A/N: Hmm. Well. This is going to be interesting.

My muse won't leave me alone, so this happened. As if I needed another WIP. Oh well. XD

Here's a taste of what is to come; I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your thoughts in a review if you can spare the time. Also, I haven't completely decided on pairings yet, so if you want to make your preferences known, now would be the time ;)

On we go!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the Marvel Cinematic Universe. No copyright infringement is intended in the sharing of this story, and I make no money from it.

Warning: Character deaths, mature themes, and profanity. This story diverges from canon and branches off into a much darker and less idealistic future than the one that J. K. Rowling depicted, only partly due to the Marvel side of things. Don't like, don't read; it's that simple.

When Neville was little, he had dreamed of becoming an Auror.

Of course he had; his grandmother had raised him on stories of his parents' prowess in the time before Bellatrix had shattered their minds, told him tales of the criminals they'd caught and the people they'd saved and how masterfully they'd done it all. They were his heroes, and what little boy doesn't want to emulate his heroes?

He'd thought that in becoming an Auror, he might be able to connect with his parents in a way that he never could during his visits to the Janus Thickey Ward. He'd also hoped that, even if they couldn't understand that he'd followed in their footsteps, in their hearts, they would be proud of him.

For the longest time, though, being an Auror hadn't seemed to be in the cards, a fact of which Augusta Longbottom had reminded him constantly. Neville had been such a disappointment to her, and she'd never been afraid of pointing it out or tactful enough to leave well enough alone.

She wanted him to be his father reincarnate, right down to the wand she'd gifted him on his eleventh birthday and insisted he use. But whereas Frank had been a child bursting with magical potential and then a well-rounded and gifted student, Neville's relatives had feared his being a Squib for years before the incident with Algie, and when he'd miraculously been invited to Hogwarts, he'd struggled with everything but Herbology.

After his first week of lessons, his dream had been crushed; Neville had known he just didn't have what it took to be an Auror. He'd cried himself to sleep on more than one occasion that first September, stifling the sound of his sobs in his pillow so as not to wake the other boys.

Neville had tried to accept his own mediocrity as best he could, but when he'd called himself "stupid" one day in Study Hall, Hermione Granger was having none of it.

That little girl with the big, brown eyes and the wild curls and the wide, uneven smile, that friendly face who'd helped him find Trevor when everyone else had just laughed, whether in his face or at his retreating back—she was not about to let him give up.

She'd dragged him to the library to study, patiently explaining things in ways that made more sense to him than the lecturing style most Hogwarts professors used in their lessons. She'd taught him how to write a passable essay, whispered instructions in his ear in Potions class when he lost his cool under Professor Snape's poisonous glare, and helped him to develop resilience when he was being bullied by the likes of Malfoy.

Her mantra for him had always been, "You can do it, Neville. You just need to work hard and have a little more faith in yourself."

Hermione had been the first person to see the potential in him, and without the strength of her conviction and her friendship, he would have surely faded into the background, hopes for the future abandoned.

And then, there had been Harry Potter.

Harry had stood up for Neville time and again, whether in first year when he'd fought Malfoy for the Remembrall despite never having ridden a broomstick, or in sixth year when Romilda Vane had tried to demean him and Luna on the Hogwarts Express.

Harry, like Hermione, had also seen something promising in Neville, and he'd pushed him hard—kindly, but hard nonetheless—during their D. A. sessions, convinced he could master the spells. Motivated by his increasing success and by Harry's obvious belief in him, Neville had worked his arse off and his dueling and spellcasting abilities had radically improved under his classmate's tutelage.

It wasn't just the lessons, though; Harry and Neville had been unique amongst their classmates in the degree to which they understood the seriousness of the Death Eaters' escape from Azkaban. They had both lost their parents, albeit in different ways, to the Dark Lord and his followers; it provided them with a different, less naive perspective than the majority of their classmates.

Neville had fought with Harry and Hermione in the battles of the years to come and had made it out alive despite his youth. His resolve had held when Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured him with the same curse she'd used on his parents. He'd led an underground resistance in Hogwarts in seventh year, first with Ginny and Luna's help and then on his own when they were kept away by no fault of their own. He'd endured torture at the hands of the Carrows. He'd defended Hogwarts, defied Voldemort face-to-face, and killed his familiar, Nagini, with the sword of Gryffindor.

Wizarding Britain had called him a hero for it—and it was Harry and Hermione who had taught him how to become one.

When the Battle of Hogwarts was over but the work rounding up escapee Death Eaters was far from over, he'd joined Ron and Harry in Auror training when Kingsley offered them an exemption from finishing their N.E.W.T.s. It was the perfect opportunity for Neville; he'd always done far better with a practical, hands-on approach to learning and because of that, he thrived under the trainee program. Even potions work started coming more easily to him.

Everything had been going well that first year in spite of the difficulty of the aftermath of the war. That wasn't to say there weren't rough patches; mourning the dead had been a heavy, heart-wrenching process, and the lot of the older Hogwarts students suffered from P.T.S.D., Neville included. But they got through it all together, and Hogwarts was rebuilt, the Ministry was cleaned up under Kingsley's leadership, and the community had begun to heal. Things were slowly but surely stabilizing by the end of the summer of 1998.

Neville, Ron, and Harry had gone on to complete Auror training as the top three recruits of their year, and Neville had never been more ecstatic. Harry and Hermione were equally as happy for him, his grandmother was almost smug in her satisfaction, and Neville knew that his parents would have been very proud.

Hermione, however, had declined Kingsley's offer, insistent upon finishing her education. "It's what my parents would have wanted," she'd explained to Neville when they'd met up as a group to catch up in Hogsmeade. And so she returned to Hogwarts as Head Girl and graduated, to no one's surprise, with top honours and perfect N.E.W.T. scores across the board. She received a job offer from the Department of Mysteries the day after term had ended and she had accepted it eagerly, curious about what being an Unspeakable would entail. Within the month, she'd earned her Unspeakable robes, hers being the fastest induction into the Department of Mysteries since its inception.

Ginny had graduated from Hogwarts and by early July had earned herself a reserve position on the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team. Luna had met a man named Rolf Scamander—Newt's grandson—and had decided to go trekking with him across the continent, looking for undiscovered creatures, the stuff of myth.

Everyone had begun to feel happy again, to feel excited about the future.

But, of course, nothing lasts forever and so tragedy struck—in the form of one Rodolphus Lestrange.

Investigation after-the-fact had revealed that Bellatrix's equally deranged widower had torn apart the wards around the Tonks' home and viciously attacked his unsuspecting, estranged sister-in-law, who had been cleaning dishes in the kitchen upon his arrival. Given the state of the room, Andromeda had put up a desperate and valiant fight, but it hadn't been enough. Rodolphus had cut her down with what looked to be a modified version of Sectumsempra before stepping over her corpse and climbing the main staircase to find Teddy Lupin.

He'd struck the sleeping infant with the Killing Curse and carved the words "A STAIN PURGED" in flaming letters on the wall above his crib.

Owls had flooded the Auror Office, declaring the presence of a Dark Mark in the sky and striking terror and dread into the hearts of everyone present.

The illusion of safety was shattered.

Harry's squad had been the first on the scene, Harry himself frantic when he'd learned of the location of the Dark Mark. Neville could still remember how he'd fallen to his knees, unable to hold back his sobs as he cradled his godson's body in his arms, apologizing endlessly to the boy's parents as he stroked the child's turquoise curls back from his face. Hermione had been the only one who Harry would allow to take Teddy away, and she'd done so with trembling hands and tear-stained cheeks.

It had been the day before Harry's 19th birthday.

The Head of the Auror Office at the time, Gawain Robards, had insisted that Harry take time off to mourn and the Boy-Who-Lived had accepted the order, unfeeling. He had completely closed off after Teddy and Andromeda's murders, reduced to a state verging on catatonic—and to drowning himself in Ogden's Finest.

He broke things off with Ginny for the second and final time in the weeks that followed, despite her pleas with him to reconsider. Not even Ron or Hermione had been able to coax him out of his misery despite continuous efforts—and their final attempt to do so was when everything had gone to hell.

The last anyone had ever heard of the Golden Trio was when Hermione had Floo-called Ginny to let her know that she and Ron were going over to 12 Grimmauld. Ginny had told the Auror Office in her official statement that their plan was to get rid of Harry's alcohol supply so that he would finally be forced to listen to reason.

That day, the 31st of September, 1999, at 12 Grimmauld Place, there had been a magical explosion so devastating that it obliterated the Black family wards, leveled the townhouse, and shattered the glass in the windows of every home on the street.

According to the press release issued by the Department of Mysteries some time later, the residual energy of the explosion had indicated the single largest feat of accidental magic on record in a millennium.

In the ashes, they'd found a broken pair of glasses and three charred but recognizable wands.

The wands of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger.

And again, for an entirely different reason—and yet another lost dream—Neville had cried himself to sleep for weeks.

But despite his grief, and despite the fact that most mornings throughout next few months, he barely had the energy to rise from his bed, Neville knew that the Wizarding public needed someone to step forward in the wake of the demise of the Golden Trio, someone in whom they could put their faith.

He only trusted one person for the job.

For Harry and Hermione, he'd thought to himself.

And so, four years later, Neville Longbottom took on the position as Head of the Auror Office.

The years passed as is their wont, and with the march of time came new enemies—new, old enemies, that is.

From the dregs of the Death Eaters, a new, radical blood-purist faction had emerged under the leadership of that same Rodolphus Lestrange. After killing the remainder of the Tonks family, he had left Britain, finding a home in Scandinavia under the guise of a new identity. The ex-Death Eater had taken up the post of the Dark Arts professor at Durmstrang, and had used it to recruit young men from the upper years into his enclave.

They called themselves the Magi Puro or "Pure Wizards", and their goal was to establish Pure-blood monarchies throughout Europe while subjugating Half-bloods and the Muggle-borns already introduced to magical society. However, according to the Magi Puro, all future Muggle-borns would be left in the Muggle world "where they belonged," and thus within a few generations, the Wizarding world would be completely separated from the Muggle one.

They'd started out non-violently with rallies and protests and propaganda, and so for a while, they were willfully ignored. But when the first Swedish Muggle-borns and their families began disappearing, the Swedish Ministry hadn't been able to ignore the problem any longer and had finally requested the aid of the British, French, Dutch, and German ministries in subduing the Magi Puro.

As a result of that decision as well as several others, eleven years after the deaths of Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger, Head Auror Neville Longbottom was summoned before the Minister for Magic.

Neville was seated in the reception area outside of the Minister's office, trying not to tap his foot as he waited for Kingsley to finish his meeting. The Junior Assistant to the Minister, a young brunette woman named Seraphina, shot him a small, sheepish grin from her seat at the main desk.

"Sorry, Auror Longbottom," she said. "He's in there on a Floo call with the French Minister, and believe me—that man can talk."

Neville laughed, appreciative of the levity. "Oh yeah, I know," he replied. "I met him a couple of years ago at the International Auror Convention. He had me trapped in a one-sided conversation for twenty minutes before Robards came to my rescue."

Seraphina giggled. "Yep, that sounds about right. You know, sometimes I think he does it on purpose just to see us Brits squirm."

Neville mulled that possibility over for a moment before shaking his head with a grimace. "Nah," he said, "I'm pretty sure he just really likes the sound of his own voice."

Seraphina nodded ruefully. "Oh, well, either way, that is the truth, without a doubt."

The two chuckled. Seraphina opened her mouth to say something else, but before she could, the door to the Minister's office swung open and a harassed-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt swept into the room.

Neville was on his feet immediately. "Minister," he greeted Kingsley, extending his hand.

"Auror Longbottom," Kingsley replied, shaking it firmly, his voice as low and steady as ever. "Please, come in."

Neville motioned for Kingsley to lead the way and sent a quick smile in Seraphina's direction before following the Minister into his office and shutting the door behind them.

Once they were seated, all formalities and pretenses were dropped.

"How are you holding up, Neville?" asked Kingsley, his mouth a tight, grim line.

"I'm restless as hell, to be honest," Neville replied with complete candidness. "I keep having nightmares, Kingsley. About what happened to them all. Teddy, Dromeda, Harry, Ron, Hermione...my parents...they ask me to avenge them. Over and over and over again, they ask me to kill that ruddy bastard, and I've been waiting so long for the chance to go after him. I'm just glad that the Swedish are done bloody prevaricating."

"You and me both," agreed Kingsley. In the dim light of the fire above the hearth, the lines on his face were thrown into relief, revealing just how very tired the man was. "Which brings us to why I wanted to speak with you. We need to discuss how this operation is going to play out."

"Of course," Neville responded eagerly. "I have some ideas about how we can coordinate the troops from the different Ministries; I've been looking into the personnel files, and—"

"Actually, Neville," the Minister interrupted quietly, "you aren't going to be coordinating the teams this time around."

Neville's eyebrows rose in surprise before chagrin warmed his cheeks. Silently, he berated himself for the reaction. Get a grip, he thought to himself, you're not a trainee anymore, you're the Head for Merlin's sake.

Aloud, he remarked, "Oh, I see," and tried not to sound disappointed. Steeling himself, he continued, "I take it that Auror Bergström will be taking care of that side of things, then?"

Kingsley smiled at him knowingly. "No, Neville," he replied, his voice serious despite the hint of amusement still lingering in his eyes. "Auror Bergström will not be leading the mission either, and nor will the other Head Aurors participating in the operation."

Neville stared at his old friend, bewildered. "So are the Ministers directly overseeing this, then?" he asked, incredulous. "Because while I trust your experience, Kingsley, none of the other Ministers have served as Aurors, and that's bound to be a problem."

Kingsley smiled, but the dread and exhaustion in his eyes rendered the expression flat. "It would be if that were the case," he agreed once more, "but it isn't."

When the Minister didn't continue, Neville felt himself tense. "Kingsley—what's going on here? What haven't you told me?" he demanded, his tone wary.

"Before I do tell you, Neville, I need you to understand something." Kingsley waited for his coworker's nod and when he received it, maintained steady eye contact as he proceeded. "I was not aware of what I'm about to tell you until the beginning of this year, and to learn of it myself, I had to enter into an Unbreakable Vow that forbade me from sharing the knowledge with anyone without the express permission of an Unspeakable."

Neville sighed, exasperated. "All right, Kingsley, I understand; now, please, get to the bleeding point. I doubt I'm going to like this, so just get it over with already."

Kingsley's jaw clenched and he grimaced. "The Unspeakables," he said slowly and with a great deal of disdain, "have taken it upon themselves to create what they are calling an E.A., or Enhanced Auror; a person who has elevated senses, a near-superhuman intellect, formidable strategic and tactical instincts, mastery of a wide range of different styles of combat, both magical and non-magical—you get the idea. According to the Unspeakable in charge of the project, they experimented with the enhancements for years before they were satisfied with the result. They want the E.A. to lead the attack, and honestly, as much as I despise them for what they've done, I agree with them, and so do the other Ministers. After seeing the E.A. in action, I don't think anyone is more capable."

Neville let out a long breath. "Wow," he uttered. "So, what, they created this person from nothing, for the sole purpose of being a military asset to the Ministry?" asked Neville, disbelieving.

Kingsley shook his head, grimness exuding from every pore of his face. "No," he said, his voice low and dark, "they didn't.

"They had a test subject whom they claim agreed to what was done to them, but there was definite coercion involved."

"Why?" asked Neville. "What was done to them? No, forget that a minute—who is it, Kingsley? Who was the test subject?"

Kingsley sighed. "You're not going to believe me unless you see for yourself."

"Fine," snapped Neville, his patience stretched thin. "Can you bring them here?" Kingsley nodded, the motion curt and reluctant. "Then do it," Neville told him, his eyebrows raised as if daring Kingsley to refuse.

The Minister did not refuse. Instead, he seemed to measure Neville for a moment. Finally, just when Neville's foot started to tap of its own accord, the Minister sighed heavily. "Okay, Neville," he said. "I'll call her here. But I'm warning you; this is going to be a shock. It certainly was for me."

Neville gave a jerky nod and tried to brace himself even as his thoughts raced.

Her? It's a her? Which her? I obviously know her, but who...?

The Minister stood and Neville copied him, his body seeming to move independently of his mind. Kingsley cleared his throat once and then, in a clear, sombre tone, he called out, "Athena...report."

Neville started slightly as the CRACK! of Apparition sounded, echoing off of the office's marble walls.

A woman of average height had joined the two occupants of the room. Her body, which faced Kingsley, was clad in a jumpsuit in a shade of violet so dark that Neville would have thought it to be black if it weren't for the light of the chandelier overhead. Its fabric was entrancing; it looked almost fluid, as if a matte paint had been dripped onto the woman's body and had yet to fully dry. The curvature of her muscles was clearly visible through the suit; she was all lean, sinewy strength, in her back, her arms, her legs. Her posture was sublime, her body like a drawn bow, ready to fire an arrow at the first sign of trouble.

Above her sculpted neck, her ash-brown hair was arranged into a simple, utilitarian bun, from which a handful of tiny ringlets had managed to escape, huddling together around the base of her skull.

"Athena," greeted Kingsley, sounding entirely resigned. "Please allow me to re-introduce you to Neville Longbottom."

The woman gave a small nod to the Minister and turned to face Neville, whose jaw immediately dropped.

Oh, she had changed, there was no doubt about it. Her face was slimmer than he seemed to remember, her cheekbones thrown into relief by the chandelier's light. Her eyes were no longer brown, but instead a crystalline amethyst, and their empty expression was just as foreign as their new colour. But the rest of her features had not been altered, and neither had the hue of her hair, though Neville had not immediately placed it.

Bloody buggering hell.

"Hermione?" Neville whispered.

The woman frowned, her violet eyes shuttered and cold.

"No," she replied quietly, and Neville shuddered; the anguish in her voice was palpable. "No. Not anymore."