As a certain acquaintance of mine from a past life would say: "Whoosh, and that's it." That's roughly the impression left by the exams that flew by instantly. Like a sharp gust of wind, like lightning—they had barely begun before they were over, and, as befits lightning, they left behind a fading thunder—a strange aftertaste, mere fading impressions.
The biggest grievance for all the students of the school was that usually, after exams, we have a day or two to visit Hogsmeade before the summer holidays, but now the third task of the Tournament falls on this time, and no trips are planned. Yes, trips before going home are not, one might say, the most reasonable thing, since rest is just around the corner, but nevertheless, it is so. And one must be honest with oneself, the third task will turn out to be an extremely dubious on the one hand, but on the other hand, an interesting replacement for the trips.
But, even though the trips were canceled, absolutely every student of Hogwarts, with the exception of a couple of seventh-years tormented by strong doubts and equally strong uncertainty, awaited the third task. I don't know about other houses, but we cast lots, and the responsibility for obtaining what could not be found just like that at Hogwarts—various drinks for the party—fell on two guys from the fifth and sixth years. Since we are not going for a walk, the "walk" comes to us.
But all this is lyrics. On June twenty-fourth, the day after the last exam, closer to the evening, we all left the castle accompanied by McGonagall and a couple of Aurors in civilian clothes—it was decidedly impossible to mistake these wizards for anyone else. Our path was short and ended at large stands that were built around one of the sections of the stands of the Quidditch pitch. The stands of one sector of the field were too small to accommodate all the students and guests. Irreparably small. That's why they were rebuilt, and now the spectator seats began not from the height of the third floor, but from the ground itself. And in principle they were larger and more comfortable—after all, in their original form they are just benches, and high backs and sides of fences were only on the very top rows.
As before, wizards were on duty near the venue of the test, including Healers in their lime robes. Several tents were set up near the former Quidditch pitch, and judging by the coats of arms on one of them, the champions were located there.
Quite quickly the stands were filled with students, guests were located in separate places, better quality and more comfortable, be they representatives of countries or schools, or just parents who came to watch, support, communicate with each other, thereby leaving tangible sums in the pockets of the organizers. Taking seats next to those with whom I would like was quite problematic due to the flow of students, and therefore, I sat where it turned out—but at least these are familiar people from my house.
From the stands, a gorgeous view opened up of a blank high wall of plants, which had only one entrance, as well as a small patch of open space between the stands and the wall. It was to this place that Ludo Bagman hurriedly came out in a black and yellow robe, making him look like a plump bee. He touched his throat with his wand.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Spectators, students and guests!" his voice spread throughout the district, and I am sure if someone decided not to go here, sitting in the towers, then he could clearly hear this voice even through closed windows. "Welcome to the third task of the Triwizard Tournament!"
The audience greeted this statement with enthusiastic applause, as well as the large canvas that two wizards carried out here.
"Mere minutes remain until the start of the competition itself, but for now, meet our champions!"
Applause rang out again, encouraging shouts, someone frantically waved flags or posters, and through the passage in the stands our champions came out onto a small patch of ground, approaching Bagman directly. They looked serious, tense, but smiled and waved their hands, turning from side to side. Two wizards headed towards them, who brought the canvas and had already suspended it in the air with magic.
"While our dear champions are checked and everything necessary for the competition is prepared, I, with your permission, will tell about its essence."
Two wizards really checked the champions for the presence of various artifacts or other amulets, simultaneously casting charms, and images appeared on the canvas, as if cameras were flying near the champions—just like in the second task.
"So, as many have already noticed, our champions will have to go through a maze. Full of various difficulties and dangers that will have to be overcome. But for what, you ask? There, in the depths of the maze, a cup is hidden. The champion who reaches the cup first and takes it in his hands will become the winner of the Tournament!"
The audience, seizing a pause in the explanations, began either to support the champions or discuss something, and a couple even exploded crackers with confetti.
"...and why then were those points?" someone nearby discussed a rather obvious topic.
"So!" Bagman spoke again, and everyone immediately quieted down. "The first to enter will be the champion with the highest number of points scored for past competitions. Following him—occupying the second place. Well, and as you have already guessed—the last to enter will be the champion occupying the third place in points. But remember, no matter how many points a champion has, in this maze everyone can get their chance to win. If it seems to the champion that he is no longer able to continue the struggle, then red sparks should be released into the sky. But do not worry, dear viewers! Are the champions ready?"
The wizards who were preparing the champions nodded, the champions themselves repeated their gesture.
"In that case, Mr. Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts champion, enters the maze first!"
Again, as in the second competition, a cannon fired, notifying about the time, a small orchestra began to play, and Cedric boldly entered the gloomy maze to cheerful music. The sun hid behind the hills, but the sky in the west was still bright, painted in orange.
"...place your bets!" came the voice of one of the Weasley twins.
They walked between the rows, collecting bets and making notes. Lee Jordan, their dark-skinned friend, worked as a calculator on legs, helping to correct amounts on the go and say restrictions on them so that their entire honest company would not end up in the red.
On the screen suspended in the air, it was visible how Cedric warily, but also without excessive slowness, made his way through the dark maze. Other champions could not see if Cedric found trouble, and what kind exactly. Krum went into the maze as the second champion, and almost immediately after him Fleur went. Now it remains only to wait tensely for the denouement, watching the actions.
"Hmm, how curious!" Bagman commented on what was happening on the screen. "It seems Mr. Diggory found the first obstacle—the Mirror of Hamer."
We saw Cedric thoughtfully wave his wand in front of a slightly glowing yellow area of space in the maze corridor.
"This is a very amusing security spell, not dangerous in itself," said Bagman, "but completely flipping the perception of up and down on all levels of senses and forcibly focusing attention on this."
Cedric boldly stepped into the yellow zone, swayed, with great difficulty looked away from the sky, closed his eyes and boldly took the next step. Another one, and another, and here he overcame the glowing area.
"Mr. Diggory coped excellently with his obstacle!"
The audience joyfully greeted this fact, applauding.
"But we have yet to see how the other champions will cope with the same obstacle. Yes-yes, you heard right—the Mirror of Hamer is on absolutely every path in the initial stages of the maze."
Soon we really could see how the others coped with this. Krum exhaled, stepped back a couple of steps and simply ran, focusing precisely on moving his legs and on nothing else. Fleur did somewhat differently. She conjured glowing spheres unknown to me in the amount of three pieces—on the floor and on the walls. It seems they are somehow connected with her mentally and allowed to maintain perception or at least simply correct orientation in space. Bagman called them Beacons.
The sun finally hid behind the horizon, stars appeared in the sky, and many torches lit up on the stands and a small patch of space in front of the maze, illuminating everything around. Champions had long been fighting with various difficulties, holding Lumos over their heads. There were also various magical animals, plants, traps based on runes, complex charms on the area. Everything looked dangerous enough, and the opportunity to watch what was happening rocked the audience on emotional swings so that I would not be surprised if later there will be a grandiose drinking bout to calm the nerves.
The final chord, a nail in the nervous health of many, was a huge Blast-Ended Skrewt, which Fleur met.
"Oh, what a cutie grew up," Hagrid bassed affectionately, and everyone heard his truly loud voice, coming into sacred horror, because it is no news to anyone that the more affectionately Hagrid speaks of an animal, the more deadly it is.
With an increase in size to a solid such chitinous tank, the skrewt lost a lot in speed and maneuverability, and according to Bagman's assurances, general knowledge of the school curriculum on care is enough to find its weak points. Fleur coped, even if she had to run from this tank and dodge jets of flame, outwardly little inferior to dragon ones. True, the dragon flooded everything with a stream, and the skrewt—with flashes, shots.
When Cedric ran into a sphinx, the entire Durmstrang delegation exhaled with relief. Do they really consider Krum so stupid? Funny. Pity that magic for observing champions did not transmit sounds—everyone was interested to hear the riddle. But one way or another, Cedric coped with it.
The most intrigue began when Bagman announced, according to the prompts of wizards who monitor the situation in the maze, that all three champions are about to get close to the cup. Tension grew. Almost simultaneously, the champions entered a spacious section of the maze, in the middle of which, on a pedestal, stood the cup. They froze, looked at each other, prepared for anything. The whole dilemma and tension of thought was reflected on their faces—whoever controls the charms demonstrating what is happening, and they are definitely under control, clearly deserves an Oscar for the best camerawork. Remembering one good old movie, I, in complete silence, could not resist trying to portray the melody:
"Turu-duru-dum... Wa-wa-wa..."
Chuckles were heard from different sides, and there were quite a lot of them. Out of the corner of my eye I noted that they belonged mainly to Muggle-borns or half-bloods. This is pleasing—western classics must live, even if it greatly distorted the historical accuracy of the very concept of the Wild West.
Krum attacked first, trying to knock out the weakest, in his opinion, link—Fleur. In principle, one can consider that he succeeded—Fleur's Protego broke under the pressure of a powerful, but not very fast Stupefy. But Krum fell victim to Cedric's Expelliarmus, but did not get confused, immediately rushing to the cup. It seemed, here is the victory, but I waited for something interesting. Cedric waved his wand, pronounced a spell, and a pillar grew out of the ground in Krum's path. There was almost no light there, and I was not surprised that Krum crashed into this pillar with his head with all his might. Why not surprised? Well, I had a similar case in a past life, also in conditions of running, high speed, poor lighting, but not with a pillar. Yes... Turned me over notably then.
Cedric briefly looked at how Fleur was doing, because the walls of the maze strive to entangle and devour the one who gets into them. Delacour almost got out, Cedric nodded to himself, like: "Will cope", and banally summoned the cup with the help of Accio. A moment, and here he appeared on the clearing in front of all of us, holding the cup.
A small orchestra began to play loudly, the audience rejoiced, deafening me with their cries of joy. Cedric looked confused for just a second, but then smiled and raised the cup over his head. Yes, this is not the Goblet of Fire, just a cup, albeit beautiful—a symbol of victory.
Bagman immediately headed to Cedric, simultaneously congratulating, and other judges too. Unless bald Karkaroff looked displeased.
"That's my son!" Mr. Diggory broke through to Cedric, shouting joyfully, and so loudly that everything was perfectly audible. "That's my boy!"
Soon other champions were evacuated from the maze. Fleur was sad, but not particularly. Krum sulked sternly, looking offendedly into the space in front of him and no less offendedly rubbing a large bump on his forehead. But he shook Cedric's hand and even smiled a little, sincerely, it is worth noting. Dumbledore looked happy. He was simply bursting with pride and in this he was not inferior to the no less happy Mr. Diggory, who spun around his son, managing to hug him, and ruffle his hair, and take a picture with him, in every possible way emphasizing attention precisely on Cedric.
Mr. Bagman announced the winner, Dumbledore took the floor, congratulated everyone in general, and Cedric in particular, and invited, including guests, if they wish, to a festive feast in honor of the end of the Tournament. The Headmaster focused attention on precisely the successful end. Fortunately or unfortunately, but almost all guests eventually thanked the Headmaster for hospitality, but refused, citing business, busyness and so on.
Under the noise of fun and joy, we began to leave the stands. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a strange thing—in the shadow, almost invisible to anyone, someone was lying in the grass near the outer wall of the stands. No one paid absolutely any attention to this.
"Hey, Ernie," I pulled the hand of Macmillan walking nearby, who was cheerfully discussing what he saw with other guys.
"Huh?"
"Someone is lying there."
"Hmm... Maybe needs help?"
Even though Ernie said so, it was visible from his face that he was not eager to spend time on such a thing, but quickly overcame such a mood and we went to the person together. Upon closer examination, it turned out that it was Potter. Either sleeping, or lying unconscious. And somewhat suspiciously pale.
"Young people," McGonagall's voice rang out from behind, and we immediately turned around, revealing the view of the lying Potter. "What are you doing here?"
The Deputy Headmistress's gaze was strict, and seeing Potter, became even stricter. But at the same time she hurried to approach and check his condition.
"I noticed that someone is lying here," I began to clarify the situation. "Ernie and I approached to check if help is needed. Whatever happened here, we are not involved in this."
"I know," McGonagall waved it off, running her wand over Potter. "Mr. Potter is unconscious from blood loss."
It seems McGonagall did not find wounds.
"Return to the castle. Immediately."
We nodded and hurried to Hogwarts. Turning around for a moment, I saw a house-elf appear next to McGonagall and they disappeared together with Potter.
"This is strange," Ernie spoke thoughtfully while we caught up with the last students. "Think someone quietly beat him up?"
"Who knows?" I shrugged. "Quite possible."
The Great Hall was brightly decorated with the coats of arms of three schools, but the central and largest was ours, Hogwarts. Students made noise, actively discussed the last competition, and tables were literally piled with the most diverse dishes. It seems Dumbledore decided not to delay this issue, immediately giving the command to house-elves to set the tables.
As soon as I took my place at the house table, immediately immersed myself in a conversation about the past competition, and about how champions overcame difficulties. It is worth giving credit to the guys, they did not praise Cedric, paying tribute to the skills of other participants too. The champion himself, the winner of the Tournament, looked quite happy.
"And when is the official ceremony?" someone's question sounded.
"Tomorrow, must be," answered Cedric. "At least, so father said."
"And when?"
"Well, assume, immediately after breakfast. Because at eleven already boarding the train."
Over conversations I noticed how McGonagall, absent until this moment, approached the Headmaster and quickly said something, sitting down in her place. Assume, this is connected with Potter. Judging by the absence of any concern or other signs of the seriousness of the situation, nothing terrible happened to him.
"Interesting," Justin sitting nearby glanced towards the teachers' table, behind which judges also sat. "And where is Karkaroff?"
"Hm?"
Looking more closely, I noticed that the Durmstrang Headmaster is really not around. While I was thinking about the answer, noticed an extremely strange thing, completely atypical for one potioneer known to me. He twitched sharply and looked surprised, imperceptibly touching his left hand. Even more strange and atypical was that he immediately said a couple of words to the Headmaster and both of them got up from the table, entering the door that was behind the teachers' table—it is through it that teachers often enter the hall, immediately sitting down at the table. Never been there, even became interesting.
"Something happened," I stated a fact, and Justin, who watched this picture with me, nodded in agreement.
"Yeah. Well okay. If there was something important, we would already know about it."
"And that's true. Propose to lean on French cuisine," pointing my hand at the dishes of this very cuisine I smiled. "Or else when will you taste really such high-quality dishes of this country?"
"Here, by the way, you say correctly. Why do house-elves cook better than in the most luxurious restaurants? I mean, ordinary, not magical."
"Magic, Justin. It's all magic."
After the festive feast, of course, the whole house threw a party in the common room. This event, for once, differed from quiet gatherings and other similar things—here are crackers with confetti, joy, fun and almost dances. A sea of drinks of varying degrees of "heaviness", congratulations and toasts. Settling in my favorite place, I, with a mug of Butterbeer in my hands, watched all this movement with a slight smile.
Cedric seized a moment to escape from the captivity of congratulations and so on, and approached me, holding out a package.
"Here. In gratitude for help. There is also a detailed list and contacts. You know which ones."
"Goo-ood," with slight doubt I accepted the package, inside which turned out to be a bottle of whiskey of very long aging, Ogden's. And several sheets. "Whiskey? Ay-yay-yay, getting a minor drunk."
"What to do?" Cedric shrugged, smiling. "Father said that such a thing—is a universal gift in gratitude for one or another help. More a sign than the gift itself. Especially when Mordred knows what to give a person."
"Hmm. Fair. Thank you. And the list is on time—I'm already tired of waiting, knowing the final payment and not being able to get down to business."
"Well excellent. By the way, prepare to become a prefect next year."
"Why do I need it?"
"It's not that difficult," Cedric smirked. "And on whom to leave the house? Not so many suitable for the role who will be from the fifth to the seventh years next year."
"Maybe at least ask around? Suddenly someone wants?"
"And no one wants."
Cedric went back to his company. And I sat, thought.
About an hour later, when part of the students dispersed to their rooms or went in search of adventures around the castle, I, having communicated and had fun, conjured a glass for whiskey and, uncorking the bottle, poured myself a little. I am not afraid of intoxication—life energy to help me. Diagnostics says that the bottle contains no impurities—can drink. Letting the drink breathe for a minute, enjoyed the aroma and took a small sip. Yeah, even if I am not an expert in such drinks, but any fool will feel the difference between ordinary whiskey, and really high-quality, aged and surely insanely expensive.
I didn't have time to finish the first glass when I felt a response in the mental.
"Finally..."
Drinking in one gulp, dispelled the glass, put the bottle in the backpack and, going into the shadow in the common room so that the few present who wished to spend the rest of the night more calmly did not notice anything, hid myself with magic and left the common room.
Silence and peace in the corridors of the castle. Surely now someone from the teachers is engaged in catching couples who decided to retire—at least the presence of such couples is not questioned, because the day is such... Such, in general.
Leaving the castle territory without problems, I hurried to Hagrid's hut—the egg ripened. The chick itself felt like a familiar spider, only at the same time it also seemed to be a second brain for me. Not independent, no, but felt as a continuation of the body—an additional set of sense organs, an additional body. And now this body was weak, helpless, and generally, was a little underground, which caused obvious discomfort.
Reaching the place, avoiding, just in case, the bright space from torches and lanterns of the Beauxbatons carriage, I went around Hagrid's hut and quickly dug up the result of my work. Strange result.
The bird was the size of a kitten, with weak black down instead of plumage, but this is normal. Seemed to even look like a phoenix. Strange was the sensation in magic. The bird really radiated crumbs of Dementor aura and this strongly broke the template of the world. Duality of perception, the ability to see myself through the bird's eyes, did not confuse me at all—got used to it using spiders. At the same time, absolutely no volitional efforts were required to control the bird. Straining a little, completely removed the Dementor aura.
Taking the bird in my hands, felt how death energy flows inside it, but at the same time it does not affect the bird's brains in any way—mine. And this is the most important thing. It seems not in vain I assumed that born, created from this energy, cannot be crazy by definition, because this energy is the essence of this organism. But a human will go crazy due to the unnaturalness of this energy for him. Even affinity will not help, because the basis, the essence of life, existence of a human, elf or dwarf, is completely different.
Hope, due to the connection with this bird, it will be possible to "dump" on it the consequences of using Dark Magic, if necessary, and in cleansing from curses generally this phoenix will be priceless, because it will simply eat them.
Rising to my feet, slowly moved towards Hog. Just in case, to have a legend, bit myself on the finger with the phoenix, like: "Found, picked up, and he scratch-scratch me, and that's it, familiar". So-so explanation, but hard to dig into. And familiars are not taken away here, whoever this familiar is—read about it. Good mood prompted to remember a song, which I began to hum under my nose, and I am sure that a considerable role in this was played by a glass of whiskey.
"Let it carry me coolly... Soul of a miracle, now asks..."
Suddenly I felt a strong mental wave that was supposed to cause fear and panic. Turning to its source and preparing for battle, not without surprise realized that I was looking at the sky. There, a huge green skull was forming very quickly and sharply, like the northern lights, saturated, thick, while resembling clouds somewhat. The skull opened its jaw, from which a huge snake slowly crawled out instead of a tongue and tied itself in a loop.
"Beautiful, damn it," I chuckled, understanding all the grandeur of this spell, while I perfectly realized who marked the places of his, let's say, "presence" in this way.
Simultaneously with this, I saw some green flame on the yards of the Durmstrang ship. It was far away, but concentrating on magic, I strengthened my already good vision.
On the central mast of the ship, the sail was lowered. The upper yard burned with green flame, and on it, on his own guts, the mutilated Karkaroff was hanged—he could be recognized. The white sail of the ship, on which the coat of arms of Durmstrang used to flaunt, was now spoiled—across it there was only one inscription, even at night clearly visible in the green flame and in the bright light of the mark in the sky. "Traitor".
"Oh, not to good this... Oh not to good..."
Teachers were already hurrying with might and main along the path from the castle. Of course, among them was Moody. I knew perfectly well that his eye would see me—I didn't hide myself so much. That's why I stopped doing it. Naturally, Moody himself immediately stopped next to me, as well as the Headmaster, waving to the rest to move further towards the ship.
"Answer honestly, rookie," Moody looked at me, and his staff was ready, although you wouldn't say so immediately. "What are you doing here?"
"Well I just found a bird near Hagrid's hut," I showed the chick, on which there were still traces of earth. "Noticed how something was swarming in the ground. Thought it was a Niffler—Hagrid showed them to us not so long ago. Think, suddenly he found some interesting shiny thing, they are like that..."
Moody and Dumbledore listened to me carefully.
"And there is this here... Also bit my finger until it bled. But what is this..." I nodded at the sky, "doomsday—I have no idea."
"Not lying," Moody nodded.
"Return to the castle, Mr. Granger," the Headmaster said seriously.
"Good."
Nodding, headed to Hogwarts. Did I say that it was a bad idea for Karkaroff to return to England? Well, here is the natural outcome. Although somehow all this is suspicious. Very suspicious.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advanced chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell