over."
Edmund nodded. "I know."
"Good." She patted his shoulder and walked away.
---
Katerina Volkov found him in the library. She sat across from him without asking, her grey eyes fixed on his face.
"You are the talk of Durmstrang," she said. "They are calling you the Prince of Hogwarts. Not as a compliment—as a statement of fact."
Edmund closed his book. "And what do you call me?"
"Edmund." She leaned back in her chair. "You work harder than anyone I have ever met. That is more impressive than any spell."
She left. Edmund watched her go, the ring warm on his finger.
---
Colette approached him on the grounds that afternoon. The snow had melted, and the first hints of spring were in the air. They walked along the edge of the lake, the water dark and still.
"I have been thinking about your performance," she said. "Not the spells—the certainty. You never hesitated. You never second-guessed. How do you do that?"
Edmund considered the question. "I've failed more times than I can count. But I learned from every failure. By the time I stand in front of a challenge, I've already faced it a thousand times in my mind."
Colette nodded slowly. "At Beauxbatons, we are taught to make magic look effortless. You are not effortless. You are inevitable."
Edmund smiled. "Thank you."
She smiled back. "It was not entirely a compliment."
---
The letters began to arrive that evening. The first was from Mr. Thornbury, his handwriting as precise as ever.
*Lord Prince,*
*I have received no fewer than a dozen inquiries from members of the Wizengamot regarding your performance in the tournament. They are, to put it mildly, impressed. Several have expressed interest in meeting you. I have taken the liberty of deferring all invitations until after the tournament concludes. You have enough on your plate.*
*Do not let the attention distract you. Your title will still be there when the tasks are done.*
*Yours,*
*Elias Thornbury*
---
The second was from Dumbledore, written on parchment that smelled faintly of lemon.
*Edmund,*
*I watched you yesterday. I have watched many wizards perform extraordinary feats, but I have rarely seen such a perfect marriage of power and control. You have surpassed every expectation I had of you—and I had high expectations.*
*But do not let the praise deceive you. The tournament is a step, not the destination. The work that lies ahead—whatever you choose to pursue—will demand the same dedication you showed in the Gauntlet. Keep your focus. Keep your humility. And remember that the approval of crowds is fleeting. What endures is the work itself.*
*I am proud of you. More importantly, you should be proud of yourself.*
*Yours,*
*Albus*
---
The third was from a source Edmund did not recognize—a thick envelope, sealed with wax stamped with the crest of the Department of Magical Education.
*Edmund Prince,*
*We are writing to formally congratulate you on your performance in the Triwizard Tournament. Your mastery of advanced magic at such a young age has not gone unnoticed. The Department of Magical Education is interested in discussing potential opportunities for collaboration after your graduation—specifically, in the area of spell creation and curriculum development.*
*Please find enclosed a brochure detailing our Advanced Research Fellowship program. We look forward to hearing from you.*
*Yours,*
*Eudora Pince*
*Undersecretary, Department of Magical Education*
Edmund set the letter down. A research fellowship. They wanted him to work for them, to create spells, to shape the curriculum of future students. It was an honor. It was also a distraction.
He tucked the letter into his journal, next to his notes on detection magic, next to the rune stone Astrid had given him, next to the map that no longer glowed. He had time. The tournament was not over. He would decide later.
---
That night, the champions were summoned to the headmasters' meeting room. Headmaster Black sat at the head of the table, his face as sour as ever. Headmistress Delacour and Headmaster Ivanov flanked him. Professor Marchbanks stood by the window, her arms crossed.
"You have all performed admirably," Black said, his voice dry. "The third task is behind you. The fourth task will take place on the fifteenth of March."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the champions. "The tasks will grow more dangerous. The Gauntlet was a test of individual skill. The next task will test your ability to work under pressure—against time, against the elements, against your own limitations. You will receive no advance warning. You will be brought to the location on the day, and you will be told the objective then."
Dolohov's jaw tightened. Colette's hands trembled slightly. Edmund was still.
"Prepare yourselves," Black said. "You will need to be ready for anything."
---
Edmund walked back to the common room alone. The corridors were empty, the portraits asleep, the torches burning low. His footsteps echoed on the stone. The ring was warm on his finger.
He thought about the letters, about the praise, about the expectations that were now pressing down on him. The world was watching. The Ministry was watching. The old families were watching. He had shown them what he could do. Now they wanted more.
He stopped at the entrance to the common room and spoke the password. The wall slid open. Inside, the fire was low, the room empty. His friends had gone to bed.
He sat down by the hearth and stared into the embers. The tournament was not over. There were three tasks left. Three chances to prove himself. Three chances to fail.
He was not afraid. He was tired. But he was ready.
---