The path widened into a clearing, the fog thinning just enough to reveal the shimmer of wet earth and the faint, glinting shapes of broken wards that littered the ground like shattered glass. Alden slowed, wand raised at an angle, its tip humming with blue light that barely touched the edges of the mist. The air here was wrong — heavier, as if the maze itself were holding its breath.
Then he felt it — the shift in pressure, the faint vibration beneath his boots, the almost imperceptible scrape of movement beyond the veil of fog.
A low growl rolled through the clearing. A figure emerged — tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the deliberate rhythm of a soldier. Krum's face was pale beneath the floating lights, his eyes unfocused and glazed, fixed somewhere beyond Alden rather than at him. His wand hand twitched once, sharply, then steadied.
Alden exhaled through his nose.
"Imperius," he murmured. "Of course."
The mist around them condensed as Krum raised his wand. The first curse came without warning — a slicing bolt of red that would have severed a lesser wizard's wand arm clean through. Alden stepped aside, the motion fluid, his wand flicking in a tight counter arc.
"Umbra Velo."
The shield unfurled around him, a blade of darkness that caught the next curse and refracted it, the energy skipping off into the fog. Sparks hissed against the damp air, turning into tiny fireflies before vanishing. Krum advanced, another spell on his lips, teeth bared in a snarl that wasn't his own.
Alden's expression didn't change. His movements were economical — precise, surgical. He wasn't dueling; he was dissecting.
"Depulso Vector."
The air cracked. The force caught Krum square in the chest and hurled him backward into the hedge. Thorns bent, roots snapped, but the man was already rising again, body jerking with puppetlike obedience. His wand came up in a motion too smooth, too rehearsed, and for an instant Alden could see the glimmer of someone else's magic layered over his — thin, parasitic, invisible except to those who knew where to look.
"Crucio!"
The curse ripped through the clearing, bright and alive with wrongness. Alden's wand rose, his shield snapping up just as the crimson arc struck it. The air screamed. Energy crawled over his barrier in wild, frantic patterns until he twisted his wrist sharply and the curse folded in on itself, dying with a hiss of smoke.
The light faded. Krum stood there, chest heaving, wand trembling in his hand. His eyes were wild — not with emotion, but absence. Alden felt a small, cold anger stir in his chest, but it wasn't for the man in front of him.
He moved closer. Slowly.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice quiet enough to almost vanish beneath the sound of the mist shifting."You're not the one casting."
The spell came out like an afterthought — soft, clinical.
"Sanguinis Vincta."
Black and crimson threads erupted from his wand and lanced across the air, connecting to Krum's chest, then his temple, then the faint pulse in his throat. The world between them pulsed once, twice — then steadied. Alden's eyes flicked closed for a heartbeat, reading the rhythm, feeling the signature buried beneath the borrowed will. It was faint, almost hidden — but unmistakable.
Someone else's intent. Someone watching. Someone directing.
He released the tether. The threads dissolved into ash.
Krum took one stumbling step forward before Alden raised his wand again, his voice low.
"Somnum Quietus."
The Bulgarian's body stiffened, his eyelids fluttered, and then he collapsed to his knees, falling forward into the frost-softened dirt. His wand rolled from his hand. The maze around them exhaled — a deep, groaning sound, as if a great weight had been lifted from its chest.
Alden's expression didn't change. He stepped closer, knelt, and pressed two fingers to Krum's neck — checking for a pulse. Still there. Faint, but steady.
He flicked his wand upward. Red sparks tore into the sky, dissolving into the mist like embers swallowed by water. The light reflected faintly in his eyes as he rose again.
The silence that followed was total. Even the maze had gone still, as though waiting to see what he would do next.
Alden adjusted his sleeve, tucking his wand back into the crook of his hand. The frost around him deepened, creeping outward in thin crystalline veins.
"You're done," he murmured to the fallen champion. "Rest."
Then, without another glance, he turned and began walking toward the faint silver glow that waited somewhere ahead — the heart of the maze, and the Cup.
The fog rolled closed behind him, swallowing Krum and the last trace of warmth from the clearing.
The heart of the maze was silent. Not the absence of sound, but that strange, waiting stillness that followed after a held breath.
Alden stepped into the open clearing and stopped. The ground here was different—woven roots pressed into a flat, spiraling pattern that seemed to pull the eye inward, toward the Cup standing at the center. Its silver surface gleamed unnaturally bright, untouched by the frost that webbed the maze behind him. The air shimmered faintly around it, like heat mirage—but there was no warmth. Only that still, electric hum of ancient magic.
He slowed, boots crunching softly over frozen moss. The closer he came, the more the pressure in the air built, a quiet pulse beneath his ribs that matched the Cup's heartbeat.
His wand moved before he spoke.
"Verum Revelare."
The words whispered like smoke. A ripple of silver light spread across the Cup's surface, crawling down its handles in a delicate lattice before blooming outward into the air. Lines appeared—thin, serpentine runes of deep blue—humming softly, vibrating just above the metal. The pattern was deliberate. Old. Not Hogwarts' enchantment, not Dumbledore's style either.
Alden crouched, the glow painting his face in shifting reflections of blue and white. His fingers hovered just above the light.
"A portkey…" he murmured. "Clever."
He brushed the air an inch above the Cup. The runes quivered, drawing his gaze northwest. His eyes narrowed.
"And not meant to bring anyone home."
He straightened slowly, lowering his wand but not relaxing. The maze was utterly still now, almost reverent. Even the mist seemed to hesitate at the edges of the clearing, unwilling to intrude.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the Cup. His reflection stared back—silver hair faintly luminous, eyes sharp and distant. Around him, the silence pressed closer until it felt almost heavy, like the air was waiting for him to decide what kind of man he truly was.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. Not cold, just thoughtful.
"So this is it, then. The proof."
He looked down at his hand, the faint tremor in the light playing across his fingers.
"I entered to show them," he whispered, mostly to himself. "That magic isn't good or evil. That's what you mean when you cast it. That intent shapes everything."
His gaze drifted toward the sky—what little could be seen of it through the writhing hedge walls. The faint starlight looked fragile there, trapped above the maze.
"And yet here I am," he said, voice lower now, almost weary. "Standing alone, surrounded by what they call dark magic, proving their point instead of mine."
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
"If you could see me, Mum. Dad. What would you think?"
He looked down again at the reflection in the Cup. The blue light flickered, reshaping his face into someone older, colder. For a moment, he saw Mathius—the ancestor whose journal he'd read so many nights by candlelight—watching from somewhere in the reflection. He thought of the lessons in those pages, the margins filled with theories and warnings about the weight of knowledge, and the price of conviction.
"Would you still love me?" he asked softly. "Would you be proud of what I'm becoming?"
He turned the wand idly between his fingers, eyes distant.
"I'm becoming him, aren't I? The man they whisper about. The next Dreyse with a name the Ministry will want to bury."
The Cup hummed faintly, light catching in its hollow as if it listened.
Alden's voice dropped further.
"And you, Gellert… Mathius… if you're watching—tell me. Am I doing the right thing? Showing them what magic really is? Does the world divide what it fears to understand? Or is this just vanity dressed as philosophy?"
A faint wind stirred, carrying through the maze. It brushed against his hair, cold and weightless.
"No answer," he murmured. "Of course not."
He inhaled slowly, letting the silence settle again. The Cup's glow pulsed once, faint and rhythmic—like a heartbeat answering his own.
He tilted his head, the trace of a wry smile flickering across his lips.
"Maybe it doesn't matter. Intent defines the spell, after all."
He stepped closer to the Cup, the frost cracking beneath his boots, the light pooling around him until he seemed half made of it.
"And I came here to prove that magic obeys will, not rules."
The maze shifted faintly at that—roots coiling deeper into the earth, branches curling inward. It felt almost like acknowledgment.
Alden looked down at the Cup one last time, expression unreadable. Then he straightened, sliding his wand into his sleeve.
"All right," he whispered to the silence. "Let's see where this path ends."
The silver light trembled, as though the Cup itself had understood—and waited.
The mist was thin here, curling like breath across the ground, silver light seeping through it in long ribbons. The Cup stood at the center, its glow reflected in Alden's eyes. He had taken a seat on the roots that curved through the clearing, one leg bent, his wand resting across his knee. For the first time since entering the maze, he looked… still. Not calculating. Just still.
He didn't turn when he heard the footsteps. They were uneven—Harry's. The soft drag of fatigue in the sound, the rasp of breath trying to quiet itself.
Alden only spoke when the boy stopped at the edge of the light.
"You made it."
Harry blinked through the mist, wand raised slightly. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his robes torn, dirt and sweat streaking his face.
"You're already here?"
Alden tilted his head toward the Cup, the faintest ghost of a smirk.
"For a while now. Long enough to realize it's not what it seems."
Harry's eyes flicked to the Cup. "What do you mean?"
"It's enchanted," Alden said evenly. "Portkey. Complex runic structure—old work. Touch it, and it'll take you somewhere. But not back to Hogwarts."
Harry took a step forward, the silver glow sliding over his face.
"Then why haven't you—"
"Because I'd like to know where it leads first." He finally looked up at Harry. "And because I wanted to see if you'd arrive."
There was something unsettling about the calm in his voice, that same quiet confidence that made people whisper about him when he wasn't in the room. Harry frowned, trying to decide if it was mockery or sincerity.
"You could've won."
"Perhaps." Alden's eyes dropped to the Cup again. "But what's victory, if it was never meant to be mine?"
Harry hesitated. The Cup pulsed faintly between them, as though listening.
"You were never meant to enter," Alden said softly, voice low and sure. "And yet your name was called. Every challenge—the dragon, the lake, this maze—has bent around you. You think that's a coincidence? The maze didn't test you, Potter. It cleared the path for you. For me, it… fought."
Harry's jaw clenched. "Why would anyone—?"
"Because they wanted you here," Alden interrupted gently. "They've been moving you like a piece on a board since the start. You just didn't see the hand."
A beat of silence. The fog stirred between them, heavy and cold.
Harry looked back at the Cup, unease tightening his voice.
"Then we shouldn't touch it."
Alden let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. It wasn't warm.
"Oh, we're going to. I'm about to do something incredibly stupid."
Harry's brows knit. "What?"
Alden finally stood. The frost beneath his boots cracked as he stepped closer, silver hair catching the glow.
"I'm going to touch it anyway. Curiosity's a dangerous thing, but restraint's killed more men than risk."
He turned his head, studying Harry. "And if this tournament was built for you, then whatever's on the other side is waiting for you. I might as well make sure you get there alive."
Harry's mouth opened, but Alden wasn't finished. His voice softened, carrying the weight of something real.
"I know there's no favor between us. There never has been. And clearly, today didn't help."
Harry's shoulders tensed, memory flashing across his face—the Great Hall, Alden's voice sharp and cold, threatening to wipe out the Weasley family.
Alden's eyes darkened, reading the thought.
"That… wasn't my best moment. I lose patience when I'm cornered by ignorance. But I don't hate them. Or you."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
"You think I'm dark. That I enjoy this—the power, the way people flinch when I walk by." His gaze flicked toward the Cup again, then back to Harry. "I don't. I hate it. The title. The whispers. The myth they've built around me."
Harry's tone was cautious, uncertain. "Then why not prove them wrong?"
A faint smile tugged at Alden's mouth. "Because proving people wrong means admitting they matter enough to be right."
The line hung between them, quiet, heavy, and true.
Harry looked at him for a long moment, then said, "You scare people, you know. You don't even flinch when you should."
"Fear wastes time," Alden replied simply. "And time's the only resource magic can't give back."
They stood facing each other—two boys, two reflections in the Cup's mirrored light.
Alden spoke again, quieter this time, as if confessing to the air itself.
"I entered this tournament to show them there's no difference in magic. No light, no dark. Just intent. That's all it's ever been. But every spell I cast only made them believe the opposite."
He exhaled, the frost from his breath mingling with the fog.
"Maybe that's irony. Maybe that's destiny. I don't know anymore."
Then, almost to himself, he muttered, "Maybe my great-grandfather was right—understanding doesn't earn you peace. It earns you solitude."
Harry didn't respond. He didn't know how.
Alden's expression softened, for once unguarded.
"So let's do it together," he said quietly. "Be foolish. Endanger ourselves. For once, let's make the wrong decision on purpose."
Harry blinked, surprised by the sudden trace of humor under the calm.
"You're serious?"
"Rarely. But yes, this time."
The two of them stood before the Cup, its light painting twin silhouettes on the frost. Alden reached out first, and Harry, after a long breath, mirrored him.
Their fingers brushed the cold metal at the same moment.
"On three?" Harry said.
Alden nodded, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. "On three."
"...One."
The maze trembled.
"...Two."
The air folded inward.
"Three."
The light consumed them—two shapes, one silver, one shadow—vanishing into brilliance as the maze screamed shut behind them.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
The air inside the maze had grown thin, the kind of thin that came before a storm or a spell too powerful for the air to bear. The Cup shimmered brighter now, its silver sheen bleeding into white, warping the frost at Alden's feet into spiderweb cracks that hissed and spread outward.
For a heartbeat, Alden didn't move. His fingers hovered just above the handle, feeling the thrum of power radiating from the metal. The vibration wasn't steady—it pulsed like something alive, like a tether reaching for him.
He glanced sideways. Harry stood beside him, wand clenched, jaw tight with a mixture of fear and resolve. The boy's reflection wavered in the Cup, haloed by light.
Alden's hand tightened around the handle, with the ring on his finger—the one Daphne had given him on his birthday. A simple thing, silver and etched with faint runes that pulsed faintly now under the Cup's glow. He felt the warmth of it, the way it pressed against his skin like a heartbeat.
He thought of her—the way she'd adjusted the ring that day, brushing his hand as she told him to "come back soon, please." Thought of Theo, grinning beside her, teasing that Alden would probably get lost in the hedge just to make a point. The two of them—his anchor to something human, something that kept him tethered even when the world tried to convince him he wasn't.
They'll shatter if I don't come back.
The thought was quiet, not desperate—just a fact.
He inhaled, slow and steady, eyes closing for a moment as if sealing the promise inside his chest.
I'll be back, you two. Don't worry.
When his eyes opened again, the glow from the Cup had turned blinding. The maze around them began to move—roots pulling taut, hedges bowing inward as though drawn by gravity. The ground shuddered, the frost fracturing into thin veins of light that shot outward like lightning across the earth.
The noise that followed wasn't sound—it was a pressure, a scream inside the bones of the world.
Harry flinched, stumbling as the ground tilted beneath them.
"What's happening?"
Alden's cloak snapped in the wind, his silver hair flaring around him like flame caught in moonlight. The light from the Cup reflected in his eyes, cold and beautiful.
He looked at Harry, expression calm even as the world began to tear apart around them.
"Whatever happens next," he said, his voice almost lost beneath the roar, "don't look back."
And then the Cup answered.
The light exploded—white, absolute, swallowing everything. The maze screamed as it died, its walls collapsing inward like lungs crushed by pressure. Roots tore free from the ground, spiraling upward before disintegrating into ash. The frost shattered, the air itself folding, and the two of them were no longer standing—they were falling, dragged into the brilliance.
Alden's last thought before the world unraveled was of two faces—Daphne's calm eyes, Theo's crooked grin—and the quiet, stubborn certainty that he'd see them again.
Then the light devoured everything.