The morning of the final task dawned under a sky the colour of bruised plums. A low, clinging mist coiled across the grounds, muffling sound and lending every shadow a deeper weight. The air was thick—not with the freshness of morning, but with something older, something that pressed against the skin and whispered of ancient magic. The Quidditch pitch had been utterly transformed. Gone were the grassy slopes and the towering hoops. In their place rose a vast amphitheatre of black stone, its surface smooth as glass, its edges carved with runes that pulsed with a slow, malevolent crimson light. The stands circled the arena like the tiers of a gladiatorial coliseum, packed with students, professors, Ministry officials, and reporters from a dozen magical publications. The crowd was hushed, their usual carnival excitement replaced by a tense, almost reverent silence.
Barnaby Fingle stood at the commentator's podium, his face unusually grave. His robes, normally garish, were a sombre black. His voice, when he spoke, carried not the usual boisterous energy but a low, measured gravity that silenced even the whispers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards... welcome to the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. This task is called the Gauntlet of Ten Thousand Blades. It is not a maze. It is not a puzzle. It is a trial of combat, endurance, and will. The champions will face ten rounds of opponents. Each round, the opponent will be more dangerous than the last. There will be no respite, no healing between rounds. The champion who survives all ten rounds and retrieves the Triwizard Cup from the heart of the arena will be declared the winner."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. The crowd did not stir.
"The champions may use any magic at their disposal. They may not leave the arena. If they surrender, they will be removed immediately. If they fall—" He stopped, choosing his next words carefully. "If they fall, they will be removed. The last time this task was attempted, three champions entered. One walked out. The others were carried."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The Beauxbatons section clutched their blue-and-silver banners tighter, knuckles white. The Durmstrang students sat in grim silence, their faces carved from stone. The Hogwarts students exchanged nervous glances, their earlier bravado evaporated.
---
In the champions' tent, the air was cold and still. The tent was not the cheerful pavilion of earlier tasks. It was a dark, circular space lit by a single, flickering brazier. The walls seemed to absorb sound, leaving only the soft crackle of flames and the ragged breathing of the three champions.
Colette Marchand stood apart from the others, her wand clutched in her hand, her knuckles white. She was tall for a Beauxbatons student, with sharp features and dark hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her robes were immaculate—blue and silver, embroidered with the crest of her school. But beneath the robes, her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She had dreamed of this moment since she was a little girl, watching the Triwizard Tournament with her father. She had imagined glory, fame, the adoration of the crowd. She had not imagined this—the cold, the weight, the knowledge that people had died in this arena.
Antonin Dolohov stood by the tent's entrance, his back to her. His Durmstrang robes were dark crimson, his posture rigid. He did not look at her. He did not speak. He simply stared at the canvas wall, as if he could see through it to the arena beyond.
Edmund Prince sat on a wooden bench near the brazier, his wand balanced on his knee, his eyes half-closed. He did not seem nervous. He did not seem anything. He simply breathed, slow and steady, like a man preparing for a long walk.
Professor Marchbanks entered, her face carved from stone. She carried a small wooden box, which she placed on a table in the centre of the tent.
"The order has been determined by lot," she said, opening the box. Inside were three silver tokens, each engraved with a name. She drew one.
"First: Colette Marchand of Beauxbatons."
Colette's blood turned to ice. First. She would have no one to watch, no one to learn from. She would be the first to bleed, the first to face the unknown.
She walked out of the tent into the grey light.
---
The crowd roared as she stepped onto the black stone of the arena. The sound was a physical force, pressing against her, pushing her forward. The runes flared beneath her feet, warm through the soles of her boots, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. At the far end of the arena, a golden pedestal rose from the stone—the Triwizard Cup, gleaming in the dim light, its surface reflecting the crimson glow of the runes. Between her and the Cup, ten circles were etched into the stone, each one marked with a different symbol—a wolf, a serpent, a thorned vine, a winged creature, an armoured figure, a hooded wizard, a mirror, a skull, a crown, and finally a question mark.
Barnaby Fingle's voice boomed across the stadium. "Colette Marchand of Beauxbatons! The first champion! She will face ten rounds. Let the Gauntlet begin!"
The first circle flared red, the wolf symbol blazing with light. The ground in front of it shimmered, and a creature materialized—a wolf, but larger than any natural wolf, its fur matted with something dark, its eyes burning with an unnatural amber hunger. It was the size of a small horse, its muscles rippling beneath its pelt. It lowered its head, snarled, and fixed its gaze on Colette.
Round One: Dire Wolf.
The crowd held its breath. Colette raised her wand. Her hand was steady. Her heart was not.
The wolf lunged.
---
Colette had trained for this. She had spent hours in Beauxbatons' training halls, facing conjured beasts, learning to read their movements, to anticipate their attacks. But the conjured beasts had been slow, predictable. This wolf was neither.
It moved like liquid shadow, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Its jaws gaped, revealing rows of teeth like broken glass. Colette sidestepped, her wand already moving.
"Protego!"
The Shield Charm flared to life, a shimmering barrier of silver light. The wolf's jaws snapped shut on empty air, and it twisted, landing on its haunches, already coiling for another strike.
The crowd gasped. Barnaby Fingle's voice rang out. "A narrow dodge! Colette Marchand's reflexes saved her—that wolf would have taken her arm!"
Colette did not wait for the wolf to attack again. She cast a Stunning Spell, a jet of red light shooting from her wand. The wolf was fast, but the spell was faster. It struck the creature in the flank, and the wolf crumpled, its legs folding, its body hitting the stone with a heavy thud.
The first circle went dark. The wolf dissolved into mist.
"Round one! Colette Marchand defeats the Dire Wolf! No injuries! A clean strike!"
The crowd cheered, but Colette did not celebrate. She was already moving toward the second circle, her wand raised, her eyes scanning the arena. The second circle flared red, the serpent symbol blazing. The ground shimmered.
Round Two: Horned Serpent.
The creature that materialized was not a basilisk, but it was close enough to freeze the blood. A massive serpent, its scales gleaming like polished obsidian, its body as thick as a tree trunk. It coiled in the centre of the circle, its head raised, its eyes slitted and cold. Two horns curved from its brow, and its fangs dripped with a viscous, green venom.
The serpent struck.
Colette dove to the side, rolling across the stone. The serpent's head slammed into the ground where she had been standing, cracking the stone. She scrambled to her feet, her robes torn at the shoulder, her heart pounding.
"Protego!"
The Shield Charm deflected the serpent's second strike, but the force of the impact pushed her back, her boots skidding across the stone. She needed to immobilize it, not just defend.
She cast a binding charm—"Incarcerous!"—and thick ropes shot from her wand, wrapping around the serpent's body. The creature thrashed, its scales scraping against the ropes, but the bindings held. Colette did not wait. She cast a levitation charm, lifting the serpent's massive head, and hurled it out of the arena. The creature vanished before it hit the ground.
"Round two! A binding charm and a levitation! Colette Marchand advances, but she's breathing hard—she's using too much energy!"
The Beauxbatons section cheered, but Colette could hear the worry in Barnaby Fingle's voice. She could feel it in her own body. Her arms were trembling. Her chest burned. Eight rounds to go.
---
The third circle flared red. The thorned vine symbol blazed.
Round Three: Venomous Tentacula.
The plant erupted from the stone like a nightmare given form. A massive, writhing mass of vines, each one thick as a man's arm, each one covered in thorns that gleamed with a sickly green poison. At its centre, a bulbous flower gaped open, revealing a maw lined with needle-sharp teeth.
The vines lashed out.
Colette cast a cutting charm—"Diffindo!"—and severed the first wave of vines, but more grew in their place, faster than she could cut. She was surrounded, the vines closing in, the thorns scraping against her Shield Charm.
She remembered Edmund's technique from the third task—freezing the thorns, then shattering them. She did not have his power, but she had her own.
"Glacius!"
The temperature plummeted. Ice spread from her wand, coating the vines, freezing them solid. The plant shrieked—a sound like grinding metal, like nails on glass—and the frozen vines shattered, falling to the stone in a cascade of glittering shards.
But one thorn had found its mark. Colette felt a sting on her arm, looked down, and saw a thin line of blood welling up from a shallow cut. The poison burned, spreading through her veins like liquid fire.
"Round three! A freezing charm! The Venomous Tentacula is defeated, but Colette Marchand has been poisoned! The poison is spreading—she needs to heal herself, but there is no time for rest!"
Colette cast a quick healing charm—"Episkey!"—sealing the wound, but the poison remained. She could feel it slowing her, dulling her reflexes. She had to move faster.
---