The crimson shroud had been removed from the edge of the arena, but its memory lingered like a stain on the grey air. The Durmstrang section sat in stunned silence, their crimson banners still lowered, their faces pale. Some students wept openly, their shoulders shaking. Others stared blankly at the empty space where Antonin Dolohov had fallen. The Beauxbatons students, who had been singing for Colette, had fallen quiet; their voices had died in their throats when the Dementor Lord had taken Dolohov's soul. The Hogwarts students watched with a mixture of hope and dread, their green-and-silver scarves clutched in white-knuckled hands.
One champion had surrendered, battered but alive. One champion had died, his body carried away under a crimson shroud. One remained.
Edmund Prince stepped onto the black stone. His wand was in his hand, its hawthorn wood warm against his palm. His face was calm, but his eyes were not. They swept across the Durmstrang section, where Katerina Volkov sat with her head bowed, her hands pressed together as if in prayer. They swept across the Beauxbatons section, where Colette Marchand's empty seat remained unfilled. They swept across the Hogwarts section, where Cassius, Arthur, Horace, and Astrid sat together, their faces tight with fear.
He did not look at the pedestal where the Triwizard Cup waited, gleaming in the dim light. He looked at the ten circles etched into the arena floor. Ten rounds. The same number that Colette had faced. The same number that had killed Dolohov. He had watched both. He knew that the Gauntlet would test him differently—it always adapted to the champion, drawing from a vast menagerie of dark creatures and constructs. But the creatures would be real enough to kill.
Barnaby Fingle's voice, subdued now, announced simply: "Edmund Prince of Hogwarts. The final champion. The Gauntlet continues."
The first circle flared red.
---
## Part One: Round One – The Red Cap
The creature that materialized was a Red Cap—a goblin-like dark creature that soaked its cap in the blood of its victims. It stood about two feet tall, with long, wiry limbs, leathery brown skin, and a pointed red cap that seemed to glisten with fresh moisture. Its teeth were sharp needles, its eyes small and black and glittering with malice. Red Caps were not powerful, but they were relentless, vicious, and cunning. They attacked without warning, without mercy, without fear.
This one lunged at Edmund's throat.
The crowd gasped. The Red Cap moved like a striking snake, its clawed hands extended, its mouth open. Edmund had fractions of a second to react. He did not raise a Shield Charm—that would have been too slow. Instead, he sidestepped, a fraction of an inch, and the Red Cap's claws raked the air where his neck had been.
He brought his wand down in a sharp arc. *"Incarcerous!"* Thick ropes shot from his wand, wrapping around the creature's limbs. The Red Cap screeched, struggling, its claws tearing at the ropes, but the bonds held. Edmund levitated the creature to the edge of the arena, where a containment box had appeared—a reinforced cage of silver and iron, designed by the judges to hold dark creatures. He dropped the Red Cap inside, and the cage sealed with a click.
The first circle went dark. The crowd murmured. That had been fast, efficient, almost clinical. But there was no applause. They were waiting.
---
## Part Two: Round Two – The Doxy Swarm
The second circle flared. The symbol was a winged insect. A cloud of Doxies materialized—hundreds of tiny, fairy-like creatures with sharp teeth and venomous bites. They buzzed through the air like a cloud of needles, their wings creating a high-pitched whine that set teeth on edge. Their eyes glittered with malice, and their mouths gaped, revealing rows of needle-fine teeth. Doxies were not individually dangerous, but a swarm could strip a wizard to the bone in minutes, their venom causing paralysis and hallucinations.
The swarm descended on Edmund like a living shroud.
He raised his wand and cast a containment bubble—a sphere of silver light that expanded outward from his wand tip, pushing the Doxies back. The creatures buzzed angrily, slamming against the bubble's inner surface, but the barrier held. Edmund compressed the bubble, shrinking it, forcing the Doxies closer together. They writhed and bit at each other, their venom splattering harmlessly against the silver light.
When the swarm was compressed into a sphere the size of a grapefruit, Edmund levitated it to the edge of the arena and released it into a second containment box. The Doxies buzzed furiously inside their cage, but they could not escape.
The second circle went dark. The crowd applauded—polite, but restrained. They were still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
---
## Part Three: Round Three – The Grindylow Pack
The third circle flared. The symbol was a clawed hand. A tank of murky water appeared in the center of the arena, its surface rippling with dark magic. From its depths leaped three Grindylows—small, horned water demons with long, grasping fingers and green, slimy skin. Their mouths were filled with sharp, needle-like teeth, and their eyes glowed with a sickly yellow light. They were aggressive, fast, and skilled at dragging victims underwater to drown them.
The Grindylows spread out, circling Edmund, their webbed feet slapping against the stone. They hissed, a wet, guttural sound. One lunged for his legs. Another went for his throat. The third hung back, waiting for an opening.
Edmund raised his wand and cast a freezing charm—not at the Grindylows, but at the tank of water. The surface turned to solid ice. The Grindylows hesitated, confused. They were creatures of water; without it, they were weakened, sluggish. Edmund cast a binding charm, wrapping the first Grindylow in ropes of light. He levitated it into a third containment box. The second Grindylow tried to flee, but Edmund caught it with a second binding charm. The third, the one that had hung back, lunged at him in desperation.
Edmund sidestepped and brought his wand down on the creature's head—not a spell, but a physical strike. The Grindylow crumpled, unconscious. He levitated it into the box.
The third circle went dark. The crowd was still waiting.
---
## Part Four: Round Four – The Boggart of Regret
The fourth circle flared. The symbol was a mirror. The creature that materialized was a Boggart—but not an ordinary one. The arena's magic had enhanced it, given it intelligence and purpose. It did not take the form of Edmund's fear. It took the form of his regret.
The figure that stood before him was Dolohov. Not the cold, arrogant champion who had entered the arena with such confidence, but Dolohov as he had been in the tent before the task—young, scared, desperate to prove himself. His eyes were hollow, his face pale. His robes were torn and bloodied. His wand hand hung limp at his side.
The Boggart-Dolohov spoke in a voice that was not quite right, hollow and echoing, as if coming from the bottom of a deep well.
"You could have saved me. You watched me die. You did nothing."
The Durmstrang section stirred uneasily. Katerina Volkov put her hand over her mouth. Some of the younger Durmstrang students turned away, unable to watch.
The Boggart-Dolohov took a step forward. "You stood there. You watched. You let him take me."
Edmund did not raise his wand. He did not cast *Riddikulus*. He had faced Boggarts before, in Professor Merrythought's classes, in the corridors of Hogwarts. He knew that they fed on fear and hesitation. But this was not his fear. It was his guilt. And guilt was not something you could laugh away.
He stepped forward. He walked toward the Boggart-Dolohov until he stood inches from its face. The creature's hollow eyes bored into his. Its breath was cold, smelling of dust and decay.
Then Edmund spoke. Not to the creature, but to the memory.
"I will carry you with me. I will not forget what happened here. But you are not him. You are a shadow. And shadows have no power over me."
He reached out and touched the creature's chest. His fingers passed through the Boggart's form, and the creature dissolved—not with a bang, not with a puff of smoke, but with a sigh, like a candle being extinguished.
The fourth circle went dark. The crowd was silent. Katerina Volkov was crying.
---
## Part Five: Round Five – The Werewolf Construct
The fifth circle flared. The symbol was a howling wolf. The creature that materialized was a werewolf—not a real one, but a magical construct, created by the arena to simulate the ferocity of a transformed lycanthrope. It was massive, its fur matted and dark, its jaws dripping with foam. Its eyes were yellow, wild, and utterly without mercy. It stood on its hind legs for a moment, towering over Edmund, then dropped to all fours and charged.
The construct was fast—faster than any natural wolf. Its claws scraped sparks from the black stone. Its jaws gaped, revealing rows of teeth like broken glass. The crowd screamed.
Edmund raised a Shield Charm, but the werewolf's claws tore through it like paper. He rolled, came up, and cast a silver-conjuring spell. A blade of pure silver appeared in his hand, gleaming with cold light. The werewolf recoiled, its eyes widening. Silver was the bane of werewolves—the construct, even as a simulation, could not overcome that instinct. It backed away, whimpering, its tail between its legs.
Edmund did not pursue. He held the silver blade up, letting the light catch it, and the werewolf cowered. It backed into the edge of the arena and dissolved, unable to continue.
Edmund dropped the silver blade. It vanished before it hit the stone.
The fifth circle went dark. The crowd applauded—louder this time, but still with a sense of foreboding. They knew what came next.
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