It was a few days later after finding real moody. While Barty crouch was transferred to St. Mungos, moody was still under the care of Madam Pomfrey. Though he was still weak he gained consciousness and could help in discussing what he knew which was not much. He only knew that it was Barty crouch Jr. that attacked him and held him hostage. Harry and Dumbledore met in hospital wing along with moody to discuss what was happening.
The air crackled with tension in the dimly lit hospital wing. Harry, a restless blur of nervous energy, paced back and forth, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Dumbledore, his ever-steady gaze fixed on the young wizard, offered him a calming smile. Moody, propped up against pillows, his magical eye swiveling restlessly, listened intently to Harry's frantic musings.
"He was here for almost a year," Harry muttered, piecing together the fragments of the horrifying truth. "He could have… he could have ended it all at any point. Poisoned me, cursed me in the corridors… yet he didn't. He wanted me alive."
He stopped abruptly, his green eyes flashing with a newfound determination. "Putting my name in the Goblet… that was him. But why? What is their endgame? They didn't anticipate Mr. Crouch breaking free from the Imperius. They panicked, that's why he attacked me. If he'd stunned me, Obliviated my memory… his cover would have been intact."
A heavy silence descended upon the room. Harry's voice, though barely a whisper, held the weight of a terrifying realization. "He needed to be at Hogwarts. But why? All this time…"
He trailed off, his mind grappling with a chilling possibility. Moody, his gruff voice raspy from disuse, spoke up, his words laced with a hint of awe. "Crouch was muttering about the Dark Lord… regaining strength."
Harry's head snapped up, his eyes locking with Dumbledore's. "He's not back to full power yet," he said, his voice gaining conviction. "He's weak, but growing stronger. Crouch Jr. escaping means he'll be heading straight to…"
"Voldemort," Dumbledore finished gravely.
A shiver ran down Harry's spine. The truth, laid bare, was more horrifying than he could have imagined. "The Tournament… that was their target. They planned something for the Third Task."
Moody, his weathered face etched with a mixture of surprise and grudging respect, interjected. "Brilliant deduction, Potter. You'd make a damn fine Auror, the way you put things together."
Harry offered a wan smile, his eyes filled with a steely resolve. "I'm considering all my options, Professor. But right now, my only focus is staying alive."
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling with an unspoken pride. "A wise choice, Harry. We will unravel this mystery together. But for now, you need rest. The Third Task approaches, and you will need all your strength."
Harry always a quick thinker asked "professor can't we just cancel the tournament or change the third task?"
Dumbledore nodded and said "Alas, my boy but it would result in an international incident and we would need approval of majority judges to change the task which considering the preparations already underway wont be possible."
As Harry nodded in understanding and left the hospital wing, his mind raced with a thousand questions. The revelation of Crouch Jr.'s true identity, the whispers of Voldemort's return, the looming threat of the Third Task – it was a maelstrom of danger and uncertainty. Yet, amidst the fear, a flicker of determination burned brightly. He wouldn't be a pawn in their twisted game. He would face whatever awaited him in the maze, not as a helpless victim, but as a wizard ready to fight for his life, and for the future of the wizarding world.
Professor Dumbledore's presence behind the Defense Against the Dark Arts desk was a stark contrast to the gruff pronouncements of the real Mad-Eye Moody. Whispers of Moody encountering a ferocious Hippogriff during a "forbidden forest excursion" swirled through the student body, a convenient explanation for his absence.
Harry, however, knew the truth simmered beneath the surface, a truth that spurred him on in the Room of Requirement. The room, a haven transformed into a dedicated training ground, echoed with the sounds of spells and the thudding of practice jinxes. Here, within these ever-shifting walls, Harry honed his skills for the looming Third Task.
The limitations of the maze gnawed at him. Only his wand would be allowed inside, no potions, no magical trinkets. Yet, there was a glimmer of hope. He would be the last one to enter, giving others the dubious honor of pioneering a path through the maze's dangers. Having the shortest path would definitely help.
The cup, a beacon of victory, was both prize and potential lifesaver. Reaching it first meant winning the tournament and also putting himself out of the crosshairs of whatever plan Crouch Jr. and Voldemort had concocted.
Days bled into nights as Harry drilled. He mastered a complex dueling shield charm, one that could be cast with his left hand and sustained as long as his magical reserves held. It formed a shimmering barrier, deflecting spells while allowing him to cast offensive spells with his dominant right hand. His reflexes sharpened, his situational awareness reaching an almost preternatural level. He could track fourteen opponents at once, anticipating their movements, their spells. This would be enough to win the tournament, but against Voldemort, Barty Crouch Jr., and even Wormtail, fear gnawed at him.
Wormtail, a sniveling coward, wouldn't be much trouble. But Crouch Jr. was a skilled adversary, and Voldemort, even weakened, was a force to be reckoned with. Harry clutched his wand, his knuckles white. All he could do was hope he could foil their plan, navigate the maze, and emerge alive. Reaching the cup first wasn't just about victory; it was about survival. It was a desperate gamble, a race against time and dark forces, and Harry, the reluctant champion, was determined to cross the finish line first.
The day of the Third Task dawned, a crisp chill hanging heavy in the air. Harry woke with a knot of nervous energy twisting in his stomach. He forced himself out of bed, a practiced calmness settling over his features. Unlike the other champions, who were surrounded by the warmth of their families, Harry would face the maze alone.
He descended the Gryffindor Tower stairs, his heart heavy with a loneliness he couldn't quite shake. As he approached the Great Hall, a familiar scene unfolded before him. The other champions, Fleur, Krum, and Cedric, were surrounded by their families, faces aglow with well wishes and nervous anticipation. Harry's throat tightened, a pang of longing washing over him.
Suddenly, a booming voice filled the hall, "Harry, there you are!" Mrs. Weasley bustled through the throng, her face flushed with excitement. "Dumbledore was kind enough to invite Arthur and me for breakfast. Sirius, bless his heart, couldn't risk being seen, but he sent his love" She whispered the last part pulling him into a fierce motherly hug.
Gratitude flooded Harry. He wasn't entirely alone after all. The Weasleys, his surrogate family, had defied the danger to be there for him. Although breakfast was filled with chatter about the upcoming task and Ron's clumsy attempts at encouragement, their friendship, though not fully mended, was back to a comfortable camaraderie, Harry couldn't help but steal glances towards Mrs. Weasley.
He saw the worry etched on her face despite her forced cheer, the way her eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a silent plea for his safety. When he caught her gaze, a warm smile bloomed on her face. She bustled closer, her hand reaching out to ruffle his hair in a gesture that was both maternal and comforting.
"You look nervous, dear," she said softly, her voice laced with concern. "But you've come so far, Harry. Remember, you're as brave and brilliant as any of those other champions out there. Just trust yourself, and whatever happens, we'll be waiting for you here, safe and sound."
There was a fierce protectiveness in her voice, a mother's unwavering belief in her child, even a child not truly hers. Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. Words seemed inadequate, so he simply squeezed her hand, a silent thank you for her unwavering love and support, a love that filled the void of his own missing family.
And as he sat there, surrounded by the warmth of the Weasleys, the fear in his heart lessened, replaced by a quiet determination. He wouldn't just face the maze for himself; he would face it for them, for the unwavering love and support that had become his anchor in this turbulent world.
A few minutes later he was joined by Luna and Nevil. Harry spent the day relaxing with his friends and what would be closest to a family for him. As the evening drew near Harry put on his robes and became ready to enter.
A sea of expectant faces filled the stands, a cacophony of excited murmurs buzzing through the air. The Triwizard Tournament's grand finale, the Third Task, had arrived. Dignitaries from across the wizarding world sat in the VIP section, Cornelius Fudge, the portly Minister for Magic, his face flushed with self-importance, flanked by his counterparts from France and Bulgaria. The champions, their faces painted with a mix of nervousness and determination, stood clustered near the entrance to the maze.
Bagman, his voice amplified by a magical horn, addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, and champions brave! The moment you've all been waiting for – the Third and Final Task of the Triwizard Tournament!" He paused dramatically, relishing the hush that fell over the crowd.
"The rules are simple," Bagman continued, his voice booming. "Fleur Delacour will be the first to enter, through the southern entrance. Ten seconds later, Viktor Krum will follow through the east. Ten seconds after him, Cedric Diggory will enter through the west. And finally, ten seconds after Cedric, our very own Harry Potter will enter the north."
He pointed towards a towering hedge that had sprung up overnight, forming a labyrinthine maze with twisting pathways and hidden dangers. The champions nodded, each lost in their own thoughts. Bagman concluded with a flourish, "Remember, champions, the Triwizard Cup lies at the heart of the maze. The first to touch it will be declared the victor! However, there is a strict no-wandering rule. If you find yourself in dire need of assistance, use the charm 'Periculum.' A red spark will erupt, alerting us to your location. But be warned, using this charm will automatically disqualify you from the tournament."
A hush fell over the crowd as Fleur Delacour, her face a mask of cool composure, stepped forward. With a determined nod, she vanished into the southern entrance, swallowed by the shifting hedges. Ten seconds later, Krum followed, his stoic expression betraying no hint of emotion. Another ten seconds ticked by, and Cedric, a flicker of worry in his eyes, disappeared into the maze.
Finally, it was Harry's turn. He took a deep breath, his mind racing with anxieties. The knowledge that he would have the shortest route to the cup was a small comfort amidst the swirling vortex of fear gripping him. What dangers lurked within the maze? What plans did Voldemort have in store? But amidst the fear, a steely resolve hardened within him. He wouldn't let his anxieties paralyze him. He would face whatever awaited him, wand held tight, and emerge victorious, not just for himself, but for the memory of his parents, for the safety of his friends, and for the future of the wizarding world.
With a final glance at the cheering crowd, a flicker of gratitude warming him amidst the storm of emotions, Harry stepped forward. The northern entrance gaped open, its dark maw beckoning him into the unknown. He took a deep breath, plunged into the maze, and the entrance sealed shut behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts, his fears, and the promise of a perilous journey.
Harry sprinted into the maze, the towering hedges on either side whispering secrets in the rustling wind. He had opted for left at the first Y-junction, trusting his instincts that his path would be the shortest. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and unknown flora, hung heavy in his lungs. Every rustle of leaves, every flitting shadow, sent a jolt of nervous energy through him.
His grip tightened around his wand, his knuckles white. He knew the advantages of entering last – a shorter route, less time for the unknown dangers to claim him – but the knowledge brought little comfort. It was a lonely advantage, fraught with the chilling possibility that he might be walking straight into a trap.
Suddenly, a coldness prickled at the edges of his senses, a drop in temperature so sharp it felt like a physical blow. The air grew heavy, thick with an oppressive silence. Harry spun on his heel, heart hammering against his ribs. There, gliding towards him with a slow, predatory grace, was a Dementor. Its rotting form, shrouded in its billowing black cloak, emanated a horrifying aura that threatened to suck the very life out of him.
Panic coiled in his gut, the cold dread threatening to overwhelm him. But Harry was a veteran of Dementor encounters. Memories of the Quidditch pitch, of Professor Lupin's boggart lesson, of fighting off a hundred of these dreadful creatures flashed before his eyes. This wasn't the time for fear.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Harry raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!" The incantation erupted from his lips, fueled by a desperate will to survive. A silvery stag erupted from the tip of his wand, its antlers glowing with a pure, ethereal light. It charged towards the Dementor, its presence pushing back the oppressive darkness like a tide against a wall.
The Dementor recoiled, its rotting form contorting in a silent scream as the stag's light washed over it. It was then that Harry noticed something strange. The Dementor wasn't exuding the bone-chilling cold that usually accompanied its presence. The air, while heavy, wasn't stealing the warmth from his body. The overwhelming despair, the crushing sense of hopelessness – they were absent.
A flicker of suspicion sparked in Harry's mind. This wasn't a Dementor. The lack of the signature effects, the almost sluggish movement… it was something else entirely. Something disguised.
The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. This wasn't a real Dementor – it was a Boggart! The Maze had crafted an illusion specifically targeting his deepest fears. A clever ploy, designed to rob him of his strength before he even reached the heart of the maze.
A surge of anger flared alongside relief. Laughter bubbled up from his chest, growing louder and more genuine as he understood the elaborate trick. He wouldn't let this stop him. He wouldn't let a childish illusion break him.
"Riddikulus!" he roared, his voice echoing in the twisting corridors. The boggart, seeing its intended effect evaporate, wavered for a moment. Then, with a grotesque twitch, it transformed.
Standing before him, no longer a Dementor but a pathetic caricature, was Draco Malfoy. Dressed in a garishly colored clown costume, complete with oversized red shoes and a bulbous nose, Malfoy was attempting to execute an intricate tap-dance routine. The sight was so ludicrous, so utterly absurd, that Harry's laughter erupted like a sonic boom.
The boggart-Malfoy faltered, his painted-on smile wobbling precariously. The more Harry laughed, the more frantic and clumsy the tap-dancing became. Finally, with a frustrated squeal, the boggart dissolved into a wisp of smoke, its attempt at intimidation vanquished by a simple burst of laughter.
Harry stood there for a moment, catching his breath, a smile still playing on his lips. The encounter had shaken him, but it had also served as a stark reminder. The maze was not simply a test of skill – it was a test of resolve, a constant game of mental and magical chess. He had to be on his guard, prepared not just for physical threats but also for the unseen, the unexpected.
With a newfound determination, Harry turned a corner, his wand clutched tightly in his hand casting his dueling shield. He pressed on, the laughter fading but the vigilance remaining. The maze held more secrets, more challenges, but Harry was ready. He would face them all, one step at a time, until he reached the center and claimed his victory.
The air grew thick and humid as Harry pressed deeper into the maze's twisting heart. The path he followed, thanks to the ever-reliable map, was thankfully less treacherous than the ones his competitors faced, but the tension remained a coiled serpent in his gut. He muttered a silent incantation, "CLYPEUS," feeling the reassuring sensation of a shimmering blue shield materialize around his left forearm. It pulsed with a faint magical light, a constant reminder of his power and his determination.
Suddenly, the path narrowed drastically, becoming choked with thick, pulsating vines. A shiver ran down Harry's spine as he recognized the telltale signs of a Devil's Snare – a vicious plant that tightened its grip the more one struggled against it. He knew the only way to pass through was to remain perfectly still, mimicking the calmness of a statue. Yet, with every fibre of his being screaming in anticipation of the Third Task's unknown dangers, achieving that state of serene detachment seemed close to impossible.
Panic threatened to claw its way up his throat. He couldn't afford to get stuck here. Time was of the essence, and Voldemort's plans were a ticking time bomb. Taking a deep breath, Harry forced himself to focus. He needed a solution, a way to bypass the Snare without succumbing to its suffocating grip.
His mind raced back to his first year at Hogwarts, to Professor Sprout's Herbology lesson. He remembered Hermione Granger, ever the know-it-all, confidently rattling off the counter-charm for Devil's Snare – "Lumos Solem!"
With a surge of hope, Harry raised his wand, the shield around his arm shimmering faintly in the dim light filtering through the maze's canopy. "Lumos Solem!" he cried, his voice echoing in the confined space.
At the tip of his wand, a miniature sun blazed into existence. It cast a warm, golden glow that pushed back the oppressive darkness, bathing the twisting vines in its light. As if recoiling from the simulated sunlight, the Devil's Snare seemed to shrivel. The once-pulsating vines grew limp, their emerald tendrils parting to reveal a narrow, dimly lit passage beyond.
Relief washed over Harry in a wave. He had done it. He had outsmarted the Devil's Snare, using knowledge gleaned from a seemingly insignificant first-year lesson. It was a stark reminder that magic, much like life, was all about utilizing the right tool at the right time.
He extinguished the miniature sun with a silent "Nox," the shield around his arm still shimmering protectively. Stepping cautiously through the newly opened passage, he cast one final glance back at the receding tendrils of the Devil's Snare. The momentary victory provided a much-needed boost to his confidence. He was one step closer to the heart of the maze, one step closer to uncovering Voldemort's plan and, hopefully, one step closer to emerging victorious.
Harry emerged from the clutches of the Devil's Snare, his heart pounding with a mix of relief and adrenaline. He jogged forward, the adrenaline fueling his pace. Two sharp turns later, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made him skid to a halt. There, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight filtering through the maze's canopy, stood a monstrous creature – a Blast-Ended Skrewt.
The grotesque beast, a twisted hybrid of Manticore and Fire Crab, towered above him on segmented legs. Its hard, chitinous shell glinted an unnatural blue, an unnerving reminder of its near-impenetrable defense against most spells. A shiver ran down Harry's spine as the Skrewt let out a guttural screech, sparks erupting from its tail like miniature fireworks.
He knew brute force wouldn't work. Direct spells would likely bounce harmlessly off the Skrewt's shell, leaving him vulnerable to its venomous sting. Thinking fast, Harry drew on his experience with the creature from his encounter with Hagrid. He remembered the only weak point – its underbelly, a pale and exposed patch that reeked faintly of rotten fish.
But how to get a clear shot at such a vulnerable spot? The Skrewt shifted, its grotesque form casting an intimidating shadow. It reared up on its hind legs, its massive pincers snapping menacingly, a clear warning of its lethal intent.
"Reducto!" Harry roared, aiming the spell not at the Skrewt itself, but at the ground a few feet in front of the beast. The curse struck the packed earth with a thunderous explosion, throwing up a cloud of dust and debris.
The Skrewt, startled by the sudden eruption, flinched back, momentarily distracted. Seizing the opportunity, Harry sprinted forward, his heart hammering in his chest. He weaved past the flailing tail, his wand outstretched.
"Confringo!" he shouted, directing the blasting charm at the creature's exposed underbelly. The spell hit its mark with a sickening thud, sending a tremor through the Skrewt's body. The beast let out a shriek of pain, its legs buckling beneath it. With a final, convulsive twitch, it collapsed onto the dirt path, its lifeless body a grotesque testament to the fleeting battle.
Harry stood there for a moment, catching his breath, sweat beading on his forehead. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of burnt earth and the creature's musky odor. He had faced down the monstrous Skrewt, exploiting its vulnerabilities and his own quick thinking. Yet, the victory tasted hollow. It was another obstacle overcome, but the weight of what awaited him at the maze's heart pressed heavily on his mind. He knew there would be more trials, more dangers, and he had no idea what form they would take.
With a deep breath, Harry forced himself to move on. He couldn't afford to dwell on uncertainties. He had come too far to turn back now. Glancing at the map hidden within his robes, he took a sharp right turn, pressing deeper into the tangled depths of the maze, the chilling knowledge that something planned by Voldemort awaited him fueling his every step.
Harry sprinted through the maze, his lungs burning, his legs screaming for respite. Every twist and turn felt identical, the towering hedges blurring into a monotonous green labyrinth. He'd dodged a tangle of Snargaluffs by the skin of his teeth, their razor-sharp beaks snapping at his heels, and barely avoided a treacherous patch of Marsh Mimbulus mimbletonia, its deceptive beauty masking its suffocating touch.
Moments stretched into an eternity. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his determination. Was he hopelessly lost? Just as despair threatened to engulf him, a monumental form materialized across the path – a Sphinx. Unlike the weathered Sphinx guarding the tombs of Egypt about which he read about in his runes books, this one was a majestic beast, its body crafted from polished obsidian, its eyes glowing with an eerie inner light.
"Welcome, Champion," boomed the Sphinx's voice, echoing through the maze like a rolling thunder. "To claim your prize, you must first answer my riddle correctly. He has no voice, yet he can speak to you. He has no body, yet he can make you cry. He has no life, yet he can kill you. What is it?"
Harry's mind raced. He needed to focus, to block out the pounding of his heart, the throbbing in his temples. The answer was on the tip of his tongue, but the urgency of the situation, the sight of red sparks erupting in the distance – a sure sign of someone using Periculum for help – added a layer of frantic desperation to his thoughts. Just as he grasped the answer, a low rumble shook the ground, and the very fabric of the maze seemed to twist and contort. The shifting hedges blocked off previous pathways, creating a new, more defined route towards the center.
The answer, clear as crystal, burst from his lips. "A lie!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but firm.
The moment he spoke, a click echoed through the air. The Sphinx's head tilted slightly in acknowledgement, and with a grinding noise, the section of the wall behind him shifted, revealing a narrow passage. Without hesitation, Harry dove through the opening just as the sphinx's entrance slammed shut with a deafening thud.
He stumbled through the newly opened passage, gasping for breath. Ahead, bathed in an ethereal silver light, stood the Triwizard Cup – a beacon of victory, or perhaps, a trap. A hundred feet separated him from his goal, the final test. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a chilling mixture of relief and apprehension. He had faced riddles and beasts, fear and doubt, but the greatest challenge, he knew, lurked within the shimmering shadows of the cup itself.
He raised his wand, his grip tight, his every sense on high alert. The path to the cup was clear, but the air crackled with a hidden, ominous tension. Every step forward felt like walking into the unknown, a tightrope walk over a bottomless abyss. With a deep breath, Harry pushed forward, the weight of the unknown resting heavily on his shoulders.
Adrenaline surged through Harry's veins as he sprinted towards the cup. A mere fifty steps separated him from victory – or whatever awaited him at the Triwizard Cup's base. But just as he crossed a bend, his heart lurched into his throat.
There, locked in a brutal duel, were Cedric Diggory and Viktor Krum. Krum, his face contorted in a mask of unnatural concentration, was unleashing a barrage of dark spells. Cedric, his usually cheerful face etched with fear and confusion, was desperately trying to deflect them.
Harry's initial instinct was to skirt around the fight and continue towards the cup. Time was of the essence, and getting entangled in another duel wouldn't help anyone. But then his gaze fell on Krum's eyes. They were vacant, clouded over like a stormy sea. A cold dread settled in Harry's stomach. Krum wasn't in control. He was under the Imperius Curse.
Cedric was in danger. He might not be Harry's closest friend, but he didn't deserve to be a casualty in this twisted game. With a surge of protectiveness, Harry raised his wand and charged into the fray.
The hours spent training in the Room of Requirement paid off in dividends. Employing the intricate dueling techniques he'd mastered, Harry deflected Krum's spells with his shimmering shield charm, simultaneously launching his own disarming jinxes. The duel became a whirlwind of light and sound – Krum's powerful curses clashing against Harry's precise counters.
Finally, with a well-timed Stupefy, Harry sent Krum sprawling to the ground, unconscious but unharmed. He wasted no time. Pointing his wand at the sky, he cried, "Periculum!" Red sparks erupted from his wand, a signal for help and disqualification for Krum.
But the moment the sparks shot up, the maze lurched. The path leading straight to the cup vanished, replaced by a twisting new route. With a frustrated curse, Harry looked up to see both himself and Cedric, now standing side-by-side, forced to navigate this new path together.
Their tentative truce shattered, they broke into a run, wands raised, firing spells at each other in an attempt to gain the upper hand. They rounded a sharp left corner, the air thick with the stench of decay and damp earth. There, in the flickering light filtering through the maze's canopy, loomed a monstrous form – an Acromantula, its eight legs twitching menacingly, its mandibles clicking with anticipation.
Both Harry and Cedric froze, momentarily forgetting their duel to face this new, horrific threat. The creature's beady eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence, a silent challenge hanging heavy in the air.
The monstrous Acromantula blocked their path, a grotesque guardian between them and the coveted Triwizard Cup. Gleaming fangs dripped with venom, and its eight hairy legs twitched with predatory hunger. Both Harry and Cedric, their wands outstretched, knew a truce was necessary, if temporary.
Seventy, eighty feet away, the Triwizard Cup shimmered, its promise of victory a tantalizing beacon. Taking down the Acromantula was their first priority. Cedric, ever the eager one, charged forward, firing a barrage of Stunning Spells. But the Acromantula was surprisingly nimble, its legs weaving a dance that deflected Cedric's attempts.
Harry, ever the strategist, held back. He recognized Cedric's valiant, yet somewhat reckless approach wouldn't be enough. He needed to exploit a weakness, a chance to strike a decisive blow. His mind raced back to his encounter with Aragog in the Forbidden Forest, the memory of the Banishing Charm he saw inside Tom Riddle's dairy whispering a solution.
"Arania Exumai!" he cried, his voice echoing through the maze. The spell, designed to repel magical creatures like Acromantulas, shot from his wand. It struck the monstrous spider with a burst of golden light, sending it reeling back. Momentum threw the Acromantula onto its back, its legs flailing uselessly.
"Now!" Harry yelled at Cedric, seizing the opportunity expecting Cedric to finish off the Acromantula.
Cedric though, didn't do that. With a burst of speed, he sprinted past the stunned Acromantula, his eyes fixed on the Triwizard Cup. Harry, however, wasn't so fortunate. He knew the Acromantula wouldn't stay incapacitated for long. Raising his wand again, he muttered a swift "Confringo" aimed at the spider's exposed eyes. Red light erupted, blasting the creatures brains to bits and silencing the creature permanently.
But the delay had cost him precious seconds. Cedric was already halfway towards the cup, the golden light glinting off his determined face. Gritting his teeth, Harry sprinted after him, his legs burning with exertion. He unleashed a volley of Stunning Spells, aiming for Cedric's back. But Cedric, ever the skilled duelist, deflected them with a shimmering blue shield charm.
Frustration gnawed at Harry. He couldn't risk seriously injuring Cedric, not with Voldemort's plans afoot. But he couldn't let him reach the cup first, either. In desperation, he switched tactics. With a flick of his wand, he muttered, "Incarceous!" aiming at Cedric's legs. Thick ropes shot towards Cedric's leg.
Perhaps it was luck, perhaps skill, but the jinx found its mark. Cedric stumbled, his cry of surprise echoing through the maze. It was a brief stumble, but enough to give Harry the edge. He surged forward, the cup within reach. His fingers brushed the cool metal just as a hand clamped onto his ankle.
Cedric, having regained his footing, had lunged in a desperate bid for victory. He'd caught Harry's leg, a silent plea etched on his face. Time seemed to slow down. The cup, a mere inch away, pulsed with an otherworldly glow.
Suddenly, the world dissolved around them. They were gone, transported by the Triwizard Cup, leaving behind only the echoes of their struggle and the chilling uncertainty of what awaited them at their unknown destination.
