The Second Task
The entrance hall was chilly in the early spring air, even with the sun hanging at its highest point in the sky. Sherlock again found himself wishing for a robe as a draft passed through the light material of his uniform.
The four champions stood just inside the double doors of the hall, waiting for the ministry wizards to arrive and explain to them what they would about the task.
Sherlock stood a good ways away from Collins, and kept running through the riddle in his head.
A priceless item you must seek;
Yet it is not bronze, silver, or gold.
Where the ground falters beneath your feet;
To this item we advise you hold.
All he had managed to gather from it thus far was that they were each supposed to be rescuing something precious to them-and that its value was not monetary. Something with sentimental value? Sherlock really couldn't think of anything, other than the skull from the First Task, which he had taken quite a liking to. And yet, this item was supposed to save them, somehow?
Sherlock looked over at Moriarty. What could the judges possibly have found that held sentimental value for the boy? Anyone who said Sherlock was unfeeling would certainly reevaluate their claim after meeting the Durmstrang wizard.
Jack kept trying to meet the Ravenclaw's eye, but Sherlock was pointedly looking at the ground, making a desperate last attempt to figure out the riddle. If he did, maybe there was something else he could do in time to prepare himself. He wondered if Adler and Moriarty had figured it out…he certainly hoped not. Besides giving them an advantage in the task, it would bring him never ending shame to know they solved something he couldn't.
Even more, it would seem a betrayal to his house, which prized wisdom above all else.
After a few more minutes of tense silence, Kennick and Smith arrived in the entrance hall, the fatter wizard as much out of breath as he had been before-and just as cheery.
"Well, well, well," he puffed. "It's simply marvelous to see you all again so soon! It feels like it was just yesterday we were telling you about the griffins you'd be finding!" He barked with laughter as Smith shot him a disapproving glance.
"We should tell them about the next task," he suggested firmly, making it clear to anyone (except probably Kennick), that this was non-negotiable. "We don't want to keep the audience waiting."
"Of course, of course!" boomed the man, grinning. "Gather round, children, gather round!"
Sherlock reluctantly stepped closer to the group, giving up for now on solving the riddle. He'd return to it on the walk to the stadium…wherever it was this time. He hoped it was far. Maybe by Hogsmeade again. That would give him plenty of time to think.
"Now, there's not much that we can tell you about the task," Kennick said, quite unhelpfully. "Most of your technique should depend upon what you glossed from the riddle, assuming you managed to open the puzzle. All we will tell you is this-reach your objective, and return. Again, you will be judged in two sections-individual, overall performance, and teamwork. The only difference is that this time, teamwork will count for less. Only five points out of the twenty, while the other section will be worth fifteen. In essence-while you are with your teammate, you are expected to help each other and to work together. However, if (and most likely when) the two of you are separated, you are not expected to find each other. In fact, you are encouraged not to."
Sherlock and Collins exchanged a quick look. It seemed like the coins wouldn't be helping them too much after all.
"Now," interjected Smith sternly, before Kennick could continue. "If you'll please follow us to the site of the tournament…"
The two ministry officials led them across the hilly grounds, the frosted grass crunching beneath their feet. They stopped at the edge of the black lack-or at least, where the lake should have been. Instead, there was a vast plain of yellowing grass extending as far as the eye could see-and that wasn't too far.
Atop the plain of grass, a shroud of mist hung in the air, with patches both dense and thin.
"It shouldn't be that easy to get separated," Jack said uncertainly from Sherlock's shoulder. "I mean, as long as we stay close together, or hold on to each other or something."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Speak for yourself. I'm not holding your hand."
The boy blushed, and began to stammer but before he could say anything intelligible, Kennick and Smith were grabbing them by the shoulders and moving them to their starting points.
In his distraction, Sherlock hadn't even noticed the stands that were off to the right, where the students of Hogwarts sat, cheering. His brain had simply dismissed their applause and chanting as background noise to the panicked symphony playing in his mind.
He looked over his shoulder, quickly scanning the crowd for John-he assumed the boy would be towards the front, but he couldn't see him anywhere at all.
Sherlock frowned, and turned back to the plains, running a hand through his dark curls. He allowed himself a glance to his right, where Moriarty, and then Irene stood; Moriarty looked confident and poised. Irene Adler looked like she was trying to imitate him-and doing a very good job. If it hadn't been for her comment about being afraid the night of the ball, Sherlock wouldn't have known to look for the fidgeting of her sleeves and glances to her left that indicated nerves.
He hoped he looked like he was holding himself together (he didn't need the school to think of him as any weirder than they already did), but he figured he looked like he was about to puke. In fact, the ground beneath his feet was practically spinning…
He blinked a few times until everything was standing still again, before making sure he was standing up straight.
Kennick must have said something, but he didn't hear it for all the imagined music in his ears. The next thing Sherlock knew, he and the other three champions were hurtling forward into the mist.
Except almost as soon as the mist closed behind him, Sherlock stumbled, and had to spread his feet apart to keep his balance-the ground was shifting and quivering with every step he took. He heard Jack gasp from somewhere to his left, and hesitantly made his way towards the noise.
"Jack?"
"Sherlock? I can't see you!"
"Shh. Stay where you are," Sherlock whispered, in case the mist carried voices. He wouldn't put it past Moriarty to ambush them. He could be lurking behind any of these clouds.
The Ravenclaw kept moving towards the sound of Jack's panicked breathing, and only when the boy seemingly materialized in front of him did he remember Kennick's words: "…you are not expected to find each other. In fact, we encourage you not to."
Sherlock cursed to himself. If he had paused to think, he could be on his way by now, not having to worry about the other boy. Well, at least this should earn him his five teamwork points. Maybe he could lose the boy soon on purpose and make it look like an accident…
"What's going on?" Jack asked him urgently, in a voice so unquiet it made Sherlock wince. "The ground isn't…the ground."
"Shhh. And you don't think? Merlin's beard, no wonder you're not in Ravenclaw."
"Shut it."
"You shut it, unless you want to bring Moriarty and Adler down on us. Merlin knows what else they have in here, too."
At that, Jack looked around them in wide-eyed terror. "So what is going on?"
"They didn't substitute the lake with a field," Sherlock explained. "Think of all the merpeople and other aquatic creatures that live there. They grew a field on top of it. So all this is just floating on the lake, and chunks are bound to break off…"
Collins shifted uneasily, looking down at his feet. "So all those creatures…the giant squid…they're all beneath our feet?"
Sherlock hadn't thought about that, but the more he did, the more uneasy he became. "Try to imagine they're all sleeping," he suggested sarcastically. "Now come on. We need to find these valuable things or whatever. And try not to step too heavily-you don't want to disturb the waters…"
The two boys moved carefully through the mist, keeping their eyes peeled for any other sign of life, or anything of value. Sherlock tried a couple spells to help them see-Lumos, but the light only reflected off of the fog, blinding them; and another one to clear away the fog near them, but the effects only lasted for a second before it all closed in again.
As they moved forward, Sherlock did see a bright light illuminating their path. Collins started towards it, thinking that perhaps it was what they were searching for-and Sherlock grabbed him just in time, as his foot was raised above the surface the water.
"Hinkypunk," the Ravenclaw whispered, looking at the dark depths just inches away from their feet. "Don't follow the lights."
Collins just nodded, already looking pale and drained.
Sherlock let his mind race for a moment, an idea forming in his brain…If these objects had sentimental value, then there should be each for one individual champion. And each champion should have their own method of finding it, finding something dear to them. So that would lead them different ways…"in fact, we encourage you not to." There it was. They weren't just advised to split up, they had to.
"Collins," Sherlock said quickly, eager to not waste any time. It was still early in the game-the others probably hadn't figured it out yet (if they were still even together). "We need to split up."
"What? Why?"
Sherlock explained his reasoning. "So it's up to you to find this thing, however you best would."
"But we're not supposed to intentionally split up…we'll get points taken off."
"Then we'll do it by accident."
"Huh? How?"
"Let's go check out that thick patch of fog," suggested Sherlock casually. "I bet there's something in there."
"Wha-ohhh," Collins said, catching on.
Within seconds of stepping into the silvery curtain, Sherlock could no longer see the boy who was just beside him. Smiling to himself, he continued forward, looking at his feet to make sure they were always landing on solid ground-well, as solid as the ground could be when it was floating on top of a lake.
Sherlock now searched the depths of his mind. He needed to find his own, unique strategy to find his item. He thought about it for what had to be a good few minutes, as he stood there with the thick mist swirling around him.
What defined him? His intelligence. His isolation. But those things wouldn't help find anything. His music. Instantly, the waltz that had been playing in his head for the past half an hour suddenly seemed louder than ever. He imagined himself playing it on the violin, getting lost in the music. And then, before he even really knew what he was doing, he started to dance. He pretended that he was waltzing with someone (with Irene, perhaps, or John by the surface of the lake again), and, keeping his eyes firmly closed, stepped as though he were dancing to the music that was filling up all corners of his mind.
Whether by pure chance or not, his feet always hit ground, and he never faltered. Then he felt something shift around him, in the very composition of the air, and he stopped.
As he opened his eyes, suddenly the mist seemed more blue than silver, and Sherlock had the sensation of falling into nothingness and he held his breath for fear of drowning in the icy depths of the lake. He was so cold, he couldn't move a muscle, couldn't even open his eyes, as he continued plummeting through the air-air? Not water. Air.
This was an illusion. Sherlock focused, retreated to the back of his mind and tried to clear all the junk, all the rubbish that was keeping him from thinking clearly. He inhaled the moist, humid air of the marsh, and forced his legs to move-after a few steps forward, he felt ground beneath his feet, and opened his eyes.
He was out of the thick patch of fog, and in front of him was grass-not the mud-soaked, short grass he had been walking on, but grass that stretched over the top of his head. And occasionally, when the breeze blew the yellowing grass the right way, he could see pulsing silver lights-four of them.
Sherlock's breath hitched in his chest, and he began shoving through the stalks of grass, no longer worrying about silence. He was close to where he needed to be, close to finding the object that was supposed to be so valuable to him.
But the grass seemed to grab at his ankles and snap at his face, making it difficult to move far with very much speed. And, in fact, the grass was grabbing at him, he realized with a jolt, as he felt his feet rooted in their place. Sherlock plunged his hand into his robes and drew out his wand.
"Diffindo!" The grass flew away from him as a few stalks were severed, and he took the opportunity to begin sprinting forward, hoping beyond hope that he could get to that silver light, so close and yet so infuriatingly far.
At one point, he felt his foot sink into the mud up to his ankle, and had to pause to yank it free. At this time, the grass began rushing towards him, and the frustrated boy had to fight it off with growing rage and impatience. His legs were sore from the running, his head was still spinning from the mist, he had cuts all over from the sharp grass (no wonder they were called "blades"), and he just wanted to be done.
When he finally managed to break away from the last of the grass, he fell forward onto his knees, mud splattering all over his pants and blood smeared over much of his skin. Looking up, he was almost blinded by the silver lights.
He rose shakily to his feet, and stared at what was before him. Four people, or rather, bodies, were hanging suspended in midair, facing outwards in each direction. They seemed to be in a trance, hanging as though they were afloat in water, hair splayed out all around them.
Molly Hooper was to the left; a girl with red hair on the far side; to the right was a small girl with long, silky dark hair; and immediately in front of Sherlock, looking ghostly pale with his blonde hair in a halo around his head, hung John.
Sherlock stood there, helpless, just staring at John in confusion. It took a moment for him to register that the three other people were still there-meaning that the other champions could be arriving at any time. Right now, though, he was in the lead and he needed to maintain that.
From what he could see, there was nothing keeping John there in a trance except for magic-no ropes to cut or chains to break. Hesitantly, he reached out and grabbed the boy's hand. The moment he touched the boy's skin, the ground immediately below his feet began to shake violently, causing Sherlock to lose his balance and nearly fall over.
Letting go of his friend's hand, he regained his stability. They'd have to be quick. The moment he grabbed John, the pair would have to start running. That, of course, was dependent upon the fact that John would wake up once his feet hit the ground. Sherlock was counting on it, because he really didn't have anything else to go on.
Taking a deep breath, the Ravenclaw grabbed his friend's pale hand and pivoted sharply, tugging the boy along behind him as he plunged back into the tall yellow grass.
He heard John shouting in surprise, but the boy was running behind him, gripping Sherlock's hand for dear life, which meant at least they were moving.
"Sherlock! What the bloody hell is going on?" John sounded panicked and confused-which was understandable, considering he had woken up to Sherlock dragging him by the hand through a swamp.
Sherlock cast a quick glance over his shoulder as the grass whipped at his face; John looked exactly as he had sounded, and already had some blood across his cheek.
"Second task. Earthquake. Run," he panted, as the ground indeed began rumbling and quaking beneath their feet. The curious thing, he noticed as he fought through the grass, what that it wasn't happening anywhere else. Even a foot to the right, the ground was steady. It was simply following them.
Noticing a rustling in the grass ahead, Sherlock released John's hand and reached for his wand-and suddenly the ground disappeared beneath his feet and everything seemed to be as cold as ice.
His muscles screaming in protest, Sherlock started kicking his legs frantically before forcing himself to calm down. Wasting energy wouldn't help him at all.
Calmly treading water to keep himself from sinking, and keeping a firm hold on his wand, he gave it a flick and thought "lumos maxima." A bright white light flared up at his wand's tip, but the light only extended a few feet around him in each direction-the black lake truly was just that without the sun piercing it from above.
Terrified of the unknown darkness that surrounded him (and whatever might be lurking in it), Sherlock tilted his head back, trying to figure out where he had fallen in. He was beginning to run out of breath.
As the pressure in his chest began to increase, he began pressing his free hand against the ground above his head, trying to find an opening, any opening-
And then a hand seized the hood of his robes, and heaved him back into the freezing, bitter air of late winter.
Coughing and gasping desperately, Sherlock tried to drink in as much air as he could in a few short breaths. He was shivering uncontrollably, or maybe that was just the ground below him and John, trying to knock them back under…
Like hell. There was no way Sherlock was ever going into that bloody lake ever again, willingly or not.
"Are you okay?" his blonde-haired friend asked him, grabbing his hand and yanking him to his feet.
"No, but it doesn't matter right now-run."
Soon they had fought their way through the tall, whipping grass and were running through the fog, barely even bothering to look where they were stepping. They were holding tight to one another, and if one of them stumbled, the other boy would pull him along and they would just keep flying forward, between them keeping a steady balance.
When Sherlock was beginning to think his legs couldn't carry him any further, when he was convinced they were about to collapse underneath him, suddenly the ground stopped shaking and his feet hit beautiful, wonderful, solid ground.
As the stands erupted in applause and some catcalls (the two boys were still holding hands), Sherlock dropped onto his knees in fits of shivers.
"Shit," he heard John say, and then he had let go of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his chest, making sure to keep his vital organs as warm as possible, knowing that they would take care of his arms and legs.
After a minute that had seemed like hours, John returned with three large towels that he wrapped around the boy, drying his curls as much as possible. "Are you okay?"
"O-of course," Sherlock managed through his chattering teeth. "D-don't be ri-ridiculous."
John cracked a grin at that. "My mistake."
He sat down beside Sherlock and wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulder, hoping to transfer some of his body heat to his freezing friend.
"Is anyone else back yet?" Sherlock asked, once he had warmed up a bit and could speak properly.
"Moriarty," John said.
Sherlock sighed. "Figures. Did he beat us back?"
"Yeah. We were ahead of him until you fell in."
The boy wrinkled his nose. "Wait-how do you know?"
"You know that rustling that caused you to pull out your wand? That was him going to rescue his…person. He saw me just after you fell in-I mean, I was shouting your name so it would have been a bit hard to miss me. He stared at me for a minute, like he was deciding if he should curse me or not, but then he just kept going."
"Hmm."
"He didn't pass me again though, while I was helping you out, so he must have gone a different way back."
Sherlock looked over to his left, where the Durmstrang boy sat with the small, dark-haired girl that he had seen. Even from this distance, he could tell that she had the same eerie, black eyes as him-she must be his younger sister.
She didn't look dangerous, though. The girl was clinging to her older brother, still looking terrified. Neither of them was wet, though, which Sherlock couldn't help begrudging them a little bit. They must have held onto each other the whole time. Because that was the key, right? That's what the riddle meant.
Where the ground falters beneath your feet,
To this item we advise you hold.
It had basically been telling them that holding on to the person they rescued would give them enough stability to make it back. Well, it probably didn't guarantee anything. But it certainly helped. Sherlock wondered if Moriarty had figured out the riddle, or if he had simply held onto his sister for the sake of it, like Sherlock had with John.
After a few more minutes of silence, Irene emerged to Sherlock's right, the redheaded girl beside her. The two were holding hands, but both looked as though they too had gone for a swim, which certainly made Sherlock feel better.
They were soon swaddled in blankets as well, while Sherlock looked around nervously, wondering what had become of Jack.
"Maybe I shouldn't have left him…" Sherlock said uncertainly, worried that something had happened to the boy.
"No, like you said, you kind of had to," John reassured him. Sherlock had informed him of everything that had happened since entering the maze, which John found fascinating.
"I still can't believe you danced your way there," he had said a good few times before Sherlock had told him to shut up.
Finally, right when Sherlock was considering telling the judges they had better look for the boy, Jack and Molly emerged from the fog, clinging to each other. Jack was soaked and covered with blood, while Molly looked mostly intact, apart from a few scratches on her face which Sherlock attributed to the violent grass. He and John both had a significant amount of cuts.
After a few moments of cheering, Dumbledore's voice echoed from the stands, silencing everyone.
"All of our champions have now returned, and the judges have finalized scores. The places are as follows: tied for third and fourth are Mr. Jack Collins and Miss Irene Adler, both with eleven points."
The Headmaster paused with the audience both cheered and booed, as the case always seemed to be. Once silence returned, Dumbledore continued. "In second place is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with thirteen points."
Ignoring the crowd (there were many cheers from the Ravenclaws) Sherlock quickly did the calculations in his head. Right now, he was still ahead of Jack and Irene with a total of 27 points. Moriarty had gotten an 11 for the last task…he would have to get a 16 to tie with Sherlock and anything higher to beat him.
"And in first place, Mr. James Moriarty with fifteen points!"
At this proclamation, there were plenty of boos from the Hogwarts students, but the small group of Durmstrangs almost drowned them out in their glee.
Sherlock, however, was relieved. He was still in the lead. Only by one point, but still. He would prepare as much as he could for the next task, and then it would all come down to that. But he had a nasty feeling that along with all the creatures and obstacles he was sure to encounter come June, Moriarty would by far be the worst of the lot.