The morning after the fourth task, Edmund woke to silence. The Slytherin dormitory was empty—Cassius had already gone to breakfast, Horace had left a note about an early Potions revision session, and Elias Crabbe had transferred to a different room years ago. Edmund lay still for a long moment, staring at the canopy above his bed, the green light of the lake shifting on the ceiling. His body ached. His magic felt thin, stretched, like a cloak that had been worn too thin. The Circle of Endurance had taken more out of him than he had realized.
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The ring on his finger was warm, but it was a quiet warmth, not the pulsing energy of the task. He had survived. He had won. But the victory felt hollow.
He dressed and walked to the Great Hall. The corridors were crowded, students parting to let him pass, their whispers following him like a trail of smoke. He heard his name, heard the words *champion*, *genius*, *Prince*. He did not acknowledge them. He kept walking.
---
The Great Hall was loud, but the noise seemed distant, muffled. Edmund sat at the Slytherin table, his friends around him, but he did not eat. He stared at the enchanted ceiling, watching the clouds drift across the pale blue sky.
"You look terrible," Cassius said.
"I feel terrible."
"You pushed yourself too hard. The mediwizard said you were dangerously close to magical exhaustion."
Edmund shrugged. "I did what I had to do."
Cassius shook his head. "You always do what you have to do. That's the problem. You don't know how to stop."
Edmund had no answer for that.
---
Katerina Volkov found him in the library that afternoon. She sat across from him without asking, her grey eyes fixed on his face.
"You should not be here," she said. "You should be resting."
"I can't rest. The fifth task is in three weeks."
"And you will face it better if you are not half-dead." She reached across the table and closed his book. "At Durmstrang, we are taught that rest is not weakness. It is strategy. A tired wizard is a dead wizard."
Edmund looked at her. "Is that a Durmstrang proverb?"
"It is common sense." She stood. "Come. Walk with me."
He followed her out of the library, into the corridors, out of the castle. The grounds were damp with melting snow, the first hints of green pushing through the brown earth. They walked along the edge of the lake, the water dark and still.
"You are thinking about the next task," Katerina said.
"Yes."
"Do not. The next task will come when it comes. You cannot prepare for what you do not know." She stopped walking and turned to face him. "You have already proven that you are the most powerful wizard in this tournament. The only thing that can defeat you now is yourself."
Edmund was silent.
"Rest," Katerina said. "Eat. Sleep. Talk to your friends. The magic will return. It always does."
She left him standing by the lake, the wind cold on his face, the ring warm on his finger.
---
That evening, Colette found him in the common room. She sat beside him on the sofa, her arm still in a sling, her face still pale.
"I have been thinking about what you did," she said. "In the circle. You called my name. You tried to help me."
"I didn't help you. The task ended."
"You tried. That is more than most would have done." She looked at him. "At Beauxbatons, we are taught that the tournament is about glory. But you have shown me that it can be about something else."
Edmund did not know what to say.
Colette smiled. "Rest, Edmund. The tournament will still be there tomorrow."
---
The days that followed were strange. Edmund did not study. He did not practice. He walked the grounds with his friends, sat by the fire in the common room, ate meals without rushing. His magic returned slowly, filling him like water seeping into dry earth.
His friends did not push him. They did not ask about the next task. They simply were there, and that was enough.
Arthur told stories about his grandmother's adventures. Horace debated potion theory with anyone who would listen. Cassius talked about Quidditch, about the upcoming match against Beauxbatons, about the strategies he was developing. Astrid carved rune stones, her knife moving in small, precise strokes, her presence a quiet comfort.
Edmund listened, and he rested, and he healed.
---
The fifth task was announced on the first of April. The champions were summoned to the entrance hall, where Professor Marchbanks was waiting.
"The fifth task will take place on the fifteenth of April," she said. "It will be different from the previous tasks. It will not test your magic. It will test your mind."
She handed each champion a sealed envelope. "Inside, you will find a riddle. The riddle will lead you to the location of the task. The task itself will be revealed when you arrive. Do not open the envelopes until the morning of the task."
Edmund tucked the envelope into his robes. He did not open it. He would not cheat.
---
The days before the fifth task passed slowly. Edmund did not obsess. He did not prepare. He trusted himself. He had faced dragons and Manticores and the crushing pressure of the Circle. He could face a riddle.
His friends were more nervous than he was. Cassius paced the common room. Arthur chewed his nails. Horace reread his potions textbook for the tenth time. Astrid carved rune stones with furious intensity.
"You're not worried?" Cassius asked.
"No."
"How can you not be worried?"
Edmund shrugged. "I've done everything I can. Worrying won't help."
Cassius stared at him. "You're impossible."
---
The morning of the fifteenth arrived grey and cold. Edmund opened the envelope and read the riddle.
*I have no voice, but I speak to the wise.*
*I have no wings, but I help the wise rise.*
*I cannot be seen, but I am always there.*
*I cannot be touched, but I can be shared.*
*What am I?*
Edmund read the riddle three times. The answer was not obvious. It was not a thing, not an object. It was a concept. He thought about the words. *I speak to the wise. I help the wise rise.*
Knowledge. No. Wisdom itself? But wisdom could not be shared in the way the riddle suggested.
*I cannot be seen, but I am always there. I cannot be touched, but I can be shared.*
Understanding. No.
He read it again. *I have no voice, but I speak to the wise.* Books speak to those who read them. The library. He had thought that before, for the second task. But the second task had been different.
He closed his eyes. He thought about the previous tasks. The Gauntlet had tested his magic. The Circle had tested his endurance. The riddle would test something else. Something that could not be taught, could not be practiced. Something that was either there or not.
He opened his eyes. The answer was not a place. It was not an object. It was a quality.
*What am I?*
Inspiration.
He stood, tucked the parchment into his robes, and walked to the library.
---
The library was empty. Madam Pince was at her desk, her eyes sharp, her hands still. She pointed to a door at the back of the library—the same door he had entered for the second task.
Edmund walked to the door and opened it.
---
The room beyond was not a maze. It was not a cave. It was a vast, empty chamber, its walls lined with mirrors. In the center of the chamber, a single pedestal held a book—old, bound in black leather, its pages blank.
The other champions were already there. Dolohov stood with his arms crossed, his face grim. Colette stood with her hands clasped, her eyes wide.
"The task is simple," Professor Marchbanks said, appearing from behind a mirror. "The book will show you what you most desire. The first champion to understand what they see and write it on the page will receive the highest score."
She paused. "The book cannot be fooled. It cannot be tricked. It will show you the truth. The question is whether you can recognize it."
She stepped back. "Begin."
---
Dolohov approached the pedestal first. He placed his hand on the book, and his face went pale. He stared at the pages, his lips moving, but no words came. He stepped back, shaking his head.
Colette went next. She placed her hand on the book, and tears welled in her eyes. She looked at the pages for a long moment, then stepped back, her hand over her mouth.
Edmund was last. He walked to the pedestal and placed his hand on the book.
The pages shimmered. Images formed—not in ink, but in light. He saw the Prince manor, restored, its gardens blooming, its halls filled with children. He saw a school, not Hogwarts, but something new, something built from the ground up. He saw children he did not recognize, their faces bright, their wands raised. He saw the Register, complete, finding every child who had been missed.
He saw himself, older, standing at the gates of that school, watching the children arrive.
He understood. It was not glory. It was not power. It was not the admiration of crowds. It was the work. The quiet, invisible work of building something that would outlast him.
He picked up the quill beside the book and wrote on the first page.
*The work.*
The book glowed. The mirrors went dark. The task was complete.
---
The scores were announced at the feast that evening. Dolohov: 4 points. Colette: 6 points. Edmund: 10 points.
Five tasks, five perfect scores.
---
After the feast, Edmund stood by the window in the Slytherin common room, looking out at the lake. The water was dark, the stars reflected on its surface. The ring was warm on his finger.
Cassius came to stand beside him. "One more task."
"One more."
"Are you ready?"
Edmund thought about the book, about the images, about the work. He thought about the children, the school, the Register. He thought about the years ahead.
"Yes," he said. "I'm ready."
---