.

and all that's best of dark and bright

.

.

.

For all of the vast technology that surrounds them, the computers years ahead of their time and the specialist equipment developed solely for their purpose, it seems sacrilege to be within such an environment right now. Especially given what they are about to attempt.

While certainly not a hardened individual within the machine of HYDRA, Michael Hughes has been a member, so to speak, of the organisation for the past five years and counting. He's smart enough to recognise he'd been conditioned in hindsight, smart enough to conclude it's still happening at this very moment, but too enthralled with the whole thing to really care.

It's not that he's a fanatical believer, but certainly he's displeased enough with the current status quo to be present in this uncomfortable chair. Michael runs his eyes over the telling list of numbers, the even longer list of words. Any excuse to keep his eyes off of the looming figure the masked Asset cuts in the northernmost corner of the room.

So instead, Michael turns his attentions to the words before him, fingers tracing over the handwritten prose. If he focuses, he can fell the indentations within the paper, the points where he's pressed just a bit too hard with his pen. He's… cautious about their current circumstances, it just doesn't feel right to be doing this. Oh, he knows the old tales, knows that the founder of HYDRA once discovered power beyond what humans had first had access to, had dabble with the powers of the gods.

But according to records, that very power killed him, tore him away into a distant corner of the universe where he was no doubt eaten alive. If recent events have proven anything, it is that there is far more out there than they are actually equipped to deal with. That doesn't mean that they should be dabbling in something like this though.
It's taken the linguistic team weeks to crack the 'spell' they found in an old tome, wrote centuries ago in what they have come to conclude is a bastardised variation of Latin. Some of the words just don't make any coherent sense no matter what context they're placed in, but the team appear to have gotten the general gist of it.

Using the stealthily fragments of old HYDRA war tech, the higher tier of HYDRA have all come together and decided to give a serious attempt to this madness. If he were the kind of person to have second thoughts about his actions, then they would have been surely squashed in the face of all of HYDRA's most important people.

As things stand, he's just a little bit in awe of Alexander Pierce who fearlessly approaches HYDRA's greatest weapon. The Winter Soldier is stood out of the way, but is by far the most domineering presence in the room, Michael would be a fool to believe otherwise. He knows the linguists have concluded strong willpower is required for this ritual to work, and there is none with greater focus than the Asset. That doesn't mean it Michael's hands aren't quaking with violent shivers.

Forcibly he turns his attention back to his notes, trying to ignore the dead eyes that scan the room periodically. They never focus on him, but that doesn't mean Michael avoids the burning sear of paranoia taking root deep in his bones. He's loyal, there's no reason at all why they'd send the solider after him, he's not important enough to warrant such an assassin even if he did want to defect. He'd probably have one of the STRIKE team after him, and even that would be at a push.

Running a hand through his hair, Michael flicks his eyes over to Judy Cormer, head of the linguistics team. She's frowning down at her own papers, brows drawn together and skin between puckering under the pressure. Has she found something wrong with the translations?

Michael flicks his own gaze back down the prefatory sheets everyone had been given, rereading all that was upon the pages. It's still the same though, still a rough translation that indicates they will be summoning up a power greater than Death itself.

Only, they need to have a solid anchor, someone who can continuously fight and reel in just what they are trying to hook. There's no one upon HYDRA's payroll stronger than the Winter Solider, or so say the higher ups. Quite frankly, Michael doesn't want to be here to witness this in the slightest, even if there's a flourishing curiosity over just how this is going to go down.

There's a large ten by ten foot square within the centre of the room, runic circles that look like something fresh from the scene of a horror movie, the pattern's painted in blood. The liquid has long since dried out, just as the instructions stated, and Michael has no desire to learn just where they acquired that much human blood. Somehow, he gets the feeling it's not been sourced from the local blood-bank.

"Alright there, Hughes?"

Flicking his gaze around to stare at Abbeyrise, Michael nods slowly, shoulders squared beneath the heavy gaze of his superior.

Across the room, Pierce is now speaking to the Asset, hands clasped calmly behind his back. It only takes Michael another moment to locate the duo of snipers in the roof that have the Asset trained in their sights. Just in case. It's like being in a room with a wolf, only Michael is nothing more than an insect, inconsequential. If the wolf goes after the meat though, there's still a very real possibility that he's going to get trod on. And he really does not want to die beneath the wolf's paws.

Orders are being relayed off to the Asset who stands tall at attention before the man who now heads their specific branch of HYDRA.

"It's starting," Abbeyrise mutters, stepping back into position as the eerie blue fragments starts to flicker with light. There's all sorts of machinery attached to them, Pierce determined to get as much as he can from the extraterrestrial items before they're shipped off elsewhere for study. Probably somewhere in Europe given HYDRA's origins.

"Positions!" Someone booms and Michael pushes back and away from his desk, hyperaware of the gun strapped to his trousers leg, the one that has suddenly become so much heavier.

The purposeful clunk of boots signals the Asset approaching the middle of the runic circle, halting in the epicentre. In his heavy duty combat gear, the mask and goggles, even the gleaming metal arm; it all looks terribly out of place in his wiccan like surroundings. He's armed to the teeth with guns and knives, under orders to forcibly subdue anything or anyone that gets in the way.

Michael's not comfortable with the idea of using the Winter Soldier as the battery of this ritual, mainly because if anything happens they will be losing one of their coveted ace cards. He's only on the peripheries when it comes to understanding just how much the Asset has influenced the world as it is now, but that is already more than enough knowledge to know they shouldn't be risking such a weapon like this. He's not anyone of importance though, so he doesn't really get a say in this.

The fragments quiver, the blood upon the floor taking on an unearthly glow.

The atmosphere feels oppressive; Michael had been in New Mexico last year. A supposed member of SHIELD, he'd had the best medical care for his sprained shoulder and was field ready after a week.
But he still remembers the god, Thor. He still remembers how the air had grown heavy with his very presence, how the earth seemed to have trembled as he clashed with that robot.

That very atmosphere surrounds him now as the room almost buckles for a millisecond.

It's a millisecond too long though and Michael can see genuine worry on his colleagues faces.
In the centre of the arrangement, the Asset has been forced to one knee, metal arm supporting his broad form with silver fingers digging troughs into the floor. The sound the action makes is unholy, the runic circle seemingly to dim slightly before it flares hotter.

The Asset lets out a grunt of effort, sweat beading on the slice of skin exposed between goggles and mask.

This, this does not look good.

Pierce makes the call to abort, but when one of the scientists makes a move for the fragments, they lash out, preventing their removal just as the Asset is forced to kneel under the pressure.

The tension in the room reaches peak and Michael has just a moment to consider fleeing for his life when the whole thing goes supernova.

Bright light sears into his eyelids, blinding him, and it is accompanied by a thunderous cracking sound.
The force of it throws him to the floor, back impacting with the leg of a chair.

And then all is still.

Blinking the spots out of his eyes, Michael tentatively forces his arms under him, the limbs trembling with the effort.

As he peers around with vision no better than that of a mole, he finds all of his fellow HYDRA members in no better state, each either slowly recovering from their current situation or still laid flat out upon their backs.

Pushing himself up into something that comes close to resembling a sitting position, Michael's eyes crinkle shut under the protest his head gives at the motion.

Everything hurts, as if he's been in the most intense workout of his life and his limbs have just decided that they refuse to do anything more. It's past the sensation of burning, it's every muscle in his body is suddenly twice as heavy and thrice as stiff.

Still, fearful of the possible results should he not, Michael forces himself into a steady sitting position, no matter how much his back screams not to.

Pierce is just about struggling to his feet, one hand clenched on the end of an upturned table. There's something far more distressing about the current situation though.

Michael's breath has caught in his throat, his eyes locked on the ritual circle.

The runes are smeared now, blown away. The fragments have removed themselves from the container set up specifically to power the spell, now embedded in the southern wall and no longer glowing ominously. That's not the most worrisome thing though.

What has Michael's heart in his throat and his stomach by his feet, is the distinct lack of the Asset.
The circle is empty, he's completely gone.

There's no footprints leading out of the circle, nothing to indication he left or relocated. Instantly, the tale of their respected founder and how he met his sticky end flashes before Michael's eyes.

Have they sent the Asset off to who knows where? Has he been torn apart by the power of the ritual?

"I want the recordings, I want a search for the Asset, and I want to know what the hell went wrong!" Pierce demands, everyone snapping to attention and racing about to complete the demands.

Michael knows he will be no help with any of those things, and instead eventually finds himself by Judy Cormer, who is still staring down at her copies of the translations.

Only, she's circled some of the pig-Latin words. Coming off of that, she's scribbled out the notes from before, dismissing the 'power greater than Death'.

Instead, scrawled across the page in thick red ink are the words 'Master of Death'.

If that's not ominous, then Michael doesn't know what is.

.
.

.

.

She hates visiting the Ministry on her days off.

Twenty-six-year-old Hariel Lily Potter stands half hidden behind the walls of her office, sucking in a low, shallow breath as she tries to drum up the courage to go out there.

You'd think after eight years things would have calmed down by now. But no.

Everywhere she goes, it'd only be minutes before the paparazzi spawned into existence nearby. It's become even worse recently, now that Hermione and Ron are not only married, but expecting their first child.
Harry's ecstatic for them, she really is. She'd never wish ill upon her best friends, not in the slightest, and she's only excited and giddy at the thought of having another godchild.

But, the attention that has come along with it... Everyone wants to know who she's dating -nobody- when she's going to be settling down -not anytime soon- even when she's going to be popping out children of her own -they're gonna be in for a wait- and she's tired of it. Every damn day when she's not on the job, they swarm her.

None of the press dare get close when she's on official duty, given that the last time that'd happened she'd arrested a reporter for 'obstructing justice'. Not that they really had been in her way, she could have worked around them, but it was an excuse to get them off her back.

It'd worked and now whenever she goes out on Auror business, they never bother her. Any time off work though, that's seen as fair game.

Like right now.

.

Fingers curling into the ledge of her fireplace, Hariel fortifies herself, thanking every god under the sun that she's managed to claw her way up to a position important enough to warrant an office. Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; it's an excessively long title but it's one she's earned through sweat and toil, one that hasn't come about because of Voldemort or anything connected to that.

Near eight years she's worked as an Auror, near eight years. She knows what she's doing now, and it's a hell of a lot harder than she'd first expected.

It's not all guts and glory, taking down dark wizards left and right. There's undercover work, there's the legwork on a case, there's researching that's forced her to channel her inner Hermione.

And the paperwork, dear Merlin, the paperwork. There's so much of it, everything has to be noted down, everything has to get filed, and may the Founders help her if she gets one little blip of information wrong.

"Deputy Potter?"

Cringing slightly, Harry swings round, reminding herself to start locking the door. Usually it's only ever closed when she's in a private meeting, wanting to feel a kinship towards her fellow enforcers. Something that is currently working against her now.

"Not so loud, Williamson. Don't want the press knowing I'm in the building. Not until I make it to Kingsley's office anyway."

Williamson chuckles, the older Auror waving her off as he deposits a handful of reports upon her desk.

Harry grimaces at the sight of them, lips pulling down into a furious frown. Merlin damn it, would the paperwork never stop breeding?

Summoning up the courage that'd allowed her to step before Voldemort so many times before, Harry approaches the door to her office and centres herself before striding out.

Apart from Williamson, there are four others at work within their cubicles; Fantasm, Darkdot, Hart and Target. All four of them seem deeply into their work, and Harry recalls that Cytherea Appetenci is out on undercover work, otherwise she too would be labouring away at her desk.

They all pause in what they're doing to give her a low nod or gentle wave of greeting, something which Harry happily returns. These people know she's not infallible, they know she's not perfect or going to fall into the pretence of the perfect wife the press keep trying to force her into. These people have seen her forget her lunch, seen her swear and gripe with her paperwork, have seen her cover in blood and sweat from a hard day at work. They know she's human.

Now if only the rest of the idiots out there could see that.

.

She manages to reach the last corridor before they notice her presence.

It's not a viable option to make it to Kingsley's office under the hood of her invisibility cloak, but by Merlin did Harry wish it were.

Two interns -they have to be interns, she's never seen them before now- gape at her as she walks past and Harry grimaces.

Is this what it's like to be a muggle celebrity? If so, she can't see why they would possibly chase after such a life. There is barely anyone who doesn't want to know what kind of food she likes, what kind of dates she enjoys going on, even what kind of underwear she likes wearing.

In hindsight, maybe it hadn't been so smart to jokingly state she didn't wear any. The taunts that'd come after the press had taken her words seriously; well, Harry's learnt her lesson about speaking to the lot of them.

Now she just tries to get on with her life.

She doesn't really have a choice unless she wants one of her colleagues to be arresting her by the end of the day.

Although that would give her an escape from her paperwork, even if only for a little bit.

Contemplating the idea, Harry stops at the door to Kingsley's office, rapping her knuckles thrice against the polished wood and leaning back on her heels once she was done.

"Harry Potter! Harry Potter!"

Merlin, she recognises that voice.

Kingsley's command for his visitor to enter could not have come at a better time, and Harry takes great pleasure in being able to slide in through the now open door, only to slam it right in Rita Skeeter's face. How that woman hasn't lost her job yet, Harry doesn't have the slightest clue. And maybe she takes a week out of every year to see if the menace has broken any rules that she can be arrested for, but she'd come up clean every time.

Harry had yet to give up hope about the whole thing though; it's possibly the only thing that keeps her from cursing the living daylights out of the woman the second she sets her sights on her.

"Harry, you're a very welcomed visitor right now."

Still leaning back against the door she'd slammed closed, Harry flicks her gaze up Kingsley and offers him her best grin.

The former Auror looks rather tired, but he too is smiling at her, clearly pleased with the reprisal.

Halfway to the floo, the French Ambassador of something -Harry's not sure of his official title but she recognises the uniform- takes the opportunity to gawk at her. She probably does look quite the oddball, clothed in her worn denim skinny-jeans and a tee-shirt Luna had sent from her travels in India. The orange is remarkably bright and clashes something fierce with her hair. Certainly not the kind of appeal to meet the leader of one's country in.

Yet here Harry stands.

She offers the French guy a simple wave as he leaves before turning her attention back to Kingsley.

Already a chair has been pushed out for her, two plainly decorated cups and saucers clinking to life upon the desk worktop as an identical pot of steaming team flickers into existence between them. Merlin bless house-elves and their desire to look after others.

Sinking into the offered seat, Harry rolls her shoulders back with a low sigh of relief. Only once she has situated herself comfortably does she reach out for the tea Kinsley has just finished pouring, cupping the porcelain between her palms. In the room charmed to remain cool even during the sweating summer months, Harry finds the little cup to be delightfully warm, though the liquid far too hot to dare drink just yet. The steam rising from her beverage dances before her eyes and the defeater of the greatest Dark Lord in history takes a moment to just enjoy the scent.

"Is all well, Harry?"

Flicking her gaze up to stare at Kingsley, the redhead offers him a gentle smile, exhaling deeply.

"As well as my life can get, I guess. I'm waiting for something dangerous to come up to warrant releasing myself from that shackle on my desk."

"Ah yes, the paperwork. I'd say I remember that well, but it appears to have multiplied and followed me here," the Minister of Magic drily acknowledges, tilting his cup in her direction before he takes a sip. Harry has always known Kingsley was made of strong stuff, but drinking freshly poured tea? How he's not burnt his mouth yet, she doesn't have the faintest idea.

"It's a bit boring now, to be honest," Harry confesses quietly, looking off to a side while one forefinger strokes at the brim of her cup. "Neville left to go teach and Ron's retried for his firstborn. He's going to work at the joke shop now, you know?" She doesn't need to point out exactly which joke shop; to the two of them, there will only be one joke shop, and it certainly isn't Zonko's they're refereeing to.

Kingsley's face sets into something serious, the kind of expression he wore back in the war, or when he's implementing a new bill that's sure to stir up the few of Voldemort's old supporters that didn't technically commit a crime.

"If it's getting too much, you can quit, Hariel."

Nose wrinkling at the lack of nickname, Harry pushes down the urge to declare she can handle it and to stop treating her like a child. It's a leftover from her unofficial time in the Order, she knows, and she knows Kingsley doesn't mean it in a condescending manner. He's just trying to look out for her; it's words spoken out of kindness.

She still can't quite prevent her shoulders from tensing though.

"I know, but if I'm not doing this, then what will I do?"

It goes unsaid that she can't possibly teach at Hogwarts, and not just for the starstruck effect she'd leave on students. There's still too many bad memories there, the war still cloaks the place for her.

Neville might be able to ignore it, but Harry's always felt that Neville's made of stronger stuff than her. After all, back in first year she hadn't been willing to stick up for Hermione against Ron until the girl's life was in danger. Even then she'd worried about her friendship with Ron suffering a terrible blow that it'd never recover from.

Neville, Neville hadn't really had friends in first year and yet had been willing to stand up to them for the sake of a few house points.

Harry knows a lot of good people, but Neville is certainly one of those with the better ones.

"How about a break then?" Kingsley asks but Harry just shakes her head. She's saving her holidays for Teddy's summer vacation; they're going to go away, maybe somewhere hot. She's been playing with the idea of visiting the same island that Sirius once hid on all those years ago. Maybe she can find so much needed closure for his death there.

"No thanks Kingsley. I guess I'm just waiting for something to fall into my lap, something to keep me occupied."

It goes without saying that, after Voldemort's defeat, there are very few duels that have been able to get her blood pumping since.

"If you're sure, but please, never been afraid to ask."

"Alright," Harry agrees, ignoring the slight tug in her stomach as she does so. "Now what is it you wanted to talk about?"

Kingsley's lips thin and Harry grimaces. This can't be good.

Sure enough, when he pushes the proposal forwards, it's not only as bad as she expected but maybe even worse. It's not legislation, that she'd have been able to deal with. No, what she's horrified to realise is that the paper puts forwards the idea of something worse than a bad law.

"A statue?" She chokes, voice flat as it leaves from between her lips. When she casts her eyes to her fellow Order member, Harry's alarmed to realise he does not look sympathetic.

In fact, he almost looks like he's going to- "You've not allowed the people to really celebrate you, Harry." -agree with them.

"Is this a joke?!" Because a proposal for a solid gold statue made in her likeness, to be house at the ministry, sounds worse than any hare-brained scheme Fred and George could have ever come up with. Her stomach tightens at the very idea and she shakes her head.

"It wasn't just me, I didn't fight alone, I-"

"I am aware, Harry, which is why I rejected the request. However, they insist if you won't allow for one of you alone, there's going to be one of the 'Golden Trio', so to speak. It's already half completed."

Harry feels sick. She sways slightly, catching herself on the arm of the chair while placing her cup down on the desk.

In that moment, she realises that no, this isn't just a reaction to this embarrassing news. Something is actually pulling at her stomach, like when Ron had cast Accio on her.

Hidden out of sight on a chain around her neck and hanging between the slender valley of her breasts, the resurrection stone grows warm, the elder wand in the holster charmed invisible on her left wrist is scorching. She's even hyper-conscious of the invisibility cloak hidden in her expandable pocket, suddenly weighing far more than it should.

"Harry?!"

She's too busy fighting the pull, a demented game of tug-of-war, to bother answering Kingsley. It's strong, a powerful force linked to the Hallows and panic seizes Harry's chest. Has that damn title caught up with her? She didn't want it, if this was Death attempting to reclaim his treasures he could take them. She had never wanted them in the first place. But like hell is she going anywhere.

She gasps again and Kingsley fires off a Patronus for a healer, even as her limbs tremble ferociously.

Even shaking, Harry doesn't stop fighting. She broken the Imperius curse on her first try, she's fought Voldemort off in a battle of wills, she will not allow whatever this is to defeat her.

Almost as if in response to her thoughts, the air beside her shimmies and then cracks straight down the centre.

And suddenly, it's no longer just Kingsley and herself in the room.

Despite being in a staggering amount of pain, Harry still has her wits about her and manages to roll away from the figure that drops to the floor, firing off a stunner from the holly wand that springs into her hand from its holster. Kingsley is but a second behind her and the stranger goes down hard.

Her blood is still pumping, mind still hyperaware.

How had this stranger got in? How had he managed it?

"Accio wand!"

Harry keeps a tight grip on her holly at Kingsley's next move, well aware that the elder wand doesn't so much as twitch. No wand soars forth from the stranger, and it is only at that point that Harry notices just what the man is carrying. He's armed to the teeth with both guns and knives…

A muggle?

There's a moment where both Kingsley and Harry just stop and stare at the invader, at the intruder who so blatantly appeared during their conversation.

Harry's half aware that the arrival of this man coinciding with the reaction from the Hallows cannot be ignored, but she can't quite seem to get past the fact he is so blatantly muggle.

A muggle.

How the hell had he gotten in here?

Not a second after the thought crosses her mind she grimaces, well aware of just how very wizard-like she'd sounded. Muggles were improving in leaps and bounds, she only had to listen to Hermione go on about the events of New York last month for that.

But to so vociferously invade the Ministry with enough weapons to make it so damningly obvious he was looking for nothing other than a fight…

Harry grits her teeth and transfigures one of Kingsley's paperweights into a pair of handcuffs, kneeling beside the man. As she does so, she gets her first look at what is most certainly not a normal arm.

A quick flick of her wand has the restraints reinforced to the point a dragon would have trouble with them, the soft clicks as the cuffs close around his wrists echoing in the silent room.

"Hart, prepare a reinforced cell, no known crime but equip for interrogation of a potentially dangerous suspect. Fantasm, meet me at the entrance of Level 2, just in case."

Prongs blooms from her wand, stopping just long enough to listen to the message before he's bounding off through the walls, disappearing from sight.

"Harry, I want regular updates."

The Minister of Magic takes a moment to shuffle the sheet of information upon the statues away and Harry's more than happy to ignore that for now. She has something a little bigger to worry about. Not just about how this walking armoury of a man managed to get so close to the highest-ranking Ministry Official, but why exactly her Hallows had been behaving like they did, why it had felt like there was a pull upon her innards until she yanked back.

"Yes sir."

Another twist of her wand and the taller than average man is floating before her. What he wears, well it reminds Harry of the onetime she'd worked alongside the Unspeakables out in the field, something like Black-Ops gear, as Hermione had so aptly put it.

It's clear this stranger is a trained professional, if his weapons didn't give it away then certainly his powerful build would. And that arm…

Harry stares at the appendage in question as she makes her way to the elevator.

Even Rita Skeeter knows not to mess with her when she's on the job, though Bozo, whom has clearly been lying in wait with her, tries to take the opportunity to snap a quick photo.

Harry's already exploded the camera before he can though, coming to a halt before the two as she does so.

"As of right now this is a secret of Magical Importance," she snaps, something like victory curling in her stomach at the face Rita pulls, "if a word of this is breathed to anyone, you'll find yourselves in Azkaban faster than you can say 'front page'. Am I understood?"

Though she looks as if she's been forced to swallow Hippogriff dung, Rita nods, Bozo hastily following her example not a second later.

Harry gives the two of them the eyeball anyway, frown stern.

Regardless, she's satisfied enough to continue onwards with her mystery intruder.

.

The handsome face of Daniel Fantasm greets her when the elevator doors ping open. Pure white hair artfully arranged around his face highlights the blue eyes that -in the words of a particularly poetic Ginny Weasley- 'just pop', and the Auror a year Harry's senior snaps to attention.

Harry's well aware her fellow is attractive, there's times when she can't believe she ever overlooked him back at school. But it is what it is, and right now all that matters is that Fantasm is good at his job.

"Cell's prepped, Potter."

"Thanks, Fantasm."

The tall Auror nods, electric blue eyes focused upon their unconscious guest.

During the descent of the elevator, Harry herself had been staring at the man, specifically at the items that cover his face. The goggles completely shield his eye sockets, made of some kind of reinforced plastic (it has to be plastic, no one would be stupid enough to wear glass goggles in a job that orienteers towards violence) that are rather terrifying to look at. It strips away the man's humanity, the facial mask that covers the lower half of his head removing any possible traces of it that she could hope to find there. It makes him anonymous, nothing more than a dark figure to descend upon his unsuspecting victim.

Though if the way he arrived is any indication, he clearly wasn't prepared for the strenuous qualities of magical travel. Hell, portkey, floo and apparition are terrible for the common witch or wizard. For a muggle to go through it with no magic to protect them; Harry grimaces at the thought.

Walking down the stretch of hallway towards the cells, Harry floats the male before her, hyper aware of Fantasm at her back, his wand trained upon their detainee.

"Fantasm, I want you to run up to Kingsley and check the office for any kind of security holes, take Williamson with you. Darkdot!"

Across the room, Darkdot snaps to attention from his little cubicle, dark hair half falling out of his ineffectively messy ponytail.

"Deputy Potter?"

"You're filling in the paperwork for this, I need a form for truth serum wrote up as well, so follow Fantasm and get a statement from Kingsley, take notes and then get back down here for the rest of it."

The man nods, snatching up a dictaquill as he rises.

Harry doesn't waste any time to see the duo off, instead heading straight for the interrogation cell that rests as the back of the office department. It's strategically placed; should, by some miracle, a prisoner manage to escape their warded cell, they'd have to get through the whole damn Auror Department to get back out.

Logically it's not possible, but after a life of defying logic, Harry's not completely sold on the assurance of that reasoning.

"Target, I want you to raise the wards. Until we've got information out of this guy, I don't want to risk any escape attempts or half-cocked rescue missions."

Because this is a muggle they are dealing with, but a muggle that'd arrived by magical travel, smashing through the (thought to be) very secure Ministry wards to arrive in Kingsley's office. Which means there has to be someone (more likely a group rather than a single person) to have sent him there way. That's the answers Harry needs. She needs to know how the Minister's security (her friend's safety) was compromised so that she can fix the glaring hole.

That, however, is not something she can go about doing right away. There are procedures to follow, and the very first one dictates the securing of the intruder.

.

Her boots give a muffled thump with every step she takes down the cool corridor, the black stonework a chilling reminder of the Department of Mysteries. Harry's pushed for attempts to change the colour scheme every year -claiming white has a rather pleasing, calming effect- but top brass has never given her to the go ahead to go to town on the walls.

It's with a grimace that she directs her captive into cell one, ignoring the inebriated simpleton in cell three. She'd almost forgotten about that one in all honesty, but she's going to have slap him with a fine when he wakes up.

The man had reportedly come dangerously close to breaking the statue, according to Darkdot, who'd brought the fellow in this morning. They'd not bothered filling out an official form for him yet, preferring to make him suffer through it for them when he woke up. Drunk and disorderly behaviour in the presence of muggles is not something that's particularly urgent anyway.

Not like breaking and entering into the Minister's office with deadly intent; given that he's armed to the teeth, it's blatantly obvious he'd not come with fuzzy and friendly intentions.

Speaking of which… as soon as the detainee is placed within his cell, Harry summons every blade, bullet and gun in the stranger's possession, of which there are a rather startling amount. To cover all bases, she even summons for bombs, and is rather terrified when several small objects come flying towards her. All of that goes in the secure box by the cell wall, warded against any non-Auror personal. He won't be getting back his deadly toys without official consent, that's for sure.

Of course, wands don't go there, there's a separate storage back in the actual office part of the Auror Department for that, but such a thing isn't a problem in this case.

Folding her arms, Harry tilts her head to a side, inspecting the man that now rests within the cell.

There's a moment of hesitation before she removes the goggles and mask as well, which go in the storage back along with everything else. From there, she remains standing at the cell wall, staring at the man.

She's not sure what she'd been expecting, but it's certainly not what she's got.

He's unconscious, but as far as Harry can tell, the man's rather good looking. A strong jaw, thick dark hair that's longer than is currently fashionable in the muggle world. He's pale, and there's the slightest outline of red skin that traces where the mask and goggles had been resting.

Yeah, as far as Harry can tell, he's attractive, certainly tall and muscular -physically intimidating for a muggle- and he's no more than five years older than her at most. Well that's a guess, muggles do tend to end up with actual evidence of stress upon their features unlike most witches and wizards. There are many men and women that were years ahead of Harry in Hogwarts but physically, they don't look any older than she herself is. It's something Hermione has mentioned several times in the past two or so years, that it's such good luck they'll be able to keep their youthful façade for longer than muggles would manage. Not that they're exactly old right now.

She takes one more moment to really look at the man before she pushes the desire to keep inspecting his features away, summoning up a Patronus in the process.

"Code Delta, intruder captured within the Minister's presence. Successfully detained, interrogation due to start within the next ten minutes, Cell One will be closed off until completion."

She doesn't stick around to wait for a returning Patronus, instead summoning a vial of Veritaserum, the potion flying to her hand. With seeker reflexes, it's not difficult to catch, the spell-work around the corked vial ensuring that no more than three drops will pass between its rim and even then, only when offered the correct password. A password that only she and the Head Auror are aware of.

Drawing in a deep breath, Harry exhales and then steps into the cell.

.

Harry approaches the handsome stranger slowly, eyes locking onto that metal arm. It's unlike anything she's ever seen before and reminds her uncomfortably of Moody.

Moody and Pettigrew.

Moody who'd been in through so many wars, so many fights, that he'd had a false leg, an enchanted eye to replace the one he'd lost. Hell, the man had been devoid of half his nose by the time Harry first met him. But Moody had been ugly, exceptionally so.

This stranger is most certainly not ugly; he doesn't look like he's been in nearly enough fights. She cannot see any damage to his body, the only oddity being the metal arm. A replacement limb.

The image of Pettigrew and his Voldemort designed silver hand has her shivering.

Only, this limb is not made of silver. The colouring is close, but silver is a soft metal, useless for weaponry among the muggles. Soft metal means nothing to the Wizarding World, given their capabilities with spell-casting, reinforcing metal is no hardship. Whatever the muggles have come up with here though…

Harry considers the multitude of metal plates. It's difficult to picture them in action, how they'll allow an artificial limb to move, but all she needs to do is remember Mr Weasley's absolute fascination with the rubber duck to accept the fact she can't just make assumptions when it comes to muggles. Just because she doesn't understand the purpose of something, doesn't understand how it could possibly work, doesn't mean that it won't.

The wards are set for interrogation, the guy won't be able to move until that's all over and done with and she's left the cell altogether.

But she's still nervous about that arm.

She can remember Pettigrew's hand, magic turning on him as it clashed against the power of the Life Debt, can remember watching as the silver hand went about ending him. Perhaps it's stupid to have an aversion to metal prosthetics because of that, perhaps it's stupid to expect this one to work independently of the prisoner, but Harry refuses to take any kind of chance.

She visibly startles when the prisoner's eyes snap open.

Winter blue eyes, hoarfrost and ice, make a swift circle of the room before they land on her. One metal finger twitches, but other than that, there's no other motion.

Harry can't tell if he's faking it or not, if he's waiting for her to get in striking range.

Yet, for all that she's cautious, Harry has faith in the Auror Warding System, one Bill Weasley himself helped adjust. She knows she can put her life in that man's hands, knows he'd look after it.

This is no different.

"You were caught intruding within the Minister of Magic's Office," Harry starts, rolling the vial of truth serum between her fingers. There's not flash of recognition in those dead eyes when he spots it; a muggle unaware of magic, or just unaware of potions and their implications? Surely, they'd have briefed their killer if they were sending him into the very heart of the magical community?

Harry wants to know exactly how a muggle managed to power through every last damn ward that's supposed to protect the Ministry (she'll have to get Bill to have a look at them again, there's no other action to take right now) and it's an answer she damn well plans on getting sometime this week.

"The intentions behind your actions will influence the severity of your sentence, do you have anything to say in your defence?"

The warding system reacts to the declaration, but there's no movement from the prisoner, even though everything above his collarbones are no longer restrained by magic. There's not even a stubborn set to his face. His facial expression doesn't change in the slightest, those cold blue eyes filled not with defiance but determination.

For what, Harry isn't sure. She doesn't like the fact that metal arm is now capable of twitching two fingers as opposed to the sole one before; surely the muggle prosthetic cannot be learning, resisting the hold of magic? Magic has always trumped electronics, why would that change now?

Pushing the thought aside, Harry steps closer to the prisoner, whispering the passcode for the vial to uncork.

Those intimidating blues snap to the movement, but there's still no facial expression, still no emotion. It's really damn off-putting.

The magic of the warding system has to open the prisoner's mouth, but three drops later and it's not so much of a determined blankness upon the intruder's face as it is a potion's induced one.

"What is your name?" Harry speaks clearly, words carefully formed to avoid mispronunciation. She doesn't need a smart prisoner wiggling out of answering the question because it could be interoperated differently.

And yet, that's exactly what happens.

The prisoner's drugged eyes remain focused upon her, but no words, no declaration of a name passes between his lips.

Eyebrows furrowing because she damn well couldn't have made that question any more to the point, Harry flicks her wand out into her hand, just to be safe. She's never encountered this problem before.

"Who do you work for?"

"HYDRA."

So, she actually gets an answer this time, but hell if Harry can understand that. Certainly, he doesn't mean hydra as in the creatures; they're classified as beasts, not beings, and there's only one in known existence, settled on a remote island in Greece that no magical ever dares visit.

Is HYDRA a muggle company? It must be, given that the name is hazily familiar to Harry, lingering in the back of her mind, an itch she can't quite scratch. It's familiar, it's on the tip of her tongue, but it's like her brain is warring against her attempts to remember… wait, warring…war…HYDRA?

HYDRA, as in the World War Two German branch thing?

The HYDRA that was taken down by Captain America before he died? No, that can't be right, can it?

But then again look at the Death Eaters; they went to ground after the war, just waiting for the right opportunity to resurface and strike out.

Merlin damn it, he's a muggle under their strongest truth potion, this can't possibly be a joke.

"How long have you worked for HYDRA?"

When there's nothing but silence again, Harry pushes onwards, despite the stone that's sinking into her stomach.

"How long can you remember working for HYDRA?"

"It is all I recall." Right, because that doesn't have nefarious undertones.

Taking advantage of an amnesic? Or something worse than that? What are the chances that HYDRA have a magical on their payroll and they're getting them to erase the memories of talented humans to do their dirty work? Merlin damn it, what is going on here? It has to be something involving magicals, otherwise how would this nameless man have arrived here, armed to the teeth and ready for war?

"Why were you sent here?"

"The Asset was not sent here." The what? Wait, is that what they call him?

"What is your title?"

"The Winter Soldier." Okay, now that is ominous. She can't do this without research, she needs to go look up all the information the magical world have on HYDRA because her Year 5 history lessons just aren't cutting it.

"What was your mission?" Harry asks instead, wetting her lips as the Winter Soldier just stares back with only half-conscious eyes.

"Remain alert until the power greater than Death is acquired. Subdue any and all that appear in relation to the ritual."

The serum is wearing off, it's obvious.

Just like the magic that keeps that metal arm still now appears to have completely worn off too.

It shoots up, going for Harry's neck and she manages to duck back and away on Seeker reflexes alone. It's the only part of his body (if the metal arm can really be considered part of him though) that the Winter Soldier can move.

And it's blatantly clear that he considers her the very first person he should be subduing.

That's not what has Harry worried though.

What has her worried is that clearly the Winter Soldier hadn't been coming for the Minister at all. Hell, it hadn't even been in the plan for him to leave the ritual circle if she's following this right. Because the only ritual that should be applicable to this situation is a Summoning Ritual, and that's where the problem lays.

Harry remembers the feeling, the tugging in her core, the Hallows and their strange actions. No, whatever ritual this muggle had been involved in, it'd not been about calling up a power greater than Death.

It'd been about the Master of Death.

It's a struggle to breathe (Harry thought she'd got away with it, thought that the world was ignorant of the title she's been so desperately trying to ignore, no need to invite trouble) and her chest constricts as she stumbles from the cell.

As soon as she's out, the magic releases its constraints upon the soldier and he's across the room in a second. The metal fist slams against the warded wall, created by the same magic as the entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. It's quivers, but holds strong.

Harry makes a mental note to get a House Elf to empower the wards. But for now, she needs to file her report (while leaving out that bit about the 'power greater than Death') and then go get some lunch.

Lunch and information.

.

"Why are you asking for information about HYDRA, Harry?"

Sitting in the Ministry of Magic's Cafeteria, Harry hunches her shoulders in slightly, reaching for the warm chicken baguette. The sweet chilli sauce is fantastically strong against her tongue, the crunch of lettuce much appreciated, but it's just not distracting enough.

Across the table, Hermione Granger-Weasley folds her arms across her chest, resting them upon the rounded swell of her belly. Harry's next godchild's in there, only two months from being born. Now is not the time to focus on that though.

There's more important things at stake here, and while she won't disclose everything (won't breathe a word of the fact this guy had been brought here for the Hallows, brought here for power and a title Harry had never wanted nor sought out) she needs the help of her smartest friend.

"Can you put up some wards?" Harry asks, already flicking her own up because there's Auror level traps for potential eavesdroppers, and then there's Hermione level traps. Such as kidnapping an Animagus and keeping her contained in a jar for several months.

Harry'll never be over that one. Never.

Brown eyes study her warily for a moment but Hermione concedes, the familiar sensation of her magic washing over them, embracing the little booth they sit at.

With the reminder of what she'll be discussing, Harry places her half-finished sandwich down, appetite draining as surely as water into a sinkhole.

She doesn't remember much from her pre-Hogwarts schooling, but Harry had always had an interest in history, things that'd already happened. Sometimes, there had been tales of real life figures rising from nothing to become great heroes. That's what she'd dreamed of pre-Hogwarts.

Well, she thinks bitterly, all of her expectations have been met, and then some. From the cupboard under the stairs to hero of magical Britain. Wonderful.

"Now, what's this all about, Harry. I haven't seen you this shaken since the…" Hermione trails off, apologetically flashing her a glance before she looks away.

Since the Horcrux Hunt. That's what Hermione had been about to say.

And really, Harry can't say she's exactly wrong on that. It's stirring up the same kind of thick dread, the same feeling of helplessness.

Because if there's a ritual out there to summon the Master of Death, what's to say it's the only ritual? What's to say there isn't more, more rituals, more information? What's to say there isn't a way to hurt her, hurt those she cares about? She feels sick.

A flick of her wand has the remains of her sandwich banished, disappearing from sight but it does not alleviate the nausea.

"Do not react," Harry whispers, taking one more covert glance around the room to make sure no one is paying her any attention (past that irritating 'look it's Harry Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived' that's never quite died down) before she returns her focus to Hermione. "The man that appeared in Kingsley's office this morning, he's been through the standard interrogation. No name and doesn't remember anything outside of a life of working for HYDRA."

Hermione drops her fork, brown eyes snapping up to stare at Harry in surprise.

The redhead grimaces.

Because the horror on Hermione's face in confirmation enough. This is bad.

Real bad.

"HYDRA?!" Hermione hisses, voice a whisper despite the harsh anger of her words.

After years of friendship, Harry can almost sense the point at which the Department Head across from her decides Harry doesn't have quite as much background on this subject as she should, regardless of the fact she has been outside of 'regular' schooling since Primary School.

"Harry, HYRDA was the deep science division of the Nazi regime back in World War Two. The only reason they didn't manage to blow up the whole of the United States is because Captain America heroically sacrificed himself crashing the Valkyrie into the Arctic. Even now they still haven't found his body to give him a proper burial."

Captain America, now there is a name Harry recognises.

She used to dream about becoming just like him, they'd had so much in common. Both terribly skinny little kids (though admittedly Harry's hadn't been a genetic problem so much as an environmental one; she'd probably be a bit taller if it weren't for the Dursleys restricting her food intake as a child) who'd been bullied something terribly. She'd been laughed at as a child, declaring she'd be the next Captain America.

But she has managed to save a nation from some bastard that wanted to commit genocide, so maybe she'd done alright in the end. More importantly though-

"So, there's like, books and stuff I can use for research?"

The look Hermione gives her seems to indicate she's just said something incredibly stupid, but Harry pushes the emotion down. It's pretty much commonplace she gets that look, that glare from her best friend, when she questions her about research.

"Yes Harry, there's books and stuff," Hermione strangles out that word, a grimace on her face as one hand rubs at her stomach, as if comforting the child that'd been forced to listen to Harry's blatant ignorance towards history, "that you can use for research. You'd be better off looking in the muggle world though, a lot of the Wizarding World's history around that time focuses on Grindelwald and his effects on the muggles. Surprisingly enough, he didn't want anything to do with HYRDA; said they were calling on powers no wizard can yet deal with."

Her smile feels brittle as she thanks Hermione for her time. It's a bit obvious why Grindelwald would have said no wizard would have been able to deal with whatever HYRDA had been doing yet. The yet would have obviously been dropped with Grindelwald picked up the 'Master of Death' title.

Only he never did and Harry finds herself trapped with that epithet hanging over her head like an axe. Already it's taken one swing at her in the form of her HYDRA mercenary attacker/summoner(summonee?).

She can't risk something like this happening again, which means she needs to find that ritual, destroy it and any other evidence linked to her title.

Firstly, to complete these jobs, she has to find HYRDA itself.

Luckily, there's one source of ready information she has to hand right now.

.

She goes through the motions when she gets to the Auror office, accepting the paperwork that's thrown at her, filling in the relevant pieces of information as she goes.

It's the first time Harry's ever lied on the job, the first time she's ever had to cover-up information, but this absolutely cannot get out. Just look at what one madman did trying to find the Hallows; should the entire population learn the truth behind that particular children's tale, it'd be chaos. Nothing scares the masses quite like the finality of the end. Any chance to avoid it (though given the fact Harry's still aging, she really can't see it) and they'll end up going wild, there'd be riots in the streets.

Should any of them realise it is Harry who has the Hallows, should they realise it is Harry they keep returning to like lost puppies crawling home… well Harry has zero desire to go on the run again.

She must get to the bottom of this.

"Quintuple X?" Fantasm whistles long and low, dark eyebrows high on his forehead, already disappearing beneath the fringe of white.

Harry nods, trying to ignore the guilt squirming about in her stomach.

An XXXXX class secret is only to be known by those directly involved; even Harry's superior cannot demand access without going through a vigorous appeal through the courts. They trust her too much to go to so much effort though, thank Merlin.

"Yep. I need the forms for Legilimency Interrogation and ISOS Breech Version 4."

"Damn it, how've the muggles got a hold of a ritual?" Fantasm grumbles, storming over to the unoccupied desk and flicking through the vast number of documents that're stored there.

"Thanks, Fantasm," Harry calls as she heads back down towards the cells, catching one of the little paper birds that comes her way. It's the ISOS Breech form; they rarely have to use Legilimency on prisoners so no doubt that one's gonna take a bit more time to find.

Harry's quite fond of Fantasm, he knows what he's doing; in fact, there's not a single Auror that doesn't know what they're doing, it's just that Fantasm is more efficient. Life at Hogwarts would've been so much easier if she'd acquainted herself with the efficient Ravenclaw a year above her.

Walking up to the only occupied cell, (their drunk skunk must have been kicked out over lunch) Harry peers inside, lips twisting at the sight of her would be assailant. He's on the bed still, but in a ready crouch now, fully prepared to spring into action should another presence make itself known.

There's no emotion in that face, just stone-cold determination. Given how those winter blues are constantly scanning the cell entrance (not that it looks like such a thing from his location, it'll be nothing but a wall to him) that she'd left from, Harry feels justified in her need for caution.

Making a mental note to later spin the room so that the wall entrance changed location, Harry rolls her shoulders back and reaches for that familiar tingle of magic. After being on the receiving end so many times, it hadn't taken her too long to figure out how to use Legilimency herself.

All it takes is a moment, a quick glance into the eyes of the man who works for HYRDA, and she's in.

And it's wrong, all so terribly wrong.

Because it's almost empty.

There's abilities, how to load a gun, where to stick a knife so that it'll kill without question.

But there's no memories, no memories past waking up in a room, told he had another mission. Ordered to subdue any person the ritual presents to him. Only the ritual hadn't done that, Harry had fought back, so he's working under the assumption he'd have to subdue her and then take her back, present her to HYDRA.

Harry's not about to give him the chance though. And while she's worried about the total lack of memories (he really doesn't have a name, why is that?), that unfortunately comes second to securing the secret of the Hallows.

Which means she needs to talk to Kingsley.

She'll worry about the potential for the second Lockhart afterwards.

.

"Please tell me you're joking, Harry."

She really wishes she was, because the implications of this are actually starting to hit her now, now that she's stood here explaining to Kingsley all that she's found out so far. While the muggle World Wars didn't hurt their population as much as it did the actual muggles, it doesn't change the implications.

That if a muggle division of HYDRA has slipped through the net, then there's every chance that a division of Grindelwald's Reapers could have slipped through as well. It's a terrifying thought, because while they'd cleaned house for Voldemort's followers years ago, they'd been looking specifically for Death Eaters, for people with ties to Voldemort.

Not to a Dark Lord, but Voldemort.

While it could all be just a scare they're giving themselves, it's better to be prepared and ready than caught unaware.

"We're going to have to check again," Kingsley doesn't quite groan, but it's a near thing and he looks ever one of his years in that moment. Not to say he appears old per se, but that it's clear the war against Voldemort, the rebuilding afterwards, hasn't been easy on him. Just when it seems things are going smoothly, something else crops up.

"And what are you going to do with our guest, Harry?"

"I'm thinking a memory refresher, to see if it's magical damage or muggle. Who knows what they've managed to come up with by now." It's very discomforting to think about.

Lockhart was lucky he ruined his own life, because for his crimes, Harry'd have seen him suffer and she knows Kingsley's in complete agreement with her. To strip someone of everything they are; it's a terrible crime, just below using one of the unforgivables on another being. And yes, it is 'on another being now', as opposed to the 'on a witch or wizard' it was before. Hermione's been making waves throughout the government and Harry honestly wouldn't be surprised if she managed to become Minister after Kingsley decided enough was enough and stepped down.

"I'll leave the investigation in your capable hands then," the Minister of Magic mutters, rubbing at the tense skin of his forehead with one finger and thumb. "It seems I'll be going to see the muggle Prime Minister again."

Anything regarding the muggles needs reporting; it's one of the newer agreements the two Ministers have come to. Thanks to Voldemort though, tensions are still strong; not even time has been able to help that yet.

"And our intruder?" Harry enquires quietly, running one hand over the top of her head, smoothing down the wild strands of red hair that spiral out of control. This is exactly what she wanted, to be left completely in charge of the case, able to hide what she needs to. It's an abuse of power, but really, there are some things that should be left buried.

Dumbledore would be so proud of her, Hariel thinks bitterly.

"It's all up to you. If you think he's worth helping, then it's your call. If not, drop him in Mungo's and then leave it up to them." No. Sending this guy to St. Mungo's who'll ask him all sorts of questions is the last thing Harry wants.

Which means she only has one real choice here.

As much as that sucks, at least she'll be kept busy for a while.

"Maybe this'll be enough of a distraction that you don't even see the statue go up."

Damn, she'd forgotten about that until now, and from the look on Kingsley's face, he knows it too.

Scowling, Harry folds her arms and offers the man her best unimpressed face, but as with every other person in the Order (as with every other person who'd been one of the adults during her teenage years) he's completely unimpressed.

"Is that all, Auror Potter?"

Recognising the dismissal for what it is, Harry snaps her feet together, offering her Minister of Magic a nod.

"It is, Minister."

"Then I suggest you get to work."

She heads for the door, feeling the heavy weight of the Hallows on her person.

Stopping at the threshold, Harry stares ahead, hand resting on the door handle.

"Can you not mention our intruder, Kingsley? So they can't have any way of tracking him to us?"

"Of course, Harry."

08th September 2017; Okay, I made a mess of the timeline for this thing. But I've gone back and fixed it, along with added in a few thousand or so words. So here. I think I'm back on track now.

Tsume

xxx