The atmosphere in Hogwarts's Defense Against Dark Magic classroom was graver than it had been in any previous lesson.
This was the last lesson before the final task of the Triwizard Tournament.
What hung in the air was no longer dust stirred up by spells, but an invisible pressure called "the finish line."
"The maze."
At the lectern, Professor Douglas Holmes's voice rang out calmly, like a pebble dropped into a deep pool: though it made no waves, its ripples spread into every student's heart.
He looked at no one, his gaze seemingly piercing the classroom walls to settle on the enormous maze taking shape in the distance.
"An ancient and effective tool for selection."
He paced slowly, the hem of his black robes sliding soundlessly across the floor.
"It does not select for the strength of your magic, nor for how many jinxes you have mastered."
He stopped and turned, his deep eyes sweeping across the room for the first time.
"What it selects for is whether you can retain the ability to think amid the unknown, oppression, and solitude."
The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students sitting at the back of the classroom unconsciously straightened.
Even Viktor Krum put down the quill he had been twirling, his gaze more focused than ever.
"The walls are not your enemy."
Professor "Holmes" continued, a peculiar, scholarly coldness in his voice.
"Nor is the passage of time your enemy."
"Your only enemy," he extended a finger and lightly tapped his temple, "is here."
"It is your hesitation when you face a fork in the path, your panic when you hear a strange noise, and the despair that breeds deep within you when you go too long without seeing the exit."
"When your mind is occupied by these emotions, that pitiful stock of spells