The Triwizard Tournament's final task was set to commence. The dusk of Thursday had settled over the grounds, the last crimson light of the sun bleeding into the navy sky. The sprawling, high walls of the enchanted hedge maze dominated the Quidditch pitch, their shadows already lengthening and twisting into menacing shapes. The spectator stands, usually vibrant with red and gold for a Quidditch match, were instead a kaleidoscope of the three school colors—Beauxbatons' silver-blue, Durmstrang's deep fur-lined crimson, and Hogwarts' own cheering section—and the booths were filled to maximum capacity. A palpable, electric tension hung in the cold air, a mix of excitement, fear, and morbid curiosity.
Below the main announcer's booth, the three remaining champions stood waiting. Lucian Delacour, elegant in his silver robes, looked perfectly composed, occasionally fixing his already immaculate silvery-blonde hair. Vanya Krum, bulky and grim, stood with her arms crossed, staring intently at the maze entrance as if calculating its vulnerabilities. Seraphia Throne, nervous but determined, stood a little apart, nodding politely at the occasional well-wisher. The one figure who should have been standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them was conspicuously absent. The spot reserved for the second Hogwarts Champion remained empty.
Inside the elevated, glass-fronted announcer's booth, Barty Crouch Sr., was a picture of tightly controlled, furious impatience. The man was immaculate in his stiff, three-piece robes, but the veneer of professionalism was cracking. He stood in front of the glass wall, his foot tapping a frantic, rhythmic beat against the polished wood floor. He spun around, his face pale with barely contained rage, and addressed the young witch acting as his administrative assistant.
"Where is he?" Barty demanded, his voice a low, dangerous hiss that barely carried over the rising murmur of the crowd. "The entire schedule is on a knife-edge. The Maze is set. The Champions are present. The television feed is live. Where in the blazes is Echo?"
The young assistant, a nervous, pink-cheeked woman, merely shook her head and shrugged, her eyes wide with fear. "Sir, we've sent three runners. He's not in the common room, the Potions classroom, or the library. No one has seen him since this morning."
Barty slammed his hand down on the podium. "Well, go find him, then! Drag him here! Tell him that if he misses this final event, the consequences—magical and political—will be so severe he'll wish a Grindylow had eaten him!"
The assistant practically tripped over herself getting out of the booth. As she fled, the door opened again, and Professor McGonagall stepped inside. She moved with her usual controlled efficiency, but the set of her jaw and the deep exhaustion in her eyes revealed her fraying patience.
"What do you want now, Minerva?" Barty snapped, not bothering to turn fully toward her.
Minerva walked over and stood next to the window, watching the maze entrance with an air of profound weariness. "Barty," she said, her voice unusually soft, "can you please just let Echo sit this one out?"
Barty finally turned, his expression one of incredulous offense. "Let him sit it out? Minerva, this is the final task! The rules are inviolable! The Cup is a binding magical contract! Who knows what the magic will do to a champion who refuses to adhere to the obligations?"
Minerva cut him off, her voice suddenly regaining its familiar, sharp edge. "I know about the rules, Barty, and I know about the Cup, we all do. I've read more on magical contracts in a week than you have in a decade. But putting Echo through this—dragging him into the center of another major catastrophe for the sake of the rules yet again—is not going to be good for his mental health in the long term."
She looked directly at him, her gaze hard and uncompromising. "Whatever happens via the Cup, we'll deal with it then. Just let the poor boy rest. We both know what's going to happen." She waved a dismissive hand toward the maze. "The event gets set up, the champions converge, and Echo doesn't show up. We drag him against his will, he's forced to participate, and some form of chaos—whether by Echo's own action or outside forces—causes the event to go up in smoke, even if any damages and injuries are on the minor side and the event ends. Why not save ourselves the entire disaster and just let him be?"
Barty opened his mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal about the sanctity of the Tournament when the booth door burst inward with a crash. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin stumbled in, their robes disheveled, their faces pale, and their chests heaving as if they had just sprinted the entire length of the castle.
"Students are not permitted in the announcer's booth!" Barty thundered.
Sirius ignored him, his eyes wide and panicked. "Save it, Crouch! This is serious! It's Echo!"
Barty froze, his hand hovering over his pocket to grab the aura whistle. "Oh? Did you find him, then? Get him down to the entrance immediately!"
Sirius merely shook his head, his face contorting in a look of profound, helpless horror. "Worse!"
Then, Remus Lupin let out a high-pitched, agonizing cry that tore through the sudden silence of the room. He clutched his hands to his head, his voice cracking with unbearable grief. "He's dead!"
Barty Crouch and Minerva McGonagall's jaws dropped in unison. The silence that followed Remus's raw, broken confession was absolute, thick with disbelief and a chilling, sick dread.
Minerva was the first to move. She rushed toward the two stunned boys, her own face draining of color. "Remus Lupin, if this is a prank, I swear to Merlin, it is not funny! You tell me this is a lie right now!"
Remus shook his head violently, tears already streaming down his face. "It's not, Professor! It's not!"
Sirius grabbed Barty's lapels, his grip surprisingly strong and desperate. "Follow us! Now!"
Sirius and Remus spun around and launched themselves back out of the booth, leaving the door swinging open. Barty and McGonagall looked at each other, their minds reeling. A dead champion. The magical contract. The possibility of an international incident of unprecedented scale. Barty and Minerva exchanged one final, horrified look before following the two frantic students. They burst out of the castle and across the open grounds, Barty's stiff formality dissolving into a desperate, awkward run, and McGonagall's robes snapping around her ankles as she tried to keep pace. They trailed the two boys toward the shadowy, western perimeter of the Forbidden Forest. Sirius and Remus skidded to a halt near a clearing where a single, massive, moss-covered stone slab lay flat on the ground, a natural bed positioned beneath the canopy of an enormous oak.
Lying perfectly still on the cold, flat stone was Echo. He was unmarked, untouched. His body was straight, his dark robes draped around him as if placed with reverence. His chaotic hair—a subdued, lifeless raven black—fanned out slightly against the moss. His face was impossibly pale, his lips slightly parted, and his expression was one of profound, utter serenity. He looked, for all the world, like a fairytale prince under a dark enchantment—Snow White after the poison apple—asleep, but perhaps never to wake.
Minerva brought a trembling hand up to cover her mouth, a low, choked sound escaping her. "My God," she whispered, the raw grief evident in her voice.
Barty stood rigid, staring down at the lifeless form. The terrifying finality of the scene stripped him of all pretense and all words. His carefully constructed mask of bureaucratic authority shattered; he merely stood, breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on the champion who would never rise.
Sirius, his voice thick with what now appeared to be genuine, profound sorrow, stepped forward. "It gets worse," he said, the words barely audible. He reached down and retrieved a small, neatly folded piece of parchment lying next to Echo's limp hand. He handed the letter to Barty. Remus, equally distraught, handed an identical copy to McGonagall.
The two adults opened the letters with trembling hands. The handwriting was Echo's—precise, elegant, and chillingly devoid of emotion:
To those who find me,
I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't put myself through this torture a fourth time. The pressure, the chaos, the expectations—the whole, horrible, endless drama. I had exhausted every option to get out, and none worked.So, I made the only choice I could.
Farewell.
Minerva finished reading and crushed the parchment in her fist. She turned to Barty, her eyes blazing with renewed, desperate energy. "Barty, this is serious! We have another dead student—and not only that—one of the champions, just before the final event! A suicide..." Her voice failed, the implications too vast to comprehend.
Barty finally found his voice, a low, defeated rasp. "I suppose," he said, his eyes distant, "there is no way out of this. The magical contract… will simply be nullified. Echo will be… disbanded. But we cannot let the masses know this. Not the truth, not yet at least. We have to take care of it gently, quietly; otherwise, we'll stir up something we may not be able to control. An accident. A tragic disappearance after the Tournament—something."
Just then, a figure burst cheerily out of the dense woods to their left. It was Peter Pettigrew, holding a small, crystal potion bottle that shimmered with an iridescent, oily purple liquid. He was beaming, entirely oblivious to the group on the stone slab.
"Hey, guys! I finally got the potion back from the leprechaun!" Peter chirped, his voice bright and entirely out of place.
Due to how he had exited, Peter's back was to Minerva and Barty. Sirius and Remus froze instantly, their faces pale with panic and shock, caught completely off guard.
Seeing his friends' expressions and mistaking their horror for confusion, Peter continued to explain, still cheerfully. "You know, the counter-potion! To wake up Echo after he tricks everyone into thinking he is dead with the Draught of Living Death!" He gestured at the silent form on the rock. "Yeah, so he can finally get out of the last event. Man, I'd love to see the look on Crouch's face after he sees how easily Echo tricked him! Maybe we should take a picture to laugh about it later!"
Sirius and Remus's expressions were a mirror of sheer devastation. They began shaking their heads violently and making frantic "shushing" gestures, their hands covering their faces in utter defeat as Peter unwittingly gave away their entire, carefully planned plan.
Peter looked at them, confused. "What's wrong?" he asked innocently.
Then, Barty cleared his throat. The sound, sharp and accusatory, came from directly behind Peter. Peter jumped violently and spun around, the potion bottle clutched to his chest. Upon seeing the sight of Barty and Minerva standing there, their faces masks of cold, furious comprehension, Peter's cheerful demeanor collapsed. He laughed nervously, a reedy, strained sound.
"Um," he stammered, in an unconvincing tone, "surprise! Happy birthday!" Barty was not falling for it. His face was a mask of thunderous, cold rage. "April Fools?" Peter offered weakly, his eyes darting frantically between the two adults.
Barty did not speak. He moved with sudden, surprising speed, snatching the small, crystal potion bottle from Peter's grasp. He popped the cork with a savage thwip that startled the birds in the trees, and then, without hesitation, he strode over to the prone body of Echo. Barty gripped Echo's jaw and forcefully shoved the neck of the potion bottle into the boy's mouth. The oily, iridescent liquid drained into Echo's throat in a single, rapid gulp.
With a sudden, violent gasp, Echo's body convulsed. He shot bolt upright, his eyes—usually a chaotic violet—flying open, sparkling with a manic, hyper-alert energy. He threw his arms wide in an exuberant stretch that cracked his neck and shoulders.
"Whoo hoo! That was the best nap I've ever had," Echo declared, his voice ringing with pure, unadulterated triumph and satisfaction. He scrubbed a hand over his raven hair, which instantly shifted from lifeless black to a hyperactive, vibrating lime green. "Maybe I should make a watered-down version of the Draught of Living Death to help with my chronic insomnia."
Echo then swung his legs off the stone slab and jumped to his feet, doing so in a way that left his back perfectly turned to Barty and Minerva. He began dusting off his robes, completely oblivious to the two furious adults and the three utterly devastated Marauders.
Peter, Remus, and Sirius stood frozen, their faces a mixture of stark terror and crushing guilt. Peter's eyes were wide and fixed on the two towering figures behind Echo, while Remus and Sirius began frantically shaking their heads and mouthing silent, desperate warnings.
Unaware of the tableau of his exposed ruse, Echo continued, his voice bright and conspiratorial. "So, is it over? Is the final event over? Did we trick Crouch? Did you get a picture of his face? No, wait—we should get a picture when we show him I'm still alive and how easily I bamboozled him and that stupid Cup!"
He finally turned, intending to solicit a high-five from Sirius, but the sheer, agonizing distress on his friends' faces finally pierced the fog of the Draught's aftereffects. The Lime Green in his hair instantly dissolved into a troubled, confused gray-blue.
Echo's eyes narrowed, quickly connecting the pieces: the terror on his friends' faces, the way they were standing rigid, the way his potion counter-spell had been used on him.
"It didn't work, did it?" Echo asked, the manic joy draining from his voice.
They shook their heads.
Echo closed his eyes, let out a deep, shuddering sigh, and asked, "He's right behind me, isn't he?"
The three of them nodded their heads in unison.
Instead of being scared or apologetic, a profound, unholy rage snapped within Echo. His hair flashed from gray-blue to an intense, furious crimson. He didn't turn around. He didn't even drop his voice. He launched himself backward, whirling around in mid-air to land directly on the stone slab where he'd been lying, now face-to-face with Barty. Echo grabbed Barty by the stiff collar of his robes with both hands and began shaking the man violently back and forth, the action betraying a shocking, desperate strength.
"Why won't you just let me die, you wrinkled old goat!" Echo screamed, his voice raw with despairing fury. "What more do I have to do to make you exclude me? Do I have to kill you? Is that what you want?! DEATH!"
Barty's face, already pale from shock, was rapidly turning a mottled purple as the boy's relentless shaking and iron grip cut off his air. He made a strangled, gasping noise, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Echo's forearms.
Luckily, the three boys and Professor McGonagall reacted instantly. Minerva, with a sharp cry of alarm, grabbed one of Echo's arms. Sirius and Remus finally snapped out of their paralysis and seized his waist. Peter, meanwhile, just stood back, his hand over his mouth, watching the terrifying explosion of his friend's mental breakdown. With a unified, agonizing heave, the four saviors managed to rip Echo off the gasping Barty, dragging the screaming, flailing champion a full ten feet away from the still-choking Tournament organizer. Echo's body was a tight, desperate knot of violent resistance, the crimson rage still blazing in his hair, but the combined strength of the boy's others was enough to pin him against the rough bark of the massive oak tree.
Barty leaned heavily against the cold stone slab, his hand clutching his throat, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps. Professor McGonagall and the three boys finally had Echo pinned against the tree, his body shuddering with spent, violent rage, the crimson in his hair fading to a raw, pulsating maroon.
After a long, agonizing minute, Barty finally managed to catch his breath. He straightened his robes with a trembling hand, his face still mottled and angry purple, but his voice, though shaky, was regaining its bureaucratic stiffness.
"You... you idiotic, over-dramatic child!" Barty croaked, his eyes narrowed into furious slits. He pushed off the stone and walked stiffly toward Echo, stopping just out of the champion's reach. "This childish farce is over! The trick has been exposed! The contract is binding! Now you will get over it and go participate!" He jabbed a furious, accusing finger at the champion. "You will enter that maze, and you will, for once, try not to make all of England look like a pack of incompetent fools on international television! Is that clear?"
Echo, pinned between the rough bark and the combined strength of his friends, let out a sound that was a low, guttural snarl. The last threads of control snapped. He bucked violently, throwing his weight against his captors.
"FINE!" Echo screamed, the maroon in his hair exploding back into furious, blinding crimson. He managed to rip his right arm free and flung it out in a gesture of absolute, chaotic surrender. "Fine, you old goat! You want me in the maze? You want me to participate? THEN I'LL DO IT!" His voice was a raw, cracking shriek of pure defiance. "BUT I'LL MAKE IT HELL! HELL, I SAY! HELL!"
With a final, desperate heave, Echo surged forward, wrenching himself entirely free of McGonagall, Sirius, and Remus. He stood rigid, his crimson hair blazing, his eyes fixed on the distant, shadowed entrance of the maze. He threw his head back, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, and then unleashed a sound that was not human—it was an unholy, deafening, prehistoric shriek. It was the full, resonant, spine-tingling roar of a terrified, enraged Tyrannosaurus Rex, amplified by pure, raw anger.
Echo pivoted and launched himself into a run, sprinting toward the maze, leaving the shocked group standing in the twilight. His terrifying, continuous roar echoed across the otherwise quiet grounds, startling the bats into the evening sky. He reached the edge of the forest clearing, his momentum carrying him into the shadows, when he suddenly stopped, cutting off the deafening roar mid-shriek. The silence that followed was immense and sharp. He turned his head, looking back at his three friends, who were still standing frozen in the clearing with McGonagall and Crouch. The crimson in his hair softened momentarily to a deep, thankful red.
"Hey!" Echo yelled back, his voice now miraculously calm and entirely devoid of dinosaur noise. "Thanks for the help! It was a good plan! A really, really good one!" He gave them a tight, genuine smile. He paused, scanning the group with a final, quick glance. "Where's James?"
The three boys looked at each other, their faces pale but honest.
"Haven't seen him since we left the common room this morning," Remus admitted, shaking his head.
"I thought he was with you," Peter stammered.
Sirius shrugged, a small, weary gesture. "He was probably failing to woo Lily. It's his primary personality trait."
Echo nodded, his expression shifting from gratitude to a cold, predatory focus. He turned his head back to Barty, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "And Mr. Crouch!" Echo bellowed, his voice ringing with a final, cold insult. "You don't need me to make the British look incompetent! You've been doing a fine job of that all on your own!"
He didn't wait for a reply. He spun on his heel and plunged into the darkness, his T. rex roar instantly resuming, a sound of absolute, unholy fury that diminished only slightly as he tore across the grounds toward the maze.
Professor McGonagall watched the sprinting, roaring champion disappear, then slowly turned to face the three Marauders. She looked utterly exhausted. "As for you three," she said, her voice heavy with weariness, but lacking the usual fire of her righteous anger. "I will be discussing your part in this ill-conceived, dangerously irresponsible, and frankly, quite brilliant plan at a later date." She sighed, pressing her fingers against her temples. "For the moment, I am just utterly spent. Now, get yourselves cleaned up and over to the stands. And do try to avoid any further felonies."
She turned and, with Barty still spluttering behind her, headed back toward the elevated announcer's booth, leaving the three boys alone to exchange a look of bewildered, tentative relief.
Meanwhile, high in the brightly lit spectator stands, five figures were huddled together in the tightly packed section reserved for Hogwarts friends. Lily, Severus, Frank, Alice, and Amos were straining to see the action below, which was currently dominated by the massive, silent hedge maze.
Amos leaned forward, his hands cupped around his mouth as he spoke to the group. "Where is Echo? You think he tried to escape? I heard they had to station Aurors near the Forbidden Forest just to keep him from bolting."
Alice let out a short, wry laugh. "No doubt about it, Amos. After what he went through with the fairies and Karkaroff? I just kinda hope he succeeded this time. That guy deserves a break."
Suddenly, Frank, who had been peering intently through a pair of heavy, bronze-framed binoculars, stiffened. "Wait a moment!" he exclaimed, dropping the binoculars to hang against his chest. "I can see him coming!"
"Well? What's he doing?" Lily asked, leaning forward, her face etched with worry.
Frank swallowed hard, a look of profound shock on his face. "He's... he's roaring like a T. rex."
The group looked down. Sure enough, a distant, continuous, earth-shaking ROAR! was closing rapidly on the stadium, punctuated by the faint sight of a sprinting, dark-robed figure. The roar continued, raw and filled with unholy rage, until the champion reached the starting area near the maze entrance. The other three champions—Lucian Delacour, Vanya Krum, and Seraphia Throne—who had been standing perfectly composed, all stepped back several paces. They stared at the enraged, bellowing boy with expressions ranging from Vanya's grim amusement to Lucian's horrified disbelief.
Lily leaned back in her seat, letting out a long, weary sigh. "Wow," she muttered, her eyes fixed on the still-furious figure. "He must really be angry about this."
Severus, who had been watching the scene with cold, detached fascination, let out a low, venomous chuckle. "No kidding, Evans. I just hate to see how Echo will react when he hears the new rule for the maze regarding the use of magical creatures."
The enormous, raw, continuous roar abruptly cut off as Echo reached the exact spot reserved for the Hogwarts champions. He stopped dead, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his shoulders slumped in utter, complete defeat. The furious, blinding crimson of his hair instantly vanished, collapsing into a dull, exhausted charcoal gray—the final, absolute surrender of his rage. He had simply run out of fuel. The silence that descended upon the starting line after his prehistoric bellow was so immense that the massive crowd seemed to hold its collective breath.
Inside the elevated announcer's booth, Barty leaned against the glass, visibly trembling with shock and outrage. He smoothed his stiff robes, trying to regain his shattered composure, and then, with a trembling hand, raised his wand to his throat. He did not bother to turn to his assistant or Professor McGonagall.
"Sonorus!" he rasped, the amplification spell making his voice boom across the stadium, sharp and accusatory. "Silence! SILENCE, I SAY!"
The crowd, which had begun to buzz nervously following Echo's dramatic entrance, instantly fell silent, the sound of Barty's amplified voice cutting through the tension. Barty, adjusting his stance, projected his voice with renewed, steely control, the incident with the champion temporarily buried beneath layers of bureaucratic formality.
"Good evening, and welcome, everyone, to the fourth and final event of the Triwizard Tournament!" Barty announced, his voice now regaining its cold, formal authority. "This event, the Maze, is a test of courage, skill, navigation, and magical fortitude. Champions will enter the maze simultaneously. The first to reach the center and retrieve the Triwizard Cup will be declared the winner!"
He paused for dramatic effect, his amplified voice echoing over the high hedge walls. "Contained within the maze are obstacles both magical and mundane, as well as several magical creatures, specifically placed to test the champions. Champions may use any non-Dark magic at their disposal to navigate and overcome these challenges." Barty then adopted a tone of specific, cold emphasis, his eyes sweeping across the champions below.
"However," he continued, his voice dropping slightly but maintaining its booming projection, "there is one crucial, additional rule for this final task: No champion is permitted to use magical creatures, familiars, or beasts of any kind in the maze, for any reason."
The moment the final phrase left his mouth, a chilling stillness fell over Echo. The charcoal gray of his hair flashed, then became utterly, unnaturally black. His back went ramrod straight. He took a short, sharp breath that seemed to catch in his throat, and his body began to tremble violently. A distinct, high-pitched whistling sound began to emanate from the champion, a soft, rising noise that sounded precisely like a copper kettle, neglected and starting to boil over, its lid rattling faintly.
In the stands, Frank gripped his seat, his eyes wide with genuine alarm. "Oh, damn," he muttered, leaning in toward the group. "Echo is about to blow."
Amos stared, transfixed by the sight of the vibrating champion. "You think he'll start breathing fire?"
Echo's head slowly turned, his eyes fixed on the elevated announcer's booth. The high-pitched whistle in his throat reached a screeching crescendo. He threw his arms up, his hands—both of them—snapping into an utterly vulgar, universally recognized gesture.
"SCREW YOU, CROUCH!" Echo screamed, his voice raw, unamplified, but carrying an astonishing, furious volume that ripped through the quiet stadium. "AND THAT CATERPILLAR YOU CALL A MUSTACHE!"
Barty, high in the booth, recoiled as if physically struck, his carefully constructed dignity dissolving into sputtering outrage. He opened his mouth to deliver a thunderous denunciation, but Echo was faster, the rage fueling his every word.
"WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT, HUH?!" Echo shrieked, his voice cracking with pure venom. "KICK ME FROM THE EVENT?! GO AHEAD! DO IT! I DARE YOU! I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU!"
A collective gasp swept through the spectator stands, followed by a sudden, intense roar of laughter and cheers. The media section, already poised for drama, erupted in a flurry of flashing cameras and hastily scribbled notes. Echo's final, defiant act—the double-handed gesture, the hysterical scream, and the taunt—was already being devoured by the international press. Barty froze, his eyes darting frantically between the enraged champion and the furious reaction of the crowd. He knew, instantly, that he had lost the moment. Expelling the champion now, on live international television, would spark an unprecedented media firestorm and confirm every accusation of bureaucratic tyranny. He let the insubordination slide, the silence hanging heavy for a final, charged second.
Barty gripped his wand and barked the final command into the microphone, his voice sharp with raw fury. "CHAMPIONS! GET READY! GET SET! GO!"
Lucian Delacour, Vanya Krum, and Seraphia Throne immediately surged forward, sprinting through the gap in the hedge maze, disappearing instantly into the twisting, shadowed paths. Echo, however, remained rooted to the spot. He stood absolutely still for several seconds, his black hair motionless, his face fixed in an expression of empty, exhausted defiance.
Barty's voice boomed from the booth, thick with desperate, exhausted authority. "ECHO! GO! ENTER THE MAZE! NOW!"
Echo blinked slowly, then turned his head, his eyes fixing on the announcer's booth with a look of theatrical, exaggerated innocence. "Oh!" he said, his voice quiet and entirely conversational, sounding genuinely surprised. "Was that now? You meant now? I thought you said no, now."
Barty let out a choked, half-scream of pure frustration. "GO, YOU WRETCHED BOY! GET IN THE MAZE!"
Echo threw his hands up into the air in a dramatic gesture of final, resigned surrender, the very picture of persecuted misery. "FINE! I'll go!"
He turned slowly, and instead of sprinting, he began to walk into the maze, his boots scuffing carelessly on the damp grass, his dark robes dragging behind him. He vanished into the hedge-lined labyrinth, his slow, deliberate pace a final, silent act of insubordination. Echo walked approximately ten feet into the maze, just far enough that the towering hedges completely blocked him from the sight of the starting line and the announcer's booth. He stopped, leaned against the rough hedge wall, and sighed deeply.
He tilted his head back and, in a perfect, high-pitched imitation of Barty's pompous, amplified voice, he croaked out, "No champion is permitted to use magical creatures, familiars, or beasts of any kind in the maze, for any reason. Blah, blah, blah."
He snapped back to his normal voice, a quiet, conspiratorial tone. "Well, we'll see about that, you old fool. I've broken the rule before, and I'll break it once again." Echo looked down at his chest, rubbing his hand over the fabric of his robes. "You guys alright?" he murmured.
Sniffles instantly poked his tiny, velvety snout out from the inner pocket of Echo's robe, giving an affirmative, high-pitched squeak. At the same moment, Shimmer materialized on Echo's shoulder with a faint shimmer, wrapping his long, silvery arms around the boy's neck.
"Yeah, I figured you two were fine," Echo said, scratching Shimmer under the chin. "You always find a way to make yourselves comfortable."
He then reached inside his robes and, with a dramatic heave, pulled back the voluminous fabric, revealing a cluster of small, agitated magical beasts tightly pressed against his torso. Two more creatures tumbled unceremoniously out onto the damp grass: Ballooney, the small, green-scaled Wyvern, and Nugget, the Cockatrice. Both creatures were visibly disgruntled, shaking their feathers and scales out of their unnaturally close confinement.
Ballooney let out a low, hissing grumble, while Nugget ruffled his neck feathers and gave Echo a profound look of avian disapproval.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Echo apologized, kneeling quickly to pet them both. "I know it was cramped, but I had a feeling that Crouch would pull the 'no creatures' rule for this last event, and after what happened in the first and second events, I didn't want to risk trying to summon you in after the start. This was the only way to ensure you all made it in with me."
Echo clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, the earlier exhaustion giving way to a manic, excited energy. "Okay, let's fly this coop."
Nugget and Ballooney exchanged a glance of mutual, long-suffering annoyance. Nugget squawked once, a distinctly chicken-like sound of deep, personal offense, and Ballooney folded his tiny, leathery wings tight against his body, a clear refusal to take flight.
Echo sighed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, come on, don't give me that look. Nugget, you're only half chicken, and Ballooney, you barely qualify as a bird."
Both birds merely sighed, a surprisingly audible sound, as they began to flap their wings and lift off the ground. Echo grabbed onto them—Nugget's talons in one hand, Ballooney's tail in the other—while the Wyvern inflated the size of its membranous wings, granting them both a surprising degree of lift. With a combined heave, they were airborne, rising quickly above the towering walls of the maze.
Meanwhile, high above the maze, a massive hot air balloon, rigged with sound amplification, drifted lazily. The play-by-play announcer, a slightly pompous Ministry official named Bertram Pike, was giving constant, breathless updates on the initial movements of the three official champions.
"Lucian Delacour is navigating the first left-hand turn with the grace of a gazelle, folks! Krum is bulldozing through a patch of Venetian Tentacula, sacrificing a section of her fur-lined robes for speed! And Seraphia Throne is currently trying to solve a complicated rune puzzle near the entrance…"
Pike then adjusted his binoculars, scanning the area for any sign of the final champion, Echo. His voice stuttered, then cut off entirely. He brought the microphone closer, his tone shifting instantly from excitement to scandalized outrage.
"Wait! Hold on, ladies and gentlemen, I don't believe what I'm seeing! The fourth champion, Mr. Echo, is currently… flying over the maze! He is suspended by a Wyvern and a Cockatrice! This is an immediate, blatant violation of the—"
Before the word 'cheating' could fully leave Pike's mouth, a voice, raw with unamplified fury but carrying an astonishing distance, soared up from the flying champion.
"Screw you, Pike! Cheating implies that I want to be a part of the competition, and I don't!" Echo shrieked, his hair blazing into a triumphant, manic yellow. "So I'm not cheating, I'm ditching! And there's nothing any of you can do to stop me!"
Back in the crowded spectator stands, a furious, immediate reaction erupted. The Durmstrang contingent was on its feet, roaring guttural protests, while the more traditional Hogwarts fans began to boo loudly.
But high up in the Hogwarts friends' section, Lily, Sev, Frank, Amos, Alice, and the three present Marauders cheered Echo's daring escape in their own unique ways.
Sirius jumped up and executed a full, dramatic bow toward the flying figure. "Magnificent! Truly, a magnificent piece of showmanship!"
Remus, laughing so hard he had to clutch his ribs, merely let out a sustained, wheezing guffaw, shaking his head in total, helpless amusement.
Peter, his initial nervousness gone, stood up on his chair and gave a surprisingly loud, high-pitched cheer that was instantly swallowed by the chaos.
Lily, however, stood perfectly still, watching the triumphant escape, a slow, deep smile spreading across her face. She raised her hand and gave a single, private, decisive thumbs-up.
Severus merely gave a low, detached, satisfied sneer. "Amateur," he muttered under his breath, watching Barty's face in the announcer's booth, "but effective."
Frank let out a whoop of delighted shock. "Did you see that?! The double bird flip! He is flying! He actually did it!" He turned and slapped Amos hard on the shoulder, his face split in a massive, disbelieving grin.
Amos rubbed his shoulder, his eyes glued to the airborne champion. "I can't believe he had the audacity! Right in front of Crouch! That was... that was absolutely magnificent! He really meant it when he said he was ditching!"
Alice, her hands pressed against her cheeks, was half-gasping, half-laughing. "And the mustache comment! Oh, I'm going to be quoting that for weeks! He's going to get detention for the rest of his life, but he's a legend! He is a beautiful, chaotic disaster!"
Even the professors and Headmasters had their reactions. Professor McGonagall brought her hand up to her mouth, shaking her head. The corner of her lips twitched upward, a perfect balance of professional disapproval and suppressed pride.
Headmaster Dumbledore merely let out a soft, amused chuckle, his eyes twinkling. "Always the dramatic flair, Mr. Echo. Always."
Igor Karkaroff, however, was apoplectic. He was screaming at Dumbledore, flailing his arms in a wild, unhinged display of outrage at the injustice.
"Mon Dieu!" Madame Maxime exclaimed, the French curse a sharp, guttural condemnation. She did not bother to address Dumbledore or Karkaroff; her focus was entirely on the airborne, triumphant champion. "That boy! That terrible, magnificent, infuriating boy!"
In the announcer's booth, Barty was beyond words. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water as he pointed a trembling finger at the airborne champion.
Echo, laughing a genuine, victorious sound that cut through the turmoil, glanced down at the crowd as the two birds carried him over the top of the hedge maze. "Good luck to the three other yyahoos I'm flying this coop!" The two birds, already flying easily with their unexpected human cargo, looked down at him with clear, avian disapproval. "Oh, don't you two start," Echo muttered, giving Nugget's feathers a quick, corrective ruffle. "Just get me outta here." He turned back to the crowd, his face beaming with the raw delight of a successful jailbreak. He threw his arms up in a triumphant wave and announced proudly and happily, his voice ringing across the grounds: "SO LONG, SUCKERS!"
The words were barely out of his mouth when the entire maze seemed to shift. With a sound like dry, wooden tendons snapping into place, several massive, vine-like branches shot out from the hedge walls with blinding speed. They were thick, thorny, and moved with a terrifying, purposeful intelligence. They lashed out, one wrapping tightly around Echo's ankle and the other snagging the loose edge of his robes.
"No! No! No!" Echo yelled, his voice instantly snapping from triumph to sheer, desperate fear. The triumphant yellow in his hair vanished, replaced by a desperate, crackling violet. "Fly faster!" Echo screamed to his two beasts, who began to beat their wings with all their frantic might, their talons and tail a desperate anchor against the overwhelming force.
But the branches were too strong, the magical growth too tenacious. With a colossal, agonizing YANK!, the Wyvern and the Cockatrice were unable to counter the sudden pull. Echo's grip was ripped free from both creatures, and he was hauled, violently and instantly, back toward the maze.
The last sound the stadium heard before the champion vanished entirely was a desperate, high-pitched shriek of pure, humiliating terror, "HELP ME, SUCKERS!"
The stadium, moments before exploding with laughter and cheers at Echo's brazen defiance, was now plunged into a collective, stunned silence. The sheer, breathtaking violence of the magical hedge's counter-attack—the speed, the power, the sudden, absolute humiliation of the champion—was too much for immediate reaction.
High in the Hogwarts section, the small group of friends stared at the spot where Echo had just vanished.
Lily, who had been holding her hand up in a triumphant thumbs-up, slowly lowered it, her face draining of color. "He's… he's okay, right?" she whispered, the question brittle with fear.
Severus's sneer was gone, replaced by a look of tight, professional alarm. "That was a Transfiguration counter-measure, Evans. High-level. It wasn't meant to injure, only to retrieve. But the force of the pull…" He trailed off, his voice flat.
Sirius, who had been mid-bow, snapped upright, his usual bravado failing him completely. "That was bloody terrifying! That thing snatched him! Like a Venus flytrap on a hummingbird!"
Remus simply closed his eyes, pressing his fingers hard against his temples. "Of course, it did. Of course, the moment he thought he'd won, the maze itself would snatch him back. It's Echo's life in a nutshell."
Frank, forgetting his manners, leaned over the edge of the stands, shouting toward the elevated announcer's booth. "Did anyone see where he landed? Is he hurt?"
Amos was already pulling out his own wand, a look of desperate resolve on his face. "If he's hurt, I'm going down there. I don't care if it's against the rules!"
Lily put a restraining hand on Amos's arm, her eyes fixed on the maze entrance. "Wait. Give him a moment. If he's able to roar like a t rex, he's probably not fatally injured. He'll find a way out."
Alice, however, pointed toward the hedge maze where the other three champions had entered. "But he can't fly over it now! The maze just confirmed it won't allow it. He has actually to go through it, doesn't he?"
Echo landed hard on his back with a wind-knocking oof, skidding several feet on the damp earth before being violently deposited against the rough, densely woven hedge wall. The vine-like branches that had captured him instantly retracted, snapping back into the wall as if they had never left, leaving the passage quiet and perfectly seamless.
Echo lay there for a moment, the air knocked out of his lungs, his entire body stinging from the rough handling. The triumphant yellow in his hair had completely vanished, replaced by a deep, throbbing, angry crimson. He pushed himself up, rubbing his elbow and glaring at the perfectly innocent-looking hedge. He looked up at the sky, then back at the solid, ten-foot-high wall of thorny greenery that hemmed him in. Echo let out a deep, defeated sigh that sounded more like a tire deflating.
"Of course," he muttered, his voice raw with pure aggravation. "Of course, the freaking hedge is not only enchanted to prevent Apparition, but it also doesn't allow you to go over it. Just my luck!" He straightened up, brushing the dirt off his robes. His eyes narrowed with a renewed, cold resolve. "Fine then," he said, addressing the inanimate hedge wall as if it were a particularly irritating opponent. "If I can't fly over to escape, I'll just cut straight through it."
He snatched his wand out of his robes and aimed it at the dense wall, focusing the sheer, cutting intent of his maroon-tinged magic.
"Diffindo Maxima!"
A thick, violent bolt of purple light shot from his wand and slammed into the hedge. The spell worked perfectly: the dense mass of branches and leaves offered virtually no resistance, parting cleanly and instantly. A gaping, man-sized hole opened in the hedge wall, revealing the path beyond. Echo grinned, a look of smug victory on his face, and began to step through. But before his foot could touch the other side, the hedge began to move. The cut edges writhed, the severed branches twining back toward one another with impossible speed. With a sound like a thousand velcro strips being ripped shut, the massive, man-sized hole vanished. The hedge wall was, once again, perfectly seamless.
Echo stared at the spot where the hole had been, his jaw dropping in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?" he growled, the crimson in his hair flaring hotter. "Instantaneous regeneration?"
He slammed his wand against the wall in frustration, then took a steadying breath. Hardball it is. He pivoted, aimed his wand again, and switched tactics. He needed something that would destroy the structure entirely, not just cut it.
"Glacius Maxima!"
A powerful, frigid blast of pure white light slammed into the hedge. A massive section of the wall instantly crackled and froze solid, the branches coated in a thick, glittering layer of ice. Echo didn't wait. He immediately followed up with a focused "Bombarda!" The frozen section exploded into a million shards of wood and ice, leaving a huge, jagged gap in the hedge.
Echo watched the gap with grim satisfaction. He took a step forward—and stopped, staring in open-mouthed horror. Before his eyes, the remnants of the frozen stalks seemed to melt and stretch. New, vibrant green shoots sprang from the pulverized earth, growing with astonishing, vine-like speed. The gap was shrinking, reforming, becoming a solid, dense hedge again in a matter of seconds.
Echo pulled his magic satchel off his shoulder, his frustration now reaching fever pitch. "Fine! If the regeneration is magical, I'll use something non-magical to kill the plant matter at the root!"
He plunged his hand into the dark depths of the satchel, his fingers closing around a small, stoppered bottle of dark, oily liquid. He pulled it out and, with a vicious throw, smashed the vial against the hedge wall. The contents—a ridiculously strong, concentrated magical pesticide he had once needed to kill a particularly aggressive strain of carnivorous mandrake—instantly soaked into the wood. The greenery near the impact point shriveled, turning brown and brittle in an alarming display of botanical death.
Echo folded his arms, a look of triumph returning. "That, you absolute monstrosity, is permanent."
He watched for five full seconds, his chest heaving with silent, frustrated defiance. Then, fresh, vibrant green shoots—not affected by the non-magical poison—sprang up from the still-living roots. They grew over the desiccated brown stalks, completely engulfing the poisoned section. The hole was gone. Echo threw his head back and let out a choked, desperate shout of pure, maddening fury.
"OH FOR THE LOVE OF—! FINE, YOU WANNA PLAY HARDBALL, I'LL PLAY HARDBALL!"
His hair exploded into a blinding, hyperactive yellow—the color of pure, chaotic energy and manic intent. He reached into his satchel again, this time pulling out a clear, thick-glass bottle filled with a shimmering, volatile red fluid: pure, magically condensed essence of Salamander fire. He threw the bottle. It shattered against the hedge wall, and with a soft WHOOMPH, a localized but intense jet of fire erupted, licking the branches viciously.
At the sound of the fire, Ballooney, who had been sitting on Echo's shoulder, instantly inflated his neck pouch. With a series of focused, powerful bursts, the little Wyvern blew air onto the magical flame, feeding the oxygen and causing the fire to roar and spread. Echo didn't hesitate. He raised his wand, his eyes blazing with a dangerous, manic spark.
"Ignis Tempestas!"
The incantation was unnecessary, merely a garnish for the sheer force of the magic he poured through his wand. The already raging fire instantly exploded, enveloping the entire surrounding section of the hedge wall in a devastating pillar of flame. The air grew thick with the smell of scorched earth and smoke, and the heat was immense. Echo stood rigid in the inferno, his yellow hair blazing, a look of final, desperate triumph on his face. He extended his hand toward the raging flames and yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice raw with victorious fury:
"BURN, BABY BURN!"
The fire raged for a full minute, a concentrated magical conflagration meant to reduce the dense plant matter to ash. When the spell finally ended, the flames died down to smoking embers. The section of the hedge wall where Echo stood was gone, reduced to a collection of smoldering, black, waist-high stalks. A massive, clear, smoke-filled path was open before him, leading to the winding depths of the maze.
Echo's triumphant, manic grin was wide. He inhaled deeply, ready to dash through the opening. But even through the lingering smoke and the lingering scent of ozone, the black stalks began to move. With a sickening, moist CRACKING sound, the smoking, burned-out stalks shot upward. They were followed by new, unmarred, vibrant green branches that grew from the base with impossible, hyper-accelerated speed. The stalks knitted together, twining and twisting, completely ignoring the fundamental laws of fire damage and plant biology. In a matter of three agonizing seconds, the massive gap was sealed. The hedge wall stood, once again, ten feet high, perfectly dense, and absolutely impenetrable.
Echo stared at the spot, his face a mask of absolute, profound defeat, the triumphant yellow in his hair collapsing into a raw, defeated gray. He stood there for a long moment, the silence thick with the smell of smoke and the sound of his ragged breathing. Then, he let out a final, high-pitched, desperate shriek of pure, broken fury. "ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!"
The massive hedge wall, having flawlessly sealed the fire-created breach, was no longer content to regenerate simply. With a sickening, low GROWL that resonated through the damp earth, the dense greenery surged outward. The thorny branches, thicker than an arm, lashed out with snake-like speed, transforming the impenetrable wall into an aggressive, sentient predator.
"Back up! Back up!" Echo yelled, his voice tight with alarm. The gray of his hair was shot through with a frantic, desperate blue.
The vines were everywhere, whipping and snapping at the champion. Shimmer, clinging to Echo's shoulder, squeaked in terror, its silvery fur bristling. Sniffles let out a distressed, high-pitched warble from inside the safety of Echo's robes. Nugget and Ballooney, still hovering nearby, cried out in avian distress, immediately trying to fend off the thick, grasping vines with furious, panicked pecks and tiny blasts of weak, ineffectual Wyvern fire.
Echo tried to fight back, swinging his wand in wide, frantic arcs. "Reducto! Diffindo! Incendio!" But the maze's magic was overwhelming. Every spell either failed to cut through the unnatural density of the enchanted wood or was instantly countered by the sheer mass of the attacking foliage. A thick vine, moving with brutal force, slammed into his wand arm, sending a jolt of raw, magical static up his shoulder. His wand tumbled from his numb fingers and clattered uselessly on the grass.
Now unarmed, Echo threw up his arms to shield his face as the vines closed in, wrapping around his chest and arms with crushing, suffocating force. He could hear Nugget and Ballooney shriek as they, too, were snared and pulled downward, their wings beating in useless desperation. The massive plant was going for the kill, intent on burying the champion and his creatures beneath a rapidly growing, thorny mass. As the vines tightened, dragging him to his knees, Echo's mind flashed with a final, desperate idea. He managed to force his trembling left hand into the seemingly bottomless depths of his magic satchel. He ignored the frantic whines of the creatures trapped inside and frantically rummaged for the one item that might work against this botanical horror: something that grew, but was not of the maze. His fingers closed around a handful of cold, slippery, knotted fibers.
He yanked his hand free, pulling out a tangled mass of dark, glistening tendrils—the incredibly volatile, living root cluster of Devil's Snare he had collected for a Potions assignment. With a final, furious heave, he flung the entire, writhing root bundle directly at the dense hedge wall. Then, with the last shred of his trapped magic, he ignored the conventional incantations and focused on the raw intent of Hag-Magic, channeling the chaotic energy in his core. He focused not on destroying the maze, but on overwhelming it.
"GROW! FASTER! STRANGLE! EAT!"
The reaction was instantaneous and apocalyptic. The Devil's Snare roots, pumped with a sudden, massive surge of chaotic magic, erupted. They grew with unbelievable speed, a terrifying, silent explosion of coiling, whipping, deep-green vines that instantly dwarfed the maze's own enchanted growth. The Snare was an unthinking, choking entity, and it did not distinguish between friend and foe. It instantly wrapped its cold, sensitive tendrils around the maze's attacking vines, crushing them, coiling around the rigid hedge structure itself, and beginning to pull. With a colossal, deafening TEARING sound, the Devil's Snare—now a twenty-foot-high, swirling vortex of death—ripped a massive, jagged hole in the maze wall. The sheer force and speed of its growth overwhelmed the maze's regeneration enchantment, tearing the enchanted plant matter into non-magical shreds and choking off the root system in a silent, savage battle for dominance.
Echo's bonds instantly loosened and fell away. He snatched up his wand, grabbed the two distressed birds from the loosening vines, and threw them both back inside his satchel, along with the terrified Shimmer. He did not look back at the swirling, monstrous tangle of Devil's Snare now consuming a large section of the magical hedge. He sprinted through the massive, temporary opening, running as if a pack of Inferi was on his heels. He ran for a full minute, ignoring the winding path, plunging deep into the labyrinth until the roar of the Devil's Snare's victory was a distant, muffled sound. He skidded around a corner and slammed to a stop, leaning against a rough section of hedge, panting heavily. The desperate blue and frantic maroon in his hair settled into a weary, exasperated gray-blue.
He took a series of ragged, shuddering breaths, rubbing his sore arm. "Oh, fine," he wheezed, adjusting his robes. "If I can't escape, I'll just wait until someone finds that stupid Cup." He sighed, leaning his head back, ready to accept defeat and simply wait for the task to end. Then, the towering hedges on either side of him began to shift subtly, the path closing in, the corners sharpening, the walls subtly moving to enclose his small resting spot. "But maybe not here," Echo muttered, pushing off the wall. He launched himself into a weary, defeated jog, following the path until he burst into a small, square clearing—a perfectly manicured, small open square patch of grass and a small, stone birdbath at its center.
"Ah, this would be a nice spot," Echo said, sliding to a stop in the center of the clearing, his body slumping with exhaustion. "I'll wait out things here. Hopefully, someone finds that Cup fast, or until they all somehow get killed by whatever is in here." He brightened momentarily, a faint, resigned smile touching his lips. "Somehow, I can only assume I'm going to win like that."
But his train of thought was cut off when a voice spoke to him—a voice that was low, resonant, and impossibly beautiful, like warm honey poured over sharp, cold stone.
"Well now," the voice purred, echoing slightly off the high walls. "A dogged wizard enters my domain. Perhaps you will pass my riddles and move onto the next point, or you shall become my supper."
Echo spun around, his exhaustion instantly dissolving into a flood of pure, unadulterated awe. He stared, his eyes—usually a chaotic violet—widening in wonder. Before him sat a magnificent creature with the head of a stunningly beautiful Egyptian woman, the powerful, gold-flecked body of a lioness, a long, sinuous serpent-like tail, and brilliant, iridescent feathers mixed in with her golden-brown fur.
Echo stared, completely forgetting the danger, the maze, and the Triwizard Cup. "Wow," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper of reverence. "You're a Sphinx."
The Sphinx tilted her head, her human face impassive, her amber eyes glittering with ancient amusement. "How very observant of you."
"I always read about your kind and see pictures," Echo said, stepping forward, his mind already cataloging the impossible details. "But yours is even more beautiful in person."
The Sphinx's lips curled into a faint, regal smile. "Flattery may get you somewhere, wizard. Now then, are you ready to answer my riddles?"
"No, thank you," Echo replied, his voice calm, the defeated gray of his hair a perfect match for his weariness.
The Sphinx blinked, her luminous amber eyes narrowing slightly. "No?" she purred, the sound laced with confusion. "No, you do not wish to advance? No, you do not wish to proceed to the center of the maze and claim the prize?"
Echo shook his head gently. "No, thank you. I don't want to advance the maze in any way. I just want to know if I—and my friends," he tapped his robes where Sniffles was, "can sit here, against the rules, and wait things out until someone else finds the stupid Cup."
The Sphinx tilted her head again, the movement regal and unnerving. "And why, wizard, would a champion enter the final task only to sit down and refuse to proceed? That is the opposite of the contest's intent."
Echo let out a deep, soul-tired sigh. He ran a hand through his gray hair and looked back at the towering walls that had just humiliated him. "Long story short? I never wanted to be a part of this dumb tournament. I've been actively trying to get out of it for months. My most recent attempts—including faking my own death, then trying to fly over the top—have all resulted in spectacular failure." He paused, turning his head briefly back toward the path he'd sprinted out of. "Also, I might have really pissed off the hedges from nearly killing them like twelve times."
The Sphinx regarded him with an expression of profound, ancient skepticism. "Is this a trick? A delaying tactic to allow another champion to overtake me?"
"No trick," Echo said, pushing off the wall. He walked deliberately toward the magnificent creature, stopping directly in front of her. He met her gaze, his own chaotic violet eyes locking with her intense amber ones. "I know that Sphinxes can see through magic and lies. So, I ask you now: Look into my eyes and tell me if I'm lying. I just want this whole thing to be over and to go home."
The Sphinx held his gaze for a long, charged moment. The silence in the small clearing was absolute, broken only by the soft, rhythmic puffing of the Wyvern, Ballooney, inside Echo's satchel. Her eyes seemed to bore into the very essence of his being, searching for pretense, for ambition, for any desire to win.
Finally, she let out a soft sigh, a sound like dry sand shifting in a desert wind. Her regal posture seemed to deflate slightly with the weight of his truth. "You aren't lying," she stated, her voice quiet but firm. She looked from him to the perfectly maintained stone birdbath, then back at the hedge wall. "Very well. If all you wish to do is wait and have no intention of solving the riddles to advance, you may."
Echo let out a soft, relieved "Yes." He straightened up fully, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. The gray-blue in his hair softened to a quiet, peaceful cloud. He turned and rejoined his pets, running a hand over the fabric of his robes where Sniffles was nested. He stood in the center of the small, perfectly manicured clearing for a few seconds, taking in the serene, unthreatening atmosphere.
"Okay," Echo declared, his voice suddenly bright, the weariness gone, replaced by the natural restlessness of his chaotic mind. "I'm bored already. Let's play cards." He addressed the inside of his robes. "Shimmer, get the deck."
Shimmer instantly poked his hand into the satchel's inner pocket. A second later, he pulled out a worn, slightly bent deck of Muggle playing cards from the pocket and held it aloft. Echo knelt down on the grass, folding his legs in a messy cross-legged position. Ballooney and Nugget joined around him. They grumbled, then settled on the grass opposite him, who was soon joined by Sniffles, who crawled out of Echo's robe pocket and sat on the ground next to him in the circle. Shimmer settled down in the middle of them, shuffling the cards with surprising speed and dexterity, his little paws a blur of motion.
Echo turned his head, his gaze settling back on the magnificent creature sitting only a few feet away. "Hey, Sphinx," he called out. "You want to join us?"
The Sphinx raised a magnificent, feathered eyebrow, her amber eyes glittering with cold suspicion. "You would want me to join you? A wizard who thinks of me as a lesser being?"
Echo looked at her funny, a genuine look of confusion crossing his face. "I don't think less of you, or any creature or being. Sure, your kind aren't technically classified as a 'being' because, historically, you're hyper-aggressive man-eaters—I still don't know what about humans is tasty in any conceivable way. Still, I don't think you're lesser." He waved a dismissive hand. "Besides, I'm playing cards with a Niffler, a Wyvern, and a Cockatrice, and our dealer is a Demiguise. We're a menagerie of mayhem. I judge people by their actions, not their species or taxonomy classification."
A small, genuine smile touched the Sphinx's lips. She rose fluidly from her perch, her lioness body moving with devastating grace. She walked over to join Echo on the grass, settling down elegantly into the circle. "That is... a surprising perspective, wizard," she said, her voice a low purr. "So," the sphinx said, looking up at her, the playful spark in his violet eyes returning. "What is your name, child?"
"I am Echo," he supplied, answering his own question before pointing at her. "What's your name?"
The Sphinx seemed momentarily taken aback by his casual, familiar tone. "My name is Sekhmet," the Sphinx replied.
"Sekhmet," Echo repeated, nodding in approval. "That's a pretty name. Shimmer, deal Sekhmet in."
Shimmer, without missing a beat, dealt the Sphinx a neat stack of cards. Sekhmet picked up the hand, her long, elegant claws surprisingly nimble, and fanned the cards out, her amber eyes already analyzing the spread with ancient, silent focus.
Meanwhile, high above the maze, Bertram Pike was struggling to maintain his composure and the illusion of a competently run event.
"Lucian Delacour has just solved a complex transfiguration puzzle and is moving into the final quadrant, folks! Krum is battling a ferocious—ah, a rather large—Grindylow near the center of the maze, a real test of magical endurance! And Seraphia Throne is expertly maneuvering around a patch of carnivorous vines with a quick use of a levitation charm! The tension is palpable, ladies and gentlemen! We are down to the wire!"
Pike adjusted his binoculars, scanning the maze walls for any sign of the fourth champion, Echo, hoping to report on his progress through the treacherous paths. He found the small, square clearing where Echo had vanished moments ago. Pike's voice, which had been ringing with professional enthusiasm, suddenly began to falter, tapering off into a sound of profound, open-mouthed bewilderment.
"And now for an update on our final champion, Mr. Echo… He appears to have… stopped." Pike paused, rubbing his eyes and adjusting the magnification again. His voice dropped to a confused, low murmur, though the Sonorus spell amplified it for the entire stadium to hear. "Wait, what in the name of Merlin's pants is he doing? He's in a small clearing with the Sphinx… and… is that a card game? Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that Mr. Echo appears to be playing a game of Muggle Blackjack with the ancient, dangerous Sphinx of the maze. This is entirely unauthorized. He seems to be losing. And the demiguise… is shuffling."
In the small clearing below, Echo was indeed exhibiting the worst poker face known to wizardkind. His gray-blue hair, the color of resigned exhaustion, was matched by the exaggerated, slow, side-to-side darting of his eyes as he looked from Sekhmet to Nugget, Ballooney, and Sniffles. Shimmer, the Demiguise dealer, was waiting patiently.
Echo finally slammed his cards face down on the grass, a triumphant, utterly unconvincing grin splitting his face. "Read 'em and weep, fellas! Full house! Aces and Kings! Pay up, Sekhmet!"
Sekhmet gave him a look of cool, ancient pity. Without a word, she elegantly placed her hand down next to his. "Royal Flush," Sekhmet purred, her voice a low, satisfied rumble.
Echo shot bolt upright, his gray hair flashing to a furious, desperate maroon. He threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of absolute defeat. "Darn it! That's like the fourth time in a row! How do you keep winning, Sekhmet? We're playing Muggle Blackjack! There's no magic!"
Sekhmet merely tipped her lioness head, a faint, cryptic smile playing on her human lips. "As the Muggle children say, 'Get good, scrub.'"
Echo froze, his furious maroon hair dissolving back into a confused gray. "Wait, when do they say that?"
Sekhmet leaned in, her amber eyes twinkling with ancient foresight. "In a few decades on this thing called the 'internet'."
"Hope I'm alive by then to see it," Echo said flatly, the gray in his hair a deep, miserable tone as Shimmer, entirely unfazed by the meta-discussion, efficiently gathered the discarded cards and began to deal them again.
Sekhmet, watching Echo with an unsettling intensity, placed her elegant, clawed hand over her new stack of cards. "Why do you think you won't be?" she asked, her voice a low, perceptive purr.
Echo picked up his cards but didn't look at them. He sighed, the sound laden with profound weariness. "After this tournament is over, I'm pretty much dead."
"Literally or metaphorically?"
Echo met her gaze and gave a single, curt nod. "Yes." He tossed his hand down. "Remember how I said I didn't want to participate in the event?"
Sekhmet nodded slowly.
"Well, I tried just about everything I could to get either removed, and I do mean everything."
"Everything?" Sekhmet prompted, her eyes sharp.
"Well, not murder," Echo quickly amended, then grimaced at the memory of the past hour. "But I did try a whole 'Romeo and Juliet' loophole, but the ruse was found out." He waved a hand toward the castle in a gesture of final surrender. "So now I'm just here waiting until someone finally gets that stupid Cup and the ancient magic of the Cup breaks, and I'm finally free from the tournament, and it's dumb rules. But once that happens, all my collected karma is going to hit me back real hard."
Sekhmet blinked, tilting her head again. "I didn't know you were Hindu."
Echo snorted. "I'm not, it's just a figure of speech. Long story short, I was a real hellion trying to get out of the Tournament from start to finish. The only reason I've gotten away with so much is that the rules bind me, and if I'm removed beforehand, no one knows what's going to happen to me or anyone else who interferes with it. So I basically have free rein to do what I want until the end, and I just know Barty is going to throw my butt into Azkaban for all the headack and laws I've potentially broken or I'm going to get detention until the sun explodes."
The Sphinx absorbed all this for a moment, her amber eyes distant with thought. Finally, she spoke, her voice low and resonant. "So, you are in a cage."
Echo's expression crumbled into one of sadness. "That's the crux of it. Trapped in a cage with moving walls but unable to grab them."
Sekhmet leaned back, her long, serpent-like tail resting on the grass. A genuine, profound sorrow entered her voice. "I know how you feel. I, too, have been in a cage. I once ran free in Greece until I was caught, given as a gift to a pure-blooded in Egypt, and kept as a pet. They used magic to transform me into an Egyptian woman. Then I was sold off and sent to be used as a roadblock in this blasted maze. Treated like a common animal, despite my aggression and man-eating habits. I still feel and think. Is that not enough to be an individual?"
"No, it is enough. It's always enough. But those who are on top always decide what an individual is and what is a thing, and for a long time, I've felt like nothing but a thing."
Sekhmet placed a heavy, velvet-soft paw gently on his back, the sheer weight of it surprisingly comforting. "I have never known a human I can relate to in any sense. You are unique."
Echo gave a dry snort. "'Unique' is definitely a nicer way than everyone else has just called me a weirdo."
Sekhmet leaned closer, her magnificent head only inches from his. "I mean it in the actual nice way of saying it, wizard."
Echo picked up his cards again, giving them a skeptical ruffle. "I'll believe it when I'm sure Shimmer isn't giving you a good hand to play with, you majestic menace," he said, his tone obviously teasing the Demiguise dealer.
Shimmer looked up from his perfect shuffle, his massive, dark eyes wide with innocent offense before blowing a raspberry at him. Echo smiled, the quiet peace returning to his eyes, his hair a soft, soothing gray-blue. He looked at his hand of cards—two Kings, a Queen, and a four—and frowned in theatrical displeasure.
"Hit me," he told Shimmer.
The Demiguise deftly slid a card off the top of the deck. Echo flipped it over. It was an Ace. His face brightened with a flash of genuine, delighted surprise. "Perfect! Twenty-five! Wait, no, that's twenty-four. Crap. Bust." He slammed his cards down in feigned indignation, then looked at Sekhmet's impassive face. "Did you see that, Sekhmet? The house is rigged. Shimmer hates me."
Sekhmet merely chuckled, a low, guttural vibration in her chest that settled somewhere between a purr and a rumble. It was the sound of a predator completely at ease. "The dealer is always the victor, Echo. That is the true lesson of all games of chance." She then revealed her hand—a Queen and a Nine. "Twenty-one. The house wins. Pay up."
Echo let out a dramatic sigh and reached into his satchel, pulling out a handful of what looked like small, polished, dark green beetles. He tossed them onto the grass. "Here you go. Five Dung Beetles. Premium quality, imported from the Black Forest. Good for three Potions assignments, or a decent snack for a magnificent Sphinx."
Sekhmet delicately picked up the wriggling beetles with the tip of a long, elegant claw and flicked them into her mouth. The crunching sound was quiet and unsettling. "Delicious," she purred, wiping her lips with a regal gesture. "You play a strange game, wizard?"
"Strange is my M.O," Echo explained, leaning back comfortably.
Shimmer efficiently pushed the meager collection of trinkets toward Echo.
"It is a silly game, but good company," Sekhmet commented, picking up her cards for the next round. "You have a good heart, Echo. I sensed that the moment you walked in. You are trapped not by malice, but by a sense of duty to others. It is an unusual affliction for a human."
Echo shrugged, his peaceful gray hair a testament to his calm. "Oh, trust me, I have plenty of malice. But yeah, I try to be a decent person. It's harder than it looks, though. Especially when I'm constantly dragged into some new life-or-death drama, it gets exhausting."
Echo sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of pure, existential fatigue. He leaned back against the imaginary wall, the quiet gray of his hair a perfect reflection of his depleted reserves. "Is it really so much for me to ask for one semi-normal year where magic is the norm?" he asked, the question hanging in the air. He looked at Sekhmet, the magnificent creature now effortlessly shuffling her own cards. A new idea, bright and unexpected, sparked in his eyes. "Tell you what, Sekhmet," Echo said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Once this whole thing is over, once I'm free of this tournament and I'm just dealing with the normal, tedious aftermath—detention, maybe a few Ministry fines—I'll work my magic to have you freed."
Sekhmet froze, her paw hovering over her cards. Her amber eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in a profound, cautious curiosity. "You would do that for me?" she purred, the sound barely audible. "Risk your newfound freedom for a creature you just met? And one deemed a non-being?"
"Sure, I would," Echo replied, shrugging, the gesture casual but sincere. "You want freedom, and my own freedom is at hand. I shouldn't be the only one to enjoy it. Besides, I've pulled off miracles, or rather, ass-pulls, plenty of times over the last few months. Getting an ancient, sentient magical creature reclassified and released from a maze should be no different, honestly. So long as you can resist your man-eating tendencies for revenge once you're out."
Sekhmet opened her mouth to respond, a low, appreciative rumble already starting in her chest. But the sound died in her throat. Suddenly, Sekhmet went perfectly still and rigid. The beautiful, human-like focus in her eyes vanished, replaced by cold, predatory slits. Her head rotated with a fluid, unnatural stillness, like a bird of prey tracking movement in the distance, until her gaze was fixed down a different, shadowed path of the maze.
"I sense a dark presence," she announced, her voice a low, warning hiss that made the hair on Echo's neck stand up.
Echo blinked, then let out a relieved laugh. "Oh, no, that's just me," he dismissed, waving his hand. "I have this thing inside of me called the Dark Beast. Basically, it's my magic given sentience, and it's pretty malicious and kind of childish, now that I think about it. It's probably just sulking because I'm losing at cards."
But Sekhmet didn't turn her head. She slowly rose from the cross-legged position, her magnificent lioness body stretching taut. She looked directly at the path entrance, her tail beginning to wave aggressively, swishing low to the ground like a massive, coiled cat preparing to bounce.
"No," she hissed, the sound carrying a note of primal alarm. "Not you. Another dark presence."
Echo's smile dissolved. His pets immediately picked up on the Sphinx's sudden change. Sniffles let out a high-pitched, anxious wark and retreated instantly into Echo's robes. Nugget and Ballooney ceased their quiet grumbling and rose to full alert, their tiny forms rigid, Nugget letting out a faint, protective hiss. Shimmer dropped the card he was holding and began to shrink away, flickering in and out of visibility. Echo and his pets all looked toward the shadowed path Sekhmet was focused on, and a wave of cold dread washed over them.
Then, they saw it. Something was walking, not running, through the twisting path in the dark. It wasn't one of the champions; they would be running, desperate for the Cup, and they would be loud. This wasn't. This figure was moving with a casual, measured stroll, an unhurried pace that put all of them even more violently on edge. The person stepped out of the deep shadows and into the small clearing. Echo's tense expression immediately brightened in confusion and relief.
"Oh, that's just James," Echo said, standing up and dusting off his robes. "He and I are kind of friends. It's complicated. Hi, James! Wait, what are you doing here?"
James said nothing.
As James fully stepped into the faint, ambient light filtering through the high hedge walls, Echo could tell something was profoundly, terribly off. For one, James wasn't his usual loud, smug, smiling, talkative self. He was unnervingly silent. He was standing much straighter than usual, his posture rigid and formal. His face was nearly obscured by the shadow of his robes' hood, which he never wore up. His robes themselves were neatly pressed and clean-looking, which was also not James. And on top of all that, he wasn't wearing his glasses. James stopped ten feet away, his expression hidden in the gloom, and then he gave Echo a cold, vacant smile that made his skin crawl.
Echo's pets sensed the wrongness instantly. Ballooney emitted a long, sustained, distressed whimper. Nugget's two heads made distinct sounds: the chicken head opened its frills and gave a single hiss as the snake locked eyes with James, poised to strike. Shimmer was now translucent and shifting toward Echo's feet while Sniffles dared not to poke his head out from the robe pocket.
Echo said his name again, this time with confusion and a slight stammer. "James? What… what are you doing, mate?"
Then, without a word of warning, James ripped his wand from his pocket. The movement was sharp, precise, and completely devoid of his usual dramatic flair. He didn't speak an incantation. A thick, wordless jet of red light—a stunning spell—shot from his wand, aimed directly at Echo's chest.
Echo dodged, a panicked instinct honed by months of chaotic violence. He threw himself to the side, the spell narrowly missing him and vaporizing a small patch of grass behind him. His pets exploded into noise: Ballooney and Nugget took frantic, flapping flight, shrieking in confusion and anger, while Shimmer let out a massive, terrified shriek and clung to Echo's robes, while Sniffles let out a terrified squeak from his pocket at the jostling.
Echo scrambled back to his feet, his frantic, desperate blue hair shot through with shock-white. He looked from the scorched earth back to James and yelled in utter confusion, "James! What the hell?!"