The entrance dissolved behind them like smoke, sealing the four champions inside the dome. Harry blinked, adjusting to the strange green-tinted twilight that permeated the space. The ground beneath his feet was soft, damp earth covered in moss that seemed to pulse with its own sickly light. Twisted trees rose around them, their branches forming unnatural angles.
"We should stick together," Harry said immediately, turning to the others. "Better odds if we work as a team."
Fleur nodded, moving closer to him. "Oui, ze Noxlings will 'ave more difficulty affecting multiple minds at once."
Krum scoffed, his heavy brows drawing together in disdain. "Is just green mist and trees. I haff faced vorse in Durmstrang detention." He adjusted his grip on his wand, already turning away. "I vill find my body myself. Do not need help from children."
"Krum, wait—" Harry started, but the Bulgarian was already striding into the mist, his broad shoulders disappearing within seconds.
Cedric shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Harry, Fleur, and the direction Krum had vanished. "Look, I appreciate what you did, warning me about the Noxlings. Really. But..." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up its usually perfect arrangement. "This is something I need to do on my own. It's what my father expects. What everyone expects from Hogwarts' real champion."
The emphasis on 'real' wasn't quite bitter, but it was close.
"Cedric, zis is not about pride," Fleur said urgently. "Ze Noxlings—"
"I know what they are," Cedric interrupted. "I've been practicing Occlumency every night for a week. I can handle this." He gave them a tight smile. "Good luck to you both."
Then he too walked into the mist, taking a different direction than Krum.
Harry watched him go with a sinking feeling. "Idiots. They're both complete idiots."
"Per'aps," Fleur said softly. "Or per'aps zey need to face zeir demons alone. We all 'ave different ways of confronting fear."
"Well, our way involves not dying," Harry muttered, drawing his wand. "Come on. Let's find our corpses and get out of here."
They moved forward together, and their shoulders often touched. The mist seemed to press against them; sometimes, it felt as if they were moving through water. The mist spoke to them; Harry was sure he could hear the voices of people he did not recognise. The trees grew denser as they walked, their trunks twisted into shapes that resembled screaming faces when viewed peripherally.
"Do you 'ear zat?" Fleur whispered suddenly.
Harry stopped, listening. At first, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant drip of water. Then he heard it—crying. Deep, wracking sobs that spoke of absolute despair.
"Someone's in trouble," Harry said, starting toward the sound.
Fleur's hand shot out, gripping his arm. "Non. We cannot save everyone, 'Arry. It could be a trap. Ze Noxlings, zey use our compassion against us."
The crying grew louder, joined by a voice begging, "Please, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—please don't leave me here alone!"
Harry started moving; he needed to help them. The crying grows louder, more distinct. Then another voice joins it—this one laughing. Not cruel laughter, but genuine, almost hysterical giggling that makes the hair on Harry's neck stand up.
"What the fuck?" he mutters, slowing his pace.
Fleur catches up, grabbing his arm. "You see? Somezing is wrong 'ere. Ze crying and ze laughing togezher..."
More voices join the chorus. Some weeping, some laughing. Harry's scar throbs dully, a warning he chooses to ignore.
"We're already heading this way," he says stubbornly. "Might as well see what it is."
Fleur makes an exasperated sound but doesn't let go of his arm. "*Gryffindors*," she mutters in French.
They round another corner and the voices crescendo. The place opens into a circular clearing dominated by an old tree, its branches twisted into unnatural angles. The voices stop abruptly.
"Mon Dieu..." Fleur's grip on Harry's arm turns painful.
Harry follows her horrified gaze upward and his stomach drops. Hanging from the largest branch is a body—Fleur's body. The corpse sways gently in the still air, suspended by silvery rope that catches the dim light. No, not rope. Hair. Her own silver-blonde hair braided into a noose.
The doppelganger wears torn Beauxbatons robes, the pale blue fabric stained with what looks disturbingly like dried blood. Its face is perfectly preserved, skin tinged blue but otherwise flawless, eyes closed peacefully as if she'd simply decided to take a nap while hanging herself.
"That's..." Harry can't finish the sentence.
"She—I hanged myself," Fleur whispered, unable to look away.
Harry wanted to comfort her, but movement in his peripheral vision made him freeze. "Fleur. Don't. Move."
A sound filled the clearing—like a hundred voices screaming in despair, but muffled, as if the screams were coming from underwater. Or from inside something's belly.
They turned slowly to see it standing at the edge of the clearing. The Noxling.
It resembled a human in the way a child's drawing resembles a portrait—the basic shape was there, but everything was wrong. Impossibly thin, its limbs were too long for its torso. It still wore clothes—the remnants of what might have been wizard robes, now tattered and stained with substances.
But its head...
Where a face should have been was a massive, tumorous ball of flesh, covered in eyes. Dozens of them, all different sizes, all blinking independently. Some were human, some animal. From where its mouth should have been, pale tentacles writhed, reaching toward them. More tentacles emerged from its hands—or what used to be hands.
"Don't look directly at—" Harry started to warn.
Fleur screamed.
Harry spun toward her, but she was gone. He stood alone in the clearing with the hanging corpse and the approaching nightmare.
The Noxling's many eyes all focused on him at once, and Harry felt reality tilt—
.
.
Fleur's scream died in her throat as the world shifted around her. Harry was gone. The clearing was gone. She stood in what looked like the Great Hall of Beauxbatons, but wrong. The enchanted ceiling showed not sky but an endless mirror, reflecting her standing alone in an infinite regression of images.
"'Arry?" she called out, but her voice sounded strange—hollow, like an echo of an echo.
Something moved in the mirror above. Not her reflection. Something else. Something with too many eyes.
.
.
Cedric had been walking for what felt like twenty minutes when he heard his father's voice.
"Cedric? Son, is that you?"
He turned, wand raised, but the forest behind him had transformed into the familiar sitting room of his family home. His father stood by the fireplace, disappointment etched into every line of his face.
"I heard what you did," Amos Diggory said quietly. "Accepting help from Potter. Showing weakness. Is this really the son I raised?"
"Dad?" Cedric stepped forward, confused. "How are you—"
The room flickered, like a candle flame guttering. For just a moment, Cedric saw something else—something with tentacles where its mouth should be, wearing his father's face like a mask.
.
.
"Odin" Victor Krum
Krum had found his corpse almost immediately. Too Easy. It sat in what looked like stadium seating, overlooking an empty Quidditch pitch. The body was slumped forward, a bottle of poison clutched in one stiff hand, dried foam at the corners of its mouth.
"Pathetic," Krum muttered, approaching carefully. Strangely, his corpse was sitting alone; there was no one else there.
Why would there be someone else? Krum found himself asking, but decided to ignore that.
He reached for the corpse's head, intent on retrieving the memory crystal quickly, when he heard the sound of wings.
A Snitch floated past his ear.
Instinctively, Krum's hand shot out to grab it, but the moment his fingers closed around the golden ball, the stadium erupted with sound. The empty seats filled with people—thousands of them, all chanting his name.
"KRUM! KRUM! KRUM!"
The stadium materialized around Viktor like morning mist becoming solid. Familiar weight of Firebolt in hand, familiar smell of grass and leather and sweat. The crowd—thousands, tens of thousands—their faces blurred mass of color and movement, chanting name that belonged to him but never felt like his.
"KRUM! KRUM! KRUM!"
Viktor mounted broom without thinking. Body knew motions before mind caught up. Fourteen years of this. Fourteen years of flying a broom.
The other players appeared on pitch. Bulgarian team, but their faces wrong. Where should be Dimitrov was stranger. Where should be Levski, another stranger. All wearing proper robes, all holding proper positions, but Viktor knew none of them.
"You know vhy," corpse-Viktor said from stands, poison bottle still clutched in dead fingers. "Because you never knew them anyvay."
Whistle blew. Viktor kicked off.
The Snitch appeared immediately, golden blur against gray sky. Too easy. Fingers closed around cold metal wings.
The crowd erupted. "KRUM CATCHES THE SNITCH! BULGARIA WINS!"
But when Viktor landed, one teammate was gone. Simply not there anymore. Six players in Bulgarian robes instead of seven.
"Vhere is Dimitrov?" Viktor asked remaining teammates.
They stared at him with empty eyes. "Who?"
Another whistle. Another game starting immediately. Viktor still held first Snitch, but new one released, darting upward. The crowd never stopped chanting.
This time took longer. Opposing Seeker—French robes, quick on turns—nearly caught it twice. But Viktor was Viktor Krum. He did not lose. Dived from fifty feet, pulled up at last second, Snitch trapped against palm.
Another teammate vanished. Five now.
"Stop," Viktor said to referee, but referee had no face under hood. Just smooth skin where features should be.
"The game must continue," it said through no mouth.
Third Snitch. Fourth. Each catch perfect, technique flawless. Each victory removing another Bulgarian player until Viktor stood alone on pitch, facing full team of opponents. Seven against one.
The crowd still chanted, but their words had changed. "KRUM NEEDS NO ONE! KRUM STANDS ALONE!"
Viktor caught fifth Snitch while Bludger broke his ribs. Caught sixth with dislocated shoulder. Always catching, always winning, always more alone.
By twentieth Snitch—or was it thirtieth?—opposing team had multiplied. Nineteen players in air, all trying to stop him, but Viktor Krum did not lose. Could not lose. The winning was all he had.
"Is it?" corpse-Viktor called from stands. "Or is it all they left you?"
Viktor paused mid-dive, Snitch inches from fingers.He was suddenly somewhere else.
First day at Durmstrang. Eleven years old, already taller than other boys, already marked as different. Eating alone because everyone knew who father was—Dimitar Krum, greatest Seeker Bulgaria ever produced until son came along.
"You vill be better than me," father had said, not question but command. "You vill be best."
And Viktor was. Best at flying, best at catching, best at being alone because no one could keep up.
"Look at them," corpse-Viktor said, and living Viktor did.
The crowd wasn't crowd anymore. Was just eyes. Thousands of eyes, no faces, no bodies, just eyes watching him catch Snitch after Snitch after Snitch. Some had mouths where pupils should be, screaming his name into void of their own sockets.
"KRUM! KRUM! KRUM!"
But younger memories pushed through too. Boy named Pavel who tried to be friend in second year. Viktor remembered him approaching after Quidditch practice.
"Vant to play Gobstones?" Pavel had asked.
"I must practice," Viktor had answered. Always practiced. Always.
Pavel never asked again. None of them asked again.
Viktor caught another Snitch. The pitch began tilting, gravity pulling sideways. He adjusted without thinking—body knew how to fly when world went wrong. Always knew how to fly. Only thing he knew.
Girl at Great Feast, three years before. Pretty thing with laugh like bells. Had asked him about favorite book.
"I do not read much," Viktor had said, because when would he read? Morning practice, afternoon practice, evening conditioning. She had smiled, but smile was disappointed. Never saw her again after dance.
Another Snitch. Another. Fingers bloody now from catching so many, but Viktor Krum did not stop. Could not stop. Stopping meant facing stands full of corpse that looked like him but died alone, poison foam on lips because even dying, Viktor Krum had to do it by himself.
The opponents weren't trying to catch Snitch anymore. Were just flying at him, into him, through him. Each impact should hurt but didn't because Viktor was used to pain. Pain was just weakness leaving body, father always said.
"But vhat comes in vhen veakness leaves?" corpse-Viktor asked. "Vhat fills empty space?"
Nothing. Answer was nothing. Just more empty space for more Snitches, more victories, more—
"KRUM STANDS ALONE!" crowd screamed, but now was just one voice from thousand mouths. "KRUM NEEDS NO ONE!"
Memory of mother, before she stopped coming to games. "You look tired, Vitya," she had said, using baby name no one else dared. "Vhen did you last have fun?"
Viktor couldn't remember. Fun was not part of training regime. Fun was not part of being best.
Snitch appeared directly in front of him. This one different. This one made of faces—Pavel's face, pretty girl from Feast, mother, even teammates whose names Viktor never learned because why learn names of people who were just background to his glory?
Viktor's hand moved to catch it, automatic, inevitable.
"You could stop," corpse-Viktor said. "You could just... not catch it."
Impossible thought. Viktor Krum caught Snitches. Was what he did. Who he was. Without catching Snitch, what was Viktor? Just another tall Bulgarian boy with nothing to say because he never learned to speak about anything except Quidditch.
Hand closed around face-Snitch. The people inside it screamed, then dissolved. More empty spaces where connections should have been.
The stands were empty now except for corpse. No crowd. No chanting. Just silence so complete Viktor could hear his own heartbeat, alone in chest, alone in body, alone in stadium that went on forever.
"This is test," Viktor said to corpse. "I must do something. Must pass. I think I must catch more snitches, that must be the test."
"Must you?" corpse asked. "Or can Viktor Krum finally just fail?"
The word made Viktor's hand spasm. Fail. Failure. Failed. Words that did not exist in father's vocabulary, so could not exist in Viktor's.
New Snitch appeared. This one made of mirror, showing Viktor's face. But reflection was wrong—was smiling. Viktor never smiled during games. Smiling was for after, when cameras pointed and victories counted.
"Catch it," voices said, but not crowd anymore. Was Viktor's own voice, multiplied thousand times. "Catch it because that is vhat you do. Catch it because without catching, you are nothing."
Viktor reached out, then stopped. Hand trembled in air, body fighting mind, training fighting something deeper.
"I could..." Viktor started, but words wouldn't come. Ten years of language lessons and he couldn't say simple sentence: I could lose.
The mirror-Snitch flew closer, taunting. In reflection, Viktor saw himself at forty, still catching, still alone. At fifty, joints ruined but still flying. At sixty, in stands like corpse, poison in hand because when Seeker could no longer seek, what point was there?
Stadium began collapsing inward, stands folding like paper. But collapse was wrong—was forming something else. Walls. Cell. Prison made of all Snitches Viktor ever caught, golden bars holding him in place where he would catch forever and forever and forever, alone.
"Choose," corpse said, but corpse was standing now, walking toward him with bottle extended. "Catch Snitch and stay Viktor Krum, alone but best. Or..."
"Or vhat?" Viktor asked, voice cracking like boy's.
Corpse smiled with too many teeth. "Or find out who Viktor is."
.
.
Cedric Yroggid
The sitting room dissolved like watercolor in rain, and Cedric found himself standing in a corridor that stretched impossibly far in both directions. The walls were made of polished wood—the same honey-colored oak as the Hufflepuff common room—but these panels reflected his face back at him from every angle, each reflection slightly different. In one, his jaw was stronger. In another, his smile wider. All of them looked more perfect than he actually was.
"There you are." His father's voice came. "My son. The Hogwarts champion."
A weight materialized in Cedric's hands—the Triwizard Cup, gleaming gold and silver. Except it was heavier than any cup should be, and when Cedric looked closer, he could see names etched into its surface. Every Hogwarts champion who had ever competed. Every expectation that came with being chosen.
"Carry it with pride," his father's voice said. "Show them what the Diggory name means."
Cedric started walking. What else could he do? The corridor had no doors, no windows, just the endless stretch of polished wood and his own imperfect reflections watching him struggle with the trophy's weight.
Twenty steps in, a banner draped itself across his shoulders—the Hufflepuff badger, black and yellow silk that should have been light as air but felt like chainmail. The edges of it wrapped around his throat, not quite choking but making each breath a little difficult.
"Our first champion in centuries," Professor Sprout's voice echoed off the walls. "You're carrying our house's honor, Cedric. Don't let us down."
The trophy grew heavier. Cedric's arms began to shake, but he kept walking. The reflections in the walls smiled back at him with perfect teeth, no sign of strain in their faces.
Cho's laugh rippled through the air, and suddenly there was a mirror in his hands along with everything else—a full-length mirror that showed him exactly as she saw him. Tall, handsome, those carefully tousled golden-brown locks that took him twenty minutes each morning to make look effortless. In the mirror, his robes were never wrinkled, his smile never wavered, his gray eyes never showed doubt.
"My boyfriend, the champion," mirror-Cho said, her hand on mirror-Cedric's arm. "Everyone's so jealous. You're perfect."
The real Cedric's knees buckled slightly. The trophy scraped against the floor, leaving a golden streak on the wood.
"Careful!" His father's voice, sharp with concern. "That cup represents everything we've worked for. Your tutoring sessions, your extra training, all those hours perfecting your wandwork. Don't drop it now."
More chains materialized—actual chains this time, iron links that attached themselves to his wrists and ankles. Each link was attached with an object he was dragging across the floor: "Prefect." "Quidditch Captain." "Top of his class." "Most likely to succeed." They multiplied with each step, spawning new links: "Never loses his temper." "Always helps others." "Model student."
The corridor began to tilt upward. Not much, just enough that each step required more effort. Cedric's thighs burned, but he kept climbing. The reflections in the walls were standing straighter than he was now, their shoulders back, their smiles intact.
"I heard he's struggling with the tournament," a voice whispered—maybe a Ravenclaw student, maybe no one at all. "Guess being handsome doesn't solve everything."
"Pretty boy," another voice agreed. "All surface, no substance."
Cedric gritted his teeth and took another step. The trophy had somehow grown handles, and from each handle hung a photograph—him shaking Dumbledore's hand when he was made prefect, him catching the Snitch against Gryffindor, him helping a first-year with their books.
"That's my boy," his father said, and suddenly Amos Diggory was walking beside him, though he cast no reflection in the walls. "You know, when you were sorted into Hufflepuff, I was worried. But look at you now—proving that loyalty and hard work matter just as much as being clever or brave. You're showing them all."
"Dad," Cedric gasped, the banner around his throat tightening. "It's getting heavier."
"Of course it is," Amos said, smiling proudly. "That's how you know you're doing something important. Remember what I always told you? A Diggory doesn't quit. A Diggory pushes through."
The mirror in Cedric's hands cracked slightly. In the fracture, he caught a glimpse of something else—himself in his dormitory at three in the morning, staring at Transfiguration notes until the letters blurred, because he had to beat Jakon's score. Had to be the best. Had to be worth all the pride his father invested in him.
"Is that doubt I see?" Professor Flitwick's voice, disappointed. "Mr. Diggory, you were chosen for a reason. The Goblet doesn't make mistakes."
But I wasn't really chosen, Cedric wanted to say. Harry's name came out too. I'm sharing this title with a fourteen-year-old who didn't even want it.
More chains. These ones were made of golden thread, and they connected him to everyone he'd ever smiled at in the corridors. Each thread pulled in a different direction. Help Susan Bones with her Potions essay. Attend Oliver Rivers' birthday party. Tutor the third-years in Transfiguration. Be at Quidditch practice. Study for N.E.W.T.s. Take Cho to Hogsmeade. Write home. Be perfect. Be perfect. Be perfect.
The corridor tilted steeper. Forty-five degrees now. Cedric's hands were bleeding from where the trophy's handles cut into his palms. The banner had wrapped itself around his chest, making each breath a conscious effort.
"He's slowing down," the voices muttered. "Knew he couldn't handle real pressure."
"Just another pretty face."
"His father's going to be so disappointed."
"No," Amos said firmly, still walking beside him as if the corridor were perfectly level. "My son doesn't slow down. Look at me, Cedric. Are you going to be the Diggory who quit? The one who dropped everything we've built?"
Cedric forced his eyes open—when had he closed them?—and looked at his father. But Amos's face kept shifting, showing different versions of disappointment. The quiet kind, where he'd pat Cedric's shoulder and say "You did your best" in a tone that meant it wasn't good enough. The angry kind, where he'd demand to know why Cedric threw away all their hard work. The worst kind, where he'd just look tired and old and beaten.
"I'm proud of you," Amos said, but the words came with conditions Cedric could hear even though they weren't spoken. Proud of you as long as you keep moving. Proud of you as long as you don't embarrass us. Proud of you as long as you're still my champion son and not just another Hufflepuff who couldn't cut it.
The corridor was nearly vertical now. Cedric was climbing, using the chains like rope, dragging the trophy behind him. The mirror had shattered completely, but each shard still showed that perfect version of himself, multiplied into a thousand impossible standards.
And then he saw it.
A door, set into the wall to his left. Through the small window, he could see something that made his blood freeze.
His own corpse sat at a desk—the same desk from his dormitory. But this version of him had been there for a long time. Days, maybe weeks. The body was slumped forward, quill still in hand, surrounded by towers of books and rolls of parchment. Every surface was covered with notes, with schedules, with lists of achievements yet to accomplish.
The corpse had written something over and over on every piece of parchment, the words becoming less legible as dead fingers had cramped: "Not enough. Never enough. Try harder. Be better. Don't disappoint them."
Cedric had simply worked himself to death, pushing and pushing until his heart gave out, still trying to add one more line to his perfect record. Still trying to be worthy of everyone's expectations.
"Don't look at that," Amos said sharply. "That's not you. You're stronger than that."
But Cedric couldn't stop staring. The corpse's face was frozen in an expression of exhaustion so complete it looked almost peaceful. Finally done. Finally allowed to stop carrying everything.
"Keep moving," his father insisted. "You're so close to the top. So close to proving yourself."
The trophy in Cedric's hands transformed. Now it was made of faces—every person who'd ever looked at him with pride, with expectation, with faith that he'd be exactly what they needed him to be. His mother's face was there, and Susan Bones, and Professor Sprout, and teammates and classmates and strangers who'd heard his name and assumed it meant something special.
"I can't," Cedric whispered, his voice raw.
"Can't?" The disappointment in his father's voice was exactly what Cedric had always feared. "Diggories don't say can't."
The chains multiplied exponentially. Not just iron now but gold and silver and bronze, chains made of every compliment he'd ever received, every achievement he'd ever earned, every time someone had said "Cedric will handle it" or "Cedric never lets us down."
His legs gave out.
Cedric fell to his knees on the vertical corridor, held in place only by the chains that were now so numerous they formed a cocoon around him. The trophy fell from his hands, shattering into a thousand disappointed faces. The banner around his throat tightened until black spots danced in his vision.
"Get up," his father said, but Amos was fading now, becoming translucent. "Get up, son. Everyone's watching. Everyone's counting on you."
Through the gaps in his chain cocoon, Cedric could see the walls of the corridor. His reflections had all turned their backs on him. One by one, they were walking away, shaking their heads, muttering about wasted potential.
"Please," Cedric gasped.
The corpse in the room had opened its eyes. It was watching him through the door's window, and its mouth moved, forming words Cedric could read on its dead lips: "You can stop. You can just stop."
"Never," Amos said, but his father was just a voice now, bodiless and everywhere. "A Diggory never stops. Not until the job is done. Not until everyone's proud. Not until—"
"Until when?" Cedric screamed, the words tearing from his throat. "When is it enough? When do I get to stop being everything to everyone?"
The corridor went completely vertical. Cedric hung suspended by chains made of other people's dreams, the weight of them pulling him in every direction at once. Below him yawned an abyss of disappointment.
His corpse was standing now, pressing against the door's window. It raised one dead hand and pressed it against the glass, leaving a bloody handprint. Written in the blood were two words: "Let go."
But letting go meant disappointing everyone. Letting go meant his father's shame, his house's failure, Cho's embarrassment, the school's mockery. Letting go meant admitting that Cedric Diggory, golden boy of Hogwarts, was just another seventeen-year-old who didn't have all the answers and couldn't carry the world on his shoulders.
The chains tightened. The abyss yawned wider. His corpse smiled with lips that had rotted away.
And Cedric hung there, suspended between the unbearable weight of being everything and the terrifying freedom of being nothing, while the voices of everyone he'd ever tried not to disappoint crescendoed into a roar that threatened to tear him apart—
Fleur Delacour
The Great Hall of Beauxbatons stretched before Fleur, but wrong, so wrong. The enchanted ceiling that should show sky reflected only her—infinite Fleurs standing in infinite halls, each reflection watching her with eyes that held accusations she hadn't yet heard.
Her footsteps echoed wrong. Beauxbatons' halls always sang with footsteps, the marble charmed to create music from movement. But these echoes came back flat, dead, like walking through a mausoleum.
"Mademoiselle Delacour."
Madame Maxime's voice came from the first mirror. Not her reflection there, but Gabrielle. Her little sister, eleven years old, was drowning in silver water that rose around her ankles, her calves, her knees.
"Fleur!" Gabrielle's voice came. "Fleur, je ne peux pas nager! I cannot swim here! The water, it burns!"
Fleur ran to the mirror, her hands pressing against glass that felt warm, alive, like skin. Gabrielle's face was turning blue, the silver water at her waist now, rising faster.
"Choose," the not-Maxime voice said. "Your beauty for her life. Fair trade, non?"
Her beauty. The thing that made people stop, stare, stumble. The thing that made men walk into walls and women hate her before she spoke a single word. The thing that made every achievement suspect—did she earn that grade, or did Professor Dubois simply want to please her?
But also the thing that was hers. Grandmother's gift, woven into her very cells. Her beautiful silver hair that she was always proud of. The features that turned heads. The allure that was as much a part of her as her magic.
Gabrielle screamed. The water reached her chest.
Fleur's hand moved without her permission, pressing harder against the mirror. "Take it."
The words barely left her mouth before she felt it—like someone peeling skin from muscle, but deeper. Her reflection in the infinite mirrors changed. Hair became limp, mousy brown. Features shifted—nose too large, eyes too small, cheeks sallow. She watched herself become what she'd always wondered she might be underneath the Veela blessing.
Plain. Forgettable. Human.
Gabrielle gasped, pulled from the water, safe on dry ground. But she wasn't looking at Fleur with relief. She was looking through her, her eyes sliding past as if Fleur weren't there at all.
"Fleur?" she called out, confused. "Où est ma soeur? Where is my sister?"
"I'm here," Fleur said, but her voice came out different too. Flat. Ordinary. "Gabrielle, I'm right here."
She walked past Fleur, still calling for her sister, unable to recognize her without the beauty that had always announced who she was.
The second mirror lit up.
Papa stood in his study, but the room was wrong—dark things pressed against the windows, shadows with teeth and eyes and hunger. His wand hand trembled as he tried to hold them back, but there were too many.
"Fleur," he said, and hearing him recognize her when Gabrielle couldn't made something in Fleur's chest crack. "Ma petite fleur, they've come for the family magic. The Veela line. They want to steal it, use it, corrupt it."
The shadows broke through. One wrapped around Papa's throat, and his face began turning purple.
"Your magic for his life," the not-Maxime voice said, conversational as discussing weather. "You have ten seconds."
Her magic. Years of study, of excellence, of proving she was more than just a pretty face. The spells she'd mastered that had nothing to do with being Veela. The power that made her Beauxbatons' champion, that let her stand beside Harry as an equal, that made her more than just another quarter-Veela trading on her looks.
"Five seconds."
Papa's eyes bulged. His fingers clawed at the shadow-thing around his throat.
"Take it!"
This ripping was different. Deeper. Like someone reached inside and pulled out her bones, leaving her a skin-sack of nothing. Her wand fell from nerveless fingers, just a stick now, just dead wood. The magic that had hummed in her blood since birth went silent.
Papa gasped, falling to his knees but breathing. The shadows retreated. But when he looked up at Fleur, his face crumbled with disappointment.
"Oh, ma petite," he said softly. "What have you done? A Delacour without magic... you are no daughter of mine."
He turned away. The mirror went dark.
Third mirror. Maman at her desk, surrounded by bills, letters, documents all stamped with red ink. FINAL NOTICE. FORECLOSURE. BANKRUPTCY.
"The family fortune," Maman said without looking up. "Gone. Bad investments, they say. But really, it was the curse. The price of having a daughter who thought she was too good for everyone. Who wouldn't smile at the right men, wouldn't play the game."
"That's not true," Fleur said, but her voice was so ordinary now that even she didn't believe it.
"Your intelligence for the family's salvation," the not-Maxime voice offered. "Your brilliant mind for their security. Fair trade?"
She wanted to say no. Her intelligence was all she had left. Without beauty, without magic, her mind was the only thing that made her herself. The ability to speak four languages, to solve complex arithmancy equations, to see patterns others missed.
But Maman looked up, and her eyes were hollow with exhaustion.
"I'm so tired, Fleur," she said. "So tired of pretending we're not drowning."
"Take it."
This time Fleur felt herself become less while awake. Thoughts became sluggish, like swimming through honey. Words in English started slipping away. The arithmancy equations she'd memorized turned to meaningless squiggles in her mind. Everything she'd learned, everything she'd studied, everything that made her clever and quick and capable—gone.
Maman's desk cleared. The bills disappeared. She smiled, but it was the smile given to a simpleton child.
"There's my pretty girl," she said, but the words were condescending now. "My simple, sweet daughter. Don't worry about complicated things anymore. You don't need to understand."
Fourth mirror. This one hurt before Fleur even looked.
Harry stood in the Hogwarts courtyard, but not alone. Hermione was there, and that Auror, Tonks. They were laughing at something Hermione had said, and Harry's eyes—those green eyes that usually looked at Fleur with such warmth—were cold when they turned her way.
"The Veela?" he was saying. "She was useful for a while. Beautiful, certainly. But once you get past that..." He shrugged. "There's nothing there. Just another pretty face who thought she was special."
No. No, this was wrong. Harry wasn't like that. Harry saw her, the real her, not just the Veela exterior.
"Your genuine connection to him," the not-Maxime voice said, "for his happiness. He'll love another, but truly. Not the performance he gives you."
"It's not a performance," Fleur whispered.
How could someone like Harry—brave, powerful, genuinely good—truly want her? Not the Veela beauty, but her, Fleur, who practiced her smile in mirrors and calculated the exact angle to tilt her head for maximum effect?
"He deserves real love," the voice continued. "Not what you offer. Not the practiced affection of someone who learned to perform before she learned to feel."
In the mirror, Harry kissed Hermione. It looked different from their kisses. Unguarded. Natural. Real.
"Five seconds to decide."
Fleur couldn't speak. Her throat closed around the words.
"Time's up. Moving on."
"Wait!" But the mirror was already going dark, Harry walking away with his arms around the others, never looking back.
Fifth mirror. Her family—all of them. Maman, Papa, Gabrielle, Grand-mère. They stood in their garden at home, but their faces were blank. Waiting.
"Your family's love," the not-Maxime voice said, almost gently now. "Give it up, and they'll be happy. They'll be free of the burden of loving you. Free of pretending you matter more than their comfort, their peace, their normal lives."
"They do love me," Fleur said, but her voice cracked.
"Do they? Or do they love what you represent? The Veela heir, the family pride, the beautiful daughter they can show off at parties?"
In the mirror, Fleur watched herself fade from their family portraits. Watched Gabrielle become an only child, watched her parents speak of their daughter—singular—with uncomplicated pride.
"They look happier," the voice observed.
They did. Papa's shoulders weren't tight with the tension of having a daughter in a deadly tournament. Maman smiled without the worry lines Fleur's choices had carved into her face. Gabrielle laughed without the shadow of her older sister's reputation looming over her.
"I... I need to think—"
"No time. Choose now. Your family's love, or their happiness without you."
The words stuck in Fleur's throat. Without beauty, magic, intelligence, or Harry's affection, her family's love was all she had left. But if keeping it meant their misery...
"I—"
Sixth mirror lit before she could answer. This one showed her, but she was moving wrong. Mechanical. Like a marionette.
"Free will," the not-Maxime voice said simply. "Give up your agency. Become what everyone expects—the perfect Veela who smiles and nods and never makes trouble. Never chooses wrong. Never disappoints."
Fleur watched mirror-her move through life like dancing. Every movement graceful but empty. Every word appropriate but meaningless. Every choice already made by others' expectations.
"It's easier," the voice promised. "No more doubts. No more wondering if you're good enough. No more fighting to be seen as more than your blood. Just... surrender."
The seventh mirror began glowing before she could respond. This one was different. Empty. Just silver glass reflecting nothing.
"Your identity," the voice said, and now it wasn't pretending to be Madame Maxime. It was Fleur's own voice, speaking from the empty mirror. "Everything you think makes you 'you.' Give it up, and everyone—everyone—will be free."
"Free from what?" Fleur asked, though she already knew.
"From you," her voice replied from the mirror. "From the burden of Fleur Delacour. The girl who's too beautiful to be smart, too smart to be just beautiful. The quarter-Veela who insists she's more. The champion who might not be. The girlfriend who might be performing. The daughter, sister, person who takes up space that could be filled by someone... simpler."
The seven mirrors surrounded Fleur now, forming a circle. In each one, she saw what she'd lost or what she could lose. Beauty gone, leaving her unrecognizable. Magic dead, leaving her powerless. Intelligence drained, leaving her simple. Harry's love revealed as delusion. Family happier without her. Free will surrendered to others' expectations. Identity erased entirely.
Suddenly, Fleur was beautiful again, her silver hair returned, as did her beauty, and her intelligence; her wand was back in her hand, it was no longer just a stick. She was once again, She. Fleur Delacour
"You cannot move forward without choosing," her own voice said from the seventh mirror. "Each sacrifice buys passage. Seven mirrors, seven prices. Pay them all, and you can proceed to your corpse. Find your memory. Win the tournament."
"Win what?" Fleur laughed. "If I give up everything, what's left to win with?"
"Does it matter? You'll have saved them all. Gabrielle from drowning. Papa from shadows. Maman from poverty. Harry from false love. Your family from your burden. Yourself from choosing wrong. Everyone from Fleur Delacour."
The mirrors began moving, rotating around her faster and faster. In them, Fleur saw herself disappearing piece by piece. First the silver hair, then the magic humming in her blood, then the quick thoughts, then Harry's warm eyes, then her family's faces forgetting her name, then her own hands moving without her will, then... nothing. Nothing at all.
"Choose!" all seven mirrors screamed in her voice. "Choose what to sacrifice! Choose who deserves to lose you! Choose what parts of yourself matter least!"
But every part mattered. Every part was her. The beauty she'd inherited but also cultivated. The magic she'd been born with but also studied to master. The intelligence that was natural but also hard-won through endless reading. Harry's love that she wanted to believe was real. Her family's affection that sustained her. Her free will that made her choices mine. Her identity that was all of these things.
"I can't," Fleur whispered.
"Then you remain here," the mirrors said in unison. "Forever choosing. Forever losing. Forever not enough and too much and never, ever whole."
The mirrors stopped spinning. They stood around her now like judges, each one showing a different dissolution. In one, she was ugly but trying to smile. In another, magicless but holding a dead wand. In the third, simple-minded but happy in ignorance. Fourth, watching Harry love someone real. Fifth, erased from her family's memory. Sixth, dancing on strings. Seventh, nothing at all.
"Choose," they said again, but gently now, almost pitying. "Choose which Fleur gets to live. The beautiful one? The magical one? The intelligent one? The loved one? You cannot be all. You must sacrifice to proceed."
Harry Potter
Harry found himself standing in a circular chamber made entirely of black glass. The walls reflected nothing—not even him. In the center of the room stood seven mirrors, each one tall as a house, arranged in a perfect heptagon. Between them, barely visible in the non-light of the place, he could make out a figure slumped in a chair.
His corpse.
But Harry barely glanced at it, because the mirrors had lit up, and what they showed drove everything else from his mind.
In the first mirror, Hermione was drowning. Not in water—in knowledge. Books poured from nowhere, filling her lungs, their pages forcing themselves down her throat as she tried to scream his name. Her eyes bulged as leather bindings constricted around her neck like snakes. Blood ran from her nose as text carved itself into her skin.
The second mirror showed Ron being consumed by spiders. They crawled from inside him, burst from his mouth, his eyes, his fingernails. Each spider wore his face, tiny Ron-faces screaming as they devoured their origin. His best friend's body collapsed in on itself, becoming a hollow skin-sack that still somehow kept screaming.
In the third, Sirius fell through a strange gate, the passage filled with a silvery white substance. And again. And again. An endless loop of falling, reaching for Harry, calling his name, disappearing into death only to reappear at the top and fall once more. Each time, the fall took longer. Each time, Sirius aged years in seconds, skin rotting off his bones before he even reached the archway.
The fourth mirror—Fleur burning from the inside out. Not normal fire but Veela flame turned inward, consuming her beauty, her grace, her humanity. She reached toward Harry with skeletal fingers as silver fire poured from her eyes, her mouth, the spaces between her ribs. "Why didn't you save me?" she asked in a voice like crackling logs.
Fifth—Tonks shifting uncontrollably, her metamorphmagus abilities gone mad. Her face cycled through every person Harry knew, each one dying as it appeared. She was Hermione choking, Ron screaming, Sirius falling, Fleur burning, all of them at once, her body tearing itself apart trying to be everyone and no one.
The sixth mirror showed Remus transformed but aware. The wolf had taken his body but left his mind intact, and Harry watched his former professor tear into human flesh while his human eyes wept, fully conscious but unable to stop. "Kill me," Remus begged between mouthfuls of someone who might have been a student. "Please, Harry, kill me."
The seventh mirror was the worst.
His parents. They were conscious in their graves, had been for fourteen years. Scratching at their coffin lids with fingernails long since worn to bone. "We've been waiting," his mother whispered through lips that had rotted away. "Waiting for you to save us. Why didn't you save us, Harry?"
"You can save three."
The voice came from everywhere.
"Choose three to save. Watch four die. Simple arithmetic."
"No," Harry said immediately. "No, I'm not playing this game."
"It's not a game." Hermione's voice from the first mirror, gurgling through paper and ink. "Harry, please! Choose me! I've always been there for you!"
"Mate," Ron gasped from the second mirror, spiders crawling from his tear ducts. "We're best friends. Brothers. You have to pick me."
"I'm your godfather," Sirius called, falling falling falling. "Your father would want you to save me. I'm the only family you have left!"
"I love you," Fleur whispered, her perfect features melting like wax. "Doesn't that mean anything?"
Harry's hands shook. This wasn't real. He knew it wasn't real.
"Choose," the mirrors said in unison. "Or they all die slowly. Forever. This is your nightmare now—watching them suffer for eternity because you couldn't make a decision."
"Harry," his mother's corpse-voice from the seventh mirror. "Save us. You survived when we died. You owe us. Choose us."
"Your parents are already dead," the mirrors observed. "So really, you only need to choose one more to let die. Five survive, two were already gone. Even better arithmetic."
Harry stepped toward the mirrors, and immediately they began screaming. All of them, their death agonies amplified, overlapping, creating a symphony of suffering that made his knees buckle.
"Stop," he gasped.
"Choose three. The others stop screaming forever."
Harry's mind raced. This was a test, obviously. But what kind? What was he supposed to learn? That he could make impossible choices? That he could sacrifice some to save others?
"I'll give you a hint," the mirrors said, and now the voice sounded almost kind. "There's a correct answer. Three who matter most. Three who deserve life more than the others."
"That's not—" Harry started.
"Your girlfriends over your parents?" James's voice, disappointed even through decay. "We died for you, and you'd choose girls you've known for a few years over us?"
"I'm not choosing anyone!" Harry shouted.
"Then they all suffer." The screaming intensified. Hermione's books had reached her brain, words literally rewriting her thoughts. Ron was more spider than human now. Sirius had started aging backwards in his falls, becoming the young man who'd been imprisoned, reliving that horror too.
"CHOOSE!" the mirrors roared.