What a familiar scent…
Harry had encountered traps like this more than once, but this was still his first time since returning from a hundred years in the past.
For others, these statues might have been a thorny problem, but to Harry, they were old hat.
"Expelliarmus!"
The foremost statue's weapon suddenly flew from its grasp. Then, in a bizarre arc, the disarmed spear sliced clean through its own owner's head.
"Bombarda Maxima!" "Impedimenta!" "Levicorpus!"
Crimson, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—curses of every colour streaked from Harry's wand in rapid succession.
People all harbour a streak of destructiveness; there's no denying that these eighteen statues thoroughly satisfied Harry's urge to smash things to bits.
With the final statue shattered by a Sectumsempra-like curse, only the colossal one remained standing in the centre of the hall.
The giant statue had not been in any hurry to attack, as though patiently waiting for Harry to finish off its smaller kin. Once all its servants lay in pieces, the red glow in its eyes flared brighter. It wrenched its spear from the ground and advanced toward Harry with earth-shaking steps.
Harry levelled his wand at it.
A blade of silver-white light tore through the pitch-black hall, illuminating everything in stark brilliance.
A thick bolt of lightning crashed down from the ceiling and struck the giant statue square on.
Before it could react, a dark-purple glow burst from its chest. Then—BOOM!—an enormous explosion rang out. The ancient curse Harry had nicknamed "Implosion" reduced the entire statue—and the spear in its hands—to rubble.
Not bad. Middling strength. Veratia had probably held back on the protective enchantments out of consideration for the other champions.
It really wouldn't look good if any of them actually got skewered to death here.
After the giant fell, a swirling silver-white vortex appeared in the centre of the hall.
Harry stepped through and found himself back inside the maze.
"Hello there."
A familiar voice drifted down from above. Harry looked up and saw an old acquaintance.
Well… perhaps "acquaintance" wasn't quite the right word. The creature before him was, technically speaking, a magical beast.
Its body resembled an enormous lion—huge paws, long yellow tail tipped with a tuft of fur—yet it bore the head of a woman. None other than the Sphinx who guarded the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.
"Oh, it's you, Sphinx." Harry greeted her with a wave. "So they seconded you into the maze too, huh?"
"Yes, I rather thought it would be you," the Sphinx replied.
"So what now? Do we go by the book, or skip straight to the fight?" Harry asked, testing the waters.
"No," the Sphinx began pacing back and forth. "Unless you can answer my riddle—and get it right in one guess—I'll let you pass. If you get it wrong, I'll pretend you got it right. If you refuse to answer at all, I'll simply let you walk away unharmed."
Harry: …
Sister, what?
"Why would you pretend I got it right if I'm wrong?" Harry asked, baffled.
The Sphinx gave him a look of mild disdain. "You don't seriously expect me to fight you to the death, do you? I may have lived long enough—far longer than Hogwarts itself—but I still feel I haven't lived nearly enough."
"Oh, right," she added, "I should mention: the path behind me is the shortest route to your goal."
"In that case, let's hear the riddle you've prepared for me," Harry said with a grin.
"Very well." The Sphinx cleared her throat, sat back on her haunches squarely in the middle of the path, and recited:
"First think of the person who's always masked, Moving in secret, with lies tightly clasped. Then name the thing that is mended and sewn, Middle of middle, and tail of its own. Finally tell me the word people cry When no better word will come to mind. Now join them together and answer me true: What creature is it you'd refuse to kiss on the mouth?"
"Spider," Harry answered without hesitation. "I've heard that one before. Looks like we don't have to fight after all. Congratulations."
"Indeed, that is cause for celebration." The Sphinx stepped aside with visible cheer. "Of course, I feel obliged to warn you… as a friend, free of charge: the answer to my riddle is waiting for you just ahead."
My answer is waiting for me? Harry clapped a hand to his chest in mock terror.
"What's wrong?" the Sphinx asked, genuinely curious. A wizard of Harry Potter's calibre afraid of spiders? That didn't add up.
"I'm having second-hand dread for Ron," Harry explained, tongue clicking. "Ron's the red-headed guy who's always trailing back to the common room with me and a certain bushy-haired girl. If he were the one in the Triwizard Tournament and learned from you that a spider was lying in wait up ahead, I'm pretty sure he'd point his wand skyward and fire off red distress sparks on the spot."
"Why?" the Sphinx asked, puzzled. "Even if he's afraid of spiders, it can't be that bad."
"Because you've never seen arachnophobia in action—it's one of the top eight phobias in the world." Harry shrugged.
Without further delay, and after a brief, pleasant chat, Harry moved forward.
Sure enough, up ahead hung an enormous spider cocoon, something inside still wriggling, trying to break free.
Harry sliced it open with a quick spell. To his complete lack of surprise, out tumbled Durmstrang's champion, Viktor Krum.
"Thank you," Viktor said in his deep, gruff voice. "I never thought a spider would ambush me and drag me here. It didn't seem eager to eat me—just wrapped me up like preserves."
"Yeah," Harry said, "spiders do like to store food for later."
Viktor shuddered at the reminder.
Being cocooned had been utterly vile; he never wanted to experience it again.
"If I were you, I wouldn't stand around relaxing," Harry warned. "That spider can't have gone far. Maybe take a quick look behind you?"
At Harry's words, Viktor whipped around, wand drawn—and came eye-to-eye with eight glossy black orbs.
An Acromantula the size of a small lorry lunged. Viktor threw himself aside in a clumsy roll, barely dodging the attack, then fired a desperate spell to hold it back.
"Stupefy!"
A Stunner as thick as a bucket blasted from Harry's wand and slammed into the Acromantula's underbelly.
The spider's abdomen burst open like an overripe melon, showering Viktor in yellow-green guts and unidentifiable fluids.
Whether from the stench or the sight, Viktor clutched a nearby bush and vomited spectacularly.
Bloody hell, that was disgusting.
"No need to thank me," Harry said. "What's your next move?"
Viktor glanced at him, raised his wand skyward, and fired a cascade of red sparks that hovered above him, marking his position.
"Without you, that thing would have eaten me. I'm effectively out of the Tournament." He retched again. "Congratulations on becoming Triwizard champion… urgh!"
He vomited once more, then pulled a loop of intestine off his head and flung it to the ground.
Absolutely revolting…
Harry figured Viktor was in for at least a week of nightmares.
He turned. A mere foot away, the Triwizard Cup gleamed with an eerie blue light.
Harry walked over and gave Viktor a casual wave.
"I'll be off then, Viktor."
With that, he pulled several vials from his pocket: Calming Draught, Edurus Potion, Maxima Potion, Thunderbrew, and Felix Felicis.
Edurus Potion hardened the drinker's skin like stone, vastly increasing defence.
Maxima Potion temporarily boosted spell damage.
Thunderbrew could be thrown or drunk—drinking it conjured a personal lightning storm that stunned and injured nearby enemies; throwing it produced the same effect at the target location.
And Felix Felicis, of course, was liquid luck.
Harry never entered a fight unprepared. Cassandra had secretly slipped him these potions last night.
No wonder he hadn't seen her around lately—she'd been brewing non-stop.
He had to admit, he was touched.
Fully prepared, he grasped the Cup.
Instantly he felt a jerk behind his navel, his feet left the ground—yep, a Portkey.
The rocket-shaped Cup yanked him forward through howling wind and swirling colours.
The moment his feet slammed into solid ground again, he cast instantly.
"Protego Gubraithian!"
Azure flames roared up around him. With an upward flick of his wand, they shot dozens of feet into the air.
In that same instant, a barrage of curses rained down.
"Crucio!" "Diffindo!" "Stupefy!"
Multi-coloured spells crashed into the blazing fire shield, only to feed the flames, making them burn fiercer still.
The beauty of this spell wasn't just automatic defence and counter-attack; Harry could see his attackers clearly through the fire, while they couldn't see him at all.
When the ambush failed, the black-robed wizards looked up, preparing to Apparate away.
Harry gave them no such chance. He swept his wand, and the flames surged across the entire graveyard.
Then the fire split, encircling each Death Eater in an individual ring of flame.
Under the scorching heat, concentration for Apparition was impossible.
Anyone who tried anyway would face—at best—splinching, at worst—death.
One particularly stubborn Death Eater began the Apparition process regardless. The flames licked over him; he shrieked, writhing as everlasting fire consumed body and soul.
Harry had done it on purpose. He had no intention of granting them a quick death.
The ambush itself was secondary; what he truly wanted was to cow the ones who hadn't yet tried to flee.
Everyone knows that in situations like this, the ones who run are the desperate, fearless ones. The ones who stay? They're at least a little afraid of dying.
And as the saying goes: if you weren't afraid of dying, why would you ever become a Death Eater?
A good portion of Death Eaters only served Voldemort out of terror of his wrath, not genuine loyalty.
The truly fearless ones had long since thrown in their lot with the Order or the resistance.
"Some of you seem rather uncooperative," Harry's voice rang out. "Ambush me, then try to slink away afterwards?"
Silence. The surviving Death Eaters kept their heads down; none wanted to be the first to stick their neck out and get obliterated by this freakishly overpowered boy.
Only now did the realisation truly hit them.
So this was why Potter was the Chosen One, the child of Trelawney's prophecy.
Just look at him—this raw magical power, this spell mastery, that signature Grindelwald fire shield… and he's fifteen?
Even Grindelwald at fifty probably hadn't been this terrifying.
Of course, they had no idea Harry had spent time a century in the past, nor that upon his return he'd absorbed Nicolas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone, granting him not only horrifying magical strength but reserves that bordered on inexhaustible.
Some quietly wondered whether this Potter boy might actually be Grindelwald's prized pupil from the old days.
How else could he be this strong—and know the old man's signature move?
If only Harry could hear their thoughts; he'd probably curse them for getting everything backwards.
Are you kidding me?! That spell was something Veratia and I developed together! That little Niffler-faced git secretly copied it from my notes—how did it become his signature move?!
"My patience is wearing thin," Harry said again. "I know who you are, and why you're here… So—where is Voldemort? Where's that rat I've crushed underfoot time and time again?"
He'd suspected it earlier, and now that Voldemort still hadn't shown himself, it was clear: the Dark Lord wasn't here.
Voldemort! You're not in Little Hangleton at all! Where the hell are you?!
Silence. The Death Eaters trembled inside their fire prisons, none daring to speak.
The air was still, broken only by the crackle of flames—until a sudden, piercing scream shattered the quiet.
It came from the Death Eater in the very centre. The fire had reached his robes.
He thrashed and howled, beating uselessly at the flames, pleading in agony: "I'll talk! I'll talk! Mr Potter—please!"
--
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