AUTHOR'S NOTE: Somehow it came to me that it would be insanely terrifying if Bucky was unable to break free from his Winter Soldier programming. Able to regain his memories, but… stuck as a living obedient weapon to whoever is his perceived "handler." That between the trauma and outside influence, he'd be stuck in a bizarre middle ground. And somehow, this was the result. I am a horrible person, while Hermione is not.
Following a raid on a Russian squib's Cleveland home, Hermione finds herself in possession of a slim red book that is the key to one of the greatest conspiracies in American Muggle Government history. As she moves to expose the truth, a series of events find her fighting for her life against the Winter Soldier. Desperate to survive, she recites a string of Russian words she hopes will stop him. Accidental magic, caused by her unbridled panic, occurs in conjunction with their recitation. The Soldier, much to Hermione's horror, is magically bound to her, trapped in his programming to follow his handler's orders. A desperate quest to free the man ensues.
Chapter One: A Little Red Book Full of Danger
Hermione Granger stared at the house across the paved street, wand in hand.
It seemed like a very neglected home, the peeled paint cracking off the wooden boards and an automobile out front seemingly rusting away into scrap metal from rain and a lack of use. The scant plants decorating the outside were sunburnt and malnourished, stuck in a tortuous half-life thanks to the irresponsible homeowner. The sight was, quite honestly, depressing. But there were... peculiarities, no mistake. The windows were barred with cast iron bars, while acidic newspaper yellowed against the glass from the inside. Clearly, someone didn't want to be seen, or have their home invaded. The car that sat rusting in the cracked concrete driveway was owned by a viciously murdered dead man, car insurance was paid for by the same viciously murdered dead man up until 2010, and its license plate was registered under a fake identity. John Smith. Very original. With a well-trained eye, one would notice that the porchlight was in fact a magical tool commonly used by Aurors as innocuous and near-undetectable security. Much like a security camera for Muggles, but charmed into functionality instead of powered by electricity. It had a short range too, small enough for the area around the door.
Hermione Granger would know, after all, seeing as one of her two best friends was head of the Auror Office within the British Ministry.
Five men appeared to stand along the sidewalk around Hermione. One of them fumbled with a tied mess of parchment, his long digits struggling with the tightly woven twine. All of them, not counting the mildly frustrated bearer of parchment, had their wands drawn. She stood dressed in a semi-formal pant suit, black pinstripes hugging her frame as a pale rose blouse contrasted the finely-tailored articles in an attractive fashion. Three of the five wizards, unlike her, were poorly dressed for stealth. One wore a horrendously ugly orange and acid green tie, clearly a leftover from the seventies. Another wore a tweed coat that was a combination of pinks, purples, and yellow over his muted brown clothes. The last of them wore a nightmarish mismatch of clothing, from his idiotic propeller hat to his over-polished firetruck red shoes. They undeniably stood out more than they blended in. Wizards, especially purebloods, were well known for their lack of understanding when it came to proper Muggle dress.
"Thank you for being 'ere with us, Miss Granger," spoke a voice to Hermione's left. "It seemed to me as though this raid would require the aid of a War veteran, seeing as this bloke is supposedly a leftover of You-Know-Who's campaign."
The young woman nodded politely, professionally. "It's no trouble, Augustus. I am a consultant to the Ministry, and my duties are not exclusively focused on any one department. And, as I am a veteran of the last War, I would be honored to aid you in another raid."
She was diplomatic, to the point. Inwardly, however, the bitterness she had towards Voldemort's followers bubbled like hot acid. To think there were still You-Know-Who loyalists after all the Death Eater arrests in the late 1990's to early two thousands!
The man nodded, his snow white hair ruffling with the movement. He then turned to his right, away from Granger, nodding to the parchment bearer. The entire affair was eerily casual.
"Edwards, if you would," Augustus spoke.
The skinny man, with his wild head of golden curls and gaunt face, nodded anxiously. "Yes 'course, sir!" His piano fingers clumsily unfolded the accordion of paper at last.
Clearing his throat, the thin man bellowed out towards the deteriorating house with all the authority he could muster. "Vasily Andrevich Karpov, you are under arrest for holding ties to the Dark Lord and his followers, for supplying dark wizard factions in Romania with cursed artefacts, and for the illegal smuggling of rare potion materials using Muggle labor, thus breaking the International Statute of Secrecy! By the laws of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, the Union of Soviet Magical Republics, and the British Ministry of Magic, you will be tried for your numerous crimes by the Wizengamot swiftly and justly! Any resistance to arrest will be responded to with force by members of the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement and added to your existing charges!"
Edwards folded the parchment, taking a breath. "You have a minute to exit the premises!"
The raid team stood there. It was standard procedure within the British Auror Office to give fugitives a minute grace period to either collect their pride and walk out, or to prepare for the oncoming raid. The American Auror Office in contrast, following the required reading of the fugitive's charges, immediately began the raid. Upon his or her capture, he-she was read her-his rights as a wizard or witch in the American Magical Congress. The Union of Soviet Magical Republics would have simply charged inside and captured the accused.
Hermione sighed audibly thirty seconds into the minute grace period.
It had been fifteen years since the final battle at Hogwarts. Those who died in the War had been buried and honored, Hogwarts had been rebuilt, and Kingsley Shacklebolt was the current British Minister of Magic. Following a two-year period of strife for the Magical community, an abrupt influx of Muggleborns jump-started British Magical society. With herself, Ron, and Harry's aid, Kingsley Shacklebolt crushed the remaining corruption within the Ministry and improved popular opinion of Muggleborn wizards. Any outlying laws made during Voldemort's control of the Ministry were struck down, and the United Union of Magical Governments had been created in place of the flawed International Confederation of Wizards. Magical government policy had all around been reformed within seven years, and the number of Muggleborns being accepted into magical schools around the world continued to increase. Hermione had been confident in saying "The Wizarding World has finally passed into a time of prosperity and understanding after years of stagnation" seven years ago.
But now? The Wizarding World was falling into yet another state of unrest. Ever since that fateful day in 2012, the magical community worldwide possessed a growing fear of Muggles. A simple man in a suit that could fly using only Muggle science? Muggles trained as heavily as their elite Aurors, with skills that seemed impossible for mere Muggles? Captain America, a forgotten relic of the mess with Hitler and Grindelwald come back to life? Capable of inhuman feats? Thor himself, God of Storms? His brother Loki, once worshipped by Magicals during their early years as hedge witches, before the invention of the wand? A green monster of a man that had the strength of three Giants? Aliens from space?!
Understandably, wizards and witches were unnerved, if not terrified. Muggleborns suffered from a sense of dysphoria, some of them unable to choose between the Muggle and the Magical. Most turned to the Wizarding World with abandon and never looked back, afraid of a future writ with superhumans. Public opinion of Muggleborns was quite positive these days, and they were a majority that was insuring the magical population continued to grow. A select few attempted to find a balance, an understanding of "superheroes" as well as the Wizarding World. The rest chose to reject magic altogether. Those individuals were eventually found dead from an unknown cause by Muggles at an average age of eighteen, while witches and wizards knew that their magical core had killed them from being forcibly repressed. All the while, politics in the Magical community were extremely toxic. Debates were waged constantly, discussing fears of discovery and a demand for further research into protective ward spells. We must protect our society! If our worlds were forced to meet, there would be another war just like the one waged against Grindelwald!
And here was Hermione, aged thirty-four, official consultant to the British Ministry and key ambassadorial member of the Union of Magical Governments, hunting a Russian squib who had been an ally to the Death Eaters. The year, 2013, was turning out to be her worst year yet! She would soldier on through it, assuredly, but the witch had a long way to go.
Glancing over at Augustus Mendrant, the Auror in charge of the raid, Hermione gave a nod. Time's up. The elderly man nodded back, raising his wand sharply.
"Bombarda!"
The door of the house exploded inwards, becoming nothing more than a mess of damaged wood and splinters. Edwards, the fumbling parchment bearer, followed up with the exact same spell shortly after, shattering the false porchlight. Hermione casted a quick Portego on their raiding party, wary of the possibility that the squib might have a gun in his possession. Wizards rarely ever interacted with Muggles to commonly know that such things existed, but thankfully a Portego charm was strong enough to protect someone from bullets or thrown objects. Two of the poorly dressed wizards quickly mobilized, pairing off to cut the squib off if he attempted to escape the home from the back. Another rushed head-first into the dimly-lit house, only to have a hail of bullets impact the Portego shield directly at his face as he stood in the entryway. He stumbled back, not much to Hermione's surprise. Augustus and the other wizards rushed in and checked him quickly, but were distracted. They didn't see the cursed wall decorations, mounted animal heads and poorly rendered paintings, leaping away from the peeling wallpaper, crashing against their shields. A moment later, the charm protecting them broke, and the Auror and his subordinates were left to fight cursed home decor that endeavored to kill them in the most imposturous way possible.
Granger, in contrast, dashed past the mayhem and stalked steadily further into the house, eyes darting about for a sign of movement. The place was a chaotic mess, littered with tipsy stacks of newspapers and strange collections of bottled chemicals. In some nooks and crannies, the witch spotted half-empty containers of 100-draft vodka. Newspaper scraps dotted the floor, as if someone had a shaky hand when they were using scissors. She noticed there was one window that wasn't covered in newspaper, the cheap plastic blinds drawn tight. An electric fan was placed precariously atop a side table. A dining table stood laden with someone's half-finished breakfast, cold tea, and a weakly steaming teapot.
A shoe crunched down on a lightbulb.
"Stupefy!"
Vasily crashed violently into the cabinetry of his kitchen, which was attached to the dining room. A broken light bulb and light fixture were on the ground, probably knocked over in his rush to hide from the Aurors and serving as his downfall. He struggled to aim his handgun at her from where he fell to the ground, back against the cabinetry of the sink, face contorted into a snarl.
Hermione shook her head in pity, seeing a snarling rabid dog in place of a squib. "Expelliarmus!"
The gun was knocked from the man's hand, flying into her free one. Before the man could further react, she yelled, "Immobulus!"
The squib's legs slammed together, arms glued to his sides, body stiffening straight like a board of wood. He flopped away from the cabinetry, his eyes glaring at her.
She let out a breath, shoulders slumping. The witch could hear the Aurors finishing off the last cursed artefact that had assaulted them, crowing victoriously somewhere in the front of the house. With a swift swish of her wand, Hermione levitated the frozen fugitive as she moved through the home to meet with Augustus. Vasily's form trailed behind her obediently.
The old Auror's face lit up at the sight of their fugitive caught by a freezing charm. "Ah, fantastic! Thank you, Miss Granger! Karpov could have very well escaped us today if not for you! The USMR would never allow us any sort of jurisdiction again if we did. They were real sore about this fellow's operation." He wagged his thumb at the floating criminal with emphasis.
Hermione offered him a smile, feeling an unnoticed weight leave her. It gave her a great deal of peace, personally capturing who she desperately hoped to be the last follower of Voldemort. The bitter acid no longer bubbled within her, washed away by today's accomplishment.
"It was my pleasure, Augustus. I am quite done hunting down Death Eaters, if you understand my meaning."
The snow-haired man nodded solemnly. "Indeed. These times are troubling enough, with the Avengers 'n America and whatnot. Can I request that you stay to help us locate the man's contraband? I'm afraid to try any summonin' charms, with the contraband being cursed an' all."
"I can. Call who you need to for clean up and for processing; I would like to see that man in Azkaban as soon as possible," the witch said strongly, handing him the handgun.
"Of course, Ma'am," Augustus finished, gingerly taking the muggle weapon and walking away with the squib levitating along behind him.
Hermione stood here quietly, glancing about once again. If I were a smuggler, where would I hide my goods?
Slowly, the witch wandered the messy home, peering into rooms and carefully casting a few sensory charms. She found a stack of documents pertaining to the use of Muggle labor, trucks, gas costs. A piece of parchment regarding an artefact request. At the end of a hallway, a door with an advanced Muggle lock stood silently. Hermione considered the door.
"Alohomora," she muttered, flicking her hand.
Metal tumblers clicked, snapped, crunched. The handle turned sluggishly, clearly needing oiling, as the door drifted open. Stairs leading down into a dark basement appeared, and Hermione couldn't help but smirk in triumph. She felt along the wall, fingers finding a light switch and flipping it on. The witch followed the stairs down, encountering a well-worn work table and a small desk built into a concrete wall. She moved to the construct, thumbing the thin books lining the desk space and the loose papers piled there. Her delicate yet calloused hands flipped through the documents with a practiced ease, speaking quietly of years spent researching in the Hogwarts library. Her brow slowly furrowed.
The documents were not pertaining to Karpov's smuggling business in the Wizarding World, or yards of parchment involving his dealings with Voldemort's campaigns of terror as she had hoped. Granger's Russian wasn't the best, admittedly, as she did not have to interact on a daily basis with any of the representatives from the Union of Soviet Magical Republics. However, she could read their written language and pronounce words if she was forced to. What had she found, written in cyrillic?
Quite possibly a conspiracy in the making.
Though a great deal of her youth had been filled with helping Harry Potter save the British Wizarding World, and possibly the Wizarding World in its entirety, from Voldemort's mad campaign to rule them all, Hermione did have time in her childhood to read Muggle books as well as Magical books. The muggleborn witch liked to maintain a balance between both halves of her life, learning about magic at school while voraciously reading about topics exclusively found in the muggle world. When she couldn't get into contact with Harry or Ron one summer, she'd submerged herself in Muggle history. She was always fascinated by history, and personally found American history, in terms of technological advances and cultural changes, quite riveting. Her hunger for it back then had lead her to read all about World War I, the issues following its end, and the rise of Hitler in World War II. That naturally lead her to read about Captain America, about the Howling Commandos, James Montgomery Falsworth's autobiography as a British soldier in an American special operations unit, and the Englishman's friendship with James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. Her mother may have purchased her daughter a Bucky Bear during that phase. Her father bought her more academic works of World War II history. From those, Hermione learned about Hydra, though the information on them released to the public was scant, and their mad desire to conquer the world and remake it for Ubermensch like their leader, the Red Skull.
And the documents the witch found, stacked in plain sight or hidden, were all about Hydra.
The top few papers detailed bases in various parts of the world, some of which were eerily close to Magical Preserves. Everything was alphabetically ordered. The documents themselves ranged in age. Most of them were mildly outdated, marked with the year 2011, but the fact an evil organization crazier than Hitler's Nazi regime still apparently existed disturbed Granger. As she went deeper, her stomach dropping to her feet in the process, the written material discussed covert operations within SHIELD. Which, apparently, was some kind of American espionage organization that had been created post-war as the antithesis of Hydra. Most of the missions described were exceptionally shady, involving gun smuggling, terrorist actions against rebel factions in third world countries, assassinating rising liberal activists, political blackmailing. It was nothing moral, nothing good. There were hundreds of missions described. Some man named Alexander Pierce was the orchestrator of it all, judging by his authorization and signatures littering the papers. The leader of the American Hydra sect, corrupting SHIELD from the inside! And, much to Hermione's dawning horror, he was a man she knew. A charming elderly man who had a seat on the World Security Council, no less.
But beneath all of that were folders, some of which Hermione found stuffed behind the books in the desk cubbies.
Zimniy Soldat. Aktiv. Oruzhiye.
Her eyes widened, her breath becoming shallow.
Winter Soldier. Asset. Weapon.
There were newspaper articles, short mission summaries, photographs, visual documentation of the subject. There were around fifty noted missions in total, though among the papers it was remarked that only high-profile targets were reported as missions. Some of it was clearly forwarded to Vasily via encrypted email or copy machine, as the ink printing wasn't as neat as some of the fancier Muggle printers on the market. The rest of it appeared to be official documents, yellowed from age and typed in German or Cyrillic. The weapon, asset, Winter Soldier was a Muggle-killing machine! And he was Hydra's fist! Hydra still existed! They infiltrated the American Muggle Government through SHIELD!
Yet she could tell the information was incomplete. There were signs that papers had been taken out of the folders, of which there were tons, and the puzzle wasn't completely finished. Who was this man, this cyborg muggle with a Soviet red star marked upon his shoulder? What horrors had he been forced to endure to bear that metal limb, to be dehumanized and made into nothing but a puppet to evil men?
And Hermione Granger needed to know. If the Muggle Government of America is this corrupt, and the same could perhaps be said of Muggle Europe, who is to say that it won't spread to my own government? She had a great number of friends within the Muggle Government in Britain, as many high officials had the permission of the Ministry to be exempt from the Statute. They had worked with them before when Sirius Black was at large. And nowadays, Hermione worked with them on the topic of the "superheroes" as well as any MI6 troubles that were better suited for Aurors. The idea that there were Hydra moles working alongside her friends left Hermione mortified. Nobody is safe if this isn't solved!
Pulling away from the desk, she frantically looked around the basement. Where could a squib hide documents? It wasn't as if he was foolish enough to—
"The walls," she gasped, swiveling on her heels. Without hesitation, she pointed her wand directly at the wall near the desk.
"DELETRIUS!"
The concrete and brick exploded into dust, flying every which way. It blanketed the room, causing Hermione to cough until she quickly dispelled most of it with a cleaning charm.
There, once hidden by what had been a false wall, was a large discolored file box. Next to it was a clearly Magical chest, one much like what had imprisoned Mad Eye during her fourth year at Hogwarts. Knowing her luck, it was filled with all the cursed artefacts and smuggling documents Augustus had originally sent her to find.
"Miss Granger?" A muffled voice called.
Hermione rightfully jumped. Augustus!
She wanted to trust the elderly Auror desperately in that moment, as she'd worked beside the man for nigh on five years when dealing with the British Auror Department, but her paranoia born from the War told her otherwise. Quickly, she conjured three file boxes, dumping all the loose papers and folders inside them. Grabbing the one she had just discovered, she magically sealed and shrunk them. The witch could hear the Auror's footsteps nearing the door to the basement, and she frantically tossed the pebble-sized boxes into the pockets of her dress pants. She flicked her wand one last time, erasing the dust trail that the discovered file box had left behind.
Not a minute later, Augustus appeared. "Miss Granger, are you alright? I heard you yelling!" exclaimed the wizard.
"It's fine, Augustus. I found the contraband! A false wall and a charmed chest," she reported, her face giving nothing of her distressed feelings away.
The man looked in the direction of the disintegrated wall and untouched chest. "Oh, excellent!" he said, clapping his hands, "Thank you again, Miss Granger! Your help is greatly appreciated. You may go—EDWARDS!"
The witch didn't hesitate to leave.
It was close to midnight when Hermione had finally calmed down enough to enlarge and unseal the file boxes she had stolen from Vasily Karpov's home in Cleveland. Within the confines of her conspicuous mansion in Wales, she'd consumed five cups of tea, two calming droughts, and an entire dinner plate of Molly Weasley's infamous treacle tarts. It was an honorable and generous plot of estate bequeathed to her three years after the War by Shacklebolt's overworked vice-chair, and a very pointed political move on part of the new Minister following the death of Voldemort. Hermione was the first Muggleborn witch to gain a seat in the government as a Head of a House, and the first Muggleborn to start a distinguished House within British Magical Society. The Youthful and Honorable House of Granger, indeed. She had long since exchanged her suit and blouse for soft cotton nightwear, her feet capped with extremely fuzzy pink slippers. George had given them to her as a gift, something he'd invented for his business to appeal to women who fancied Pygmy Puff fur and not the actual creature. Yet another calming cup of tea sat in its saucer at her elbow.
Before the witch, strewn across her lengthy dining table, the piles upon manilla piles of Hydra intelligence laid silent.
For once in her life, Hermione wasn't sure how to approach a measure of paperwork. She'd always been the bookish one of the Golden Trio, talented at finding answers and drawing up plans. The expansive library room within her mansion was indicative enough of the fact her love for knowledge had not been snuffed out by the War. If anything, she was perhaps even more insatiable. Many of her newest additions were foreign magical volumes, dedicated to topics European wizards were too uncomfortable to address. These stacks of loose papers and files acquired from the squib's house were nothing compared to her newly updated copy of Hogwarts: A History.
So with a great huff and another cup of tea, the witch delved into the conspiracy before her with a fine-toothed comb. One would have thought it difficult for her to read about the darker happenings of the muggle world, but really, it was more surprising than hard-to-stomach. And I thought the Death Eaters were the cruelest enemies I've faced. Assassinations. Guns smuggled to third-world countries to further displace political balance and profit off the higher local demand for imported food. Drug deals, bought as insurance and another source of dirty money in the States and Britain. Kulling towns for innocent yet unattached people, taking them to bases for experimentation. More assassinations. Kill orders on compounds, families, gangs, drug rings, gun smugglers, anyone that Hydra viewed as a loose end in their hierarchy. Murdering SHIELD agents that had served to save lives but hinder the Hydra monster leeching off their intelligence organization. Almost all of it had political or corporate significance.
There was, however, a very brief—and extremely disturbing—report of an armed Hydra squad coming across an individual that exhibited magical abilities in San Francisco. Their "stick" had been taken from them, studied, but ultimately disposed of. Nothing had been gleaned, even with their most advanced mechanical scanning devices. The Hydra scientists then attempted to "stimulate a magical response" from the captured individual, using electro-shock, and physical encouragement. It resulted in a few accidental magic events created from stress, though the sensors being used could not detect any radiation or energy signature. It wasn't long before the individual died from prolonged torture. Their body had then been given an autopsy, analyzed organ by organ, and yet again nothing had been learned. A wizard by the name of Mark Walterman had left the world of the living screaming for his wife.
Hermione robotically separated that ten-page report from the rest with vomit souring her mouth and a mental note to use that report as undeniable evidence for the Union of Magical Governments to scrutinize over when the time came for her to come forward with this conspiracy of the century.
Then the witch shifted her arms to grab the final stack of files. The papers were formerly the contents of the hidden file box, and the amount of dust sticking to the sheets was almost impressive. With a quick flick of the wand, the particles dispelled, barely ruffling the important documents.
"The Winter Soldier," Hermione whispered grimly.
It was extremely hard to get through more than six or seven pages without needing to pause for a fortifying gulp of tea. Hermione decidedly charmed the teacup to refill itself to save her the stress and time, though the content of the sheets only continued to become increasingly frightening.
"This is impossible," she said to herself, her face a visage of distress.
The man's name was James Buchanan Barnes. The witch couldn't believe it, but the photographs buried deep in the files were an undeniably confirmation. Especially the discolored black-white image of the young sergeant himself, his dress uniform and handsome face smiling softly somewhere beyond the camera's lense. He was, based on the newer reports, unchanged physically for nigh seventy years. Still appearing as nothing more than a fellow in his late twenties or early thirties, if one could ignore the dead man's stare and the ragged brunette hair that skimmed his shoulders. Hermione feared magic had somehow fallen into the muggles' hands, something akin to the Philosopher's Stone, until she came upon the procedural documents for operating the Asset. Cryogenic freezing. Electroshock. Physical and physiological reinforcement. It read like a horror science fiction novel to her but it was a horrifying reality for Sergeant Barnes. Some personal logs by Hydra scientists and managing personnel were also included. They brought tears to the witch's eyes, drawing out heaving sobs.
… though I have never taken part in it, many of the field agents and scientists here take advantage of the Asset's handler. His leniency is almost shocking to me, with how every member of Hydra knows not to cross Alexander Pierce's favorite tool. But Rumlow allows, if not encourages the act among his men. The Asset follows any order issued by his handler, per his programming, and making him spread his legs or be used in any fashion when the others are feeling frisky isn't any different to being given a mission to murder an opposing politician's five children. With how quick the Asset is to please and act, I almost think other handlers before Rumlow have seen an opportunity like he has. The Asset is almost too pretty in the face, and the uncut hair doesn't help. Everyone clearly enjoys the power trip of fucking the most dangerous tool in Hydra's control, or those lips. Who knew the Winter Soldier gave excellent head? I wouldn't have ever thought that, not until I had the unfortunate luck to see it happen to Rumlow…
"As if Barnes hasn't been stripped of everything he is and made him kill," she cried, sight blurred by another wave of tears, "Th-The bastards used him as if he was nothing more than a toy!"
Other logs spoke of experimentation, cutting the Asset open and testing the limits of various organs. They called him enhanced, studying how quickly he healed, how long he could last without certain internal parts before he nearly died upon their operating table, poured nefarious mixtures in soft places to see how effective they were for use in torture. Hermione wanted to stop reading, but she didn't know how an American war hero survived his supposed death and became the empty shell of a man described. How had he been enhanced? How did he gain the arm? Why did he have it? What was Hydra's aim in unmaking him?
As the witch lifted away a manilla folder to reach the thick one below it, salty tears dotting the oak table and soaking the delicate pages surrounding her, she found something else instead.
A little red book, smaller than a standard sheet of paper but no thicker than a half inch, lay atop the folder she wanted. On its cover, a black star was pressed into the leather, a parallel image to the star upon the metal arm Hermione had seen in the photographs. She didn't want to touch it, sniffling thickly, but her shaking hands reached out anyway.
Careful yet slightly cramped handwriting spelled out words primarily in German on yellowed lined paper, mixed with small pockets of English and Cyrillic. It wrote about a serum, its effects, the trials, Bucky Barnes. It detailed the inner workings of the metallic arm, how it attached to the body, the various ways it could and had been used to kill. There were paragraphs upon paragraphs of torture methods employed in breaking a one-armed war hero, the psychological manipulations, the training. The strategy one scientist named Zola used to eliminate sentiment and morality. Disorder. Resistance. A way to instill obedience, a desire to follow orders to fatalistic ends, to forge a weapon out of a man. And, amidst all the disturbing truth, a line of words.
Zhelaniye, rzhavyye, pech', rassvet, semnadtsat', dobrokachestvennyye, devyat', vozvrashcheniye na rodinu, odin, gruzovoy avtomobil'.
Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car. A scattering mess of russian words that when said in that specific order, triggered the Winter Soldier into complete obedience.
"But why aren't they ever referenced elsewhere in all this?" Hermione said aloud, somehow managing to swallow back a wave of nausea. The writing was all so clinical about procedures that, quite honestly, shattered the human soul.
Though the witch had all the the mission reports, none of them referenced the words. There was, however, a notable increase in shoving the Asset in the electroshock chair to keep his mind memory free. Perhaps there had been a falling out amongst the Hydra ranks, and the little red book in her possession had been lost to them?
"Karpov could have very well taken this in the chaos if that theory is plausible. As insurance, maybe, in case they decided to send the Winter Soldier to kill him for running?" she pondered, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.
Merlin, the woman had no idea what she was going to do with all this information, let alone what to do with the small red book of chronicled torture. She needed to evaluate the landscape, finish reading through the documents, and figure out how to cut down the proverbial tree towering over the rest of the forest.
"And I know exactly who I should talk to… "