AN - Blaze1992, I hadn't realized that the body should turn back to a human form after any length of time. To be honest, the demise of Rita Skeeter had been something of an impulse decision on my part as I wrote the chapter and I decided to go with it. Her death is not going to be a primary driving force for the story and I don't intend to explore that too much, sorry if that is disappointing to anyone. For what its worth, her bug body was on the newspaper that was tossed in the trash and trash at a FOB is burned. I think the reasonable assumption is that the body was incinerated before anyone saw anything.
saya4haji, thank you for you in depth review. It was really encouraging to see that some of the more subtle things I have been going for in the story are being portrayed the way I was hoping. I'm glad you're enjoying and I hope to keep delivering!
Since this is already a disgustingly long authors note, I am just going to take the quick opportunity to remind that this is an AU story, so at least some of the changes being made are intentional, and the stuff that is really close to original content is because I didn't think it warranted changing in order to tell the story I'm trying to tell. Thank all of you for reading, enjoy!
Mike sat down next to Hermione. She'd been sitting on the edge of her bed since lunchtime and it had taken him a fair amount of time to hunt her down. She was staring at a pile of small socks she'd knitted for the house elves of Hogwarts, one of her more covert attempts to free them.
He remembered the trip they made to the kitchen. She'd been asking him for the location ever since they'd formed S.P.E.W. and he'd staunchly refused to reveal it. It hadn't been a particularly big issue between them, but she'd been frustrated.
The problem was that Mike was under orders not to reveal the location of the kitchen to anyone. While the kitchen was not a security threat, Filch, the caretaker, had been worried that students would constantly pester the elves for more food. The headmaster deferred to the judgment of his caretaker.
It had taken Hermione a long while to finally, slyly, get Fred Weasley to slip up and reveal his knowledge of the secret entrance. He'd immediately regretted it and Hermione, proud of her progress, had lead Mike to the kitchen.
She had made a heartfelt and passionate argument to the elves about why they should no longer accept their current working conditions. They should revolt, request sick leave and compensation, and...well that was about as far as she got before being pelted with a tomato by an angry elf. The irate elves shouted the two out of the kitchen.
Hermione had cried for a while that night and Mike just sat with her, not sure what to say. She was heartbroken, certain they'd been under centuries of brainwashing. She was probably right but Mike just wasn't sure if it was a big deal. They clearly didn't care. If anything, they seemed happy. Everyone deserved rights, but if the elves were happy living without them, should rights be forced onto them?
He wasn't sure he knew the answer to that question and so he didn't try to talk it out with her. He was sure of one thing, however. Hermione was the most empathetic person he knew and her heart was one of the most incredible, attractive things about her.
It hadn't all been for nothing, either. A half an hour after being chased from the kitchen, they were visited by a house elf that Harry, Ron and Hermione all recognized. They'd had a wonderful reunion with a house elf by the name of Dobby, who had apparently been befriended by Harry and his friends during their second year at Hogwarts. It made Mike wonder what other hijinks the three friends had gotten into before his arrival.
Dobby appeared to be the rare exception, a house elf that was concerned with serving others just as much as he was with freedom. That and spectacularly bad fashion. He wore mismatched, over-sized, hand-me-down clothes of a wide variety that he treated like the finest raiment that money could buy.
Mike, always one to seize the opportunity to make a friend, presented the elf with a pair of small multi-cam shooter's gloves and a S.P.E.W. patch. All it took was a little smart spellcraft on the part of Hermione and the gloves fit like they'd been custom made for the little elf. He would have thought the elf had died and gone to heaven.
After a long reunion, everyone got back to their routines. Hermione, inspired by a conversation among Reaper team about covert operations, devised a plan to leave knitted socks, mittens and hats around the school for the elves to pick up. She hoped to set free the careless elves that picked them up.
It was devious, especially for such a straight shooter as Hermione, and Mike couldn't figure out whether or not he thought the spectacular failure of her plan was good or bad. It had been bold, and Mike admired the hell out of her for it. But he knew the elves were passionate about their positions at Hogwarts and stripping a creature she cared about of their identity wouldn't be something easy to come back from.
He couldn't help but picture it in his mind via military synonym. She was leaving IEDs all over the school and the unsuspecting elf that picked one up carelessly would be stripped of their job, which was a huge percentage of their identity. He'd known a former Green Beret who'd lost his legs in an IED attack and couldn't help drawing the parallel. The man had been bitter about it and he worried that, should her plan work, she might get hunted down by a commando elf with an axe to grind.
Still, it saddened him to see her taking each battle lost so personally. She was fighting with all her heart and she felt each loss deeply. Even if the elves didn't appreciate her vigorous fight on their behalf, Mike could appreciate the warrior spirit she possessed.
He didn't have words to help her with, so instead he sat with her. He could at least make sure she knew she wasn't alone.
"So, you ask anyone yet?" Harry asked, panting. He was quick and threw a jab at Brad's head, but Brad was quicker. Brad smacked his arm aside and tried to knee Harry in the abdomen, but Harry had fallen for that trick too many times to be caught off guard so easily. As soon as Brad's foot left the ground, Harry hooked an arm around behind Brad's neck and pulled, throwing the operator off balance.
"Oof," Brad huffed as he hit the ground, Harry toppling onto him. It had been a good maneuver on Harry's part, but he'd been unprepared for the success and failed to capitalize on it. Brad on the other hand took the initiative, bucking his hips and rolling Harry off, catching one of his flailing limbs and placing him in an arm bar. Harry quickly tapped, signaling his surrender. "Nice try, you almost got me."
"Right," Harry said as Brad stood up. Brad offered him a hand and helped him back to his feet. "You never answered me."
"No," Brad admitted. "I haven't asked anyone."
"You'd better get on that, the dance is in a couple of weeks." They each grabbed a small towel, wiping sweat from their brows. Harry was a quick learner and had been getting a lot better. He was fast, too. Brad figured that once he was a little more confident and ready to seize opportunities that presented themselves, he'd be a very formidable opponent.
"Yeah, it's my top priority," Brad chuckled. They both knew it wasn't. Brad was focused more on deciphering the contents of his golden egg than finding a partner for the coming Yule Ball on Christmas day.
"I'm just saying, you'll be the only champion without a date." Harry and Brad headed out of their sparring room and stood in the corridor.
"I'm just saying, if I don't figure out the egg, my dating life might just be a moot point." He said it in a joking tone, but there was an edge of seriousness to it. They'd started the whole tournament off strong. If fighting dragons had been their idea of easing into things, he could only imagine what they'd stick him with next.
They parted ways, Harry off to the Gryffindor tower to clean up and Brad to the locker room. Brad had put off getting his kit cleaned fully and put back together. Brad didn't remember the last time he'd neglected cleaning his equipment for so long. He figured on showering, cleaning and restocking his kit, and then trying to tackle that riddle.
The walk down was more crowded than he'd anticipated. By this time last year the school had largely emptied out for the Christmas vacation. That wasn't the case this year, presumably due to the Yule Ball. He'd never seen so much angst concentrated in one place.
He'd actually had a tail on the way down to the locker room, a pair of girls giggling to themselves as they followed him. His silent prayers were answered when they opted not to follow him into the men's locker.
Inside, he found that he was alone. That suited him, as it would give him the freedom to think on his egg riddle. He'd taken the damned thing out to the wood-line and opened it up, leaving it that way for a full ten minutes before finally giving that avenue up.
While it was open he'd inspected the inside as thoroughly as he could. There were intricate, flowing carvings of some sort but no words that he could find. So that was a bust.
Brad turned on the hot water and let the shower stall heat up before stepping in. On impulse, he decided he might concentrate better if he brought the egg with him. After setting the egg on the small bench seat, he set about cleaning himself.
As he'd been taught, he started at the head and worked his way down, lost in thought about the riddle. It screeched when he opened it and time didn't seem to be a factor. It was golden and had a four-way seam that opened to reveal the interior, where he could see a wavy, flowing design but no words.
Some riddle… He picked a leg up to the bench to wash his foot and, in the haze of steam, had forgotten that the egg was sitting there. He kicked it off the edge and it clattered to the floor of the shower, popping open and emitting the screech.
He almost slipped as he dove forward to catch the egg, which was still sliding along the floor of the shower. He gripped it with soapy hands and it slipped from his fingers and he froze. He could have sworn he heard a voice within the screech, which he was noticing for the first time was not as loud as it had been.
"...sound….cannot….above….ground…...we've taken...you...miss...an hour…." His ears were straining against the harsh sounds and the muffled voices. He picked it up, noticing the hinges on the underside were bent. He forced it closed and the screeching song ceased. Brad opened his mouth, popping his jaw against the discomfort.
"What the fuck?" Brad muttered, looking at the now fractured egg. That sounded ominous. Something underground, and he'd have an hour to recover something they had taken. He tried opening it again and it resisted him. When he pulled harder, one of the sides broke off and the rest of it fell open. No sound at all. Shit. He broke it.
He finished rinsing off and headed back to the locker room, pondering the new development. His egg had hit the ground and that made it so he could hear part of it. Or was it the soapy water that did it? Did it matter? It was broken now, so that hint was as good as it was going to get for him. Not wanting to risk misremembering the words he quickly scribbled down what he'd heard.
Now he had more information to go on. An hour to recover something while underground. He could only hope that meant a dungeon or something. He wasn't going to be able to transform into a bug or anything.
He put on his uniform and headed quickly to the armory, where he began pulling out his gear. He looked at the scuffed helmet, a mark on the back where it struck a rock while he fought the dragon. Mounted on the front, his GPNVG-18 night vision device. He was suddenly very glad he'd included them in the loadout.
The HK416 he carried had a Surefire flashlight attachment but the night vision device wouldn't give his position away. If he was going to be crawling around in the dark for an hour, he might have an advantage. Being able to see in the dark was a primary component of U.S. military supremacy, and the resolution on these newer devices made life a lot easier.
He pulled out his plate carrier and looked at the ragged hole in the front. It was only about three centimeters in diameter and everything else on the vest looked good. The pouches were all in working condition and the slots for his plates were fine, aside from the hole. He slid another ceramic plate in the front of the vest, deciding not to replace the entire thing. He kind of liked the hole, it gave the vest some character.
Brad spent the next couple hours pulling out equipment, checking batteries and ammunition counts, cleaning the rifle and handgun, and finally replenishing the ammunition and ordinance he'd used. He put everything back into his locker and was satisfied that he'd be ready come time for the next challenge.
Minister Fudge made a vain attempt to adjust himself behind his desk. He was expecting Barnabas Cuffe, the editor and leading force behind the Daily Prophet. Barnabas had been told to arrive after lunch and Fudge had overindulged a little. Now he was feeling especially bloated and uncomfortable.
It had been a particularly stressful time lately and that stress had started taking its toll at home. His wife, bless her heart, insisted on making food when she was upset and, not one to let good food go to waste, he'd been gaining kilos at a steady pace.
The door burst open and Fudge almost knocked over a vial of ink in surprise.
"Good heavens, Martha!" he exclaimed, snatching the ink up before too much of it could spill out. "Knock or something, you don't need to be in such a rush."
"Yes, sir, of course," she said, not looking at him. Her cheeks were flushed and she gestured into the hall. Barnabas Cuffe entered the room, giving the secretary a wide berth. As he took a seat, she turned and started quickly down the hall. Fudge sighed.
"The door, Martha," he muttered under his breath. On cue, she stopped in her tracks and headed back, grabbing the door handle.
"Oh, sorry, the door!" She pulled it closed, a little to quickly. Fudge and Mr. Caffe jumped as the door slammed shut.
"She's an interesting one," Barnabas said as the Minister gently shook his head.
"She's murder on the nerves, let me tell you." Fudge took one last moment to pull himself together and sat up. "Thank you for meeting with me, Barnabas."
"Of course, Minister." The man bowed his head slightly. He'd always been a power chaser, but that suited Fudge just fine. It made him predictable, and that was a valuable thing, so long as Fudge was doing the predicting.
"So, any word on her?" Fudge decided to get to the crux of the meeting early. His bowels were complaining and he hoped to have this get-together complete before anything embarrassing occurred.
"None whatsoever," he replied, shaking his head. "Rita is missing."
"And the last time she was seen was being arrested by the muggle soldiers?" Fudge asked hopefully. He'd been looking for different ways to get the blasted soldiers out of England without upsetting the International Confederation of Wizards. Somehow, some way, they'd managed to fall into favor with many of the ICW nations. France was even rumored to be looking into their own Ansible program. It was all too much.
"No." Caffe didn't seem to take any pleasure in delivering the news. Fudge had expressed his desire to turn public support away from Task Force Ansible, and the editor of the Daily Prophet had been all too happy to oblige. Being in favor with the Minister had its perks, after all. "Many people in Hogsmeade said they saw her leave town on her own. Nothing after that."
"Hmm," Fudge said. It wasn't what he was hoping to hear. If he tried to blame TFA for it, then others stepping forward with the truth would complicate things. Hardly worth it. "Well, we'll need another reporter to work on the Triwizard Tournament. Someone trustworthy."
"I'll have someone sent right away," Barnabas replied, already plotting about what Fudge could do to pay him back.
Harry, finished with his bath, headed to the Great Hall. He'd spent more time than he'd intended to in the bath, relaxing his sore muscles. His sparring sessions with Brad were rough but worth it. They weren't doing it as often as they had last year, but now that he had the basics down, each time had been much more intense.
Brad was going all out in their fights and Harry was actually holding his own, for the most part. He certainly wasn't a special forces operator, but he felt confident he could take on the likes of Malfoy.
Thinking of Malfoy made him smile. The morning after Hermione was released from the infirmary he was walking with a decided limp and looked fairly pained. More than one person asked about it and Malfoy refused flatly to talk about it.
That wasn't all though. Malfoy had bumped into Harry, Hermione and Mike all walking in one of the third floor corridors between classes. He didn't say a word, no acknowledgment that they were around at all. Usually he couldn't wait to make trouble. Harry had his suspicions, but wasn't going to pry for details. He'd just enjoy the peace of mind for a while.
Harry became aware of...something...and it pulled him from his thoughts. He couldn't explain it, but his gut told him he was unsafe. Brad had told him, more than once, that every good soldier listened to their gut.
So, without knowing why, Harry yanked his wand from his robes and ducked into a small alcove in the corridor. As he did so, he saw a streak of red sling past him, right where his head had been a minute ago. He didn't hear anyone say anything which meant they were using nonverbal spells, which meant they were advanced.
Harry remembered something else Brad had taught him. The winner of a fight is almost always the one who takes the initiative. He took a deep breath and ducked his head and wand arm out, swinging it in a small circle.
"Turbinis!" he shouted, seeing someone in the shadows down the hall. He ducked back into the alcove as a blast of blue light shot past him. His spell did its work, however, causing a small tornado to form in the hallway. Rugs, parts from the suits of armor, wreaths, Christmas decorations, and several rather upset paintings all began to swirl around the hall, providing Harry cover to run. It was a trick taught to him by Professor Moody and he was impressed by the maelstrom.
Harry bolted the opposite direction, so focused on getting to the next door that he didn't hear the clattering of everything in his windstorm as it all hit the ground. He felt an impact in the small of his back and suddenly was covered from neck to ankles in thick ropes. He fell forward, smacking his face on the floor.
It took a few moments of him laying there, struggling but helpless, before he heard familiar footsteps behind him. A rhythmic thump every other step. Harry let his head drop to the floor, recognizing what this was.
"I'm impressed, boy!" Professor Moody called out as he neared. The ropes suddenly slackened and Harry pushed himself up. "I didn't think you'd've mastered that spell so quick."
"Not good enough," he said sullenly. He'd been taking extra Defense Against the Dark Arts classes with the professor, who had a pathological habit of trying to beat 'constant vigilance' into him. He shouldn't have been surprised that the professor would try to ambush him.
"No, not good enough," Moody said gruffly, grabbing Harry's shoulder with a firm grip. "But a darn sight better than most. Now, let's clean this up." Moody waved his wand and the suits of armor began picking themselves back up and hanging the portraits back where they belong. Before long, everything was back to the way it should be.
"So, how'd you know?" the professor asked once everything was put back together.
"Captain Gordon told me to listen to my gut. I don't know what it was, but..." Harry paused, still unsure of why he knew something was happening.
"Smart man," Moody said. "You keep it up and you'll be a formidable opponent in no time."
Harry smiled at the uncommon compliment. Moody was a something of a harsh teacher. He wasn't big on coddling people, which made his praise seem all the more important.
"Come on," Moody guided Harry down the hall. "Let's get some food."
Brad chewed the inside of his lip, watching another gaggle of girls enter the Great Hall for lunch. They were all from Ravenclaw and they quickly sat down. His eyes already in that direction, he looked at the table of students from Beauxbatons. Clara was looking at him. She said something that caused Fleur to look his way. He gave her a smile and looked back to his food.
"You have to ask someone," Harry quipped. Ron smiled and Brad grunted.
"I don't see you two courting anyone." He took a large bite of his food. Truth be told it just didn't feel important to him. It wasn't for a lack of trying on the parts of others. Professor McGonagall had, on more than one occasion, informed him he needed to get a date for the dance because he would be opening it with the other champions.
He'd been asked by several girls and said no to every one of them. He did his best to let them down gently, but he was firm with it. He wasn't sure why he was bucking against it so much, but it all felt superficial.
He was fighting for his life in a tournament that he was ill-equipped for at best. Someone was gunning for Harry, and now him, and what, he was supposed to ask a girl to dance with him like none of that was going on? Bullshit.
Brad preferred to spend his time training and working to stay alive. What was the point of spending any of his time learning how to dance and trying to court someone, knowing that once the deployment was up he'd never see her again, it felt pointless. Nothing good would come out of it anyway.
He'd either go to a dance with someone he didn't care to spend time with, in which case it was a waste of time, or he'd go with someone he did develop feelings for only to leave and never see her again. Avoidable grief.
"Well, you don't have to get mean about it," Ron said sullenly, though Brad suspected he was overplaying it a bit. Ron and Harry had been just as reluctant as he was to ask someone to the ball.
There was a little commotion at the Ravenclaw table and Brad turned to see Roger Davies, the captain of their Quidditch team and one of their more popular students, had stood up and headed to the Beauxbatons table. Brad felt his heart sink a little as he stopped to talk to Fleur.
"Would you go to the dance with me?" He was bold in asking her so publicly. Clara, sitting next to Fleur, gave the boy an appraising look and clearly disapproved. Fleur didn't answer straight away, but eventually she did answer.
"Oui," she said, flashing him a dazzling smile. He smiled back, clearly excited. It was just as clear that he didn't know what to do next. He gave a little half bow and mumbled something that Brad couldn't hear before returning to his seat, his many friends slapping his back in congratulations.
Brad watched Clara and Fleur argue for a minute in French. It amused him how expressive they were. The faces they made while talking and listening told the story that he wouldn't have otherwise understood. Clara was not happy about Fleur going with Roger Davies.
At the end of it all, he just told himself again that he didn't want to go to the damned dance anyway.