Whispers in the Dark-Fred Weasley

The dewy air clings to my skin, thick with tension and the soft hum of early evening. The sky above the maze is painted in deep purples and oranges, a surreal backdrop to the scene unfolding before us.

Rows of students are lined up on wooden risers, their house colors vibrant even in the fading light. Gryffindor scarlet and gold glint with pride, Hufflepuff yellow glowing warmly in the dusk. Across the field, Beauxbatons students sit quietly, their poise unshaken, while the Durmstrang boys linger with an air of brooding confidence. Bagpipes wail, their somber notes intertwining with the triumphant blare of trumpets, and the sound reverberates through the air like a pulse.

The champions stand in the center of the lawn, each one looking toward the massive, towering hedges of the maze. The dark green walls seem alive, their edges shifting ever so slightly as if in anticipation of the challenge to come. The entire scene feels surreal, and my stomach twists as I glance around nervously.

"I don't like this," I say, my voice unsteady. My hands fidget with the hem of my knit sweater, unable to keep still.

Fred, standing beside me, leans in slightly, his voice carrying a note of teasing confidence. "Relax, Malfoy," he says, giving me a playful nudge. "They'll be fine."

I glance at him, my nerves tightening into a knot. "You don't know that," I snap, though the heat in my tone is dulled by the tremor in my voice.

Fred doesn't respond right away. He just shrugs, his casual demeanor an infuriating contrast to the chaos building in my chest. But when I catch the flicker of concern in his hazel eyes, I realize he's not as calm as he pretends to be.

On my other side, Hermione stands stiff as a board, her fingers clenched tightly around her wand. She doesn't say anything, but the nervous energy radiating from her is palpable.

The Weasleys, however, seem immune to the anxiety that's swallowing me whole. George is a few feet away, joking with Lee Jordan, their laughter a sharp contrast to the solemnity of the moment. It's almost as if they're trying to convince themselves—and everyone around them—that there's nothing to worry about.

But I can't shake the unease that's settled in my bones, the nagging feeling that something isn't right.

Dumbledore steps forward, his presence commanding immediate silence from the crowd. The students' chatter fades into a low murmur, and all eyes turn to him. His long silver beard glints in the golden light, and his expression is grave.

"Earlier today," he begins, his voice steady but solemn, "Professor Moody placed the Triwizard Cup deep within the maze." He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the gathered champions. "Only he knows its exact position. Now, as Mr. Diggory—"

The Hufflepuff section erupts into cheers, a wave of yellow-clad students standing to applaud their champion. Cedric lifts his hand in acknowledgment, his smile small but sincere.

Dumbledore waits patiently for the applause to subside before continuing. "And Mr. Potter—"

The Gryffindors explode with noise, standing as one and cheering with a fervor that shakes the risers. Harry stands at the edge of the champions' lineup, his face set in determined lines, but he casts a fleeting glance toward our section. I catch it, and for a moment, I feel an overwhelming urge to yell out something reassuring, anything to let him know we're rooting for him. But the words stick in my throat.

"As they are tied for first position," Dumbledore continues, his voice steady once the cheers fade, "they will be the first to enter the maze, followed by Mr. Krum and Miss Delacour. The first person to touch the cup will be declared the winner."

I glance at the champions again, my eyes lingering on Harry. He looks so small standing there, his frame dwarfed by the towering hedges behind him. My heart aches with worry.