Hermione and Gemma settled in beside Mrs. Holmes, which naturally prompted Mrs. Holmes to wave Mycroft and Sherlock away to the other side of the table.
Watching the three women laughing and chatting like old friends, Mycroft let out a quiet, amused breath.
"Mother, I have the distinct feeling that they're more like your daughters than we are."
"They are my daughters!" Mrs. Holmes declared, without a moment's hesitation.
And as if that weren't enough, she turned and fixed Mycroft with a sharp look.
"You had better take good care of Fleur, do you hear me?" Then, her expression softening at once, she looked toward Fleur. "The food here suits your palate, I hope? I know it can't compare to what you're used to back home—but once the tournament is over, you must come visit me. I'll give you a proper welcome."
Mrs. Holmes, in full commanding form, left all three girls with pink cheeks.
For Gemma and Fleur, this was their first real introduction. They were close in age, and Mrs. Holmes had mentioned them both in the same breath—so it was almost inevitable that their eyes met. What they found there surprised them. Gemma was struck by Fleur's almost ethereal beauty; Fleur, for her part, was quietly impressed by the composed, assured air that Gemma carried so naturally.
And so, the first meal at Hogwarts passed in unexpected warmth.
Since the fourth-years had no examinations that afternoon, Mrs. Holmes swept Hermione and Gemma along to continue showing her around the castle. Before she left, she reminded Mycroft, quite firmly—to look after Fleur.
What she didn't know was that Mycroft had already slipped away the moment lunch ended, without a word to anyone. No one had even noticed when he'd gone—no one except Sherlock.
As for Fleur, when she realized Mycroft had no intention of seeking her out, she felt a quiet surge of relief. The elder Holmes brother had a presence that was almost suffocating, and she had yet to accomplish the task she'd been given. She simply couldn't face him. So, after a brief farewell to Sherlock, Fleur left the Great Hall with Gabrielle and Madame Delacour.
Kindhearted Harry, much as he had that morning, continued his self-appointed role as tour guide—this time for the Dursleys, though mostly for Aunt Petunia. Watching him explain everything so earnestly, Petunia found herself overwhelmed by a tide of complicated feeling.
I've been terrible to him, she thought. Absolutely terrible.
Sirius, though he couldn't quite hide his displeasure, held his tongue for his son's sake.
He ended up drifting into the company of Mr. Holmes, who, it turned out, was bursting with enthusiasm for all things magical and Hogwarts-related. The two of them wandered the castle together, Sirius happily recounting tales from his school days. When he got to the story of the Whomping Willow, Mr. Holmes couldn't help himself.
"Are you absolutely certain I couldn't plant one of those in my garden? Even a small cutting would do!"
Clearly, the tree had made a lasting impression.
As for Sherlock—no one knew where he had gone. Much like Mycroft, he had simply vanished.
It wasn't until dinnertime that everyone gradually found their way back to the Great Hall.
Two of the judges from the Ministry of Magic—Ludo Bagman and Alastor Moody—had already taken their seats at the staff table. Bagman was flushed and beaming, and the look he sent toward Harry was one of undisguised affection. As far as he was concerned, Hogwarts had this in the bag—which meant a rather handsome return on the bet he'd placed.
The other four judges were considerably more composed. Only Professor Karkaroff sat with a permanent scowl etched into his face—apparently having already made peace with the likelihood of Durmstrang finishing last. He seemed to have inherited Viktor Krum's former disposition.
The evening's feast was even more lavish than usual. Roasted chicken, steaks, hand-raised pies, and fruit puddings crowded the long tables, filling the hall with a mouthwatering aroma. The champions' families were full of praise, and Mrs. Holmes was no exception.
"Why are Apolline and Fleur sitting over there?"
She glanced toward the Ravenclaw table, puzzled.
"That's the Ravenclaw table," Hermione said patiently, following her gaze. "Since the day the Beauxbatons students arrived at Hogwarts, they've always sat with Ravenclaw. The Durmstrang students sit over by Slytherin."
"What a shame—I was hoping to have a proper chat with Apolline." Mrs. Holmes's eyes swept around the hall again. "But never mind that—where are Mycroft and Sherlock? Why aren't they back yet?"
Hermione shook her head. She had no idea where Sherlock had gone, and as for Mycroft—he might as well have been a ghost.
Gemma frowned slightly. She thought, without quite meaning to, of their visit to the Headmaster's office the day before, and felt a vague, uneasy flutter in her chest.
As it turned out, there was just enough time for relief: moments before the meal properly began, Sherlock and Mycroft arrived together, unhurried, their expressions perfectly neutral.
"How did the two of you end up together?" Mr. Holmes asked, surprised, they had each left separately at lunch.
"We happened to cross paths on the way back," Mycroft said simply, and took a seat beside his father.
He paused, then continued in the same measured tone: "The school did invite us here to watch the final—though as I understand it, we won't actually be able to watch any of it."
"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Holmes blinked, and instinctively looked toward Sherlock.
"The third task takes place inside a large maze," Sherlock said, pulling out his chair and sitting down. "The audience waits outside. There's nothing to see."
Mrs. Holmes stared at him. "Is this... typical of magical sporting events?"
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked equally taken aback.
"No," said Sherlock evenly. "It's typical of a poorly run operation."
"Even Scotland Yard's most thick-headed constables could have managed better logistics than this," Mycroft added, with a faint, cutting edge to his voice.
On this particular point, the Holmes brothers were in rare and complete agreement.
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes exchanged a bewildered glance, quite at a loss.
Seeing this, Hermione kindly stepped in and described how the first two tasks had gone. The first had at least been watchable—the audience had been kept at a distance, but they could see the champions facing the dragons clearly enough. The second task had been another matter entirely: two eyes, and absolutely nothing to show for them. The audience had been left to guess what was happening beneath the surface of the lake.
And now the third task—well, once again, everyone was free to imagine what might be unfolding inside the maze.
The realization that two out of three tasks had been essentially invisible to spectators left Mr. and Mrs. Holmes wearing identical expressions of weary resignation. So, this was what the school had invited them all the way here for—to watch their children walk into a hedge maze, and then stand around in a vague state of worry until they came out again?
"Exactly," Ron said, with his usual cheerful bluntness. "We spent ages waiting by the lake last time. Couldn't see a thing—everyone was getting in a panic. And then when Sherlock finally came up out of the water, Hermione—ahem—well, anyway, everyone was pretty wound up. Nothing to be done about it, though."
He had been on the verge of describing how Hermione had kissed Sherlock twice the moment he'd surfaced. Then he felt a chill crawl up his spine from behind, and wisely changed course. When the sensation passed, he exhaled slowly.
Beside him, Harry swallowed a smile.
The Holmes parents and the Dursleys fell into a stunned silence—largely because magical world event planning had left them genuinely speechless.
Uncle Vernon perked up considerably.
Hah, he thought, with great satisfaction. All that, and the organization is no better than one of our company team-building days. Probably worse, in fact.
Despite the lavish spread, most people were too preoccupied to fully enjoy it. All attention belonged to the final task ahead.
As the evening wore on, the enchanted ceiling shifted from brilliant blue into a deep, bruised twilight. By the time the stars had begun to appear, Dumbledore rose from his seat at the staff table.
The Great Hall fell silent the instant he moved, every eye in the room finding him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said—his voice quiet, and yet perfectly clear to every corner of the hall—"in five minutes' time, I shall be asking you all to make your way to the Quidditch pitch for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament."
He paused, and when he continued his gaze moved deliberately toward the Gryffindor table.
"I now ask the champions to proceed to the grounds, where they will assemble with Mr. Bagman and Mr. Moody."
Harry and Sherlock rose to their feet at once.
Around them, the Gryffindors erupted—applause and cheers rolling through the hall like a wave. Family and friends added their voices. Hermione and Gemma spoke at the exact same moment:
"Good luck—both of you!"
They looked at each other, startled, and then smiled.
To the sound of applause and cheering, the nine champions of three schools fell into step behind Bagman and Moody and walked out of the Great Hall together.
"Your parents are younger-looking than I'd imagined," Cedric said quietly to Sherlock as they descended the front steps.
"And I didn't realize you had a brother. He seems... formidable."
Sherlock gave a brief, noncommittal hum.
Cedric turned to Harry. "What about you—still nervous?"
"A bit, honestly," Harry admitted. "But manageable. You?"
"Not at all." Cedric's smile was bright and easy. "Oh—Delacour found me earlier, by the way. She said Beauxbatons have made their peace with losing. Though she reckons it'll be Durmstrang at the bottom."
When they followed Bagman through the gates of the Quidditch pitch, they found it utterly transformed. A towering hedge—a full twenty feet high and dense as a fortress wall—enclosed the entire playing field in deep green. It had been trimmed to a razor edge, and it radiated a quiet hostility, as though daring anyone to approach.
Directly in front of them, a gap in the hedgerow marked the entrance to the maze.
Sherlock had already come to investigate the day before. He showed nothing now. For the others, the sight of it settled into something they hadn't quite been prepared for.
The corridors beyond were swallowed by darkness—a blackness so complete that the hedges might as well have been walls of stone. No light reached through.
"Was it like this yesterday?" Harry asked under his breath.
"The entrance was hidden by a concealment charm then," Sherlock replied, just as evenly. "But I deduced from the evidence that the opening was here."
Harry and Cedric both gave him a thumbs-up, in unison.
"We shouldn't be surprised," Cedric said.
Five minutes later, the stands began to fill. Hundreds of students filed in, the hum of excited voices and the rumble of footsteps weaving through the cool night air. The sky above had deepened to a clear, rich navy; the stars were growing brighter, and a breeze drifted across the pitch, carrying with it just the faintest edge of cold.
Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Lupin, and Hagrid crossed the grounds and made their way toward Bagman and the nine champions. Each wore a large, glittering red star on their hat—all except Hagrid, whose star was pinned to the back of his enormous moleskin waistcoat, where it flared like a beacon.
"We will be patrolling the perimeter of the maze," Professor McGonagall said, looking at the champions with a grave, measured gaze. "If you find yourself in a situation you cannot resolve, and require rescue, send red sparks into the air with your wand. We will come to you immediately. Is that understood?"
All nine champions nodded.
Professor Lupin added gently, "Once you send up red sparks, you will have withdrawn from the competition. Please be sure you understand what that means."
None of them seemed surprised. It stood to reason—if you needed rescuing, you weren't much in the running anyway.
Lupin glanced at Bagman and Moody and gave a nod.
"Alastor—anything you'd like to add?" Bagman asked, turning to Moody.
Moody shook his head, his voice a low rasp. "You say it."
"Right then—off you go!" Bagman said brightly, addressing the four patrol teachers with his customary cheer.
"Good luck, Harry," Hagrid murmured, stepping close.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick offered each of the champions a quiet nod in acknowledgement. Lupin's gaze found Sherlock's for just a moment, and something passed between them—a look that carried meaning only the two of them could read.
Then the four of them moved off, spreading out in different directions, disappearing around the maze to begin their patrol.
Bagman raised his wand to his throat and murmured, "Sonorus."
The crowd knew what was coming.
His voice, now magnified and booming, swept through the entire Quidditch pitch with the ease of long practice.
"Ladies and gentlemen—the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin!"
The crowd surged with noise. Bagman's voice rang with relish.
"As it stands, the three competing schools are separated by fewer than fifty points! And since the first champion to reach the Triwizard Cup at the heart of the maze will receive fifty points outright—the winner of this task will be the winner of the entire tournament!"
"Currently, Hogwarts leads the standings!"
"Beauxbatons is in close pursuit!"
"And Durmstrang—Durmstrang will need to give everything they have!"
Cedric couldn't help laughing. He turned to Harry and Sherlock.
"World-class commentating. The man knows what he's doing, you have to give him that."
Harry, who had still been carrying a thread of nerves, found himself laughing too, and felt the tension ease a little.
"Excellent! The moment is now!
Hogwarts' three champions—Harry, Sherlock, Cedric—take your positions—
On my whistle!"
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