AN - Thank you, everyone, for the reviews! I was really happy to see you all are enjoying where the story is going. I'm having a lot of fun writing it out and I hope you continue to enjoy it.

Brad and Harry walked in silence for most of the trip back to the Gryffindor common room. Dumbledore, trying to find a silver lining, had indicated that Gryffindor might be throwing a party. It was a prospect that neither of them were excited about.

"Thanks," Harry said as they reached the stairs leading up to the common room. He was torn. On the one hand, he absolutely did not want to compete. He'd be lying if he didn't admit that it stung though, how everyone was so sure he would fail if he tried.

"It's not about your ability, you know?" Brad said, replying to Harry's unspoken concern. They stopped partway up the stairs. "If anyone was going to kill this thing at your age, it's you. But if someone is trying to put you in harm's way, I have a responsibility to make sure they don't succeed."

"Yeah, I know." They stood there for a moment, silent in their own thoughts. "It would be nice to have a year where no one was trying to do something crazy to me."

"No doubt," Brad agreed. A staircase nearby began shifting to a different hall and it sparked their movement once again. It wasn't a good idea to be on the staircase when it shifted.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they could hear the muffled party sounds emanating from behind the Fat Lady. She tried to congratulate Harry, but he wasn't in the mood. After failing to get details from a reluctant Harry, she'd barely started to open when a cheer erupted from inside. The portrait slammed open, the Fat Lady yelping in protest as Harry was grabbed by Fred and George and dragged inside.

"OUR CHAMPION!" Fred hollered, another cheer bursting from the packed common room. Harry tried to wrangle himself out of the center of the room, but celebrating students were making it impossible for the center of attention to escape.

They were pestering Harry from every side. Congratulations, questions about how he'd entered, about how he planned to win...rapid fire questions that bewildered him and kept him off balance.

"Cool it!" Brad hollered and the celebrating paused as heads turned. "He's not competing."

"Nonsense!" George responded with a chuckle. "He's in, his name was picked!"

"I'm competing for him." Brad said. The room was silent for a moment, so Brad continued. "I was with Harry all night, he didn't put his name in. Someone else did it and the only reason to do that would be to get him hurt. I'm not letting that happen."

"That's crazy," Angelina Johnson muttered.

"If you think Harry can't handle it, what makes you any better?" Katie Bell, a chaser for the Gryffindor team, asked.

"I'm a soldier, I'll make it work," he replied coolly.

"How're you getting past the whole magical contract thing?" another person asked.

"We found a possible loophole," Brad said. "I can't say any more than that." Brad saw Harry slipping upstairs while the attention was turned. "I'm sorry to crash your party, guys, but Cedric is the Hogwarts champion. Y'all should be supporting him."

Brad headed upstairs. Even though most of the students remained in the common room, the fervor of the party had been killed. In the boy's dormitory, Brad found Ron and Harry arguing.

"I'm just saying, you had plenty of time to tell your best friend!" Ron exclaimed, sitting in his bed. Harry sat heavily on the edge of his own bed.

"I didn't put my name in!" Harry snapped back. Fuck. How many times was Brad going to have this conversation?

"He really didn't." Brad said. Both boys jumped slightly, not realizing that they were no longer alone. "He was in here with us the whole time."

"Oh, come on!" Ron rolled his eyes and threw himself back onto his pillow. He immediately propped himself up on an elbow, looking at them both. "Who'd put his name in?"

"Someone who wants to see him hurt," Brad said simply. He crossed to his bed, sitting down and pulling his boots off. "Harry isn't competing either. I'm taking his place."

Ron was quiet for a moment. "Really?"

"Really," Harry said, irritated.

"Well...I mean the evidence-" Ron started, but Harry wasn't in the mood.

"I'd have thought my friend would have some faith in me," Harry said. He rolled onto his side, away from them both.

"Right," Ron said, laying down fully. Brad sighed and put his head on his own pillow. What a fucking night.

It was almost two in the morning and Sumner had been working on figuring out who would have put Harry's name into the Goblet. Was it a prank? A boy seeking attention? A threat? If so, from who? And why? There were a lot of questions to answer.

The first question, how, had turned out to be the easiest so far. Sumner had examined the parchment holding Harry's name and school. It showed Harry's name and the school was listed as Hogwurts. It was a subtle change, the u looking like a sloppy a.

When he'd brought the theory up, Moody scoffed in appreciation.

"It'd take an exceptional confundus charm to bewitch that Goblet," he pointed out. Apparently, the Goblet had been tricked into believing there were four schools competing, with the fourth being almost identical in spelling to Hogwarts.

That had been the easy part. He'd spent the rest of the evening looking at student and staff records for suspects. Harry had an antagonistic relationship with Draco Malfoy but he couldn't enter himself, let alone someone else. Not helpful.

The only major theory was that Karkaroff was responsible. It was said that the man was a former Death Eater, much like Snape. The problem was that neither Snape or Karkaroff were seen by the security elements stationed at the Goblet. Neither was Harry, of course. They had no idea who did it.

There was a knock at the door and Sumner told them to enter. As he'd suspected, it was Sgt. Sara Freeman. She snapped to attention, alert. She'd been woken up to meet him and, to her credit, she didn't show any sign of fatigue.

"Sergeant Freeman, reporting!" She stared ahead at an imaginary point above the colonel for a moment before Sumner remembered to tell her to relax.

"At ease, sergeant," he said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat." She hesitated for a moment, but sat. It wasn't often you were summoned in the middle of the night to a colonel's office, and it was never a good thing. They sat in silence for a moment.

"You're being transferred, effective immediately." He said. Sara felt her heart the hell did she do wrong?

"I see," Sara said numbly. She tried to think back on who she could have pissed off but drew a blank. Sumner sighed, pinching his brow.

"You'll have to excuse me," he said, still pinching his brow. He paused a moment, rubbing his eyes, then looked at her. "It's been a long night. You're not being transferred out of this task force, sergeant. Reaper team is down an operator. I can't leave them under-strength and I can't pull someone from another team, they've already got their hands full. You've had good reports from your officers and your range records speak well for you."

Sara's head was swirling. Placed on an operator team? That was nuts. She was a good shot, one of the best in her squad. She'd always kept a level head in engagements and pulled her weight. But on an operator team? That was going to be a tall order.

"You've been temporarily assigned to Reaper team for the duration of the tournament. Grab your things and report to Gryffindor tower, to Staff Sergeant Steele. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir!" she said, more enthusiastically than she'd meant to. It was nerve-wracking and exciting all at once. She stood, saluted, and exited the office off to fulfill her orders.

Sumner smiled wryly. It was always good to see someone so full of energy, and by all accounts Sara would make a fine operator.

The following morning, most of the Gryffindor students were a little chilly toward Brad. He understood it and tried to be patient, but found that it was irritating. They were excited at the idea of a Gryffindor champion and he couldn't fault them for it. Still, it would be nice if they looked past the superficial feeling of having a Gryffindor champion, toward the fact that Harry would be way out of his league.

Shit, Brad was way out of his league. He had absolutely no idea what to expect. His first order of business this morning was to get breakfast and then head to the library. He didn't mention it to Hermione, though he was sure she'd have been thrilled to help. It didn't warrant disrupting her studies.

He was picking his way through bookshelves and looking for something helpful. Several volumes of A History of Magic were set at eye level. He held out hope for something a little more specific. Eventually he ran across Competitive Events Between Man, Magic and More. That was perfect.

Brad sat down, his squeaking chair earning him a scowl from the librarian. He ignored it and looked for his prize, details on the past Triwizard Tournaments. The details were grim.

Close to fifty percent of Triwizard Champions, ranging in age from 14-18, were killed or seriously maimed during the years that it ran. It had finally been canceled after the last tournament had seen all three champions killed in the first event. The Ministry had, for whatever reason, decided that now was the time to revive the competition.

As he made it into the details things only got worse. Dragons, zombies, obstacle courses, duels. There had been such a wide variety of events that he really didn't feel that he could narrow things down to a prediction. He just knew that whatever they had him do, it was gonna be a bitch.

Feeling a little more nervous than he cared to admit, he put the book back on the shelf and headed to the Armory to start coming up with a kit that would be versatile enough to meet his needs.

Staff Sergeant Jason Steele rubbed his chin thoughtfully. This was some crazy shit, for sure. He'd never seriously considered having to take charge of Reaper team. Gordon was a badass and Jason never thought about him buying a farm, so to speak.

Granted, Brad wasn't dead, he was reassigned. But damn, the effect was the same. Jason was in command now and he had a newbie on the team. What would Brad do? Well, train her up, he supposed.

Thankfully, in a clearing south of the lake, they'd set up a small shooting range with the help of Professor Flitwick. It was an outdoor range that had sound barrier charms to prevent the noise from disrupting the school and the Professor regularly repaired any damage to the area to keep it reset. He'd even gone so far as to enchant some of the targets, causing them to try and dodge shots. It made for good practice, and all it cost was a steady supply of 'those hilarious muggle books about us.'

"Well, Phantom is tasked with taking care of our friends here," Jason said, gesturing toward Harry, Ron and Hermione, who were sitting down at the table and eating their lunches. "I have a week to get your ass in gear."

"Understood," Sara replied, still standing stiff. Jason frowned.

"Relax a bit," he sighed. "We're not so formal around here. Let's get out to the range and get familiar with each other."

Jason said his goodbyes to the trio, who were sad to see him go. Reaper team would be busy for the next week or so, getting their new operator up to speed. Small teams like Reaper were incredibly effective, in part, because they trained and worked so closely together. It wasn't easy breaking someone new in and it always threw a bit of a wrench into an otherwise flawless gear. The only way past was through it, though.

Sgt. Freeman was one of the soldiers that had actually engaged Sirius Black last year. If accounts were correct, she'd even shot him in the ass. Already a plus one in Jason's book. Still, there were differences in their brand of warfare that line troops were just not trained in. He only had a week to get her up to speed and that was a tall order, but Jason was confident they could have her pulling her weight by then. It was just going to require a lot of ammo and repetitive exercises. Everything from how the operator laid out their kit, to their shooting styles and preferences, to the size of their steps, mattered.

Until that week was up, Phantom team would be taking on temporary stewardship of the trio. They were more than capable. Jason knew Lt. Knight, he was a solid operator and ran his team well and the students would be safe.

They'd been put in protection mode again, though. There was what was considered an active threat against Harry right now. Until that threat was neutralized, the teams would remain on high alert.

Harry took another bite of his lunch. The Great Hall was packed with students, both from his school and the two others. He was still getting aggressive looks from the Hufflepuff table, even though he wasn't competing and that was common knowledge.

It was infuriating. He was already one of the most famous wizards in England, what the hell would he do more fame. That, in and of itself, was insanity. Ever since he'd been told he was a wizard, he'd had more fame than he knew what to do with. Money? Not a problem for him. The investments his parents had made before their demise, and the donations across wizard-kind that were placed in his account shortly after their deaths...that was more money than he really knew how to spend.

Why would anyone think he wanted to be in the tournament? And even still, he wasn't. Brad was taking his place, competing for him…so long as their loophole worked. Regardless, the intent was there and everyone knew it.

But instead of understanding that this wasn't under his control, people seemed to spin wild theories. What they thought he was gaining for it, he was clueless. He'd never felt less popular, and he'd been suspected of siccing a Basilisk on students in his second year, so that was saying something.

"Doing alright, boy?" a gruff, distinct voice asked from behind Harry, knocking him out of his thoughts. He looked back to see Professor Moody.

"Yeah, I'm alright," Harry answered. He doubted that the professor believed him though, as he beckoned for Harry to take a walk with him. Harry wasn't particularly interested in his lunch so he obliged without protest.

"You're not alright, Harry," Moody said as they entered the Entrance Hall. When they turned toward the stairs, Harry wondered if they were heading to his classroom. "You were forced into the tournament by someone that wants you hurt, and that's a problem."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. He didn't particularly like thinking about it, but he supposed that there was no point in sticking his head in the sand. Someone wanted him hurt and he suspected that it might involve Voldemort.

"Now," Moody said, limping up the stairs with Harry. "That Captain is doing you a favor, risking his neck in the tournament."

"He's a good guy," Harry replied. He'd appreciated it, that Brad just jumped in and did what he thought was right. Still, it was a little irritating, the lack of faith people seemed to have. When it came down to it, he didn't want to compete. It would have been nice if people had a little faith in him, though.

"A great one, I'm sure." Moody said it bluntly, almost aggressively. Harry chalked it up to his permanent paranoid state. They reached the top of the stairs and Moody stopped walking, turning to face Harry. "I'll not mince words with you, I've heard you're something to behold in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Well, I-" Harry started but Moody, impatiently darting his tongue out of his mouth, cut him off.

"Well, nothing." He turned, looking both ways before continuing. "You're good, I'm sure, but I doubt if you're good enough. I want you to take extra lessons with me, once a week. We need to get you to the point where you can hold your own against any of Voldemort's men."

"Right," Harry said. It surprised him that the former Auror had used Voldemort's name, but he supposed that if anyone was going to do it, Moody fit the bill. Not a man easily scared by something so simple as a name.

"Excellent." Moody clapped Harry's shoulder roughly. "First lesson will be Saturday evening. There are no courses on the weekend, so I know you have it free." Without waiting for a response, the professor began limping away. Harry stood there, dumbfounded for a minute, then headed back downstairs.

It was shaping up to be a busy year. Between exercise and sparring sessions with Brad, his classes, and the possibility of having to actually compete in the tournament, he was a little worried about having to do even more.

Still, the more he knew about fighting, the better. If Dumbledore was right and Voldemort was trying to come back, it would spell a fight that would eventually find its way to Harry. The better prepared he was, the better chance he stood of surviving.

The bell for his next class began and he stood a moment before remembering what it meant. Double Potions. He hung his head down in grief as he headed downstairs.

Brad found that picking his kit for the Triwizard Tournament was a little tougher than he'd imagined it to be. He'd spent the better part of the day trying to figure out what he should bring with him, and what should be left behind.

He thought it doubtful that he'd need to do anything by way of long-term survival. Extra socks and underwear that he normally packed, along with his sleeping bag and other such equipment, he abandoned. That would be dead weight that he really didn't need.

It was a pain coming up with the other stuff though. He usually had more information to go on. Would he be needing a larger cartridge or smaller in his weapon. Would he need ordinance or not? Would he fight small things, big things? Anything? He really wasn't sure. It wouldn't do well to dwell on it though. Make a decision and commit to it, that was better than inaction 100% of the time.

Fond of the multi-cam uniform, he opted to keep it. It seemed to do a fairly good job blending anywhere and that was how he wanted it. It was also easy to decide that he wanted to keep the HK416. It was his favored weapon for any deployment, a reliable M4 platform developed by H&K. He'd decided that the integrated suppressor barrel of a mid-length was best.

A long barrel made the weapon longer and harder to wield in close quarters, even if it did make shooting at longer ranges more accurate. Too short a barrel and you'd have a more challenging time at mid to long range combat.

He'd keep using the majority of his accessories, as well. It was good to use something you're familiar with. The ACOG sight he was used to stayed. The three-point sling that kept his weapon available if he had to let go, kept. Tactical light and laser sight, keepers.

It was more challenging to decide on the under-barrel. He could sling an M203 grenade launcher to the bottom of his rifle and have the flexibility to throw ordinance at longer ranges. If he did that though, it added three pounds to his rifle, plus the space on his plate carrier that he'd need to carry grenades in.

Ultimately, he'd decided that the likelihood of fighting something that even required the extra weight of a grenade launcher was too slim to be worth the weight. An angled foregrip was better. It made the rifle more comfortable to hold and manipulate and he'd noticed an improvement in accuracy when he used them.

His SOLDA device was a no-brainer. He'd gotten used to carrying it. It gave him up to date satellite imaging of any terrain in the world, immediate access to the Special Operations Command and TFA databases, and the ability to utilize tech like UAVs and the OCDS system.

The OCDS system was the wildcard that, if he was going to be allowed the use of, could turn the tide for him. The Orbital Cargo Delivery System was an extremely expensive program, a space-based automated cargo delivery station that could drop weapons, ammunition, survival gear, and even a few light vehicles, to any location in the world.

It was something that JSOC invested a lot of money in, allowing their operators to take to the field with less contingency equipment. The teams went into battle with the best intelligence of any nation in the world, and that was sometimes next to nothing. It was hard to prepare for everything and it was almost a routine problem that men went into battle without the optimal equipment.

The OCDS changed that for the special operations teams of JSOC. If a team went down in a crash, they could request survival gear. On board the satellite, an automated arm pulled the requested equipment and loaded it into atmospheric reentry pods, dropping them to the requested GPS coordinate. If a team needed an ATV or a single person submersible, they could have one at their location within twenty minutes.

It was still an experimental system. There were bugs with trajectory placement and sometimes the ordered equipment came with bonus gear, or no gear. But no system was perfect when it first came out.

Brad started loading his plate carrier with magazines for his HK416 and the Sig P226 handgun he'd carried as a sidearm since starting training. Six, red striped polymer 30 round magazines of XSS112, the Army designation of rubber 5.56 caliber ammunition enchanted with the Stupefy spell. They were his primary munition, as his goal was not to kill anyone during the event. He'd stun the hell out of them though.

Another two magazines with gray stripes. These were magazines that were intermixed with XSS116 and XSS117 rounds, enchanted with Expelliarmus and Incarcerous respectively. The idea was that the first shot would disarm the opponent and the second would bind them in ropes from the shoulder to their ankles. Really handy for disabling an opponent.

Finally, he had two plain, unmarked magazines. These, he would prefer not to use, as they were each holding SS111 standard metal rounds. These were designed to kill. He hoped not to have to use them. Still, the saying was to walk softly and carry a big stick, and it was better to have it and not need it.

Sighing, Brad continued creating his kit. He still needed to decide on grenades, weapon alternatives, if he should after all carry food and/or water with him, so on. Decisions, decisions.

"What do you think, Potter?" Malfoy sneered. He, along with his two goons, cornered Harry, Ron, and Hermione outside of the Potions chambers. He was pointing at a button on his chest and, for an absurd moment, Harry thought it was a S.P.E.W. button.

"Great," Harry said sarcastically. Brad the Mad it said, and after a moment it swirled into an image of a small figure in poorly animated fatigues getting crushed by a giant wand.

"That's not a threat, is it?" Hermione asked, scowling at Malfoy. The boy smiled crookedly for a moment, glancing back at his thick-headed friends.

"It's whatever you make of it," he replied evenly. "And, you should really know better than to be talking to me, Granger. I don't consort with mud-"

"Enough!" Harry snapped loudly. Malfoy wore a brief look of surprise and Harry could feel his heart thumping in his neck, hear the blood coursing through vessels in his ears. There was a brief moment, where nothing happened. Then, both boys simultaneously drew their wands, casting spells at the same time.

Their aim was true, such that both spells hit in mid-air and changed course. Goyle was hit in the face by a hex that caused painful welts and boils to begin sprouting up. As he began panicking and Harry tried to decide what spell to cast next, he heard Hermione's panicked whimper and looked to her.

She was holding her hands to her face, her eyes wide in terror. She tried hard to hide what was happening, but was ultimately unsuccessful as her teeth began to grow too big for her mouth. Harry fumed and was preparing to hex Malfoy until he bled, which was when Snape opted to show up.

"What is going on?" he asked, looking between the two. Malfoy, who'd turned to look at his friend, stood up and pointed a finger at Harry.

"He went crazy and tried to hex us!" Malfoy said, making a mockery of victimhood. Still, Snape appeared to believe it.

"They did too!" Ron blurted out. He grabbed Hermione's wrist as she struggled to cover her face, tearing the hand away from it. "See!?"

"I see no difference," Snape said coldly. Hermione, her jaw already aching from the awkward angle that her teeth were forcing, tried to respond. What came from her mouth was an unintelligible sound that quickly turned to a sob. She covered her mouth with her hands again and darted past the professor, off to the infirmary ward.

Several students tried to stop her on her way, concerned about her panicked whimpers. When she pushed past PFC Jacobs, who was stationed outside the infirmary, the private alerted Mike. It was well known that the two were an item and he knew Mike would want to know.

Mike was at her side within minutes, rubbing her back as Madam Pomfrey, who'd successfully stopped them from growing, worked on a potion that would return her teeth to a normal size.

"Send them in," Minister Fudge waved his hand in an irritated fashion. He'd been breaking in a new secretary ever since the last one started getting ideas that she could ask for favors. He was one of the most powerful men in the magical world and didn't have time to go scheduling a replacement secretary every time a family member fell ill. It was infuriating.

Of course, after removing her, he'd needed to replace her entirely. A headache inducing process that had been unforeseen when he'd first seen her. He really needed to stop choosing people for integral positions based on their legs.

The familiar tap of a cane warned him of his company before they'd made it through the door. Martha, his new secretary, held the door for Lucius Malfoy and the mysterious guest that he'd been so interested in introducing.

Truth be told, Fudge never held the Malfoy family in much regard. They were rather apt in the dark arts and that left him uneasy, as did the suspected allegiance to You-Know-Who back during that whole ordeal.

Still, the family was exceptionally wealthy and quite adept at wielding that wealth for influence. You had to admire that. He didn't have to like the Malfoy's to take their money and deal with them. That was, after all, the bread and butter of politics.

"Minister," Lucius greeted warmly, taking a seat. His friend, for lack of a better term, was tall and dressed in an expensive looking business suit. He peered through thinly rimmed glasses at the various plaques and trophies in the Minister's office, twirling a stubby wand between his fingers. After taking a few slow steps around to the front of his chair, he sat.

"Martha," the minister sighed, exasperated. If he'd told her once, he'd told her a million times...don't stand in the damned door. She jumped, immediately realizing her error, and closed the door loudly in her haste to exit. Fudge closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to relax.

"So tough to find good help these days," the man said in a southern American drawl.

"I'm afraid you have no idea," Fudge sighed. "I'm sorry, you are?" Fudge extended his hand. The man shook firmly with a crooked smile.

"Howard Eden, at your service." He sat back comfortably and Fudge eyed him.

"And why might you be at my service?" he asked. Lucius seemed content to let this play out. Eden didn't miss a beat. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm a man without a home, ejected from everything I know and love by Task Force Ansible." At the mention of TFA, he had Fudge's undivided attention. "They come in where they're unwelcome and wreck everything. I hear they're doing the same to you, to Hogwarts, and I thought that you and I might just have something in common."

"What did I say?" Lucius asked Fudge, who was nodding in agreement with Howard.

"I daresay you were correct, Mr. Malfoy." Fudge said, eager to learn more about the man.