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.
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.
The morning after the final task dawned grey and still. The mist that clung to the grounds seemed thicker than before, as if the castle itself was mourning. Edmund stood at the window of the Slytherin common room, watching the first light creep across the lake. He had not slept. He had not even tried. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dolohov's face—young, proud, alive. And then not.
The tournament was over. He had won. The Triwizard Cup sat on the table in the common room, gleaming in the green light. His friends had congratulated him, had celebrated, had tried to lift his spirits. But the victory felt hollow. He had seen a boy die. He had watched a Dementor Lord take a soul. That was not glory. That was horror.
He dressed slowly, pulling on his Hogwarts robes, and walked to the Great Hall.
The hall was quieter than usual. The enchanted ceiling showed a sky of pale grey, heavy with clouds. The four long tables were full, but the chatter was subdued. Students from all three schools ate in silence, their eyes red, their faces pale. The Beauxbatons section was gathered around Colette Marchand, who sat with her arm in a sling, her face still bruised. The Durmstrang section sat apart, their heads bowed. Katerina Volkov was at their head, her face composed but her eyes hollow.
Edmund sat at the Slytherin table, between Cassius and Arthur. They did not ask how he was. They knew.
"The delegations leave today," Cassius said quietly. "The ships and carriages are already preparing."
Edmund nodded. He had known. He just hadn't wanted to think about it.
After breakfast, Edmund walked to the courtyard. The Beauxbatons carriage was already there, its winged horses stamping impatiently. Students were loading their trunks, saying goodbye to friends they had made over the past seven months. There were tears, embraces, promises to write.
Colette stood apart from the crowd, leaning on a cane, her arm in a sling. She saw Edmund approaching and smiled—a small, tired smile.
"You came," she said.
"I couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye."
Colette looked at him for a long moment. "You were magnificent in the Gauntlet. I watched from the hospital wing. The mediwizard brought a viewing crystal."
Edmund shook his head. "I did what I had to do."
"No." Her voice was firm. "You did what no one else could. You showed mercy where Dolohov showed force. You showed wisdom where I showed fear. You are a worthy champion, Edmund Prince."
She extended her hand. He took it. Her grip was weak, but her eyes were strong.
"Write to me," she said. "When you build your school. I want to visit."
Edmund blinked. "How did you—"
Colette smiled. "I am not blind. I have seen the way you look at Hogwarts, like you are saying goodbye. I have heard the way you talk about the children who are missed. You are building something, Edmund. I do not know what, but I know it will be extraordinary."
She released his hand and turned to board the carriage. At the door, she paused.
"Au revoir, Edmund Prince. Until we meet again."
She disappeared inside. The winged horses spread their wings, and the carriage rose into the sky. Edmund watched until it was a speck against the grey clouds.
The Durmstrang ship was moored at the edge of the lake, its black hull gleaming like polished obsidian. Students filed aboard in silence, their faces grim. There were no tears, no embraces. They were not a people who wept in public.
Katerina Volkov stood at the gangplank, her crimson robes whipping in the cold wind. She saw Edmund approaching and stepped aside, gesturing for him to walk with her along the shore.
"You should not have won," she said. It was not an accusation. It was a statement of fact.
Edmund said nothing.
"Dolohov was the best of us. He had trained for this since childhood. He had sacrificed everything—friendship, love, joy—for the sake of being the best. And you... you showed mercy to creatures that should have been killed. You spoke to serpents. You reflected curses. You did not fight the way he fought."
She stopped walking and turned to face him.
"I hated you for it. I hated you for surviving when he did not. But I was wrong."
Edmund looked at her. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying. He suspected she had done all her crying in private.
"I am sorry," he said. "For your loss."
Katerina nodded. "Antonin was not a good man. He was cruel, ambitious, ruthless. But he was ours. And now he is gone."
She reached into her robes and pulled out a small silver ring—plain, unadorned, with a single rune carved on its surface. Tiwaz, the rune of the warrior.
"This was his. He wore it always. I want you to have it."
Edmund hesitated. "I cannot—"
"You can. You will. You fought with honor. You honored him after his death. That is more than most would have done." She pressed the ring into his palm. "Wear it. Remember him. And when you build your school—because I know you are building something—teach your students that there is more than one way to be a warrior."
Edmund closed his fingers around the ring. It was cold, but it warmed quickly.
"I will," he said.
Katerina nodded. She turned and walked up the gangplank without looking back. The ship's sails unfurled, black and silent, and it glided across the lake. Edmund watched until it disappeared beneath the surface.
Edmund walked back to the castle alone. The grounds were empty now, the tents and stands already being dismantled. The tournament was over. The delegations were gone. Only the memory remained—and the body of Antonin Dolohov, which would be transported back to Durmstrang in a separate ceremony, private and solemn.
He found his friends in the common room. Cassius was reading a Quidditch magazine. Arthur was practicing defensive spells in the corner. Horace was brewing something in a small cauldron. Astrid was carving rune stones, her knife moving in small, precise strokes.
They looked up when he entered.
"It's over," Cassius said.
"It's over," Edmund agreed.
He sat down beside them, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Then Arthur said, "What now?"
Edmund thought about the Register, the school, the children. He thought about the basilisk, traveling through the dark earth toward the Prince estate. He thought about the Philosopher's Stone, hidden in his pocket, waiting to be understood. He thought about the Wizengamot hearing, scheduled for September, where he would be formally recognized as a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.
"I have work to do," he said.
His friends nodded. They did not ask what work. They trusted him.
That night, Edmund stood at the window of the Slytherin common room, looking out at the lake. The green light shifted on the walls. The fire crackled behind him. In his hand, he held the small silver ring that Katerina had given him. Tiwaz. The rune of the warrior.
He slipped it onto his finger, beside the Prince family ring and the Heir's Ring. Three rings, three legacies, three promises.
He would not forget Dolohov. He would not forget Colette's courage. He would not forget Katerina's grief. He would carry them all with him, into the future he was building.
The basilisk was waiting at the Prince estate. The children were waiting to be found. The school was waiting to be built.
Edmund turned from the window and walked to his dormitory. Tomorrow, he would pack his trunk. Tomorrow, he would say goodbye to Hogwarts. Tomorrow, the rest of his life would begin.
But tonight, he slept.