## Part Six: Round Six – The Dark Wizard Enforcer
The sixth circle flared. The symbol was a hooded figure. The figure that materialized was a wizard in black robes, his face hidden behind a silver mask. He carried a wand of dark wood, polished to a gleam, and he radiated malice. This was not a summoner of Inferi—that would have been illegal, inhumane, banned by tournament rules. This was an enforcer, a construct trained in combat magic, capable of casting Unforgivable Curses within the confines of the arena. He had no soul, no mercy, no fear.
The Dark Wizard raised his wand. *"Avada Kedavra!"*
Green light shot toward Edmund. The crowd screamed. Edmund raised a Shield Charm—not a simple *Protego*, but a layered, reinforced barrier that he had developed during the trial. The Killing Curse struck the shield and dissipated, but the shield cracked. Edmund reinforced it, pouring magic into the barrier.
The Dark Wizard cast again. *"Crucio!"* Red light. Edmund deflected it, but the pain of the near miss made his teeth ache. He could not take a direct hit. He needed to end this quickly.
He cast a spell that was not in any textbook—a spell he had created in the Chamber of Secrets, during the seventh gate. He called it *Speculum Tenebris*, the Mirror of Darkness. It was a counterspell that absorbed dark magic and redirected it. He had never used it against a living opponent.
The Dark Wizard cast a third curse—a Blasting Curse, meant to shatter his shield. Edmund lowered his barrier and raised his wand. The curse struck his wand and vanished. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a silver light shot from Edmund's wand and struck the Dark Wizard in the chest.
The construct froze. Its wand hand trembled. Its mask cracked. Then it crumbled, piece by piece, like a statue made of sand.
The crowd gasped. Barnaby Fingle's voice was incredulous. "He... he reflected the Dark Wizard's curse! I have never seen such magic!"
Edmund stood, trembling, and walked to the seventh circle.
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## Part Seven: Round Seven – The Dementor
The seventh circle flared. The symbol was a shrouded figure. A Dementor glided into the arena—not a Dementor Lord, but a common one, yet still deadly. The temperature plummeted. The crowd shivered. The lights dimmed. The Dementor's presence sucked the warmth from the air, from the stone, from the hearts of everyone watching.
Edmund had faced Dementors before. He had cast his Patronus a hundred times in the Room of Requirement. But this was different. This was real.
He raised his wand. *"Expecto Patronum."*
The silver lion burst from his wand, larger than before, brighter than before. It roared, and the sound echoed off the black stone. It charged the Dementor, and the creature dissolved, its form scattering like mist before the sun.
The seventh circle went dark. The crowd cheered—a genuine cheer, full of relief. But Edmund was not celebrating. He knew what came next.
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## Part Eight: Round Eight – The Basilisk Construct
The eighth circle flared. The symbol was a serpent's eye. A giant serpent materialized—not a real basilisk, which would have been illegal to use in a tournament, but a magical construct, its eyes covered with enchanted blinders to prevent instant death. Its body was thick as a tree trunk, its scales gleaming like polished obsidian. Its fangs dripped with a green, viscous venom that sizzled when it hit the stone.
The construct hissed—a sound like steam escaping from a furnace. It coiled, ready to strike.
Edmund spoke. Not in English. In Parseltongue.
*"I am a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. I carry his blood in my veins. I command you to be still."*
The serpent's head lowered. Its coils loosened. It turned its blindered eyes toward Edmund and seemed to listen. The crowd gasped. Fingle's voice was barely audible. "He... he spoke Parseltongue to the Basilisk construct. And it obeyed."
The construct dissolved, its task complete.
The eighth circle went dark. Edmund walked to the ninth circle.
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## Part Nine: Round Nine – The Chimera Construct
The ninth circle flared. The symbol was a three-headed creature. The construct that materialized was a Chimera—its lion head roaring, its goat head bleating, its serpent head hissing. It was massive, its body covered in scales and fur, its tail lashing like a whip. The lion head snapped at the air. The goat head cursed in a language no one understood. The serpent head spat venom that sizzled on the stone.
Edmund could not fight it with force. He needed to turn its strengths against each other. He spoke to the serpent head in Parseltongue. *"You are bound to this creature. I can free you. Turn on the others."*
The serpent's eyes widened. It hesitated. The lion head snarled, confused. The goat head bleated a curse that went wild, striking the lion instead of Edmund. The lion roared in pain, turning on the goat. The two heads began to fight each other, tearing at each other's throats.
The serpent head struck at the goat's neck. The goat head bleated one last time, then went silent. The lion head, wounded, turned on the serpent. Edmund raised his wand and cast a containment charm around the Chimera. The two remaining heads tore at each other until the construct dissolved.
The ninth circle went dark. The crowd was on its feet. This was the magic they had been waiting for—the brilliance, the creativity, the mastery.
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## Part Ten: Round Ten – The Mirror of the Heart
The tenth circle flared. The symbol was a question mark. No creature emerged. Instead, the arena around Edmund dissolved. The crowd vanished. The black stone faded. The torches went out. He stood alone in darkness, absolute and complete.
Before him, a mirror. Tall, silver-framed, its surface smooth as water. In the mirror, his reflection—but the reflection was not him. It was an older version of himself, perhaps thirty years older, with grey at his temples and lines around his eyes. He stood before a great hall filled with children—children of all ages, all backgrounds, all waving wands. The hall was not Hogwarts. It was something new, something built from the ground up.
"You have passed the Gauntlet," the reflection said. Its voice was Edmund's own, but older, wiser, tired. "But the final test is not combat. It is choice."
"What choice?" Edmund asked.
The reflection gestured to the pedestal beside the mirror. On it sat the Triwizard Cup, gleaming with golden light. "You may take the Cup and win the tournament. You will be celebrated. You will be remembered. You will have glory."
Then it gestured to the hall behind it, to the children. "Or you may leave the Cup and claim something greater. The knowledge of why you fight. The knowledge of what you are building. The knowledge that you are not alone."
Edmund looked at the Cup. It was beautiful, radiant, everything he had dreamed of since first year. Then he looked at the children in the mirror. They were laughing, learning, growing. They were the future he was trying to build.
He walked toward the mirror. He touched the glass.
The mirror dissolved. The arena returned.
Edmund walked to the pedestal and picked up the Triwizard Cup.
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## The Victory
The crowd erupted. Hogwarts students screamed themselves hoarse. Beauxbatons students applauded, their blue-and-silver banners waving. Even the Durmstrang section, still grieving, rose to their feet in respect. Barnaby Fingle's voice boomed across the arena. "Edmund Prince is the champion! The Hogwarts champion has won the Triwizard Tournament!"
But Edmund did not raise the Cup. He carried it to the edge of the arena, where a small Durmstrang banner lay on the stone—a tribute to Dolohov, placed there by Katerina Volkov after the body had been carried away. He knelt and placed the Cup beside the banner.
Then he walked back to the center of the arena, raised his wand, and cast a spell of remembrance—a spell he had created in the quiet hours after the trial, a spell to honor the fallen. Silver light filled the arena, and for a moment, the ghost of Antonin Dolohov appeared—young, proud, alive, wearing his Durmstrang robes. He bowed to Edmund, then to the Durmstrang section. Then he faded.
Barnaby Fingle's voice was thick with emotion. "Edmund Prince... is the champion. But he has chosen to honor the fallen. The Triwizard Cup... will be shared, in spirit, with Antonin Dolohov."
The crowd rose to its feet. Not cheering. Applauding. Respecting.
Edmund walked out of the arena, his wand at his side, the Heir's Ring warm on his finger. He did not look back.
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