AN - Quick reassurance, the story is definitely not dead. Just have had a killer writers block lately and a crippling case of the "very busies." Enjoy!

Brad tried to remember the last time he'd had his ass chewed so thoroughly, but he was drawing a blank. While Instructor Martinez had a way of making a trainee feel like a special kind of fuck-up, it simply didn't hold a candle to the creative and colorful tongue-lashing he had received from Colonel Sumner.

It wasn't all bluster and haughtiness, either. The colonel had illustrated, with the detailed thoroughness of an auditor and the red-faced thunder of Zeus himself, why Brad needed to maintain his discipline and focus at all times. That, and the supreme disappointment he felt in Brad's lapse of self-control. Brad left Sumner's office with his ears ringing and a twisted feeling in his gut.

He wasn't sure how long it'd been, but the sun was up and the morning was starting to warm. He sat on the log where he'd spent an evening with Fleur and stared at the lake, running the events over in his head. He could plainly see, looking back, each error in judgment and how it had cascaded into the next.

Without realizing it, he'd allowed himself to fall into the trap of overconfidence. Thrown off kilter by being the underdog in a magic-based competition, he had stubbornly insisted on proving to himself that he could do this on his own. When his egg broke he hadn't allowed himself to even consider asking for help repairing it. He just charged on with incomplete information and confidence in his own interpretation.

That confidence crashed down around him when he stepped outside and saw the lake, now looking deceptively peaceful. He was off balance and had compensated poorly. When he saw the hostag...volunteers...underwater, he'd lost his objectivity. Dumbledore had shown nothing but the utmost care for his students and Sumner had done the same for those under his command. Even the Ministry of Magic, in it's uniquely supremacist way, had been careful not to cause harm to the students. Yes, the tournament was still incredibly dangerous and potentially fatal, but they'd taken many safety measures.

None of that factored into his mind when he saw them. Using his heart to think instead of his mind, he saw carelessness, danger, wanton disregard for the safety of minors, and it set him off. It wasn't a mistake he intended to make again, however.

He heard a twig snap under someone's foot from somewhere behind him and was immediately pulled from his thoughts. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Jason and Eric, both of whom gave up trying to walk quietly.

"Goddamnit," Jason sighed, "I knew I blew it with that twig."

"Yeah," Brad chuckled as the operators took up spots on the log to either side of him. "You were never cut out to be a ninja." Jason grunted in agreement but said nothing. "So, what brings you guys out here?"

"Well," Eric started. He didn't seem to know where to go with it, so Jason cut in.

"We both received shiny new assholes, courtesy of the colonel."

"That," Eric agreed, sticking a finger in his ear and flexing his jaw.

"The colonel definitely has a way with words," Brad agreed. They sat there silently for a moment and listened to distant birds chirping. Brad stood up suddenly and turned to face them, feeling guilty. "Look, guys, I'm sorry. I fucked up, let it get to me. I'm sorry I dragged you into that."

Jason gave Eric a quick glance, a simple are you thinking what I'm thinking kind of look that was forged over years of spending their lives so closely knit. Brad caught the subtle flex in Eric's jaw along with his slight nod, movements that would be nearly imperceptible to the layperson.

"Cap, it all looked shady. No one told us shit and with the way it looked…" Jason trailed off the memory of holding the coughing young girl in his arms. "We've got your back."

"Yeah," Brad nodded, not knowing what else to say. "I'll try to judge better next time. I don't know if my ears could take much more of that," he said, nodding in the general direction of the FOB. They chuckled and Eric stood up as well, digging into one of the cargo pockets in his pants.

"I almost forgot," he said, pulling a slightly wrinkled envelope out and handing it to Brad.

"Yeah, Sumner wanted us to get that to you." Jason commented, more interested in a stick he'd picked up off the ground. Brad turned the blank envelope over and opened it, pulling out a small note.

Captain Gordon,

At the request of the French Bureau de Liaison Moldu, with authorization from President Christopher Harris of the Magical Congress of the United States of America and General Raymond Thomas of the Joint Special Operations Command, you are ordered to report to the Beauxbatons Carriage to facilitate inquiries about Task Force Ansible. Arrive at 1600 hrs and return to your duty station by 0800 hrs.

Colonel Sumner

"Huh," Brad grunted after reading the note. He showed it to the other operators, both of whom made similar noises.

"Damn, guess you're moving up in the world," Eric said, grinning at the disbelieving look on Brads' face.

"That or he pissed someone off," Jason said, smiling. "You have fun with that!"

For the first time that morning, Brad checked his watch. It was already almost coming up on noon. His gear was all stowed in his locker but after he had left it crumpled on the dock during the second task, he wanted to get it all cleaned up and in good order before the day was over. Having lost the evening to the whim of the French Ministry, he had his work cut out for him.

"I heard them," Hermione said, sitting quickly on the edge of the common room couch. Her back was straight and her hands were clasped together between her knees as she glanced up at Mike. "You volunteered."

"I-" Mike opened his mouth but the venomous look she shot him told him that she wasn't finished talking, so he closed it. She was pissed. He'd let slip as he started his speech that his trip to London had been, in part, related to his role in the second task. Part of loving a girl with a quick mind meant that...misinformation with a romantic intent...could rapidly land him in hot water.

"I talked to Hannah Abbot. You all were taken yesterday morning. You were gone for a long time before that and all of the others were volunteers. Are you saying that Colonel Sumner ordered you to go to London for a month in order to have you ready for the tournament?" He could tell by the tone in her voice that she already knew the answer.

"Well, not strictly speaking-" he started, but she cut him off again. Her face was flushed and her eyes watered, but the strength in her voice never wavered.

"Not strictly speaking?" she asked. "You let me believe that you'd been ordered to leave, to be gone over Valentine's Day...but you chose to." She let the accusation hang silent and there was almost a pleading look in her eye. She knew the facts but she didn't want them to be true and as much as Mike wanted to be able to give her that small comfort, he couldn't lie to her. Not directly, not over something this big. He fidgeted with the ring in his pocket. This had all gone so wrong.

"You're right," Mike said quietly. Hermione let a breath out that sounded like she'd been punched in the gut. He wanted to step closer, to comfort her, but he wasn't sure that it was what she wanted from him at the moment. "It wasn't an order."

She stared straight ahead, chewing on her lip in a way that made him cringe. Tears welled in her eyes but didn't spill over as she sat there, silent. Mike kept rubbing the ring, wanting to pull it out. To give it to her and tell her, but this was all wrong. He didn't want the first time he said it to be to repair a fight...that would diminish its meaning. She'd probably believe him, but he didn't want her to doubt it. It would be special, magical, but that meant it would have to wait.

She looked up at him and the movement broke the tears free from their hold on her eyelashes. "Was it something I did?" she asked in an almost broken voice. He felt the breath knocked from his body at the ludicrous place her mind had gone, his throat constricting. She was staring through him now, wracking her brain for meaning. "Was it how I did my hair for the ball, or-"

That was as far as he let her get. Jesus, this had all gone wrong. "No," he said, crossing the short distance between them, sitting and pulling her into an embrace all in one motion. It sent her over the edge and she began sobbing. Mike ran his fingers through her hair. "You didn't do a damned thing wrong, this was me. I was focused on my task and I wasn't thinking and I am so sorry for that, Hermione." He didn't know what else to say, so he held her.

Brad stood outside the Beauxbatons' carriage for several moments, feeling a little more nervous than he'd have preferred. He had spent the day trying to get some information on who had requested him for this assignment, wondering if Sumner was doing it as punishment for him losing his cool during the second task.

Finally, after not getting anything locally, he'd made his way up to the attic above the Astronomy tower, where TFA had set up its local communications hub. Lieutenant Offerman was on duty and that extorting bastard had allowed him to borrow a satphone for an hour, at the cost of his three remaining cheese tortellini MREs.

He made a couple calls to Fort Bragg to see what he could find out. The result of his hour of inquiries left him regretting the transaction all together. He hadn't been able to pull strings so much as gently tug on some threads, and all he found out was that someone in the French Ministry had contacted someone at MACUSA and requested that they send someone to answer questions about the Ansible program. JSOC loved its redacted documents.

So here he was, with the knowledge that he was here to get grilled about TFA, and not much else. No sense stewing, he thought to himself and raised a hand to knock. His arm was still raised when the door swung open and the imposing figure of Madame Maxine stood in the doorway.

"Capi-tan Gordon," she greeted him in a heavy accent as she stepped out of the doorway. Brad lowered his arm and stepped inside, removing his hat. He'd opted to wear fatigues and his sidearm, secretly hopeful that he might unnerve whatever bureaucrat they'd sent. A long shot, especially since most magical folk seemed not to have a healthy respect for firearms, but one could dream.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Brad replied. "I'm here to answer some questions." He took a look around the room he was standing in. The place was colossal. They were standing in what looked like a lounging room, with several love seats and chairs, including a large one that looked like it had been made of reinforced oak. The ceiling was vaulted and had an expensive looking chandelier hanging, bathing the lounging room with soft light.

To the left and right were hallways that edged further back into the carriage, lined with doors. Likely the student quarters. Between the hallways sat a kitchen and dining room combination sporting a...chocolate fountain, of all things.

"I 'ad it brought in for La Saint-Valentin," Madame Maxine commented, tracking the operators gaze. "It 'as been difficult to let go of."

"I'm sure," Brad replied, tearing his eyes away from the luxury and returning them to the headmistress. "So, where am I headed?"

"Over 'ere." She was standing by her reinforced chair. As he started over, she gestured to a crystal liquor decanter that was devoid of contents.

"Uh," Brad started, unsure where she was going with this.

"It eez one of my favorite decanters," she said. "It will take you to ze chateau."

Brad reached for it, a thought tickling the back of his mind. It took him a moment to register what she was saying. It would take him to the chateau. Before he could stop himself, he'd gripped the decanter. A hook grabbed him by the gut and yank him off his feet.

The world spun around him for longer than he'd experienced during their trip to the Quidditch Cup. As he was starting to wonder if he would be stuck spinning like this forever, he started catching glimpses. An office of some kind, coming up fast. He tried to get his feet underneath him but his knees buckled on impact and he crumpled to the ground.

"Ça, alors!" a deep voice rumbled from nearby. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Brad began to push himself up and felt a firm grasp on his upper arm, assisting him in standing. Brad straightened his fatigues and glanced around the office, then at the man. The office was roomy and modestly decorated, primarily by bookshelves. There were a few tables with trinkets that he couldn't identify, along with a desk. The room was gently lit by ceiling lights, though a fireplace added its own light to the relaxing atmosphere.

"Right on time," the man said, a French inflection barely perceptible. He was an older man, half a head taller than Brad. His jet-black hair was closely cropped and he wore a matching triangular beard. His eyes were sharp, though the wrinkles around them spoke of years of laughter. The man had a fighters physique, albeit one that had seen some years of neglect. If Brad had been a betting man he'd guess that his host had been a soldier in a past life, or some wizarding equivalent anyhow. "Please, have a seat." He gestured to one of the cozy, padded chairs on the other end of the desk as he sat down in his own chair. Curiously, there was little padding on his own behind the desk.

"Thank you, sir," Brad replied, sitting on the edge of the chair. The holster for his sidearm was situated on his thigh and he didn't want it digging into his leg, or the side of the chair.

"I see you came armed," the wizard said, glancing to the conspicuous sidearm.

"Never leave home without it," Brad nodded. "Where am I? That went on longer than it did the last time."

"Perceptive," he smiled. "Yes, the distance you traveled to the Quidditch Cup was much less. You are in France, outside of Saint-Bonnet-du-Gard." He chuckled as Brad raised his eyebrows, the only indication of shock that slipped out. France was a long way from Hogwarts. "Relax, Captain. I arranged this with your leadership ahead of time."

"Right," Brad replied, shelving that bit of worry for later. "You had some questions about Task Force Ansible."

"I must admit, my reasons for requesting your presence are two-fold." He leaned back into his chair, clasping his hands together. "As the head of the Muggle Liaison Office, your Ansible program has thrust my work into the limelight, so to speak. I am coordinating the creation of our own, similar program."

"Congratulations," Brad said, and he meant it. If France was anything like Britain, the Muggle Liaison Office would have been a backwater post originally. If the French were planning on throwing their chips in as the United States did, creating their own Ansible program, that meant they needed someone who knew muggles to help smooth that process, which meant what likely amounted to a promotion. It would also be nice to have allies in the fight against whatever magical threats were out there.

"Thank you," he nodded before sitting forward and placing his arms on the desk. "The other reason for my bringing you here is to say thank you." He seemed to be staring into Brads' soul, though there was no hint of malice. Brad was simply missing some bit of information.

"Sir?" Brad asked, shifting uncomfortably. With a chuckle, the man broke his deep gaze.

"You have a penchant for saving my daughters, Captain Gordon," he said. The pieces fell together. This was Fleur's father. Oh damn. "And for that, I am thankful. Before we progress into the evening, however, let's get the business out of the way."

Howard Eden looked at a copy of the note that had been intercepted from Rufus Scrimgeours' counterpart in Albania and smiled.

Rufus,

It is good to hear from you again, old friend. How is your leg? I still owe you big for saving my guys from that coven.

I looked into our open cases and we do have a body that matches your description, mostly. It is difficult to tell with one-hundred percent certainty, the body looks like it was set upon by an animal. Snake if I had to guess, based on some of the puncture marks, but only some of the limbs are intact...

Well, anyway, if you're certain she went missing here, I'd give it 80% probability that this is your witch. Sorry to deliver bad news. Let me know if there is anything more I can do to help.

Ilir

"Ava," Howard flashed a dazzling smile at the pudgy young witch, causing her to blush. "You have no idea how much work you've saved me."

"Oh, Mr. Eden," she started, but she stopped when Howard took her hand and kissed it, her blush deepening.

"You, my dear, are a lifesaver." He gave her a wink. "You keep that eye out for me, honey." With a smile that kept her in that mushy, melted state, he turned and stepped outside, to the thick trees of Richmond Park, twirling his stubby wand between his fingers.

Well, that settled it. Between that and the little rumors that he was hearing from former Death Eaters, Lord Voldemort was definitely returning. No one spoke directly of it, of course, but Howard had spent his entire time in England setting up his intelligence network, and all of the individual bits were pointing in one direction.

His crown jewel, of course, was young Ava. An owl-keeper at the largest Owlery in London, Ava was in a perfect place to intercept mail for him. All she had to do was a simple replication charm he'd taught her and he got an exact copy of the mail without anyone the wiser. It didn't even cost him money, she was content with his flirtation. The poor thing must be deprived of anyone who cared, as easy to manipulate as she was.

He also spent a lot of time listening to the idle chatter of former Death Eaters, with whom he'd befriended in his original plan to own this little slice of real estate. They were starting to worry, among themselves, that the "Dark Lord" was returning, something to do with enchanted tattoos. What a pretentious name, at least Voldemort sounded cool, but Dark Lord? He rolled his eyes.

But, if he really was returning, then Howard was going to need to shift his plans. Usurping control from the remaining Death Eaters would have been easy, back when they were a bunch of disbanded and leaderless peons. With their leader returning, he couldn't hope to just wrest control. Things would need to be more subtle.

Subtle was okay, though. With the Ministry of Magic butting heads with the Death Eaters, another powerful force by any respect, he could almost taste the power vacuum that would be left if he played his cards right.

He paused the twirl of his wand, gripping it in a maneuver that had taken him years of practice to perfect, and conjured parchment, a quill and an envelope. All of it floated in the air in front of him. Studying the copy of Mr. Ilir's letter, he focused and the quill began to transcribe for him in the same exact cursive of the original letter.

Rufus,

It is good to hear from you again. How is your leg?

I looked into our open cases and we had a body here that could maybe have been your witch, but it was already disposed of as an Unsolvable, so there's no way to know for sure. I'm sorry there isn't more.

This makes us even,

Ilir

Howard smiled at the perfect match to the handwriting, a trick he'd picked up in North Carolina, and placed the letter in the envelope. Another perk about using his duplicating spell on a letter is that it left a trace on the letter that one could track, if they were looking for it. Duplication spells weren't particularly common, though, especially on mail, so he wasn't worried about anyone else doing it.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the primary room in the Owlery, feeling for the original letter. When he found it, he floated the letter out of the window, sending the replacement in simultaneously. The owl charged with transporting the letter began to shriek as it slipped away, but it calmed back down when his version came back in. Simple creatures, owls.

His version of the letter suited his needs perfectly. It gave Mr. Scrimgeour the fuel he needed to keep digging, without giving him proof that could sway Minister Fudge. He wanted to keep both sides of the table open for a little while longer, while he finished setting things up.