The days between the champion selection and the first task passed like water through fingers. Edmund went to his classes, studied for his N.E.W.T.s, practiced his spells. But everything was colored by the knowledge of what was coming. The other champions were preparing too. He saw Dolohov in the library, reading books on defensive magic and creature handling. He saw Colette practicing in the courtyard, her wand moving in precise arcs, conjuring shields and vanishing them. He did not speak to them. There was nothing to say.
His friends were his anchor. Cassius talked about Quidditch, about the upcoming match against Beauxbatons, about anything but the tournament. Arthur brought him sweets from Honeydukes. Horace helped him with his Potions homework. Astrid sat with him in the common room, her rune stones spread across the table, her presence a quiet comfort.
"You're going to win," she said one evening, not looking up from her carving.
"You don't know that."
"I know you." She set down her knife and looked at him. "You've been preparing for something like this your whole life. Not the tournament. Something bigger. But this is a step. You'll take it."
He wanted to believe her.
---
The Quidditch match against Durmstrang was held on the last Saturday of November. The stands were packed with students from all three schools, their voices rising in a roar that echoed across the pitch. Cassius was in the air, his bat ready, his eyes scanning for Bludgers. The Durmstrang team was aggressive, their chasers flying low, their beaters targeting the Hogwarts seeker with brutal precision.
Edmund watched from the stands, his hands clenched, his heart pounding. The match was brutal. A Hogwarts chaser was knocked from his broom by a Bludger that should have been blocked. He fell forty feet before the mediwizard caught him with a cushioning charm. The crowd gasped. The match continued.
Cassius flew like a demon. He intercepted Bludgers that seemed destined for the Hogwarts keeper, sent them rocketing back at the Durmstrang chasers. His face was set, his eyes focused, his body a weapon. When the Hogwarts seeker caught the Snitch—a diving catch that left the crowd breathless—Cassius threw his bat into the air and roared.
They had won.
Edmund cheered until his throat was raw.
---
The night before the first task, Edmund could not sleep. He lay in his bed, staring at the canopy above him, the green light of the lake shifting on the ceiling. The ring on his finger was warm, pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm. He thought about the seven years of preparation. The spells, the potions, the theory. The healing, the wards, the runes. The fifteen N.E.W.T. subjects he had mastered. He was not the same boy who had entered Hogwarts as a first year, frightened and uncertain. He was Edmund Prince, the last heir of the Prince family, the student who had achieved theoretical mastery in every subject.
He was ready.
---
The morning of the first task was grey and cold. The champions were summoned to the entrance hall at dawn. Professor Wainwright was waiting, his face grave. Beside him stood Professor Marchbanks and the two visiting judges—a tall witch from Beauxbatons with silver hair and a sharp-eyed wizard from Durmstrang with a scar across his cheek.
"Follow me," Wainwright said.
He led them out of the castle, across the frozen grounds, toward the Forbidden Forest. The trees loomed before them, dark and ancient, their branches heavy with snow. Students lined the path, their breath misting in the cold air. Word had spread. The first task was about to begin.
They stopped at the edge of a large clearing. The trees had been cut back, and in the center of the clearing was a massive nest, built of branches and mud and lined with feathers. And in the nest, a Griffin.
The creature was magnificent—its body that of a lion, its head and wings that of an eagle. Its feathers were gold and bronze, its fur the color of dark honey. Its eyes were the color of molten gold, and they missed nothing. Chains of enchanted silver bound its legs to stakes driven deep into the ground. The chains were long enough to allow it to move within the clearing, but not to reach the edges. Around its neck was a collar of the same silver, inscribed with runes that pulsed with a faint light.
"The Griffin has been pacified," Wainwright said. "The enchantments on the chains and collar ensure that it cannot leave the clearing, and that its aggression is dulled. It will not attack unless provoked. However, it is still a dangerous creature. Do not underestimate it."
He pointed to the nest. "Within the nest are twelve eggs. Six are real, six are fakes, enchanted to look identical. The fakes are indistinguishable by sight or touch. Your task is to retrieve one real egg and return to this spot. You will be judged on speed, technique, and the condition of the egg. You may use any magic at your disposal. You may not harm the Griffin. Any champion who deliberately injures the creature will be disqualified."
The Durmstrang judge stepped forward. "The champions will enter one at a time, in the order of the drawing. The first is Antonin Dolohov."
---
The crowd quieted. Antonin Dolohov stepped into the clearing. He was tall for his age, with sharp features and dark hair that fell across his forehead. His Durmstrang robes were immaculate, his wand held loosely at his side. He did not look at the crowd. He looked only at the Griffin.
The creature watched him, its golden eyes tracking his movement. The chains clinked as it shifted its weight. Dolohov walked to the center of the clearing, twenty feet from the nest, and stopped.
He raised his wand.
The spell he cast was not one Edmund recognized. A wave of silver light spread from his wand, washing over the clearing. The Griffin blinked, shook its head, then settled back onto its haunches. Its eyes grew heavy. It was not sleeping, but it was calmer, less alert. Dolohov had used a variant of the Pacification Charm, a spell that Edmund knew was taught at N.E.W.T. level in Durmstrang. It was powerful, precise, and dangerous if cast incorrectly. Dolohov cast it flawlessly.
He walked to the nest. The Griffin did not move. Dolohov examined the eggs, touching each one with the tip of his wand. Edmund watched closely. After a moment, Dolohov selected an egg, lifted it, and walked back. The Griffin stirred but did not attack.
The Durmstrang judge nodded approvingly. "Time: four minutes. Technique: efficient. Egg: real."
The Beauxbatons judge scribbled notes on her parchment. Wainwright's face was unreadable.
---
Colette Marchand was next. She entered the clearing with a dancer's grace, her Beauxbatons robes flowing behind her. She was smaller than Dolohov, her features delicate, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. But her eyes were sharp, and her wand hand was steady.
She stopped twenty feet from the nest and raised her wand. She did not cast a Pacification Charm. Instead, she cast a spell that filled the clearing with a soft, melodic sound—a lullaby, woven from magic, that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The Griffin's head drooped. Its eyes closed. Within seconds, it was asleep.
Colette approached the nest slowly, her footsteps silent. She did not touch the eggs with her wand. Instead, she closed her eyes and held her wand over the nest, moving it slowly from side to side. After a moment, one of the eggs glowed faintly—a soft blue light that was visible even from the edge of the clearing. She picked it up and walked back.
The spell faded. The Griffin did not wake.
"Time: six minutes. Technique: elegant. Egg: real," the Beauxbatons judge said, smiling.
---
Edmund was last.
He stepped into the clearing, his wand in his hand, his heart steady. The crowd was silent. He could feel their eyes on him—the Hogwarts students who had known him for seven years, the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students who had heard the rumors, the judges who were waiting to see what the Hogwarts champion could do.
He stopped in the center of the clearing, twenty feet from the nest. The Griffin was awake again. It watched him, its golden eyes unblinking. The chains were taut, the runes on the collar pulsing.
Edmund did not cast a Pacification Charm. He did not cast a lullaby. He raised his wand and cast a spell that he had been developing for months, a spell that had grown out of his research for the Register. He called it the *Veritas Revelio*—a detection charm that could distinguish between real and enchanted objects by reading the magical signature of the creator.
The spell shot from his wand in a wave of pale gold light. It washed over the nest, and the eggs began to glow. Six of them glowed with a steady, warm light. Six of them flickered, their light unstable, their magical signatures false.
Edmund had identified all six real eggs in a single cast.
The crowd gasped. The Beauxbatons judge leaned forward. The Durmstrang judge's eyes narrowed.
But Edmund was not finished. He did not want to simply walk to the nest and take an egg. That was what Dolohov had done. That was what Colette had done. He wanted to do something more. Something that would show the world what he was capable of.
He pointed his wand at the nest and cast a second spell—a conjuration. A small cage of silver light appeared in the air beside the nest. Edmund guided it with his wand, moving it over the real eggs. He selected one—the one with the warmest glow—and the cage descended, lifting the egg gently from the nest. The egg floated in the cage, suspended in mid-air, and began to move toward Edmund.
The Griffin stirred. It had not been pacified. It had not been lulled to sleep. It saw the egg leaving its nest, and it growled—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the clearing. The chains clinked as it rose to its feet.
The crowd held its breath. Edmund did not flinch. He kept his wand steady, guiding the egg toward him. The Griffin took a step forward. The chains went taut. It could not reach him. It could not reach the egg. But it could see. It could remember.
Edmund caught the egg as it reached him. It was warm, heavy, alive. He held it up for the judges to see. The Griffin roared, but the chains held.
"Time: two minutes. Technique: spectacular. Egg: real," Wainwright said, his voice steady.
The crowd erupted.
---
The scores were announced at the feast that evening.
Antonin Dolohov: 8 points. His technique had been efficient, his spellwork precise, but the judges noted that he had not demonstrated exceptional creativity. Colette Marchand: 9 points. Her lullaby had been beautiful, her identification method elegant, but she had taken longer than the other champions.
Edmund Prince: 10 points. His detection charm had identified all six real eggs in a single cast—a feat that the Beauxbatons judge called "unprecedented." His conjuration and levitation of the cage had demonstrated a level of control and creativity that exceeded the expectations of the tournament. The Durmstrang judge, who had been skeptical of the Hogwarts champion, wrote in his notes: *Exceptional. Worthy of the tournament.*
Edmund sat at the Slytherin table, his friends around him, the weight of the first task lifting from his shoulders. He had done it. He had shown them what he could do. But there were five more tasks to come. The tournament was far from over.
---
After the feast, Cassius found him in the common room. His face was flushed, his eyes bright.
"That was incredible," he said. "The detection charm—where did you learn that?"
"I developed it," Edmund said. "For the Register."
Cassius shook his head. "You're something else, Prince. You've always been something else."
Edmund smiled. "I had good teachers."
"Don't be modest. It doesn't suit you."
They sat by the fire, and for a moment, Edmund let himself forget about the tournament. There was time enough for the next task. There was time enough for everything.
---