The darkness around Sherlock, Harry, and Cedric had been comprehensive throughout the maze.
Even with all three of them casting Lumos, they had barely managed to illuminate a few feet in any direction. Beyond the glow of their wands, the only sources of light had been the Hinkypunk and the distant gleam of the Triwizard Cup.
Then Sherlock's fingertips grazed the cool tal base of the Cup and brilliant light exploded.
The contrast was so sudden and overwhelming that all three of them flinched, squinting against the brightness. The darkness dissolved in an instant, the light from their wands reduced to nothing, replaced by an open night sky.
The deep indigo canopy above was thick with stars, blazing like scattered diamonds, like pearls pressed into warm jade. A breeze drifted across their faces, carrying the clean scent of grass, chasing away the maze's chill.
Then the sound hit them.
It crashed over them like a wave. The wizards in the stands could no longer contain their euphoria. People flung their arms in the air, rose onto their toes, scread themselves hoarse, grabbed one another in embraces, leapt up and down, faces flushed deep red with joy.
"They're out! They made it!"
"Long live Hogwarts!"
"Hols! The Lion King!"
"Potter! The Chosen One!"
"Diggory! The Honey Badger!"
"We are the champions!"
The ho advantage had never been more evident.
Through the roar of the crowd, Ludo Bagman's voice cut through with clarity. His hands flew through exaggerated gestures, his face stretched wide with ecstasy:
"As expected, Hogwarts is first out of the maze! Do you see that, ladies and gentlen? Hols is holding the Triwizard Cup! According to the rules of the competition, Hogwarts is awarded fifty points and declared the champion of this year's Triwizard Tournant! Harry Potter—Sherlock Hols—Cedric Diggory! These three nas deserve to be rembered by every wizard in Europe!"
In the stands, even the Dursleys rose to their feet.
Uncle Vernon's tight-pressed lips bent up slightly.
Aunt Petunia found herself straightening instinctively, spine was stiffening with sothing almost like pride.
But when they took in the surrounding witches and wizards shrieking and stamping like people possessed and Bagman roaring about being rembered "across all of Europe"—Vernon furrowed his brow.
"Isn't that a bit much?"
"Not at all!" Ron shouted beside them, bouncing in place, his face gone as red as his hair. "This is the Triwizard Tournant! The grandest competition in all of Europe!"
Hermione stood near Mrs. Hols, and upon hearing the exchange, nodded vigorously. "Ron's right. And this is the first ti it's been held in over a hundred years—those three have every right to be rembered."
"Is that so," said Uncle Vernon, still not totally convinced.
Mr. Hols stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Sothing like the Euros and the Champions League combined, I'd imagine."
Aunt Petunia fell quiet. Her gaze drifted to Harry, and sothing in her eyes shifted—softening, growing complicated.
For a mont, her mind slipped away to sowhere far off—a garden in the warm amber of late afternoon, herself and Lily running through the grass together, their laughter ringing clear.
She thought of that evening light, of running through it, of everything that had since been lost.
The three Hogwarts champions had barely had a mont to breathe before the other schools' participants were forcibly transported out of the maze.
Fleur Delacour's hair was disheveled, her robes were smudged with dirt and an unidentifiable viscous substance. Viktor Krum's dark cloak had been torn open along one side, his face was marked with a few shallow scratches; his eyes were as brooding as ever, though they held an undercurrent of bewildernt.
The rest of the champions were similarly battered—so still gasping for breath, others gripping their wands with the reflexive tension of fighters mid-battle.
Compared to the Hogwarts trio, they hadn't quite registered what had happened yet. One mont they had been deep in the maze, facing down creatures, victory almost within reach and then so invisible force had seized them and torn them from the fight entirely.
As they took in the towering stands, the milling crowds, the brilliant sky overhead, the noise of the crowd swallowed them whole. The cheers rippled with the words champion and Hogwarts, and it was like cold water poured over a fla.
Only then, slowly, did the reality settle in.
They had lost.
A dark tide of people surged toward Sherlock, Harry, and Cedric. Eager young witches and wizards reached out their hands and launched all three champions into the air. Cheers, applause, and whistles layered over one another until the sound was almost physical.
Sherlock drifted up, eyes slightly narrowed against the wind, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
Harry, a little embarrassed, pressed a hand to his wind-tousled hair, a flush creeping across his cheeks.
Cedric threw his arms wide and let himself revel in the glory that belonged to all three of them.
"We lost, in the end," Fleur said softly, giving a small shake of her head. The tension had left her voice; in its place was sothing quieter, almost resigned. She turned to her two teammates and spread her hands. "At least we didn't finish last."
Krum stood with his arms crossed, jaw set, his dark gaze fixed on the three figures still being tossed in the air. He said nothing.
"Co on, Krum. We gave it everything we had." One of the Durmstrang champions laid a hand on his shoulder.
"It's true," said Lukas Poliakov. "They were on ho ground, after all. And that Hols—he's sothing else."
At the ntion of Hols, Krum's eyes swept the crowd. He found Hermione almost imdiately. She was gazing at Sherlock with open, unguarded admiration.
He exhaled slowly.
Perhaps... it was ti to let go.
Once the results were announced, the award ceremony began.
Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge ca bustling through the crowd, pushing his way forward with undisguised eagerness. His bowler hat had slipped sideways, and his round face was so creased with smiling that his eyes had nearly disappeared.
Hogwarts winning the tournant was a point of national pride for Britain—which ant it was rather a good day for the Minister of Magic, and his whole bearing radiated the satisfaction of a man taking personal credit for soone else's triumph.
"Congratulations on winning the Cup! Harry, well done!"
As the ceremony formally opened, Fudge seed to have developed a blind spot for Sherlock and Cedric. His attention was fixed entirely on the wizarding world's Chosen One.
He dug into his generous pocket and produced a heavy velvet pouch, which clinked with a rich golden sound as the drawstring fell loose. Without ceremony, he pressed it into Harry's hands.
"Er—Minister," Harry said, blinking, "Cedric is the captain…"
Fudge's smile faltered. A flicker of awkwardness crossed his face as he suddenly recalled that Cedric's father, Amos, was a Ministry employee. Overlooking the team captain quite so publicly was perhaps not the wisest move.
"Diggory…" He cleared his throat. "That is to say—"
"Keep it, Harry," Cedric said with an easy smile. "Don't worry about the details."
"Quite right!" Fudge seized the opening gratefully, gave a firm nod, and pressed the pouch more firmly into Harry's hands.
Harry shook his head with a resigned sigh and accepted it, the weight of the gold was settling his wrist downward.
In the center of it all, Cedric held the Triwizard Cup in both hands. The trophy caught the starlight and threw it back in shards of brilliance. On his left stood Harry, clutching the coin pouch; on his right stood Sherlock, empty-handed and entirely unbothered.
When the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, the atmosphere in the arena crested once more—even the evening breeze seed to be cheering.
"I didn't realize there was prize money," Mr. Hols said, watching from the base of the stands with mild surprise.
"There always has been, in the Triwizard Tournant." Hermione turned to him at once, clearly delighted to have an engaged audience. "Although the amount was smaller in previous centuries. From what I've read, the champion's prize a hundred years ago was five hundred Galleons."
"So even the wizarding world isn't immune to inflation," Mr. Hols observed with interest.
"Not at all," Hermione continued, warming to the subject.
"Though the magical financial system is relatively insulated, it still experiences both inflation and deflation. Gringotts—the goblin bank—sits at the center of the whole economy. The goblins control monetary minting, wealth storage, and international exchange entirely.
Since Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts are struck from actual gold, silver, and bronze, the currency has intrinsic value, which helps stabilize the market. And because magic can't conjure money from nothing, you don't get the kind of unchecked monetary expansion that causes economic collapse in the Muggle world."
"Hermione's right," Gemma added from nearby, "and there were significant inflationary periods during the Goblin Wars. Since then, things have remained within acceptable range. Worth noting, too—the old tournant format only had one champion per school. By that standard, today's prize money per person is actually lower than it used to be."
Ron, standing beside them, was doing his level best not to fall asleep on his feet as two girls and Sherlock's father discussed economics.
Mr. Hols, anwhile, was growing more impressed with his son's two companions by the minute. He exchanged a glance with his wife, and both of them wore the sa quiet, contented expression: this trip to Hogwarts has been rather worthwhile.
Uncle Vernon, who had been drifting in and out of attention, suddenly perked up. He leaned in slightly. "So—how much is one pound to the Galleon?"
Mr. Hols smiled. "One pound buys roughly a fifth of a Galleon. One Galleon equals seventeen Sickles. One Sickle equals twenty-nine Knuts."
Uncle Vernon stared at him. The exchange rate made no intuitive sense at all.
Before he could remark on it, Ludo Bagman ca charging through the crowd toward them like a man on a mission, waving both arms overhead.
"Families of Potter and Hols—what are you still doing standing over there? Co on, co on!"
He wove between people with surprising agility, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
"Photos! We need photos! All the champions together for a group shot! Each school's team separately! Then a close-up of our three winners! And then—the champion team with their families! Every single one! Don't be shy, move along!"
Sirius Black stood with his arms folded, sothing dark and reluctant flickering in his expression. He had no particular desire to share a photo fra with the Dursleys.
But he caught Harry's eye—eager, hopeful—and let out a quiet breath. He said nothing, and fell into step.
The Dursleys, however, needed no persuading at all.
The opportunity to be seen, publicly and prominently—that was sothing neither Vernon nor Petunia would dream of passing up.
Vernon had entirely forgotten his low opinion of the wizarding world. He straightened his tie in the direction of the nearest lamp, smoothed the creases from his jacket, and dabbed discreetly at his forehead with the back of his hand.
Petunia tidied her hair, drew herself up straight, and arranged her expression into sothing dignified.
The Daily Prophet photographer moved through the field with a massive enchanted cara, adjusting angles, muttering under his breath in a continuous stream:
"Smile!"
"Confidence!"
"Beyond all doubt!"
Once the organizers had finally finished orchestrating every last permutation of group photograph, the fans descended.
Witches and wizards of all ages surged forward, caras and notebooks at the ready, hoping for a photo or a signature. The three Hogwarts champions drew the densest crowd by far. But Fleur, with her striking features and effortless grace, had gathered her own devoted following—and Krum, as one of the most recognizable Quidditch players in the world, was surrounded almost imdiately.
For many of the Hogwarts students, this was in all likelihood the last ti they would ever see any of the visiting champions in person. No one wanted to waste it.
In the midst of the commotion, Mrs. Hols quietly drew Gemma, Hermione, and Luna aside, gathering the three girls close.
She wrapped an arm around each of them in turn, her smile genuine and warm. "Tonight, we're all family."
Gemma and Hermione needed no further explanation. They understood perfectly. A light flush rose in both their cheeks, and they lowered their eyes—but neither moved away.
Luna, however, required no such decoding. When Mrs. Hols extended the invitation, her silver eyes lit up at once.
"A group photo with everyone? Oh, wonderful! I've never been in one with this many people before!"
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