Harry Potter and Cedric walked together into the fog-shrouded entrance to the maze.
The dense hedges immediately closed behind them, swallowing the enthusiastic shouts, cheers, and applause whole.
They walked straight for about fifty metres and came to a fork in the road. The two looked at each other.
"Goodbye," Harry said to Cedric. He chose the left path, and Cedric chose the right.
Now, he was all alone.
Harry took a deep breath and glanced back at the entrance to the maze one last time. The tall hedges cast dark shadows on the path. The way he had come seemed so distant, so deep, so silent.
"Ron, I sincerely hope that none of your prophecies are true," he murmured to himself, and continued forward into the darkness.
Unbeknownst to Harry, at the entrance he was looking back at, on the other side of the hedge, Hermione and Draco stood there, staring blankly at the closing greenery with ashen faces.
"What are you doing? Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy — I need an explanation!" Minerva McGonagall strode over and rounded on the two unfortunate students who had brazenly barged onto the arena floor.
The sight of those two running hand in hand left one quite speechless. Minerva felt as though a heavy stone had settled on her chest; she suspected she would never quite get used to their worrisome dynamic. How much she had once admired the pair — and oh, Merlin, why was she now catching herself thinking of them as a couple too?
In short, she was every bit as worried about the future of these two Transfiguration high achievers as she had ever been fond of them — not that her fondness had diminished in the slightest. They had chosen what was arguably the most difficult kind of romantic relationship. However sweet the present moment, the future could prove painful — there were no exceptions. Minerva thought this with deeply mixed feelings as she regarded their easy intimacy.
"Professor McGonagall!" Hermione exclaimed urgently. "We must bring Harry back—"
When Minerva heard this, she realised at once that neither student showed a scrap of remorse for disrupting the competition — and now they wanted to make it worse.
"You two, come with me. Don't disrupt the match!" She herded them to a temporary medical tent some distance from the entrance, then turned back to glare at them. "Do you have any idea that after what happened at the Black Lake, Ministry officials have been complaining bitterly about the security arrangements at this arena?"
Her sharp gaze swept first over the Slytherin boy who stood frowning in silence. "Mr. Malfoy, although Professor Dumbledore saw fit to reward your reckless intrusion onto the Black Lake playing field with fifty House points, I can tell you plainly that I disapproved of that decision from the very beginning. Now it seems my concerns were justified — that reward served only to encourage exactly this sort of disorder."
Draco stared silently at the ground, paying little attention to the professor. He was mentally calculating probabilities: the likelihood that Professor McGonagall would understand their actions; the likelihood that the match would be stopped at once; the likelihood that they could enter the maze quickly and find Harry; the likelihood that Harry would encounter Death Eaters within.
Seeing that Draco remained silent, Minerva assumed he was at least remorseful and shook her head helplessly at him.
She snorted, then turned to the Gryffindor model student beside him, pressing on. "As for you, Miss Granger — I am very disappointed. I thought you were a rational student. Look at what you have done. Running across the field recklessly, flouting the rules of the game—" She glanced at the red uniforms and pale blue robes in the distant stands. "If your goal was to make a spectacle of yourself before the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, I believe you have succeeded admirably."
"That's not how it is, Professor McGonagall!" Hermione said anxiously.
"That's not how it is?" Professor McGonagall said, her tone steely. "Then what do you have to say for yourselves? I'm all ears."
Hermione's gaze swept anxiously toward the maze entrance before she raised her voice. "Professor McGonagall, Harry — he's in danger! We must stop the match immediately!"
At that moment, the second whistle sounded, and Viktor Krum's silhouette was swallowed up by the labyrinth's hedges.
"For Merlin's sake, Mr. Potter is certainly in danger — this is the Triwizard Tournament! The magical creatures in that maze are quite real, unlike a leisurely game of wizard chess with Mr. Weasley in the common room!" Professor McGonagall said sternly. Then, unexpectedly, she softened. "Miss Granger, I believe Mr. Potter has the wisdom and ability to face whatever lies ahead. Wasn't it you who ensured as much? I've heard about the list of spells you prepared for him. I understand it contains several brilliant incantations — Professor Flitwick was speaking of it in the staff room only a few days ago."
"I thank you for saying so, Professor," Hermione said. "But I'm afraid Harry faces a problem that no list of spells can solve."
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "I understand your concern for Mr. Potter. I share it. But you must return to the stands at once, sit quietly like the other students who care for him, and wait for him to come out."
"Professor McGonagall, the Goblet of Fire may no longer be safe—" Draco spoke at last.
"Mr. Malfoy, please don't exaggerate. Professor Dumbledore has personally ensured that such a possibility does not exist," Professor McGonagall said impatiently, glancing toward the judges' table. "This very morning, we watched him cast a powerful protective charm on the Goblet of Fire at the centre of the maze."
"Professor McGonagall — are you certain no one has entered the maze since then? That the Goblet hasn't been checked by anyone?" Hermione pressed, seizing on something. "Didn't the judges go in? Didn't Ludo Bagman go in?"
"Of course he had the right to verify the placement of the Goblet," the professor said dismissively. "He is one of the referees. Why would you ask such a thing?"
Then, to her considerable surprise, she watched Hermione and Draco turn deathly pale.
"I'm afraid — that is — the problem," Hermione managed. "Mr. Bagman isn't who he appears. He's an impostor — a man named McNeil."
"Walton McNeil," Draco added, his fingers tightening around the tattered roll of parchment in his pocket.
Professor McGonagall turned to study Draco with slow, cautious deliberation.
"I know that name. He was indeed a Death Eater." She asked, low and suspicious, "Mr. Malfoy — how do you know it? Are you acquainted with this person?"
Draco's jaw tightened. "No," he said flatly.
Professor McGonagall gave him several long, searching looks before continuing. "If I recall correctly, Walton McNeil is presently employed by the Ministry of Magic. He was never imprisoned in Azkaban — the Ministry judged him innocent."
Draco said nothing more. He felt suddenly that he should never have spoken. Whenever Death Eaters entered the conversation, the same thing always happened: these upstanding witches and wizards turned to scrutinise him first, as though some family connection must be lurking behind whatever he said — without exception.
The girl beside him gripped his hand tightly, gave him an apologetic look, then turned firmly back to Professor McGonagall. "I cannot say whether McNeil was innocent before. But he is certainly not innocent now. We need to act quickly."
"Miss Granger, do you understand what you are doing? You are accusing Ministry officials of harbouring dubious identities. This is not something to take lightly," Professor McGonagall said, visibly startled.
"We are absolutely not joking, Professor," Hermione said, her voice taut with urgency. "McNeil is impersonating Bagman—"
"Miss Granger, I grant that you have a certain talent for exposing disguises," she said, looking at Hermione's earnest face — recalling Barty Crouch Jr., whom this sharp-eyed student had unmasked — and her tone wavered slightly. "But we must have solid evidence before we act or speak. The Director of Magical Games and Sports and his colleagues are not people any student can arbitrarily accuse." She paused. "Where did you come by this information? What grounds do you have? Do you have any evidence?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came. She did not know how to explain it.
"Professor McGonagall, I cannot produce proof this moment — but once we find that Death Eater, the truth will emerge!" she said frantically, glancing at her watch. "Time is critical. We must stop the match immediately and bring Harry out. The maze is compromised. A Death Eater has infiltrated it, intending to harm Harry—"
Professor McGonagall interrupted with finality. "Miss Granger, we cannot end this competition here. The whistle has sounded; there is no going back. As for your claim that an unauthorised person has entered the maze — I consider that impossible. To ensure absolute fairness, no one but a champion may enter before the match concludes."
Seeing Hermione's flushed face, she allowed a hint of reassurance into her voice. "You can rest easy, Miss Granger. Professor Dumbledore has taken the security of this event very seriously. Many precautions have been implemented that you are unaware of — the identities of patrol and rescue personnel have been thoroughly verified, and the hedges have been enchanted with complex, difficult-to-break protective spells."
"I don't doubt the professors' capabilities," Hermione said, fighting to keep her voice measured. "But every spell has a counter-curse. No matter how complex the enchantments, given sufficient time and methodical reasoning, they can be undone. Professor McGonagall — isn't that precisely what you taught us?"
"Quite right. Which is exactly why I am asking you to leave." Professor McGonagall's tone carried barely perceptible admiration. "I believe that, given your talents, breaking those enchantments would only be a matter of time — and I must ensure that doesn't happen." She paused. "After the champions enter the maze, rescuers patrol the perimeter to ensure no one approaches the hedges. The possibility of the scenario you describe is extremely slim."
"Extremely slim is not zero," Hermione said stubbornly.
"We will not give anyone the opportunity. I will instruct the patrol to watch Mr. Bagman closely and ensure he does not go near the hedges," Professor McGonagall said.
"I doubt you'll find him. He was already moving toward the edge of the maze before the match began. I believe he may have slipped inside well before the rescuers even began their patrol," Hermione said, her voice grave. "Harry is in danger — he could be attacked by a Death Eater."
Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together, her expression caught between doubt and unease.
Hermione seized the moment, pressing her case with fervour. "If a Death Eater is inside that maze, it isn't only Harry who is in danger — all the champions are. We must stop the match immediately, ensure everyone's safety, and send people in to search."
Professor McGonagall was quiet for a moment, then looked at them with a guarded, conflicted gaze. "Given the present situation, I cannot simply grant your request. What I can do is go to Professor Dumbledore and relay your suspicions. Ultimately, the decision to halt the match rests with him — and he will need to consult with the other referees. As for you — you should return to the stands."
Hermione did not move.
She detected a certain perfunctoriness in the professor's tone.
She stood her ground and asked, "Do you think we are lying? Every word we have said is the truth."
"I do not believe you are the kind of students who speak nonsense, and I think there must be a reason behind these accusations." Professor McGonagall sighed and nodded toward the referee's box in the stands. "But as a patrol officer, the decisions about this match are not mine to make. Even if I were willing to halt the competition right now and search for a Death Eater who may or may not exist, the referees would not agree easily. You are not merely trying to convince me — do you understand?" Her gaze sharpened. "The Ministry of Magic is extremely sensitive to the word 'Death Eater,' and the Minister himself is seated at that table. I need concrete evidence to convince him."
Hermione frowned and whispered to Draco, "Say something—"
Draco held her hand and said quietly, helplessly, "Hermione, I have no argument that will move her quickly enough."
He glanced at the referee's table and thought: convincing referees with conflicting agendas and entrenched positions to step outside established procedure, at the climax of the final — that was not something achieved in an instant. From the moment a proposal to terminate the match was made, it became an exercise in human nature. One misstep would cause misunderstandings, and vast stretches of time would be lost in argument. Getting the referees to agree to "stop the match" was difficult; getting them to agree to "stop the match immediately" was, at this moment, impossible. Draco mentally crossed out that option.
"Please—" Hermione's voice took on a pleading note. "Professor McGonagall, can we go into the maze ourselves to find him? We promise we won't interfere with anything else — just find Harry—"
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "No student other than the champions may participate in or interfere with the final. That would bring Hogwarts into serious disrepute. Why do you imagine Minister Fudge came to referee in person? Precisely to ensure nothing like this occurs."
Hermione's face crumpled. She had never imagined that the hardest part of navigating a hedge maze would not be breaking the enchantments — it would be persuading people to do the right thing.
She had never felt so helpless. Time was slipping away while they remained at a standstill, and what should have been a simple, urgent action now seemed somehow impossible. She was a person perfectly free to act, yet she felt a terrible constraint from somewhere deep within her — something that made it hard to breathe. It filled her with a quiet, burning fury.
What stood before them wearing Professor McGonagall's face was, in truth, the referees chatting and laughing at their elevated table.
She listened, hollowed out, as Professor McGonagall continued in her rigid, procedural tone. "If you cannot produce reliable evidence — if you cannot give adequate reason to doubt Bagman's identity — then I regret that I cannot help you. This is an international competition. Everything must comply with the rules and the established decision-making process, to ensure fairness and impartiality."
Professor McGonagall paused, glanced at Draco, and resumed her stern bearing. "Now, please leave at once and return to the stands."
Hermione had never felt such revulsion toward broken rules and rotten order as she did at that moment.
Suppressing a burning, pungent sensation rising in her chest and throat, she drew a breath and said, "No. We can't simply leave."
She had even adopted a pleading tone, and she hated herself for it. "Please, Professor McGonagall — Harry is in grave danger—"
She glanced at the silent boy beside her and shook his hand. "Draco — please—"
"Hermione, don't panic. I'm thinking—" Draco said under his breath, his words feeling painfully inadequate.
Her pleading tone created a sharp tightness in his chest. He hated hearing her speak like that. No one should make her beg.
Hermione was right. They could not go back to the stands and let danger find Harry.
Someone had to act immediately — before any possible violence could occur tonight. What if Harry was somehow captured and taken away? What if the Dark Lord used Harry's blood to restore himself? What if Voldemort discovered what Harry truly was to him? Draco could not bear to follow that line of thought any further.
But Professor McGonagall, formidable and immovable, was blocking them. What could he do? They were students. She had a natural wariness of students — every word they said was weighed and examined and found wanting. Would showing her the Marauder's Map help? Knowing her, her first reaction upon seeing Walton McNeil's name would not be belief, but suspicion — she would want to verify whether it was some kind of Dark artefact before she trusted a single thing it showed.
They did not have time to explain the Marauder's Map to the most old-fashioned and exacting professor in the school. And he was grimly certain that if the bewildered McGonagall began pressing them for a full accounting of how they had obtained it and what they had done with it, the exchange would spiral into an endless standoff, consuming every remaining moment.
What should he do? Draco gripped Hermione's cold hand, lowered his eyes, and weighed his options.
Harry was in grave danger — action was needed immediately.
They could not bypass Professor McGonagall and enter the maze; neither he nor Hermione could manage that.
To persuade Professor McGonagall, they needed swift, compelling, irrefutable evidence — which they did not have.
Even if they convinced her, she would take them to the referees' table, where they would have to start all over again, persuading officials with conflicting positions and hidden motives. They could not accomplish that quickly. By the time the whole story was told to the referees' satisfaction, it would be too late.
What to do? Who could break this deadlock? Draco narrowed his eyes, studying Professor McGonagall's unyielding expression, and for one cold, dangerous moment, considered — should he cast the Imperius Curse on a Hogwarts professor?
At that moment, with the third whistle, Fleur Delacour withdrew her curious gaze from them, tossed her long silver hair, and walked gracefully into the dark gap in the hedge.
"Oh, Merlin!" Hermione exclaimed, staring with dismay at the hedge entrance closing for the third time. "They're all inside — it's too late!"
"Oi — you two! What are you still doing here?" Sirius Black strolled over from the maze entrance with easy, unhurried steps, his tone carrying a slight tease. "What's happened? Hermione — why do you look as though you're about to cry? Did your boyfriend land you in trouble with the professor?"
Hermione looked stricken, on the very edge of tears, when the boy in question shoved a handkerchief into her hand. Professor McGonagall's glare turned on Sirius.
"Minerva, you look frightfully severe." Sirius smiled at her. "Look what you've done to her — ease up a little. Leave them to me. I'll take them outside the arena."
"If you knew what nonsense they've been talking, you would look frightfully severe too," Professor McGonagall said briskly. "And I should remind you — you are no longer a professor at this school. I would prefer to address their errors myself."
Sirius shrugged and turned to leave, walking along the hedge toward the far side of the maze. He glanced back and made a face at them. "Good luck, then. Both of you."
Sirius Black. He cannot just walk away. Draco made a rapid assessment.
Sirius was the only one who could break the deadlock. He was the only one in this world who could understand all of this quickly enough to act.
Draco abandoned his silence. He looked up sharply and called out to the dark-haired man who had his back to them. "Wait — Sirius Black! That woman from the Ministry — Bertha Jorkins — Harry confirmed it!"
Sirius turned his head with a slight frown.
"Also — Ludo Bagman is Walton McNeil in disguise," Draco said urgently. "He's a Death Eater. You have to do something right now."
"What?!" Sirius stared at Draco. "Bagman is a Death Eater in disguise? How do you know that — and how do you know the exact name of whoever's impersonating him? Where did you get this?"
"I'd also very much like to know the answer to that question," Professor McGonagall said pointedly. "He has yet to provide any evidence."
"Sirius Black, stop wasting time!" Draco glared at him. "You have to trust us. You have to go — now!"
Time was moving relentlessly forward, and still everyone needed to know why first.
Draco now understood entirely why Gryffindors were so prone to recklessness and brute force. At that moment, he felt the urge himself. Ironically, it was the two Gryffindors present who were holding him back.
"I can trust you, Draco Malfoy." Sirius studied him, a glint of suspicion in his voice. "As long as you tell me — where did this information come from?"
Draco felt the sting of that unspoken implication immediately.
"I see. You think I heard it from my family, don't you — because my father was a Death Eater." He said it slowly, his voice cool, almost amused. "Unfortunately for that theory, my source has nothing to do with Death Eaters. You'll be disappointed."
"I didn't say—" Sirius's tone softened slightly, though his eyes remained hard. "But how did you — a student confined to Hogwarts — come to know secrets of the opposing faction that even we don't know? I need to understand your basis for this."
"Because—" Draco's grey eyes burned with barely contained fury. "Because I have the bloody Marauder's Map you made, Padfoot!"
Sirius's eyes widened fractionally.
"If you believe in your own cartographic abilities, then believe me! Instead of standing there like a stunned Flobberworm, doubting my motives—" Draco finally wrenched the tattered parchment from his pocket, slapped it squarely into Sirius's hands, and said roughly, "See for yourself."
"Mr. Malfoy, mind your language!" Minerva said sharply.
She was so shaken by everything that had just been disclosed — Draco Malfoy, of all people, with the Marauder's Map, of all things — that she felt genuinely dizzy. Even so, the words Draco had used were wholly inappropriate in conversation with any professor, full-time or otherwise.
Draco ignored her, jaw tightening as he glanced at Hermione. "Show him."
Sirius stared at the old map with a strange, unsettled feeling stirring in his chest.
He had never expected to see it again in his lifetime. He had never expected to hear anyone but Remus call him by that name.
In an instant, the careless days of youth poured out from the tattered parchment, and a tide of unruly, laughing memories surged through him — breaking through some dam he'd long ago stopped bothering to maintain.
But he had no time for those memories now. Because right where Hermione's fingertips rested, he could see it clearly — the name of Walton McNeil, moving deliberately through the hedges of the maze.
"You're right, Draco," Sirius said quietly.
He looked at Professor McGonagall and said, in a tone that permitted no argument, "Minerva — tell Dumbledore to stop the match. Things have changed."
"I will. But — what exactly is this?" Professor McGonagall asked, bewildered. She peered at the map and then looked at Draco. "If you had evidence all along, why didn't you show it to me at once? Where did you get this? Is it—"
"Minerva." Sirius cut her off gently. "It's a map enchanted with tracking magic. Time is of the essence — I'll explain it fully another time."
Professor McGonagall glanced at the moving names on the map, and quite unexpectedly — instead of asking further questions — she said, her face pale, "I understand."
"Then — now that you know we were telling the truth — can we go into the maze to find Harry?" Hermione drew Draco's pocket watch out and checked the time. "A quarter of an hour has already passed."
"You cannot," Professor McGonagall said, her voice heavy. "I know it's an emergency. But none of you may enter until the match is officially suspended. We have to do this properly."
"Minerva, please!" Sirius said, an edge of indignation breaking through. "What kind of moment is this to fuss over proper procedure? I should go in — I'm listed as a rescue worker, I'm authorised—"
"We can only enter when a champion fires a distress signal!" Professor McGonagall said stiffly, casting a glance toward the referee's box. "If we go in without one, Hogwarts will be considered to have broken the rules first."
Sirius dragged a hand through his hair in frustration.
He knew perfectly well that halting the match would require a long, grinding explanation to those prickly referees — and he could already picture the result, a reprise of the Black Lake debacle, with each referee following their own agenda while everything descended into circular suspicion and fractious debate.
The situation had ground to a standstill.
Then, all at once, a burst of red sparks shot into the sky, blazing against the dark blue.
"There it is." Sirius glanced at the signal with cold satisfaction. "A distress spark, Minerva. I can go in now — entirely within the rules."
Professor McGonagall gave a blank nod, suddenly finding she had nothing left to say.
"Hermione, Draco — don't worry. Stay outside the maze. I'll find Harry and get him out. As for that Death Eater—" his lip curled, "I'll make him regret ever setting foot in this labyrinth."
"Take the map," Draco said, his voice calm. "Return it to its rightful owner. Happy hunting."
— That really did hurt. His expression remained composed, but inwardly something ached: the Marauder's Map, given away just like that.
That paranoid man, Sirius Black — who had just been eyeing him with quiet suspicion, practically accusing him of Death Eater connections without quite saying so — had also brought them dinner that very afternoon, which counted for something. And Hermione was watching him with a look of pure, unguarded admiration. He had to maintain some dignity.
It was absolutely one of those two reasons. It had nothing to do with any concern he might have felt for that insufferable nuisance, Sirius Black.
Sirius looked at Draco, quietly startled.
This Slytherin boy had given up — without a moment's hesitation — a map that any fifteen-year-old would guard like a life's treasure.
And Sirius was fairly certain that those cold grey eyes, usually so guarded and cutting, contained, just at this moment, a barely perceptible trace of worry.
"Thank you, Draco." Sirius gripped the tattered parchment, something tightening in his throat. "I misjudged you earlier — I apologise."
Draco raised his chin at him with studied arrogance and said nothing.
He glanced sideways at Hermione and found the warm light in her eyes — she was smiling at him. They smiled at each other. And all those small grievances ceased to matter at all; his chest was full of nothing but her smile.
Sirius studied the map quickly, orienting himself. He could see that it was Fleur Delacour who had fired the distress signal. Walton McNeil's dot was already moving away from her position, heading toward Viktor Krum.
"Damn it—" The blood drained from Sirius's face. He muttered the oath without pausing to care whether the stern witch beside him objected.
Hermione, looking down at the map, grasped the situation at once. "Wait — was it Fleur who fired the red sparks? Did the Death Eater attack her first?"
"Most likely." Sirius drew his wand without hesitation. "I have to leave immediately."
"Sirius — that Death Eater was posing as Bagman and had access to the Goblet of Fire in the maze. I suspect it may no longer be safe to touch," Hermione said quickly.
Sirius gave a sharp nod.
He checked the positions of the four champions one final time against the old map — that familiar, beloved, unfamiliar old friend — and said to Professor McGonagall, "I need to hold onto that map. You'll need to send additional rescuers into the maze — I can't manage alone. McNeil is moving quickly; I expect he'll create a second victim very soon."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and ran straight for the hedge.
"Yes — of course." Minerva McGonagall stood very still, her face working with something she could not quite control.
Whether it was the staggering power concealed within that unassuming scrap of parchment, or the unexpected familiarity between Draco Malfoy and Sirius Black — two people who should by all rights have been wholly incompatible — or the possibility that the Goblet of Fire had been tampered with, that a Death Eater was loose in the maze, that Harry Potter was in serious danger — all of it had crashed into her at once, like a wave she hadn't seen coming, leaving her feeling oddly unsteady.
Compared to all of that, Miss Granger's ill-advised romantic entanglement with Mr. Malfoy seemed, just at this moment, almost unremarkable. The thought surfaced without her permission.
She dismissed it immediately. This was absolutely not the time.
Minerva squared her shoulders and set off at a near-run toward the referee's box, hat slightly askew, which she did not notice.
Professor McGonagall's figure dwindled into the distance. Hermione turned back to the towering hedges, pressing her nails into her palm. She asked the unusually quiet boy beside her in a small, strained voice, "What do we do now?"
"Wait." Draco's expression was steady.
He took her restless hand in his — gently but firmly — and stopped her from hurting herself.
"We've done everything we could," he said. "Now all we can do is wait."
"But Harry—"
"He'll be all right," Draco said — as though reassuring her, or perhaps himself. "He'll definitely be all right."
---
As the third whistle sounded in the distance, Harry Potter arrived at the second fork in the road. He held his wand flat on his palm and cast the first spell he'd learned from Hermione's spellbook. "Point me."
His wand spun and settled, pointing toward the dense hedge on his right. North. Harry knew he needed to head northwest to reach the centre of the maze — the best approach was to take the left path and turn right at the first opportunity.
He moved forward, wand raised, until a hooded figure slid slowly out of the darkness toward him. Harry could make out its rotting, scabbed hands, and hear the rattle of its breathing.
A cold, slimy wave of hopelessness washed over him. Harry swallowed hard, forcing his mind toward the most cheerful image he could summon — himself walking out of the maze to cheers, celebrating with his friends — and raised his wand at the twelve-foot-tall Dementor. "Expecto Patronum!"
The silver stag erupted from the wand and charged. The Dementor stumbled backward and fell. Harry grinned and pressed forward. "Don't move! You're a Boggart — Riddikulus!"
With a sharp crack, the Boggart burst into smoke.
The stag vanished. Harry kept his wand up and pressed on, quick and careful. He cast the Point Me Charm again, turned several corners, and found himself facing a drifting cloud of golden mist.
He approached cautiously and aimed his wand at it. "Reducto!"
The spell passed straight through without effect.
"Right — Hermione said that one's for solid obstacles," he muttered to himself.
At that moment, a girl's scream cut through the surrounding silence.
"Hello?" he called out. No reply.
Harry took a breath and stepped into the golden mist. The world inverted. He was hanging headfirst, blood roaring in his ears, hair standing on end.
"Liberacorpus!" he said at once, clearly and calmly. In an instant, gravity resumed its proper direction, and he landed on solid, blessed earth.
"Thank you, Draco." Harry dusted himself off and stood up, muttering. "I thought you were joking when you taught me that one."
---
The dense hedges of the maze closed silently behind Sirius Black. He studied the dot labelled "Harry Potter" on the Marauder's Map and found it moving steadily, purposefully, deeper toward the centre of the maze.
Sirius set off with care. Even at junctions he had to think; the Marauder's Map could tell him the precise location of everyone inside the maze, but it could not show him shortcuts, or reveal the correct path through the labyrinth, or warn him of what dangers lay around each corner.
The Marauder's Map had its limits. It could not render the shape of a maze drawn within a large magical circle, nor illuminate the right route through it. Sirius could only navigate by general orientation and the rough layout he'd memorised that morning.
Fortunately, as a listed rescuer, he had already familiarised himself with the maze's broad structure, which at least gave him somewhere to start.
He used the faint light from his wand tip to check the map again.
Fleur Delacour was not far from him. Her name sat between his and Harry's — the three of them almost forming a straight line.
Sirius peered into the dark passage ahead and quickened his pace.
Suddenly, his boot caught on something. He looked down and found a wand lying in the grass — elegant and pale — its owner's distress signal still burning red in the sky above.
These two details told him what he needed to know: Fleur was nearby.
He picked up the wand, his eyes scanning the hedges. Around a corner at the end of the passage, he finally found her — a pale blue figure crumpled against the hedge.
Her long silver hair was spread across the grass, beautiful and terribly still.
It was her. Fleur Delacour.
He had seen her only that morning — proud, vibrant, imperious. Now she lay like a flower shaken from its branch.
"Merlin—" he cursed under his breath, rushing forward and kneeling beside her, pulling her carefully into his arms to check her condition.
Her eyes were closed. Her face was pale.
She was breathing. Thank Merlin — she was breathing. It looked like nothing worse than a Stunning Spell.
Sirius gripped his wand and murmured, "Rennervate."
She stirred.
"No — no—" She struggled upright before she'd even properly woken, her eyes wide with terror.
"Don't be afraid — it's me," Sirius said. She stilled at the sound of his voice. She would have known that voice anywhere.
How had he come to be here? She blinked in confusion, the panic slowly ebbing.
Sirius looked at her steadily. His voice was not quite as level as he intended. "What happened?"
In the wavering light of the wand tip, Fleur looked fragile in a way he had not seen before.
"It was Ludo Bagman — he attacked me." Her voice was strained. "He told me there had been a problem with the match and that I needed to return to the entrance. I wasn't on my guard — I didn't expect—"
There was a hollow, betrayed quality beneath her words. "I don't understand. Why would Bagman do this?"
"He's a Death Eater in disguise. He's been attacking champions throughout this labyrinth." Sirius felt her body tense under his hands.
Fleur's eyes went wide.
Then her hands, shaking, closed around his robes. "Then you must stop this match immediately."
"They were already working to stop it before I entered the maze. They knew something was wrong," Sirius told her, his voice careful and quiet.
"What has happened? Why are there Death Eaters?" she asked, looking up at him with bewildered eyes.
"Something serious. There's no time to explain — I have to leave you now—" He heard the apology in his own voice. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Don't go yet," she said, and her hands tightened on his robes — as though the contact itself could push the fear back.
Sirius held very still, caught between what he felt and what had to be done.
He wanted, desperately, to get her out of this labyrinth immediately. Away from the Acromantulas and the Sphinxes, the enchanted mists, and everything dangerous — especially away from any Death Eater who might double back.
But there were more urgent things pressing on him.
"I'm sorry, Fleur," he said, forcing the words out. "Harry — my godson — he's in danger."
The Goblet of Fire might be compromised. A Death Eater was hunting champions throughout the maze. His godson might be walking straight into a trap. He had to go.
"Yes—" Her voice was soft and quietly wretched.
She knew he was right. Harry was a good boy — he had saved her little sister Gabrielle. He was Sirius's godson, the child of his best friend, and he was only fourteen.
If there was a Death Eater loose in this maze, then Harry was the one who needed protecting most.
"You have to go." Fleur said it with resolve. "Go — now."
But her hands were still wound tight in his robes, as though her body refused to act on what her mind knew.
Reason told her to let him go. If Gabrielle were in danger somewhere, she would never leave her either.
She watched his face in the dim light and saw the reluctance there. She didn't like that look — he was hesitating when he should not be.
"Sirius Black," she said, her voice catching fire, "you are the bravest Gryffindor alive, aren't you? Then stand tall tonight and fight. Bring your godson back safely."
The last trace of hesitation left his eyes. "You're right."
He stood, and then couldn't stop himself. "Fleur — if I come back — if—"
Through the shifting light, she saw something strained and unfinished on his face.
He didn't finish the sentence.
In the dimness, he looked at her — the way she was looking at him, trusting, unflinching — and found something undisguised in her eyes, something she had stopped trying to conceal.
He had walked into this maze with a dark, vague feeling he couldn't name. An ominous certainty that tonight he might face Voldemort. That he might avenge James — or that he might not come back at all.
He did not know if he would have a tomorrow.
A man like him — hollowed out by years of hardship, likely facing harder ones ahead — had no right to make promises.
And yet she was looking at him, and her gaze was not something he could simply set aside.
"If I come back—" He said the words again, like a man not quite in control of himself, and before he had thought it through, he had lowered his head and kissed her — brief and deliberate.
Fleur's eyes went wide.
She had fully woken from the Stunning Spell. And somehow, inexplicably, she had fallen into something else entirely.
They were kissing. The red distress sparks were still burning overhead, hissing and turning in the dark air; the whole scene was eerie and strange.
Something surged in her chest — a feeling that breached the composure she'd built carefully over years. In that strange, suspended moment, she found herself thinking of the tango they had danced at the Yule Ball — the heat of it, the give and take.
She let go of his robes and reached up to touch his face.
His cheek was cool. His lips were warm.
Then her hand was taken firmly from his face, and something pressed back into her fingers.
Her wand.
In the next instant her mouth was empty and cold, and he was no longer close.
He let her go. She was alone on the soft grass.
"Alastor and the others will come for you. Protect yourself." Sirius stood up. He ran a hand through his hair, looking briefly, hopelessly frustrated with himself. Then he raised his wand and pointed it at her, one after another:
"Salvio Hexia — Cave Inimicum — Protego — Protego Totalum—"
Fleur blinked up at him, dazed.
Was this strictly necessary? she wondered faintly. She knew all those spells herself.
Absolutely necessary. Sirius thought, grimly and irrationally, in case some blind Acromantula tried to swallow her whole.
After casting the last of them, he turned without looking back and walked rapidly into the dark depths of the maze, heading deliberately in the most dangerous direction.