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They enter without warning, having no clue whatsoever of what to expect, except that the maze is somehow enchanted.
Cedric hopes it won't be too bad, though experience forces him to acknowledge that it can't possibly be like a walk in the park either, not if the first two Tasks were anything to go by.
"People die in this Tournament, you know."
He looks around, his right hand gripping his wand tightly as he cautiously waits for the first challenge to present itself, some monster to fight or possibly a complicated spell to ward off, but instead he is confronted with a far subtler problem; a considerably more complicated one, too.
Voices echo through his head and in the darkness all around him.
One of them sounds uncannily like his father's.
"You know that he can be beaten, son. You did it before at Quidditch, and I'm counting on you to do it again today. He shouldn't even be taking part in this Tournament. He either cheated or he got in just because of who he is. He definitely has no right to that Cup. No right at all. It should be yours— Yours. Ours."
Cedric frowns. Some of those words his father did in fact say a few days previous, and certainly, the man has a tendency to let his ambition get the better of him, but he'd never be that spiteful or pushy.
Would he?
"Just because you're a Hufflepuff doesn't mean you should act like a complete pushover. Your false humility, it's not terribly honourable, Cedric. You can beat him. You know you’ve got it in you. Besides, he’s just a little boy.”
Cedric shudders. He reminds himself the words are all in his head, just a trick of the mind, and this is a test of character, bravery and willpower; one he tends to pass.
He takes a deep, bracing breath and gets ready to move forward, hoping to find his way through the dark, foggy maze, and to get out with his limbs and sanity intact.
‘Just ignore the voices,’ he keeps repeating to himself. ‘It's not that hard.’
He has almost regained his inner calm when a piercing scream makes his blood run cold.
Fleur.
He's well aware that the two of them are competitors here, and that technically it's everyone for him- or herself, but that terrible scream—
He whips around to see her standing there, her eyes wide and her face ashen, and vines of the hedges have tangled themselves around her legs and waist, keeping her firmly in place.
He should keep going, get the Cup. Harry Potter probably is.
But he can't leave her there like that. She must be terrified, and she’s probably in pain, too.
"You can win this, Cedric. Make your mother proud."
Determined, he shakes his head. There are more important things in life than Cups, titles and what gossip-eager neighbours might say.
There's a girl who told him she likes him, a girl who only last week agreed to be his, despite the distance and the language barrier, despite everything, and he loves her.
There’s no dilemma here.
"Cedric?"
It’s another voice and not a disembodied one this time; Harry Potter's.
"Fleur's in trouble," Cedric says and in a fraction of a second, he's by her side, aiming his wand at the vines, hoping they'll loosen their vicious grip.
Harry rushes over to help, but it's to no avail. The vines are clinging to Fleur like vises and dragging her closer and closer towards the hedge.
"Aide-moi," she says in a broken voice. "Cédric, je ne sais pas comment—"
She can hardly speak, and there’s nothing further he can do.
Or is there?
"No. You can still win this, son."
Cedric grits his teeth, steps closer to Fleur, wraps his arms around her and waits.
"What the hell are you doing?" Harry asks, anxious and confused. “Aren't we supposed to be getting those things off of her?"
"Yes, but that's clearly not working, is it? So wherever she's going, I'm going with her. Maybe this is part of the Task, maybe not, but there's only one way to find out."
Cedric is surprised at how calm his voice sounds, and judging by the look on Harry's face, he's not the only one.
Fleur is trembling in his arms. "It'll be all right," he says softly, though he barely believes it himself.
"Yeah, but—“
Harry’s words fade into nothingness as Cedric feels himself being pulled backwards. The next thing he knows, he’s sitting on a cold, concrete floor with Fleur by his side.
He reaches out and takes her hand. She's still trembling like a leaf.
He looks around. He doesn't know where they are, but it's a dark place with stale air. At least the voices have stopped.
"Okay?" he whispers.
Fleur nods slowly and he squeezes her hand. He doesn't know what to undertake next. Should they shout for help, try to find a way out, what?
Someone somewhere switches on a light.
Cedric squints against the brightness, until he recognises the man standing a few feet away. It’s one of the Tournament’s officials. "Ah, Miss Delacour, Mister Diggory," he speaks in a voice Cedric finds inappropriately cheerful. “Are you all right to rejoin us?"
Fleur is the first to reply. "Oui, monsieur."
To Cedric's surprise, she has fully regained her composure, like nothing even happened. She gets up slowly, and he's quick to follow suit.
So this was part of the Task. Perhaps he should have known.
His father won't be impressed with him for forfeiting like this.
The Cup will probably go to Harry now. Or to Viktor, if he’s still in the game.
Either way, Cedric doesn’t suppose it matters.
He looks into Fleur’s smiling face and hopes he'll never have to see her that frightened again.