Lyra found herself entirely unable to sleep the night before the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Not that this was particularly unusual these days, but she was pretty sure she wouldn't have been able to sleep even if she did feel tired. The prospect of a proper war game in just a few short hours was exciting all on its own, but Eris had suggested that she was going to enjoy today almost as much as the Riot, and the entire world would be watching — she'd be lying if she said having an audience to shock and appall didn't make showing off doing absurd shite even more appealing. She'd been having real problems even just lying in bed long enough for Maïa to fall asleep, and therefore not nag her about needing to sleep before a big day.

She wasn't really sure what had done it — maybe the realisation that Lyra was having sex with Sylvie? maybe Gabbie pointing out that it wasn't as though she and Maïa were really all that physically intimate? They did snog fairly regularly, and Maïa had a somewhat annoying habit of holding her hand when they were walking together (annoying mostly because Lyra was accustomed to being able to gesture when she was talking or even just move at her own pace rather than keeping in step with someone else), but Zee had definitely been more enthusiastic about shite like casual touching and kissing and sharing a bed and so on. Even Blaise was more casual about touching her, and they weren't even doing the snogging-teasing-frustrating-Blaise thing anymore. And Maïa had definitely not been in favour of sharing a bed at the beginning of the year, but she'd suggested just last week that maybe they could, so.

Having three beds in their little half-room had always been a little crowded for Lyra's taste, she'd gotten rid of the extra one that same day. Between that and the expansion of the window leading to Gabbie's balcony — neither Lyra nor Ros had seen reason to put in a door when the wards would keep out the wind and weather just fine without one — the whole space felt much more open. (And, as an added bonus, the awning over the balcony kept direct sunlight out of the room better than the window had.) But it did mean that if Lyra went to bed with Maïa at a normal-person time, she had to at least stay there until her girlfriend fell asleep. Which could take some time. Especially when Maïa was almost as excited about today as Lyra.

It was almost two when Lyra decided that she didn't actually care if Maïa was asleep yet, and if she weren't, Lyra fidgeting and chafing at the necessity of lying still probably wasn't helpful, and slipped into the Shadows to escape. Not that she had anything much to do in the Shadows either. She wasn't stupid enough to go do something dangerous like annoy the spiders right before a war game — if she were injured, she wouldn't have time to heal properly, and that could hurt her performance this afternoon, and she had a Cæciné to fight! — and she was far too scattered to work on any of her more academic problems. She'd ended up going to Ancient House to see if Siri was still up, which he was, but also kind of drunk and pretty much about to go to bed, so they'd just argued for a bit about whether she ought to wear something proper for the Order of Merlin ceremony dragonshite or if it would be funnier to show up in one of Sirius's extensive collection of muggle band tee-shirts. Definitely the latter, they'd decided, but Meda would kill her.

Besides, showing up in the dueling robes she was planning on wearing for the actual game afterward, looking pretty much exactly like Bella, would probably be shocking enough to make an impression on most people. And also, hopefully, enough that other people would see how absolutely absurd the idea of Lyra Black being inducted into the Order of Merlin actually was. Not that she wouldn't go through with it, it was an honour, just one she didn't really care about. And it was ridiculous that anyone in their right mind thought she should be included in any organisation as upstanding and respectable as the Order of Merlin. She was tempted to do something to fuck up the ceremony just on principle, but they were going in order of descending age, so Síomha would have to accept her nomination before Lyra, and the idea that she actually would was even more ludicrous than the idea of inviting her in the first place — which was itself even more ridiculous than nominating Lyra.

Lyra might be fourteen and insane, but at least she was a Black, and therefore British. (Arguably. Even if they weren't inclined to recognise any authority outside of their own House, the other members of the Wizengamot considered them British.) Yes, the Gaels were technically also British (or Celtic, at least, they object to being called British) — Siri and Meda thought this was some mad idea to placate them and promote unity, like, look at us including the Gaels in our silly, pointless social honours, please don't actually try to declare your independence. And yes, it would be more difficult for the separatists to maintain their fuck the British attitude if their leadership went around accepting silly British honours like they actually wanted to maintain the status quo, but that would be why Síomha almost certainly wasn't going to do it. No, she was going to spit in old Ainsley's face, or set Fudge's lime-green hat on fire, or something, and ratchet up tensions between the Gaels and the Brits even more. (It was going to be great.) So Lyra didn't really need to do anything to fuck up the ceremony, they probably wouldn't even get to the presentation of her silly little medal.

She and Sirius were already planning on pretending to be Very Offended about that at some point, which would be much more fun than sitting around in front of the Wizengamot (who were making a collective field-trip to Hogwarts for the event because most of them wanted an excuse to be in the neighborhood to see the Tournament kick off) and the press for however long it took Ainsley and Scimgeour and Bones and maybe Fudge to make their speeches, and Cassie to accept her own appointment. If she wanted to, Cassie could probably save the collective arses of everyone who didn't want to see the Gaels secede by fucking up the ceremony before they got to Síomha, but the Lovegoods might actually be bigger Gaelic sympathisers than the Blacks. (Despite themselves being Brits, the misters actually had more in common with the Gaels, in most ways.) Also, it might not occur to her that they were sitting on a massive dung bomb about to go off — she wasn't much for politics, and she hadn't spent much time in Britain in the last decade, so. Not that Lyra had, obviously, but she'd made a point of catching up.

After Sirius had kicked her out so he could sleep, she'd meandered back to school — specifically to Gabbie, who was the only other person who tended to be up in the middle of the night. She'd mentioned something about shagging Harry silly to help him sleep (he wasn't so much excited as anxious about the Task), possibly as a suggestion that Lyra ought to do the same for Maïa, but all joking with Sébastienne aside she really wasn't trying to get into Maïa's knickers. If she said she didn't want orgasms, Lyra wasn't going to try to bully her into wanting them, or something. That would be, she suspected, both weird and unwelcome. And also kind of a waste of time when they could be doing literally anything else. (They spent quite enough time having weird, confusing arguments already, thanks ever so.)

In any case, Gabbie had been done with the boys — she'd been gliding over the Forest, but Lyra knew what that felt like now and had remembered to grab her broom before going to join her, because she still hadn't gotten the whole unassisted flight thing down herself. It had been Gabbie's idea to teach Lyra how to dance — she already knew swing dancing and salsa, Zee had taught her those, but she'd never heard of samba before — probably mostly because she couldn't talk in bird-form so she was stuck just listening to Lyra chatter about whatever came into her head as long as they were in the air, but also because Gabbie was always extra-bouncy after doing the weird mind-magic sex thing, so was just as incapable of sitting still at the moment as Lyra.

That was what they were doing when the sky began to seriously lighten, giggling and spinning and shimmying on the shore of the lake, to mutual amusement. Lyra had mentioned the veela dance magic thing at some point, so Gabbie was trying to explain how that worked, which French and Aquitanian apparently didn't have words for, so Lyra was now mostly trying to not occlude enough to pick up some of the veela language, which was much easier said than done, especially when she was this unfocused. And also practising shimmying, which probably would have been easier if she'd taken an ageing potion first, because it kind of required noticeable tits to do it right.

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry," Gabbie announced, breaking off mid-sentence in her explanation of projecting feeling through one's movements.

"Oh hey, I understood that!"

The veela laughed at her. "That was Gascon."

"Oh. Right. I knew that." Thinking back on what she'd actually heard, rather than what she'd understood, she knew that, at least. "No, I'm not particularly hungry," which was fine, they'd be having a family brunch thing after the Order of Merlin thing but before the actual Task, she could grab something then, "but they're probably serving food by now." She flicked off a tempus charm — yes, they would definitely be serving breakfast, it was already almost seven-thirty — and then remembered that Sirius had shown her a trick to cast simple charms wandlessly, so tried to cast it again, snapping her fingers when she reached the point in the casting process where she would normally channel the magic through her wand. It didn't work.

"What are you doing?"

"It's this trick Siri uses to look cool lighting his fags." That she could do, so she demonstrated, a flicker of flame playing around the tip of her thumb for a few seconds. Gabbie's eyes grew unwontedly wide for someone who could naturally throw around wandless bloody fireballs. "I thought maybe I could cast a tempus charm like that. I mean, it is a more complicated spell, but theoretically there's no reason I shouldn't be able to do it. Hmmm..."

She let Gabbie lead them back up to the Great Hall, not really paying much attention as she continued attempting to cast the charm. She left off, though, when Maïa appeared out of nowhere — or, well, from the crowd of their team gathered around the end of the Ravenclaw table. "Lyra! Where have you been?!"

"Er...around? I was bored, so I went home for a while, and then Gabbie was done shagging Harry, so—"

"Oh, never mind that now! Why aren't you dressed?" In point of fact, she was dressed, just in a ridiculously oversized tee-shirt — she'd've shrunk it and put on trousers if she'd decided to wear it to the actual ceremony later, but she hadn't bothered while she was just hunting through Sirius's closet and trying things on — belted in with one of Sirius's old Gryffindor ties to form a sort of informal and very inappropriate tunic sort of thing — she'd seen muggles wearing skirts this short, but it barely covered her arse, probably wouldn't if she tried to sit down — rather than formal robes. "We only have half an hour before we're supposed to meet with Lady Zabini, and Ash said there's something he needs us to do first, since you're not going to be with us after the meeting!"

"Oh, right. Zee's not here is she?" Lyra asked. At a glance, she didn't think so. Minnie and Cassie were up at the High Table — Minnie giving her a look reminiscent of Walburga's you're embarrassing the House of Black expression, Cassie not paying any attention to her at all — and a handful of older students who'd noticed that she was out in public wearing a giant muggle shirt and nothing else (including shoes, she realised, suddenly noticing the smooth stone beneath her feet), tittering at her with sidelong stares. But none of them were likely to do a shockingly good impression of Dru, lecturing her over this little gaffe in propriety. Zee would. But it didn't look like she was here yet. Good. That would've been extremely tedious. "Right, I'll be right back. Five minutes," she promised, before Maïa could respond.

Was that rude? That might've been rude. (Oops.) But she had said Lyra needed to hurry, so. A quick stop in the loo to wash her face and whip her hair up, throw on the clothes she'd stolen from the shite the elves had put into storage when Bella went to Azkaban rather than the entirely inappropriate (if much more amusing) concert tee-shirt — lacing up her boots probably took the longest, because she had to do that by hand. Thankfully, the organisers had agreed that they could still have enchantments on their clothes, as long as they weren't specifically intended to aid in combat or anything. Which, technically some of the spells on her boots were intended to aid in combat, preventing them from being summoned or the laces tangled around her ankles with magic or the like, but they wouldn't dissipate magical energy and physical force like the corset and cingulum she strapped on over her over-robe. Well, the corset went under, the cingulum over. Whatever.

She'd have to take those off for the Game, but in the meanwhile, they kind of made the whole deliberately looking like Bella thing impossible to miss. With a half-cape fastened rakishly over one shoulder (and thrown back over the other, because she couldn't stand fucking capes getting in the way of her arms), she looked dressy enough for the Wizengamot — if one ignored that everything she was wearing was battlefield quality, all black and silver and dangerous. She left off her glamour charms too, because the fact that she still charmed her eyes light like Zee had suggested a couple of years ago was one of the most noticeable differences in their appearance.

True to her word, she was back at Maïa's side in five minutes — okay, maybe seven, but still quicker than her girlfriend had ever gotten ready for anything in her life. The Team had moved to one of the little parlours off the Entrance Hall for privacy while she was gone. "What did I miss?" she asked, running through the usual litany of anti-eavesdropping charms.

"Er, Ash was just telling us about this...thing we're doing — so we can still hear the music even if we can't actually hear the music, right?" Harry answered, throwing an uncertain glance at the musician. "It's, ah, blood magic."

"Oh, okay." From the looks the Weasleys, Diggory, and Bell were giving her, that was not the response they'd expected her to give them. Which was fucking weird. "Am I supposed to be surprised?"

"Well I don't know, you completely flipped out on me about getting entered in this bloody Tournament in the first place, I thought you didn't like blood magic!"

"No, I don't like you being an ignorant little shite and letting people use blood magic on you without your consent and/or participation. Blood magic itself is fine. I mean, I'm kind of shite at it, but. What do we need to do, Ryan?"

"All you need to do is put one drop of blood in this little cup," he explained to the group, holding up a brass vessel which couldn't possibly contain more than an ounce of liquid. "There's a little ritual to bind it to the rosin used on my bow, transmitting the sound and the magic to resonate directly through you, as well as through the air."

"Neat!"

"We can't do blood magic," "our mum would kill us!"

Lyra snorted at that, because Molly Prewett, honestly. They'd been in the same year, in her old universe — she'd always been a twat, as well as one of Lyra's least favourite cousins. "So, don't tell her? Honestly, it's fine. Yes, Ryan could use something like this to push compulsions on you, but with fourteen of us? He's kind of outnumbered. If you don't want to, fine, you'll be close enough to him it doesn't matter, and Diggory should be able to keep track of shite himself in the air, and... Honestly it doesn't really matter if any of us on offence know what the rest of you are doing, we'll have our hands full. But given that no one here who actually knows a damn thing about blood magic is objecting, I think that should tell you something, yeah? Gimme," she said firmly, holding her hand out for the little cup and using a snap-charm to make a shallow cut at the tip of her right middle finger.

A drop of blood beaded and fell, crimson with just a hint of swirling darkness, which was neat, she wondered if other people could see it. Cassie hadn't said anything when she'd been injured hunting spiders, but the darkness vanished, breaking away and dissipating like a wisp of smoke as the drop shattered on the metal, so she just might not have noticed in the heat of the moment. That would almost certainly be why Lyra hadn't noticed before now — she did tend to be injured fairly regularly in sparring with Siri, but she didn't exactly tend to sit around just watching herself bleed.

Looking over to Maïa, who was looking at Lyra with a sort of suspicious, concerned expression, she thought it seemed possible that, yes, other people could see it. Though probably not a big deal, other people weren't terribly likely to be paying that close of attention when she happened to be bleeding, either. "Maïa?" she said, holding the cup out toward her.

"Oh, um." She turned her suspicious, concerned expression to the shiny yellow thing, but only for a moment. She knew enough about blood magic to know this was fine. Or at least that, no matter how up Lyra might be at the moment — and she was aware that yes, she kind of was, sitting through the rules thing and the Order of Merlin thing was going to be torture — she wouldn't ask Maïa or Harry to do anything dangerous. "Can I use your knife?"

Even after she had the knife in hand, she hesitated, her first attempt to slice into her thumb entirely failing to break the skin. Lyra sighed. "Here, you hold the cup, give me the knife..." She grabbed her hand as well, jabbing the pad of her index finger before she could pull it back. Maïa gave an absolutely adorable little shocked-horrified-offended I can't believe you just did that squeak which drew an equally involuntary giggle from Lyra. "Okay, who's next? I thought we had places to be, here..."

፠

"As you all know," Lady Zabini said, giving the room a practised smile, "today's event was suggested by Durmstrang — a form of competition with traditions stretching back longer than the Triwizard Tournament itself, in nearly every region of the world. As we announced in the wake of the admittedly rocky champion selection process, the first Task will be a war game, Capture the Crown, the specifics as follows:

"Each team will be given a flag, which they will be tasked with defending, while simultaneously attempting to capture those of the other two teams. In order to win the game, however, a team must do more than simply capture all three flags. When the flags are united, they can be used to access the crown." She held up the simple silvery coronet which was their apparent goal for reference. "The game is only won when one of the champions wears this crown."

That...might be a problem. They'd known, of course, that they'd have to crown someone, but Lyra and Blaise had hoped that they'd be able to designate their own 'king' — or, in their case, queen. It would've been very convenient to simply choose Tori, let her crown herself as soon as she managed to capture the flags and retrieve the damn thing. Looking around at the other teams, none of them looked surprised. Though, to be fair, Lyra didn't seem particularly surprised either. Harry was frowning somewhat intensely, but Hermione suspected that that was because he was trying to use mind magic to understand Lady Zabini's speech. Still, not an insurmountable issue. With Lyra as manic as she very obviously was at the moment, Hermione rather doubted anyone would be able to keep her unconscious or pinned down, if they managed to knock her out or capture her in the first place. She'd tell Harry not to sacrifice himself unnecessarily either, but she was fairly confident they'd have at least one Champion available to end the game.

Okay. Probably not a problem, she decided. We'll deal with it, it's fine.

"The arena is a square measuring five-hundred metres to a side, enclosing an area of mixed terrain, primarily rocky and forested." Hermione would call it more wooded than forested — there was rather less underbrush around than she'd expected when she and Mallory had gone out to map it. There was still plenty of cover — the occasional thicket of brambles, patches of low ferns and pine saplings springing up between the larger trees — but compared to the actual forest she'd seen visiting the wilderfolk with Lyra and back in first year on that incredibly ill-considered midnight 'detention' with Hagrid, mossy roots and fallen branches making even the actual 'trails' nearly impassable, the arena was practically a well-maintained clearing. "Its boundaries are marked with rune-stones — a visible ward line will be formed when they are activated. I'm told the arena-space extends five-hundred metres up as well, for those of you who plan to bring a broom as your secondary focus. Each individual may cross this border only once after the starting whistle is blown, meaning you may retreat across the ward-line if you find it necessary, but if anyone attempts to leave and return, for example, in order to circumvent the other teams' defences, they will forfeit the game for their team.

"Each member of your team may bring with them one primary and one secondary focus or enchanted object, standard clothing enchantments exempted. So, for example, a potioneer's tunic enchanted to resist minor burns or a dueling overrobe with C.I.S. standard competition enchantments is acceptable, as are boots with enhanced traction and wand-holsters with standard functionality — but not those enchanted to function as greaves, Miss Cæciné, and certainly not any items of clothing enchanted specifically as armour, Miss Black."

"I know, I know," Lyra snapped, one knee bouncing impatiently beside Hermione's. "This is just for the Order of Merlin thing."

Hermione shot a look over to her, but she apparently had no intention of further interrupting. She was wearing a rather elaborate costume which seemed to Hermione to be a fancier, less practical version of the dueling robes she generally wore around on weekends. It clearly was armour, a heavy skirt of overlapping blue-black dragonhide leather panels, the loose ends weighted with silver caps, over a sleeveless, knee-length black overrobe, heavily embroidered with silver knot patterns Hermione suspected were protective enchantments of some sort. The equally sleeveless blouse and trousers beneath that were much more closely fitted than usual — the latter practically tights and the former skimpier than any other magical garment Hermione had ever seen, only saved from "complete impropriety" by a half-cape which covered her shoulders...or would be, if Lyra hadn't flipped it back because capes were, in her words, the stupidest garment ever invented. She claimed she'd borrowed the lot from Bellatrix — without asking permission and with no intent to return any of it — but Hermione had thought it was a ceremonial sort of thing, not anything one might wear in actual combat.

Honestly, she'd thought Lyra was just making a point, dressing in martial finery for the induction ceremony. She suspected that at least part of her girlfriend's sudden and apparently irrational disdain for capes (she claimed it was because they got in the way trying to use her wand, but she wore cloaks without complaining, so...) was based in her general unease with this whole Order of Merlin thing. Not that Lyra would say she was uneasy about it, but she quite obviously thought it inexplicably weird that she'd been invited to join the Order, and it stood to reason that being inducted into any organisation so venerable and steeped in tradition would seem...wrong, to someone as chaotically-inclined as Lyra. She was still going to do it, of course, but she'd decided to do it while making it as clear as possible that they were basically letting Bellatrix Black into their elite little club. She'd piled her hair up as she sometimes did rather than plaiting it, and left her eyes dark — it was...somewhat distracting, how much of a difference that made in her appearance, Hermione kept catching herself staring. (She hadn't thought it was possible for Lyra to look even more striking, her usual charmed-purple irises were unnatural and attention grabbing enough, but.)

Also somewhat unnerving, especially with the giddy, impatient energy building around her. It was almost tangible, Hermione thought, how much Lyra didn't want to be here, sitting and waiting and listening to rules. She was actually beginning to feel slightly anxious about whether her girlfriend would be able to keep her composure until the Task actually began, which was not something she needed to be thinking about right now.

Neither was the fact that she was pretty sure she'd seen Lyra bleed darkness when she'd been making her contribution to Ash's blood magic ritual. That was...not normal. Not that there were many things about Lyra that were normal, but even on a scale of her... Was it bad that Hermione was once again wondering if her girlfriend was quite as human as she claimed? Because humans didn't bleed darkness — that was kind of eldritch abomination territory, Hermione thought. And that was just bloody disturbing, especially with Angelos claiming Lyra as her baby sister. Gin had shown Hermione the sketch Luna had made of the visiting Miskatonite, made her even less comfortable with Lyra's obvious fondness for the terrifying witch...

Yes, she decided. It was probably bad that she was wondering about that.

Was it more or less bad than suspecting that Lyra would seriously, debilitatingly injure someone who annoyed Hermione? ...That she wasn't certain about. It definitely didn't say anything good about Hermione that she was so thoroughly distracted by someone she definitely believed might just casually maim people (regardless of whether she'd actually done it), or that her girlfriend might be...what? like the larval form of an eldritch horror? Or, well, more a nymph, probably, but—

No, not thinking about this now! Focus, Hermione!

Lady Zabini had entirely ignored Lyra's interruption, apparently unconcerned about her increasingly obvious impatience, which was slightly reassuring. She did know Lyra better than practically anyone, so— Maybe she should ask her whether she knew anything about— No! Focusing!

"If anyone has any questions about acceptable enchanted objects or foci, it's rather last minute now, but you may inquire specifically about the item in question after this meeting. When you enter the arena, you will have ten minutes to choose your ground and fortify your position. Offensive spells are not permitted during this period, though defensive spells are acceptable, as are attempts to observe and gather information on the other teams' efforts."

Good, that's good, she thought, making a concerted effort to think about the Task. They'd planned on five minutes of preparation time, minimum, with elaborations to their basic defences they could enact in their extra time, if they had any. She'd have to talk to Neville, Mallory, and the Twins, make sure they were all on the same page on which elaborations they'd be using, but they would have time — the Task wasn't scheduled to start until noon, they could talk during the Order of Merlin presentation, or at brunch.

Hermione thought it was rather silly to have invited the families of the Champions and those on the teams to eat with them before the Task, and not a little annoying. Distracting.

Yes, she knew that most of them would probably want to see their children compete in person, rather than in whatever edited-together omniocular footage of the Task ended up being reproduced and sold in the weeks ahead — her parents would certainly want to. Not that she'd invited them, she wasn't sure she could stand the pressure of having them watching her — watching all of them, really — especially knowing that Lyra wasn't planning on holding back on offence. She wasn't entirely comfortable with her girlfriend being slightly terrifying, she sincerely doubted that her parents would be, and that would just be...awkward. It was bad enough Tienne was here.

Ooh, she needed to have a talk with her annoying, nosey aunt about not telling Dad certain things about Hermione's life — like exactly how devastating a magical battle could be...or how terrifying his daughter's girlfriend was...

But having them all up to eat together before the Task seemed unnecessarily distracting. Cedric had admitted that his father was planning on coming up early to watch the Order of Merlin thing too, so he wouldn't be able to join the rest of them in discussing their initial defences, and the Blacks would almost certainly show up at some point to (further) distract Lyra and Harry...

Not that Harry was taking this properly seriously either — she would be inclined to blame a Gabrielle-induced emotional adjustment, but he'd pointed out (in what was for Harry an annoyingly even-tempered argument) that he'd been just as anxious as she was now before his first school-wide quidditch match, that her nerves were clearly just performance anxiety, or something, because she definitely knew their plan and her part in it, and they'd practised, and he was sure that she'd be fine as soon as they were actually out there, doing the thing and she had more immediate things to worry about than...everything she was thinking about right then. His exact words had been, "Jesus Christ, Hermione, just— I dunno, relax, or something! Read a book! Take a Calming Potion! It'll be fine!"

Which, that was ridiculous!

No one tried to kill anyone in quidditch! Or at least, that wasn't the actual stated purpose of the entire game, emulating actual warfare...

(She was so glad she hadn't invited her parents.)

Anyway, more time to fortify was unequivocally a good thing. Especially since, so far as Hermione knew, the other teams were more offensively focused. The extra time would, therefore, disproportionately benefit the Hogwarts team. Right. Good. Focusing on Lady Zabini and the rules, and not whether Tienne had already written to Dad to tell him she's in Britain and also magical.

"At the end of the fortification period, there will be a starting whistle, whereupon offensive magic will be permitted. As I'm sure you've all been informed by your respective Headteachers, we are observing C.I.S. laws and standards here at Hogwarts for the duration of the Tournament. This renders legal several disciplines which normally would not be, but does not exempt you from all laws regarding the types of magic which may be used. Category Six and Seven dark and black arts are still prohibited, as are Category Seven white arts."

Harry raised a hand to ask, "Er...what's that, exactly? Category Six and Seven...?"

"It doesn't matter, Harry, you don't know any Category Six dark arts."

"Unforgivable Curses and Fiendfire, basically," Cedric answered, his response much more informative than Lyra's.

Lady Zabini nodded at him. "Thank you, Mister Diggory. Category Five spells will be considered out of bounds for all other events, but after some negotiation the judges have agreed to allow them for this Task."

That was...perhaps not so good, Hermione thought. (Neville on her left apparently agreed, muttering bugger under his breath.) Well, it meant that Lyra probably wouldn't get fined or something for refusing to hold back against Arte Cæciné — she was rather obscenely excited about the chance to fight the light battlemage-in-training, and entirely unwilling to consider that the Beaubatonnais strategy might involve their best fighter doing anything other than playing with Lyra — but it also meant that the rest of them would be dealing with enemies who were allowed to cast deliberately lethal spells as well.

Category Five was for battle magic. Torture spells. Spells which were actually designed to hurt people, rather than everyday, utilitarian spells which could be used for fighting but weren't necessarily intended for it. There were theoretically legitimate, non-violent uses for a cutting curse. Chopping wood, maybe, or slaughtering food animals. Not so much for a cutting curse laced with dark magic to make it impossible to heal without the correct counter-curse. (Six was for unblockable spells and/or those which caused damage on a mass scale, and seven was white and black arts, high ritual.)

In the overview Lyra had given her of the ICW laws that currently held primacy at Hogwarts, she had mentioned this scale in passing. Category Three spells were the sort of thing that could be safely thrown around without much thought. Category Four might be thought of as 'handle with care' spells — it was relatively easy to accidentally hurt someone with them, but any qualified mage ought to be able to handle them. Category Five was magic you only used if you were trying to hurt someone. If you killed someone with a Category Four spell, it might be considered accidental, depending on the circumstances; killing someone with a Category Five spell was almost always considered murder.

(Category Two was for magic you would have to be really creative to use to hurt someone, like cleaning charms for example, and Category One mostly included glamours and illusions, and scrying charms like tempus. Hermione was fairly certain that meant managing to hurt someone with a Category Two spell actually implied more malicious intent than using a Category Five spell, but that didn't really matter for their purposes today.)

"Again, if you have questions regarding specific spells, please inquire after this meeting concludes.

"I assume I do not need to impress upon you the seriousness of the potential consequences of a game with such stakes as this. While using potentially lethal spells is permitted, if you actually kill anyone, you will still be held accountable for their death. Participants will be expected to engage their opponents in a manner commensurate to their relative levels of skill. Ambushes and traps, for example, should therefore not be constructed to employ lethal force, and while sneaking around and covert attacks are a time-honoured tradition in these games, anyone playing an assassin role will be expected to use non-lethal measures to subdue enemy team members. If an opponent wishes to yield, you will allow them to do so. In order to ensure that there is no recanting of surrender, anyone who yields will be removed from the field of play.

"The game will be observed from multiple vantage points by house elves carrying recording devices to project the action on the ground for the judges and the audience in real time. The elves will also be responsible for removing players who yield and determining when an individual must be removed from the field due to injury or ignoble conduct — for example, refusing to accept a surrender, or recklessly pressing an advantage with excessive force likely to result in serious injury or death. Rendering an opponent unconscious, without any acutely life-threatening or incapacitating injury, will not result in their removal from the field. Deliberately injuring an opponent who has already been rendered unconscious in order to ensure their removal, however, will also be considered ignoble conduct."

"How do we know the Hogwarts elves will not aid their team, removing us at their own discretion?" one of the Durmstrangers asked. Hermione couldn't see who it was from this angle, but his French was far more comfortable than either of their Champions'.

"That is one of the advantages of recording the action," Lady Zabini answered smoothly. "The elves' conduct will be subject to observation along with participants'. They have also, however, been thoroughly instructed in the importance of impartiality in this matter."

Lyra sniggered, following up the official answer with one of her own. "Have you ever met a house elf? You're guests in their home — if anything, they'd be more likely to favour you. It would be inhospitable to cheat on our behalf."

"Hush, Lyra," Hermione hissed. "No one asked you, and the more you interrupt, the longer this will take."

"Quite," Lady Zabini said, giving Lyra a rather stern look. "The elves have been instructed to remove anyone who is acutely or overwhelmingly injured — i.e. in mortal peril due to their wounds and/or beyond the capacity of battlefield healing to restore to fighting fitness; anyone who surrenders; and anyone who attacks recklessly — using lethal spells against an opponent who has demonstrated that they are incapable of withstanding such an attack—"

"Okay, sorry, just— I thought I could do it, but I can't!" This time it was Cassie who interrupted. "Can we, oh, I don't know, change the rule so they can only attack with lethal force against players who volunteer for that level of danger, or something?"

"No, what kind of war game doesn't involve actual danger? That's taking all the fun out of it!" Lyra's 'sister' objected.

"Girls, please," definitely-not-Perenelle-Flamel-pretending-to-be-Salazar-Slytherin said, giving them a heavy sigh. "We have already discussed this, and you both agreed—"

"Well, I'm disagreeing again! Look at them, Salazar — half the Hogwarts team looks like they're in over their heads!" That wasn't entirely fair, Hermione thought. There were plenty of Durmstrangers and Beaubatonnais who looked just as uneasy as Harry and Neville, she could see from here.

"I agree with Cassie," Dumbledore quickly added. "We agreed at the outset that this Tournament would be safer than those in the past!"

"Well, I agree with Angel!" Lyra glared at Cassie, magic snapping around her as her temper flared. None of the judges acknowledged her, which only annoyed her more, the air in their immediate vicinity growing noticeably cool and tingly before Harry jabbed her in the shoulder with a caloris jinx.

"Magic," he reminded her when she turned to glare at him instead. The sense of power on the air faded away even as he continued. "And you do realise that using deadly spells doesn't just mean you can throw whatever you like at Arte, right? They'll be able to throw that same shite at me and Maïa. Are you the First Daughter of the House of Black or not?"

Her fury wavered for a moment, then somehow seemed to intensify despite her keeping a tight hold on her magic. Her voice when she responded was little more than a strained hiss. "I hate you." Because he was right, presumably. Or else because he had dared to use what was basically a trump card against her. Hermione rather thought he had a point, though — they would be in greater danger if people were throwing around more dangerous spells.

At the other end of the line of judges, Gabbie's father was having what looked like a rather heated whispered debate with the other two headmasters.

"Igor, Ollie, you two were on my side!" Angel reminded them. Which seemed to be a surprise to the Durmstrang students, but not the Beauxbatonnais. Huh. Given their respective reputations, Hermione would have expected it to be the other way around.

"Mister Delacour, however, makes a very convincing argument," Madam Maxime said. "He has suggested that we could mark the students who consent to the use of deliberately lethal spells against themselves in some way."

"Red shirts, perhaps?" Had... Had Selwyn just made a reference to muggle science fiction? Hermione was almost certain that Angel was Miskatonic's actual judge, but there were several people in the room who were neither judges nor participants — reporters and some of the Ministry and Wizengamot people who'd arrived early for the Order of Merlin ceremony, mostly. "I also think this sounds like a good compromise. Our delegation agrees."

"But—"

"Diplomats make compromises, Angie," Selwyn said firmly.

The other Miskatonite slouched into a full-body pout. "Fine. Being diplomats sucks."

"Albus? Cassie?"

Dumbledore frowned at the ICW judge and proceeded to make almost exactly the same argument Harry had just put to Lyra. "Your own daughter will be in greater danger with such spells in play, Régis, regardless of whether they are directed at her specifically. Accidents do happen. I cannot imagine you truly wish to increase the risk involved in the Task—?"

"With all possible respect, Mister Dumbledore," Fleur responded, hopping to her feet with a fierce glare before her father could open his mouth. "Unlike some champions, I am not some helpless child who would hide behind her papa if given the choice! Artémisia and I, and all of us from Beauxbatons, have volunteered for this Task with the understanding that we would be allowed to use Class Five spells! Madame assured us of it before my fellow team-members were chosen! We would not be so craven as to refuse to run that risk ourselves!"

"Seconded," the Cæciné girl said. Hermione couldn't see her face from here, but she sounded faintly amused. "We can work with the compromise suggested, though, Fleur, sit down. Red shirts, was it?"

She managed to charm the other champion's blouse a deep vermillion shade before she fell back into her chair. The entire Beauxbatons Team and about half of Durmstrang followed suit in a silent show of solidarity.

"I'm in," Lyra announced, to the surprise of absolutely no one, her 'ridiculous, useless' black cape shifting to a bright, Gryffindor red as she turned to kneel on her chair, looking back at the rest of the group. "Hey, Rowle, you're not a coward, are you?"

"Piss off, Black!" the Slytherin snapped, but he did charm his own shirt red as well, as did Enyo, the daredevil stunt flier, without a word.

"Theo? Katie?"

Theo charmed his shirt without complaint, but Katie seemed reluctant. "I dunno, Black..."

Lyra's eyes narrowed. "I picked you with the understanding you actually knew some decent battlemagic, Bell."

"Well, yeah, but... Fine, I guess you're right, it wouldn't really be fair for me to use anything I'm not willing to—" She cut herself off with a click of her tongue. "Fine, fine!" A second later, her shirt was red, too.

"That is a good point, though!" someone said. Half a second later, as everyone turned to stare at her, Hermione realised it had been her. "Er, that is—" She stood, realising belatedly it was probably the thing to do. "It wouldn't be fair if—" Neville and Harry had charmed their shirts white. "—if a white-shirt were to use Class Five spells on a red-shirt, and they couldn't retaliate. Could we, um, maybe say that only red-shirts can use Class Five spells? Just so...so we all know where we stand?"

"Yes! Good!" Cassie chirped. "I like that! Five points to Gryffindor!"

Her face positively glowing, Hermione sank back into her chair, determined to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the meeting, though that only lasted a couple of minutes into the continued negotiations among the judges. It sounded like they were definitely going to take Mr. Delacour's compromise, especially since all the champions and their teams seemed to support it, they just felt the need to argue about it a bit more before they admitted it.

And Hermione really wanted to know, "Why do you think the Beauxbatonnais all want to be able to use battlemagic?" Lyra looked over at her whispered question, raising an eyebrow as though the obvious answer here was, why wouldn't they? and she had no idea why Hermione would ask such a silly thing. "What do you think it says about their strategy?"

"Ooh." The confusion cleared. "Well, we already knew they're going heavy on offence. But the only reason they'd have waited until they knew if they could use Class Five magic to pick their team is if they wanted to have a heavy veela presence. Their fire is Class Five. Not that I think it really should be, but the C.I.S. laws aren't perfect on non-human rights either. I mean, sure, if it's being used offensively, it can cause pretty serious damage — there aren't any benevolent uses for it for humans. But it's not human magic. The People have benevolent uses for it, like their fire-walking thing and I think some healing shite, or even just starting a fire for warmth. If you ask me, it should be Class Four, because, I mean, I could hurt someone at least as badly with misused floo powder or port-key spells, and those are only Class Three — normal use of them is so safe children can do it. Oh! They could also be planning to use a patronus to guard their flag, you know, so I can't just shadow-walk in and grab it."

"Patroni are— You told me Class Five was like, battle magic and stuff," Harry muttered, apparently also less than entirely interested in the ongoing quibbling.

"It is. Anything explicitly designed to cause harm to another person — the Patronus charm is designed to harm vampires and demons. C.I.S. laws aren't perfect, but at least they recognise that vampires are people. Well. Now, anyway. So, don't use that one unless you want to be a red-shirt, Harry."

Hermione felt her eyes narrow. "Is there anything else we should know about? None of our defensive spells count, do they?"

"I...don't think so? Check with Theo, but I think you're good to wear white."

"I don't think we have to—"

Lady Zabini cut off Hermione's comment about them not actually being required to wear white if they weren't wearing red with a sharp clap. "Then I believe that's settled, yes? Only those participants wearing red to indicate their willingness to submit to the increased level of danger will be allowed to use Class Five spells, and only they may be targeted by Class Five spells. Anyone who violates this rule will be removed by the elves for ignoble conduct, along with, as I have already mentioned, anyone using class six dark arts — unblockable or uncontrollable spells intended to cause unavoidable harm or harm on a mass scale; anyone who invokes a deity in the field; and anyone who employs tactics which violate the C.I.S. definition of war crimes."

War crimes? They were worried about teenagers, in a game, committing war crimes?! Jesus Christ... Off the top of her head, though, the only tactic which could be used which might count as war crimes in this context would be...taking red-shirt prisoners and torturing them in order to force their teams to surrender? maybe? Most war crimes involved civilians, she thought...

"I realise that some members of this meeting are required elsewhere momentarily, so let me conclude by saying that copies of the agreed-upon rules for the Task have been provided to the Head of each school, to be shared with their Teams, including addendums defining different spell-classes and legal definitions which may not be familiar to all students." Oh, good... "Anyone who needs to leave now may do so."

Lyra practically jumped to her feet, making a beeline for the door. "Bye, Maïa, Harry, everyone, I'll see you at brunch," she called over her shoulder. Cassie followed at a more reasonable pace, along with most of the reporters — including her brother Xeno, Luna's father, an equally tall, equally blond man wearing eye-searingly vivid magenta robes, and a lime green "PRESS" tophat which had to have been designed by Luna.

Lady Zabini clapped for their attention again. "If there are any questions I might answer at this time...?"

"Do we need to wear white, if we are not wearing red?" Krum asked, apparently on behalf of his fellow champion, whose French was little better than her English. His shirt was red. Hers was a sort of greyish green which would likely blend well into the background of the forest out in the arena.

"I think not, Mister Krum, though it may help avoid stray spells and unfortunate accidents if all contestants are clearly visible. Yes?" she nodded to a boy at the back of the Beauxbatons Team.

"Is she okay?" Neville muttered under his breath to Hermione, distracting her from the French boy's question. "Lyra, I mean. She didn't...take some kind of potion or something, did she?"

"What? No, of course not, she's just..." Manic, though she doubted Neville was familiar with the term. Lyra hadn't been, before Hermione had introduced her to it. "You know how she gets, sometimes. She's fine, she's not on something, she just can't sit still today."

Harry apparently overheard that, as he scoffed lightly. "Yeah, I'm not betting on her making it all the way through the Order of Merlin thing."

Hermione winced. Yes, that was going to be a disaster, she expected...

፠

Well, she hadn't been wrong, Hermione decided, staring fixedly at Lyra, down on the stage-like open area — there wasn't an actual stage, just the smooth Hogwarts lawn, unnaturally green for this time of year. The ceremonial space was defined by about two dozen hit-wizards (an honour guard, apparently, their cloaks Wizengamot purple) and half a dozen doddering old wizards in an elaborate, official-looking uniform taking themselves far too seriously (the "Commanders" of the Order of Merlin, there wasn't a witch among them) — without really seeing any of it. This was definitely a disaster. And they'd barely even gotten started.

The new Chief Warlock, an older witch named Erin Scrimgeour — she'd been the Director of Law Enforcement just before Crouch, had briefly come out of retirement to help clean up the Department in the aftermath of the war before passing it off to Susan's aunt — was still making her opening speech. Lyra did look bored, and annoyed about it, fingers drumming impatiently at her hip, but she hadn't actually done anything more embarrassing than fidget a bit yet. Sirius was down there with her, he'd whispered something in her ear a minute ago that had gotten a little smirk from her — presumably he knew how to manage her as well as anyone, so that was probably fine.

After a few more questions from the students, Lady Zabini had dismissed the pre-task meeting, and the Hogwarts Team had had a short meeting with Dumbledore, mostly just Hermione getting an actual, written copy of the rules (which did seem fairly common-sense and easy to follow, and there was nothing in their strategy that was obviously in violation of them) and Dumbledore giving them a little speech about them representing the school to the best of their ability — basically an I'll still be proud of you even if you lose, so long as you demonstrate good sportsmanship while you lose 'pep talk'. Cedric was inclined to give the old man the benefit of the doubt — he thought Dumbledore just meant he'd be upset with them if they got pulled out for ignoble conduct, but that wasn't what he'd actually said. Even Neville and Harry had found it somewhat annoying that their own Headmaster seemed to think they didn't stand a chance.

Hermione had been outright insulted — they'd just have to show him!

The group had broken up as they headed out to the stands for the Order of Merlin ceremony. Mallory, Neville, Astoria, Cedric, and Rowle had gone to sit with their families in the Wizengamot (or rather, Nobles Who Aren't Actually Sitting Members of the Wizengamot) section. Harry and Hermione had headed toward the section reserved for Champions, their guests, and families of the Order of Merlin honorees — only the three second-class inductees were being honoured here today because, in Lyra's words, Do you know how long these things tend to go? If they did all the pomp and circumstance for the new third-class members, we'd be there until dinner. All the first- and second-class members were in an adjacent section, with their families and the third-class members behind them. The Weasley twins were somewhere over there with their parents and siblings. Everyone else had either joined the small crowds of students and other interested parties in the 'wings' of the stands — they weren't nearly full, this was the same seating they'd be using for the Task in a few hours — or decided they had better things to do than sit around listening to silly political speeches and old men...being old men, for however long this took.

There had been a bit of confusion over whether Harry should come with her to sit with the Champions — he obviously thought so, and Hermione clearly ought to be there as Lyra's...vassal (so far as Lyra was concerned, Hermione and her parents were basically Family, regardless of their official designation as a subordinate, not-yet-actually-properly-established House), if not as Harry's guest, but Professor McGonagall had intercepted them and tried to send him off to sit with the nobles (of whom he knew approximately...Neville). Lise Delacour, on her way up to sit with Fleur and her family, had come to their rescue, pointing out that it was hardly as though Lord Potter would mind if Harry decided that he wanted to be recognised as a Champion at this event, rather than one more in a sea of petty nobles.

Though that had led rather immediately to an awkward discussion about House Potter and its politics. Mostly because Harry knew nothing about them.

"Well, I know we got rid of the proxy Dumbledore had voting for me — he actually voted against that whole 'let's all agree veela and lilin are actually people' thing we had a couple of years ago! And supported a whole bunch of terrible anti-werewolf laws in my name when I was about eight, and didn't even know werewolves existed. I never even met him, but you could tell from his letters he was a smarmy bastard, too. I just don't remember the new proxy's name!" he had tried to defend himself.

Lise — Harry's father's disowned sister, who therefore wasn't legally Harry's aunt (the resemblance was obvious though, they had the same hair) — looked very unimpressed.

"Missus Tonks picked her, I'm sure she's fine."

"Who's fine?" Blaise asked, worming his way through the crowd by slipping in two rows behind them, and carefully stepping over unoccupied chairs to reach them. "Other than Gabrielle, of course." He gave the veela a flirty wink, prompting giggles from her — and Izzie, one of Harry's half-veela half-cousins (that was the term, right? the children of one's parent's half-sibling? She was beginning to sympathise with the Blacks' approach to kinship, simply declaring everyone to be a cousin of unspecified degree...), who was sitting with Lise instead of a couple rows back with her other mother (apparently same-sex couples were allowed to marry in Aquitania) and several other Delacours — but just earned exasperated eye-rolling from Gabbie's older sister.

Hermione didn't much like Fleur, something about her just rubbed her the wrong way, but in this she thought they were in complete agreement.

"Blaise! You know my proxy's name, right? You know, whoever's voting my seat in the Wizengamot?"

"Er...Holly Glanwvyl?"

"Oh, yeah, that could be it. It's definitely something Welsh."

"That's definitely it, the question there was, why don't you know that? Didn't you have to sign off on her voting for you?"

"Well, yeah, but I don't actually know anyone. I figured the Blacks had it under control, and weren't going to stick me with another anti- 'dark creatures' arsehole."

Lise looked...torn. Obviously amused, but also slightly concerned. "Ah. Do you have any other political interests? I mean, nonhuman rights is a good start, but...?"

"Er...not...really? I mean, probably on, like, specific questions. If you ask me what I think of oh, I don't know, if there should be a House of Commons or something, I usually just say, for example, yes, it's bloody stupid there's not one, and I have no idea if that's dark or light or whatever, but..."

"Holly's the heir to one of the Common Fate Houses," Blaise informed them, "they tend to be Democratic Expansionists. Sirius and Andromeda picked her because her family is a lot like the Potters would've been if Dorea had set their political direction instead of Charlus, sort of light traditionalist. You know this, Harry. You said you liked her after you talked to her at that art show."

"We've met?" Hermione suspected Blaise used legilimency to remind him of the occasion. "Oh! That Holly!"

"Yes, that Holly. She's over in the Wizengamot section," he pointed. "Five rows behind Mira there, and a little to her right?" And that was when disaster struck: "Oh! Is that your mum, Maïa?"

"What? No, of course..." Hermione's reflexive response was, no, don't be ridiculous, Blaise, why would my mother be here, you must be mistaking someone else for her — Blaise hadn't met Mum, but he might recognise her from photos printed in the Prophet and the Herald — but that protest died in her throat as she realised, yes, that was her mother, and obviously she was here as part of the Wizengamot and why didn't I think of that earlier?!

No, she thought to herself, making a very deliberate attempt to focus on the ceremony. She wasn't going to allow herself to be distracted by Mum. She hadn't invited her for a reason, she needed to focus on the Task — not her mother taking over everything, or the distinct discomfort she still felt over the Grangers becoming vassals of the Blacks, or her girlfriend maybe being an eldritch abomination nymph, or Tienne being a witch, or how likely Lyra and Arte Cæciné were to kill each other later this afternoon, or—

Oh, God, Dad's not here, too, is he...?

So...it's been months, now, right? We're not dead, we've just been distracted by other things. Like a Buffy crossover I'm probably never going to post, and the Aster fic, and reading the Witcher books. Which are great, btw. Um... Yeah, that's all I've got. —Leigha

I was also distracted by other projects, but I am also trying to bring myself back around to this. The next scene is actually another Michael POV, and Michael does entertain me, so...I should get started on that? Yes. —Lysandra