The Third Task

The sky above Hogwarts was awash with the hues of twilight, casting an ethereal glow over the grounds where the Third Task was about to begin. Harry Potter and the other Triwizard Champions stood at the edge of the labyrinth, its towering hedges stretching before them like the walls of a fortress. The air was thick with anticipation, as students, teachers, and spectators alike watched with bated breath.

Dumbledore stood before them, his voice calm but laced with authority as he began explaining the rules of the final task.

"The objective, as you all know, is to reach the Triwizard Cup, placed at the very center of this labyrinth," Dumbledore said, his twinkling eyes scanning the champions. "There will be obstacles, both magical and physical. Some of these obstacles may test your wits, others your strength, and some, your courage. The champion who reaches the Cup first will win eternal glory."

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry casually raised his wand, flicking it with a practiced ease. Four glowing, transparent screens appeared in the air above the labyrinth, each one showing a live feed of the four champions.

"I think it would be interesting for the audience to see the champions in action," Harry said with a sly smile, turning to Dumbledore. "I've linked the screens to each of us. You can use them to keep track of what we're doing at all times."

The crowd murmured in excitement at this new twist, and Dumbledore, though surprised, chuckled softly. "An excellent addition, Mr. Potter. Let the task begin!"

The timer started, and with Harry in first place from the previous tasks, he was the first to enter the labyrinth. With a confident stride, Harry stepped through the entrance and vanished into the maze. The screens above flickered to life, showing his movements inside.

Inside the Labyrinth

Harry's mind was a whirl of calm precision as he navigated the labyrinth. He had no interest in drawing out the task—he was here to win, but something in his gut told him that this would not be the climax of his night. The challenges inside the maze felt easy, too easy. His instincts sharpened as he made short work of magical creatures and traps that stood in his way, his wand moving effortlessly as he dispatched every obstacle without breaking a sweat.

He barely glanced at the obstacles, muttering spells and hexes almost lazily as he continued forward. It wasn't long before the Cup gleamed before him, bathed in the moonlight at the center of the labyrinth.

But as Harry reached out to touch it, he felt a strange tugging sensation. His hand closed around the cool metal of the Cup, and suddenly, everything vanished. The cheering crowd, the triumphant shouts—all of it disappeared in an instant.

The Graveyard

The world spun and reformed into something dark and sinister. Harry's feet hit the ground with a thud, and he realized he was no longer in the maze. A cold, oppressive aura filled the air. He was standing in a graveyard, ancient tombstones crumbling around him, their inscriptions worn with age. Shadows danced menacingly, and in the center of it all stood Lord Voldemort, his pale face twisted into a grotesque smile.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, his voice cutting through the cold night air like a blade. "I've been waiting for this."

The screens in the Hogwarts stands flickered momentarily as the feed cut off, causing a ripple of panic among the spectators. Dumbledore's sharp gaze remained on the flickering image, sensing something was terribly wrong. Then, just as suddenly, the screens flared back to life, showing Harry standing before Voldemort.

The crowd gasped, but Dumbledore, always quick to adapt, seized the moment. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice ringing through the stadium, "what you are witnessing is not a mere task—this is a battle between the Light and Dark, between Harry Potter and the Dark Lord Voldemort. And I daresay, Harry is more than prepared."

The tension in the air thickened as Dumbledore's voice carried the weight of prophecy. On the screens, the image of Harry facing Voldemort had every spectator leaning forward in their seats.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he sized up Voldemort. The dark wizard's wand was already in his hand, poised to strike. Harry's grip on his own wand tightened. His mind was a storm of thoughts, calculating each possible move, every outcome, every counter. This was no longer a game—this was war.

Voldemort struck first, a blast of dark magic roaring towards Harry. But Harry was faster. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he conjured a shimmering shield, absorbing the curse with ease. He didn't hesitate. In the same movement, he countered with a barrage of spells, light and dark magic intertwined as they flew from his wand with deadly precision.

His thoughts raced, his focus razor-sharp.

He'll expect me to keep my distance. Don't give him the chance. Close the gap.

Harry pushed forward, weaving through curses with incredible speed. He could sense Voldemort's frustration growing, the older wizard not expecting such ferocity from his opponent. Harry's spells forced Voldemort to move defensively, each curse he cast was stronger than the last, but Voldemort's own arrogance was making him sloppy.

"Impressive, Potter," Voldemort spat, his voice dripping with venom. "But it won't be enough."

Harry didn't respond. He was already predicting Voldemort's next move, analyzing his posture, the flicker in his wand hand. The ground beneath them shook as the two powerful wizards clashed in a storm of magic. The audience, seeing every moment unfold on the screens, sat breathless. Dumbledore's voice filled the silence between blasts of magic.

"Look closely," Dumbledore said, his tone even and clear. "Harry is forcing Voldemort on the defensive. He's reading every move, anticipating the dark magic, and countering it with remarkable skill. This is a masterful display."

Suddenly, Harry leapt forward, closing the distance between him and Voldemort. He ducked beneath a deadly curse, then, with lightning reflexes, struck out—not with magic, but with his fists.

Voldemort's eyes widened in shock as Harry's physical prowess came into play. Harry delivered a double punch to Voldemort's arm, vaporizing the limb with a sickening crack. Voldemort staggered back, his face contorted in pain and disbelief.

He won't recover quickly from that. Harry's mind raced. Finish it now.

Without hesitation, Harry followed up with a brutal standing sidekick, his boot connecting with Voldemort's face with a sickening crunch. Voldemort crumpled to the ground, his legs shattered beyond repair, his once pale and regal face now a ruined mess of blood and broken bone.

Harry loomed over him, his breath steady despite the fierce battle. "You split your soul, Voldi. No matter how many times you come back, it won't be enough. You've already lost."

With a casual flick of his wand, Harry summoned the Triwizard Cup into his hand. As the world around him twisted and distorted once more, he left Voldemort lying in the graveyard, broken and defeated.

Back at Hogwarts

Harry reappeared on the grounds of Hogwarts, the Triwizard Cup in hand. The crowd erupted into wild cheers, their excitement deafening. The screens had flickered back to life just as Harry had reappeared, and now the entire school watched in awe as Harry stood there, his expression calm and collected, the embodiment of the next great hero of the light.

Dumbledore's voice boomed across the grounds. "Ladies and gentlemen, Harry Potter has triumphed over Lord Voldemort in a battle that will be remembered for ages! Truly, the next great guardian of the light!"

As the cheers washed over him, Harry allowed a small, cocky grin to spread across his face. He had done it. He had faced Voldemort—and won.

And in that moment, as the crowd celebrated, Harry knew one thing for certain: the war had only just begun. But with the strength he had shown today, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was ready for whatever came next.