When Sherlock woke up the morning of the third task, he sat up and stared out the window for about twenty minutes, watching the sunrise. He wasn't as afraid as he was before. But he still couldn't stop the hairs on the back of his neck from standing up whenever he thought about the maze of branches that awaited him in just over an hour. All that darkness and uncertainty; Moriarty could be lurking in any shadow, behind any obstacle. He felt sure that the boy would make his move this time. Because there was no doubt something was going on with him.

"You know, there might not be anything going on with him," John said casually over breakfast that morning, as Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "Sure he's creepy and all, but that doesn't mean he's plotting mass murder. Or any kind of murder."

"Are you kidding me? Creepy? He practically gives off evil in waves. And have you ever seen someone wear so much black?"

John glanced over to the Slytherin table, where Moriarty sat, indeed dressed from head to toe in black. Mycroft was sitting across from him, looking quite disgusted with this seating arrangement. "What does his fashion sense have to do with anything?"

"It's easier to get bloodstains out."

"He has a wand. He can kill in an instant if he wants."

"Someone that evil? Mark my word, he'd slice you up first. No easy deaths from his hands."

John rolled his eyes. "You'll be fine. Now just eat your bloody toast."

The third task, for unlike the previous two, was to take place at sunset. John suspected it was to add to the creepy and dramatic atmosphere-because apparently there wasn't enough of that already.

An hour before the task was to begin, John walked into the Great Hall to meet Sherlock, although the boy had insisted he not. There was no way in hell John was going to let him go through the suspense alone, though.

But when John meandered over to the Ravenclaw table as dinner started, he was surprised to see his boyfriend wasn't, in fact, alone. He wasn't even sitting with Jack or Molly-he was sitting with two cheerful adults, and Mycroft, who looked just as displeased as he had sitting by Moriarty this morning.

"Sherlock?"

The boy looked up in surprise, then rolled his eyes so hard it must have hurt him. "I told you not to come."

"Did you expect me to skip dinner? Budge over."

Sherlock grudgingly shifted down the bench, clearing a space for John between himself and Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" Scolded the woman in a sweet voice. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

With a heavy sigh, as though he were doing something incredibly exhausted, Sherlock gestured between John and the couple opposite. "John, these are my parents. Mum, dad, my…friend, John."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Mycroft raise his eyebrows, but the Slytherin didn't say anything. How can he possibly know? John wondered. It's not like we've been public about it. That boy knows too much for his own good.

"Wait a minute," said John, finally registering what Sherlock had just said. "Your parents?" He looked at the sweet, smiling couple sitting across from him, and then back at the boys on either side, who seemed capable of murder if you said something a bit too loudly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, inclining his head. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, no…it's just that I expected…well, never mind."

"So what house are you in John?" Mr. Holmes inquired amicably, before Sherlock could say anything. Looking down, John realized he wasn't wearing his school robes. There were no classes today, after all.

"Gryffindor," he said, smiling a bit shyly.

"'Where dwell the brave at heart,'" sneered Mycroft under his breath. John cast the Holmes parents a nervous look-were they Slytherins, like Mycroft?-but they didn't seem to have heard Mycroft.

"Good house, good house," Mr. Holmes said smiling, humming under his breath. "I was a Hufflepuff myself."

John tried not to laugh-a Hufflepuff father raising two ill-tempered boys? It seemed the height of irony. "What about you, Mrs. Holmes?" John asked politely. "Were you in Hufflepuff too?"

"Almost," she said dreamily, gazing up at the front of the Great Hall as though reminiscing. 'The Sorting Hat took quite a long time deciding-I was almost a hat stall, which hasn't happened since Professor McGonagall herself was at school! But in the end, I was sorted into Ravenclaw, just like Sherlock."

"She's a right proper genius," Mr. Holmes said proudly.

"Oh, stop," Mrs. Holmes said, blushing.

Sherlock was rolling his eyes up to the ceiling-or maybe he was just checking the weather for the task. The skies were growing dark, and seemed a bit overcast. But as of yet, there was no sign of rain, and whatever sunlight remained was occasionally peeking through breaks in the clouds.

"Looks promising," John murmured, while the Holmes parents started badgering Mycroft with questions about his semester.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "Could be worse. How long?"

"An hour until it starts. Want to relax in the library?"

"I'd feel better if we just went down. I need to change, though. Meet me in the entrance hall?" He added, getting to his feet.

"Sure," John said, scraping the last of his potatoes onto his fork.

"Good luck, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, as his younger brother passed behind him. "Don't lose your way."

"You need to go in there?" John was looking down over the edge of the pit into the darkness and brambles with horror on his face.

"Uh-huh," Sherlock said unenthusiastically, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"How far down does it go?"

The thing already spanned the entire Quidditch field-if there were only a few sparks springing up from its depths, it could arguably be the entrance to hell. "No idea. Probably indefinitely."

"It can't go on forever. That's physically impossible."

"Magic, John. Get your head out of the muggle world."

"Oh. Right. Well, hopefully that's not the case. Or you're pretty much screwed."

"Thanks for the moral support."

"I'm here for you, mate."

"Hey Sherlock." Molly stopped beside the two boys, letting her group of girlfriends go on ahead of her. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. I just keep thinking that the next time I sit down to read a book, this'll all be over…and then I feel a bit better."

John laughed. "Save me a seat, Molly? I'll catch up to you in a minute."

"Sure," she said, understanding the dismissal and smiling. "Good luck."

"How long?"

"Five minutes," said John, consulting his watch-which John was now finally able to read thanks to his boyfriend. John had discovered that it was much easier to get favors from Sherlock when you were dating him. No more snide remarks when John needed to borrow potions ingredients; no judgmental looks when he asked to copy Sherlock's homework. It was quite nice.

I should've kissed him sooner, John thought to himself. Quickly looking around to make sure no one was paying attention, John stood on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "Promise me something?"

"Anything," Sherlock said, looking curiously into his boyfriend's eyes.

"Promise me that if you're in serious danger, from enchantments, creatures, Moriarty, or whatever else is down there, you'll stow your pride and send for help. In whatever way you can think of."

"Don't worry about me," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I can look after myself."

"That's another thing," John said uncertainly, thinking of what Mycroft had said. The many things he had said. "Don't lose yourself down there."

The four champions were each positioned across from each other at four different points around the perimeter of the maze. Sherlock had to keep pinching himself to prevent his hands from shaking. His wand was tucked in his pocket, because he was afraid of doing magic accidentally in his nervousness. He desperately wanted to look for John in the crowd, just make eye contact with him. That would be enough to reassure him. But John was sitting in the stands somewhere behind him, and if he turned his back on the maze he knew he wouldn't have the courage to dace it again.

So he stood there shaking in the warm June air, and raised his eyes to Moriarty, where the boy stood across the pit, watching Sherlock like a tiger hunting its prey.

And then, far before he was ready (if he ever would be) the sound of canon fire echoed throughout the arena. Sherlock didn't stand there, staring into the depths. He didn't contemplate his options, or the best way to climb along the branches. He paused just long enough to take a large breath, and threw himself forward.

As the air rushed around him and twigs snapped against his face, Sherlock drew his elbows in close to his chest. When he landed on a solid branch, he didn't hesitate, but simply grabbed onto it and swung himself down. All he knew was he needed to go down and forward, so he did. Moving closer to the center of the maze. When he paused for a breath and looked up, he could only see a glimmer of stars. The noises of the crowd from above were muffled and faint.

I need to go deeper, he thought, glancing around him and cocking his head for any other sounds. But there was no wind down here, and everything was silent save for his breath leaving his lips.

Sherlock carefully edged forward along the branch, trying to see where it ended. It seemed to extend a while into the darkness. Perhaps it wasn't so much a branch as a long fallen tree. Or a tree growing sideways. But it seemed to him a better bet than simply letting himself drop farther down into the unknown. At least he had something to guide him.

It would be far too easy to get lost in here, he noted. "Lumos", he whispered, and touched the glowing end of his wand to the branch beneath his feet. The little glimmering light left the wand tip and hovered there, illuminating the moss.

He knew this was as good as leaving a trail for Moriarty, or any other dangerous thing that might be lurking in the shadows, but he certainly didn't plan on lingering.

After walking along for another five minutes, the branch connected to another one a little ways down. Sherlock left another glimmering light at the junction and continued further downward.

He continued onward in this fashion, moving steadily downward and leaving a glimmering light whenever he took a turn. When he reached the cup, he wasn't sure if he could count on immediate victory. He might be expected to find his way back as well.

At one point, when Sherlock stopped for breath, he glanced down at his weary feet-and was surprised to see a small green leaf sprouting from the branch. So far, he had not encountered anything living, save the branches and trees he walked along.

Smiling at his discovery, he got down on his knees, lowering his guard for a moment. He carefully plucked the leaf and stowed it in his robe, as a reminder that somewhere else, seemingly miles away from here, the sun shone.

And suddenly, a lurching feeling in his stomach alerted him that something was wrong. A fraction of a second before he had raised his wand, he was thrown off of the branch and into the darkness, a forceful wind whipping him around. It was as though a storm had been summoned within the forest maze, ripping branches apart and throwing dust and twigs into Sherlock's eyes. His skin stung with thousands of tiny cuts as he racked his brains, trying to think of a way to escape. But there was nowhere to go. Grabbing onto a secure branch, Sherlock heaved himself up and wrapped his arms around it, flattening himself down.

"Thank Merlin," Sherlock muttered to himself in relief as the winds finally faded into a slight breeze. He hoped that meant he was getting close, but the realism that took up the majority of his personality knew that if that was just the first obstacle, there was much worse coming his way.

John shifted in his seat nervously as the crowd watched the wind whipping through the maze in horror. The branches had seemed so sturdy, but this storm was ripping them out of the ground. Students often had to cast shield charms to prevent themselves from being whacked by a stray twig.

"I hope Sherlock's not in the middle of that," Molly murmured from John's left, echoing his own thoughts.

"John." John whipped his head around at the voice. Mycroft was sitting in the row behind him, perched on the edge of the bench. "I thought you might be interested in knowing Dumbledore isn't here," the boy said in a hushed voice.

"What?" John said, shocked. Knowing the Headmaster would be present was John's main comfort. If Moriarty or Nevamann were bold enough to attempt something, Dumbledore would be the saving grace. Looking across the former Quidditch pitch, John scanned the stands where the staff was seated. Sure enough, there was no silver beard glimmering in the moonlight. "He was here earlier, wasn't he?"

Molly was watching the pair curiously, but John wasn't sure how much she had heard-or for that matter, how much she knew about Nevamann and Moriarty.

"I…received intelligence that there was an incident of some magnitude at the Ministry not long ago. A break-in, I believe. It's likely the minister contacted him, and he's there assisting them. Security precautions have been taken for the task, and likely there are members of the staff on guard. But still…I thought you ought to know."

"Thanks," John said, shifting nervously. "Mycroft, you don't happen to know if Professor Nevamann is in the audience, do you?"

Mycroft frowned. "No. But I can find out."

"Leave it to me," John said. Glancing up at the sky nervously, he saw dark clouds gathering high above them.