Declan Alectric had stood at the back of the Great Hall watching the proceedings as the Goblet of Fire chose the champions. His arms crossed over his chest, staring at the hewn-wood cup. He shook his head when the Cup drew Cedric Diggory's name and jotted down his observations on a small notepad he pulled from his pocket, trying to remain as discreet as possible with his bright blue hair. Technically, press had not been invited - but he'd come with Oliver Kent, so he had a secret way in to get the scoop. It was privileges like this that had secured him the position of athletic correspondent at the Daily Prophet - Declan's connection to Oliver had long gotten him a bit ahead.

Now, he was at his desk at the Prophet, looking over the notes he took in the notepad, writing the article that would announce Harry Potter as the unexpected fourth champion. His fingers flew over the magical typewriter keys as he worked, their loud clicking filling his cubical as George Michael smiled up at him from the mug on his desk. He had tacked photos of all four Champions up on the fabric wall and spellotaped bits of paper with their names on them so he wouldn't forget.

Suddenly there was a knock against his cubical wall and he looked up to find Rita Skeeter smiling at him as she leaned against it, her horrid lime-green glasses framing her face and her hot-pink lips garishly bright, washing out her skin rather dreadfully. Declan wondered if he'd get fired if he told her that her pores were so big that at this angle they showed through the layers of caked-on liquid foundation she wore?

"Hi Deccy," Rita purred, smiling at him with amusement.

"I'm busy Rita, you'll have to go annoy some other poor bloke," Declan said. "I have a deadline."

Rita's smile only grew more wicked. "Oh," she said, "What story are you working on?" She batted her magically enhanced lashes at him.

Declan didn't even look up, "The Triwizard Tournament of course. They announced the champions earlier tonight and --"

"You mean Krum, Delacor, Diggory, and Potter?"

Declan's eyes pulled from his typewriter, which continued on clicking noisily as he swiveled in his hair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared up at her. "How do you know that already?"

"One who's been assigned to a particular topic ought to know all the details of their topic, don't you think?" Rita cooed, grinning as she looked at her nails.

"What?"

"Didn't you hear? Because of my outstanding achievement covering the World Cup during the summer, Smudgley assigned me to cover the Tournament! Can you believe it?" Rita pressed her palm to her heart in incredulity. "I've never been asked to cover such a large story before, I told Smudgley, I do hope I'll be able to do it justice! And he said of course you will Rita; he was positively popping with good things to say about me..."

Declan's ears had stopped functioning properly after the declaration that Smudgely had assigned her to the Tournament.

He pushed himself backward quickly, getting up out of his seat and hustling down the aisle between cubicles, Rita Skeeter buzzing after him as he moved, her mouth curved in a grin of pure entertainment, her high heels clicking on the floor all the way through the Prophet and right into the Editor's wing. Declan banged on Smudgley's door but didn't wait to be invited in.

Andy Smudgley sat behind his desk looking rather frazzled, his hair a disheveled mess and his desk unorganized. He plucked papers up, looked them over, and muttered to himself as he shuffled through them. He looked up with surprise at the intrusion when Declan Alectric and Rita Skeeter entered his office. He raised his eyebrow - these two were always in his office trying to settle arguments. "I know what you're here for Alectric and I don't have time for you right now, you'll have to come back and fight with me tomorrow."

"Uh, no, I don't think this can wait until then because, you see, you have to put the paper to bed in... slightly more than an hour... and you don't have a piece written by your athletics correspondent on the biggest athletics challenge in multiple decades," Declan said, snooty tone to his voice. He flapped his arms like a muppet and Rita's eyes glimmered with amusement. "Seems like that's something you don't want to wait on, dunnit???"

Smudgley sighed heavily. "Rita's already handed her copy in."

Rita grinned.

"Impossible," Declan replied, "I only just got back from Hogwarts within the half hour. She hasn't even had time to --"

"Not everyone writes as slowly as you do, Deccy," Rita murmured.

"Real writers don't work with a Quick Quote Quill," he snapped back.

Smudgley glanced at Rita. "We don't accept articles written by a Quick Qu--"

"Spreading rumors about other writers on your own staff, Alectric! Really!" Rita grinned. "Besides, we all know why you were late getting back from the Goblet of Fire ceremony anyway, don't we, Declan? Didn't come right back straight away, did you?"

Declan glowered at her. How did she know everything? he wondered. He had, indeed, gone to see to it that Oliver Kent was set at the Inn in Hogsmeade before disapparating back to the Daily Prophet offices to write his article - but that hadn't delayed him by much.

"I'm not here to play referee between you two," Smudgley said, interupting before Declan could so much as squawk out a retort. "The story's been assigned. Sorry, Alectric. You're our best Quidditch writer, of course, but this isn't strictly an athletics piece. It's also a human interest piece. We really want all our readers on board, not just our quidditch lot. Rita's recent work has been quite exemplary and --"

Declan tuned the rest of the reasoning out. He didn't need or want to hear any more of it. By the time he got back to his desk a bit later and he'd sank into the seat, he just stared at the screen that showed what he'd already written of the piece on the Tournament, frustrated, and he slammed his fingers against the key to delete all his words, watching as the cursor ran backwards over them. They disappeared one by one.

The most infuriating part was that Declan had the ultimate inside scoop on all this, of course, but he couldn't very well tell them that.

Declan, after all, knew already how the Tournament would turn out - it was one of the unchangeable things.

Declan glanced about and opened his desk drawer, rifling about until he found a yellow notepad and flipped through the first few top pages, where he'd scribbled notes and made doodles of George Michael's face until he got to where he kept the real reason he had the notepad handy.

Dates.

Lists of dates without any annotation for why they were listed.

1 November 1994 was midway through, scratched off with pencil - the latest in a long list of dates that had a line drawn through them. The next one was  24 November 1994. The date of the first task in the Triwizard Tournament. 

Declan stared at the date, trying to remember all the details, wishing he'd taken more concise notes... 

How had he let himself get side tracked?

Seen a pretty face and forgotten everything, hadn't he?

Everything he'd been working for all this time?

He ran a finger over the dates, one by one, letting his mind wander over the ones he knew the meaning of all the way through until he found the most important one.

He stared at it for several moments.

Suddenly there was a thrumming noise on the desk and he looked up to see his business card was glowing - he was being summoned. He sighed and closed the notepad, slid it back in the drawer, and carefully re-covered it with odds and ends to bury it inconspicuously at the bottom of a load of office supplies. Then he sighed, plucked the card up from the table and hurried to the exit of the Daily Prophet, where he turned on the spot and disapparated away.

When he'd left, a tiny beetle crawled out of the WHAM! mug that sat on his desk, stretching it's wings as it sat on the eraser tip of a pencil before fluttering down to walk across the desktop and slip through the crack in the drawer.

Declan was in Hogsmeade when he reappeared. 

He walked briskly through the little village, passing the fountain and turning into the Three Broomsticks. 

Oliver Kent was easy to find. He was slouched in one of the booths that lined the wall, a collection of empty pint glasses on the table in front of him, slouching against the bench. Declan shook his head and sidled up. "Well don't you look like a fresh pile of hippogriff dung," he murmured, looking Oliver over.  "Why did you leave the inn? I had you all settled."

"Settled," Oliver laughed. "Nothing's settled. He's playing me hot and cold, Declan."

"Who is?"

"Wally Grant. Hot and cold, hot and cold..."

"What do you mean?"

"He's gone home to his wife," Oliver murmured. "To his new life. Can't blame him; I'd leave me too. I pushed him, didn't I? Push, push, push, and I'm never happy 'til it's broken with everyone, am I?"

"Ah, so it's time to call in Deccy now then?" Declan asked, voice laced with sarcasm.

Oliver looked up at Declan with pathetic eyes. "P'haps it's me what's broken?"

Declan sighed.  Oliver was far too  drunk to endure a lecture now, so Declan decided to let go of the frustration he was feeling. He held out a hand, pulling Oliver to his feet. "Did you pay your tab?"

"Yeah a fair share and a bit more," Oliver slurred.

Declan nodded and tugged Oliver's arm 'round his shoulders, helping him along as he walked him out of the pub and into the street.

"You hear about Harry Potter being put in the Tourney?" Oliver asked, voice smushed together. Luckily, Declan had plenty of practice deciphering what Oliver Kent was saying when he was messed up.

"I did," Declan nodded. "I was there."

"Ah," Oliver said. He shook his head, "Poor kid didn't need that rubbish... Didn't need that rubbish at all... has 'nuff rubbish... so much like his Dad... You ever meet James Potter, Deccy?"

"A time or two," Declan answered vaguely. They were stumping along past the fountain towards the Inn where Oliver was staying.

"Great man," Oliver said.

"Mhm," Declan agreed.

"I should've offered to train Harry instead of Cedric," murmured Oliver, "...needs it more'n DIggory... just a kid..."

Declan said, "Technically you can't train any of the Champions. You're quidditch training Cedric, remember? Different than triwizard training. They can't ask for help with the tournament, remember?"

Oliver sighed heavily.

"Harry will be alright," Declan murmured. He glanced at Oliver.

He wished he could warn him.

Wished he could say what he was thinking.

But he couldn't.

So he just walked with Oliver to the inn, got him back up to the room, and unceremoniously dumped him on the bed. 

"Stay with me?" Oliver asked.

Declan shook his head, "I can't, Oll. Wally Grant might be gone for now but he'll be back."

"Stay as a friend?"

Declan sighed and shook his head again. "Sorry, Oliver, darling, but I simply must decline."

Oliver frowned, but he accepted the answer and didn't argue further.

Declan brushed hair off Oliver's forehead and stared into his face for several long moments as Oliver settled down and slowly drifted away into sleep.

Declan sighed and stood up. He waved his wand, a glass beside the bed filled with water and he reached into his pockets and produced a small bag and left behind a couple low-dose ibprofin on the night stand, then he slipped back out the door of the Inn and onto the street and disapparated away.