Chapter 57: Chapter 57: The Final Countdown

The last few days before the Third Task passed in a blur of training, experimentation, and frustration. Each morning, Arthur rose before dawn to practice controlling his magic, attempting to channel the smallest possible amount through his magical pathways. Each night, he collapsed into bed, mentally exhausted with virtually nothing to show for his efforts.

Progress was agonizingly slow. While he had expected this, the prospect of continuing for months without tangible results was both discouraging and infuriating. Still, he had no choice but to persist. There was no alternative path to recovery.

In his quieter moments, Arthur reminded himself that this outcome was far better than expected. He had fully anticipated death when he decided to use the Tesseract to protect Earth from Ronan’s fleet. Instead, he’d emerged with a vastly enhanced magical core. The temporary inability to access it seemed a fair trade.

Fair, but still immensely frustrating.

The days, however, weren’t without drama. Arthur had been in the Astronomy Tower when a house-elf appeared with a summons to the Headmaster’s office. The creature vanished with a crack before Arthur could ask questions.

When he arrived, the circular office was unusually crowded. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Professor Snape stood by the window, face impassive as stone. Occupying the remaining space were a dozen adults in expensive robes, their faces flushed with indignation.

The parents of the bullies had arrived.

“There he is!” A sharp-featured woman pointed a trembling finger. “The violent mudblood who attacked our children! My son will need specialized healing for weeks!”

Arthur recognized Mrs. Rowle immediately from her son’s identical sneer. He swept his gaze across the assembled purebloods, noting familiar features reflected in their offspring.

“Twenty against one hardly constitutes an attack on my part,” Arthur observed coolly, taking the only empty seat without invitation.

“How dare you!” A portly man with Belby’s prominent nose sputtered. “You broke my son’s ribs!”

“After he attempted to slice me in half with a curse,” Arthur countered, his tone conversational. “A rather nasty dark cutting curse, if I recall correctly. Where would a student learn such a spell, I wonder?”

The man’s complexion shifted from red to purple.

“Preposterous!” another parent shouted. “Our children would never—”

“I’m perfectly prepared to face trial,” Arthur interrupted, keeping his voice calm and measured. “But I should warn you—your children will be seated right beside me in the defendant’s box.”

The room fell silent.

“What precisely do you mean by that, Mr. Hayes?” Dumbledore asked, though his eyes suggested he already knew.

“Simply that during our… encounter… multiple students cast Unforgivable Curses. The Cruciatus, specifically, and a few Killing Curses.” Arthur’s gaze swept the room. “While I might face charges for excessive self-defense, your children will be facing mandatory sentences in Azkaban. No exceptions, no mitigating circumstances.”

He smiled thinly. “The use of an Unforgivable carries an automatic life sentence. Even for purebloods.”

“You’re lying,” Mrs. Rowle hissed, though uncertainty had crept into her expression.

“Am I?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I will surely provide my memory of the events to the Aurors. Beyond that, Prior Incantato can be performed on their wands. The evidence should be rather conclusive.”

“He’s bluffing,” Mr. Rowle insisted, turning to Dumbledore. “Headmaster, surely you won’t allow this—this criminal to threaten respectable families!”

Dumbledore’s expression remained neutral. “I cannot control the application of Ministry law, Mr. Rowle. If Unforgivables were indeed cast, the consequences are quite clear.”

Arthur stood, brushing an imaginary speck from his robes. “I’ll be awaiting your decision on how to proceed. If you wish to involve the Aurors, I’ll cooperate fully—provided all parties are ready to face the appropriate legal consequences.”

He nodded politely to Dumbledore and Snape. “Unless there’s anything else, Professors, I should return to my preparation for the tournament.”

Without waiting for a response, he left the office as calmly as he’d entered, leaving behind a room of stunned and frustrated purebloods. Arthur couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt at turning their own system against them.

No charges were filed.

—

June 24th arrived with perfect weather—clear skies, gentle breeze, and comfortable temperatures. Nature itself seemed determined to provide ideal conditions for the final Triwizard challenge.

Arthur stood at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, now transformed beyond recognition. Where the familiar playing field had once been, a massive hedge maze now stretched, twenty-foot walls of dense foliage blocking all view of what lay within. The twilight sky cast long shadows across the structure, giving it an ominous appearance.

Around the maze, stands had been erected for spectators. The entire school had turned out, along with visitors from Hogsmeade, Ministry officials, and reporters. The air buzzed with excitement and speculation.

Ludo Bagman’s magically amplified voice boomed across the grounds.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Third and final Task of the Triwizard Tournament!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Arthur remained stoic, mentally reviewing his strategy one last time.

“Inside this maze,” Bagman continued, “the Triwizard Cup awaits at the center. The first champion to touch the Cup will receive full marks and be declared the Tournament winner!”

More cheering. Arthur scanned the judges’ table. Dumbledore sat calmly, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the torchlight. Madame Maxime towered beside him, while Karkaroff looked unusually tense. Cornelius Fudge had replaced the still-missing Barty Crouch Sr., looking important in an ostentatious purple bowler hat.

“Now, our champions will enter the maze according to their current standings. In first place, with 89 points, Mr. Arthur Hayes will enter first!”

Polite applause mixed with some hisses and boos.

“In second place, with 85 points, Mr. Harry Potter!”

Significantly more enthusiastic cheering, particularly from the Gryffindor section.

“In third place, with 80 points, Mr. Viktor Krum!”

The Durmstrang contingent stomped and shouted their approval.

“And in fourth place, with 57 points, Miss Fleur Delacour!”

The Beauxbatons students applauded gracefully, several releasing enchanted butterflies from their wands.

Bagman beckoned the champions forward for final instructions. As they gathered, he dropped his jovial manner slightly.

“Inside the maze, you’ll face obstacles—magical creatures, enchantments, and the maze itself, which… changes.” A hint of theatrical mystery entered his voice at the last word. “The hedges aren’t static. They move. Paths that exist one moment may be gone the next.”

“If you find yourself in serious danger, send red sparks into the air. Our patrollers will retrieve you immediately, though this will, of course, mean your withdrawal from the task.”

He paused, surveying each champion.

“Mr. Hayes,” Bagman continued, his tone shifting to something almost cheerful, “I’ve been informed about your condition, and I suggest you take one step in and then come out. That way, you won’t violate the tournament rules and can safely withdraw. Without magic, you simply won’t survive the maze, and if you encounter any dangerous situation, you won’t be able to call for help.”

Arthur noted the barely suppressed glee in Bagman’s voice. The man had for sure placed a substantial wager with the goblins on Harry winning—a bet that had seemed doomed when Arthur consistently outperformed Potter in previous tasks. News of Arthur’s magical incapacity had clearly revitalized Bagman’s hopes.

“No need to worry about me,” Arthur replied evenly. “I’ll manage.”

“Arthur, you really can’t use magic at all?” Harry asked, concern evident in his voice.

“Not at present,” Arthur confirmed. “Core damage takes a long time to heal.”

Krum’s expression remained unreadable. Fleur looked sympathetic.

“Zat is ’orrible timing,” she murmured. “Perhaps you should listen to Monsieur Bagman.”

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur insisted.

“Well, that was just a suggestion,” Bagman said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’ve heard about your recent… accomplishments even without magic. However, I must remind you: You may not bring any weapons into the maze except your wand. Professor Moody will perform a final check before your entry.”

“Understood,” Arthur said.

The fake Moody stumped forward, his magical eye swiveling wildly. One by one, he scanned the champions with unusual thoroughness.

When he reached Arthur, his inspection was particularly meticulous. His magical eye seemed to x-ray Arthur’s clothing and body, searching for any hidden advantage.

“Clean,” he finally grunted, sounding almost disappointed.

Arthur suppressed a smile. The impostor clearly wanted to ensure his plans would work perfectly today. Without magic, Arthur would be an easy obstacle to eliminate, leaving Harry with a clear path to the cup.

Though Arthur really planned to let Harry reach the cup first, the smug expressions on Bagman’s and Moody’s faces made him alter his plan a little bit. He would now attempt to reach the cup first himself—if only to give them a proper scare.

“Champions, take your positions!” Bagman called.

Arthur moved to the maze entrance. Behind him, Harry gave a nervous thumbs-up.

“On my whistle, Mr. Hayes!” Bagman called. “Three—two—one—”

The whistle sounded, shrill and final.

Arthur stepped into the maze.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep