Author's Notes:

1) This fic is canon divergent in the HP verse from the end of the Second Wizarding War, and as far as Marvel . . . there's canon elements from both the films and the comics, but this can largely be considered AU with events from, and ties to, each that will become apparent as the story progresses.

2) As stated on my FB page, I didn't want to start any new fics, given that my WIP list is already pretty lengthy and I didn't want to add to it, but all of my current wip plunnies are napping, and not having been able to write anything in near two weeks is having an adverse effect on me, emotionally, so here we are.

3) Updates may be sporadic, chapter lengths may vary wildly (some might be over 5k words, some might not crack 2k).

4) To be clear, while there is a fair amount of fanon that the HP character Antonin Dolohov is Russian, there is in fact no actual canon basis for this. It's implied that he's Russian in this fic simply because with the last name 'Dolohov,' my knee-jerk reaction as someone of Slavic heritage is to go "Hey! That sounds Slavic!" *shrug*

Natalya vs Natalia:

When I write Bucky saying the Russian version of Nat's full first name, I write it as Natalya. I feel the need to state this now, despite that he doesn't address her as such in this chapter, because I've had people try to correct me in other fics with the 'I' spelling. Both spellings are technically correct, as it's a phonetic English spelling of a foreign name, I simply prefer the 'Y' spelling.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, MARVEL/MCU, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from this work.

Chapter One

Natasha looked up, her hand jumping to her weapon as the door swung open. Expression grave, Bucky stepped through, not even bothering to follow his own reflex that would have him drawing his weapon on her in response to her cautionary movement. Dropping her arm to her side, she could already feel herself slump a little based on the look marring his features, alone. "Nothing?"

He arched a brow, but his expression didn't change as he shrugged. "Found something, but it's not good."

"Wha-?" Nat cut short her question as he lifted the banged up red and gold helmet and held it out to her.

"Oh, God," she said, wincing as she crossed the floor to him. Hefting up the helmet in her hands, she examined the rent, battered metal. "What about Tony? Is he—?"

"No idea. There was no sign of him. Nothing but this."

Confusion shown in her green eyes as she frowned up at him. She knew just how skilled the Winter Soldier program had made James Buchanan Barnes—if he was trailing someone, he either found them, or they were no longer around to be found.

"When you say 'nothing,' you mean what?"

His brows pinching together, he gave her a thoughtful expression, his bottom lip jutting out a bit. "I mean nothing. I mean I tracked his movements, and then . . . nothing. He seems to have met up with someone and then there's just nothing. Like he vanished. Without a trace. I don't wanna say it, but it's like—"

"Magic?" she asked, her eyes wide now, but not in a look of shock.

Bucky didn't like that there seemed something in this situation she understood but he didn't. "Yeah."

Nodding, she returned to the open case on the table and continued arming herself as she said, "Show me."

Frowning at the way the tracks simply ended, Nat closed her eyes, exhaling a long, low breath. "Shit." He was right. Not that she doubted Bucky or his skills, but she'd simply been hoping there was something more to this.

Even the tracks of Tony's mysterious companion were a dead end, they began as inexplicably as they vanished, the tracks materializing out of nowhere and then simply ending alongside Tony's.

Bucky shrugged, raking those metal fingers though his long, dark hair. "I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't seeing it, myself. There's no sign of anyone or anything else out here. No vehicle tracks for miles, no other people for miles. It seems like he and whoever he met didn't cross paths with anybody. What the fuck he came out here for in the first place? Who fucking knows! Unless he was abducted by aliens—which I know is possible, but even that leaves a trace—then they just literally up and—"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Nat said, pressing her hand against his chest, her palm resting over the beat of his heart as she peered up into his face. "Calm down. This was not your fault."

Bucky swallowed hard, blinking as he darted his gaze away from hers. "Can you blame me? He didn't even want to work with us, especially because I was involved. But I convinced him I could be trusted. Me. Not you, not anyone else. Me."

"If there's anything I've learned, it's that no one tells Tony Stark what to do unless he's letting them."

Withdrawing her hand, she retrieved from her pack a device he was certain he'd never noticed amongst her things, before. Funny, Bucky'd thought if anyone knew all of the Black Widow's tricks and toys, it'd be him.

He followed on silent footfalls as she returned to Tony's last visible prints and began scanning the immediate vicinity with the device. "What is that?"

Nat's shoulders slumped as the bit of mystery tech let out a whining sound. "This, uh, is something I shouldn't tell you, but . . . it detects trace amounts of . . . magic in an area."

Brows shooting up, he nodded. "Magic, sure. Like, Strange?"

She waved dismissively with her free hand as she held the device closer to her face with the other, trying to make better sense of the readings. "What he does is more reality-bending than actual 'magic'. This is something else."

"Something we can do something about?"

"Not yet," she said, turning on her heel and starting away from the scene. "But I'm going to try."

"Where are we going?"

"Not we, me. I'm sorry, James, but I can't bring you along on this."

He definitely did not like the sound of that—she only called him James when shit was serious. "Wait." Bucky slipped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her to a halt. "At least tell me where you're going."

That familiar half-smile curved her lips as she turned to look at him. "You're cute when you worry about me. I've said all I can, for now. If I manage to wrangle you clearance for where I have to go, then I'll tell you when I get back."

"Fine." He didn't like it, but he recognized when Nat would not be budged about something. "But be careful. I expect you back in one fully-functioning piece."

"Oh, please." She crinkled the bridge of her nose as she shook her head at him. "You trained me well, didn't you?"

Bucky couldn't help but smirk. "I'd like to think so."

"Then stop worrying." Even as she said the words, though, Natasha Romanov was worried, herself. Even as she stood on her toes to plant a reassuring kiss on his lips.

She'd always hoped she'd never have to use these particular connections, but one had to fight magic with magic. If these scans were right, and Tony had been taken by some force of magic, then Nat was off to find herself a witch or wizard.

The kind the world at large didn't even know existed.

Hermione didn't even look up as the door to her cell opened. It wasn't a meal time, and she'd already gotten her infernal ice-cold scrub down for that week—she'd kill for a hot shower if she thought it would actually work out that way—so she couldn't imagine what anyone was bothering her for just now. Then again, the only positive thing to be said for Deathlock was that it didn't have Dementors, but neither did Akzaban these days. Nope, this place was worse. In the old days of Azkaban, it was the soul-draining presence of those dark figures that made the prisoners yearn for an end to it all and lose their minds.

In Deathlock, it was the utter numbness to everything. The void of life, of sights, sounds, other people aside from the Aurors who didn't engage prisoners in discussion of any kind, no matter the circumstances. Day in, day out, staring at the same cold and barren grey walls, no other voice to fill her ears but her own—she did, occasionally, talk to herself, sing, even scream, just to have something to hear. Not even a bloody window so she might look through the bars and see anything outside the prison walls, or feel the sun on her skin.

Some days, Hermione wondered if the monotony had driven her mad and she simply didn't know it, yet.

Holding up her hands, she climbed to her feet. Her gaze shot not to the Auror standing just outside the cell door, but to the wand she already well knew was trained on her. A wave of the implement directed her to step out.

As though she had a choice? Scowling, she walked into the corridor and started along the floor, the Auror just far enough back that the prisoner could not even hope to make a move for the wand.

She was led through passage after passage, further into the depths of the prison than she'd ever been before. Well, to be fair, she'd not been anywhere but her cell and the washroom, really. Their policy seemed to be to simply chuck their prisoners out of sight, and care for them only as much as would keep them breathing. Appalling human rights violation. Though, she couldn't argue that some of the other residents didn't deserve such a fate.

Hermione found herself ushered into a small conference room. The only other person there was a positively gorgeous redheaded woman in Muggle tactical gear. Stylish, streamlined tactical gear, but still, Muggle.

Wide-eyed, Hermione snapped her attention to the Auror. The wizard was ignoring her, entirely, as the other woman said something to him in smooth, clipped Russian.

Whatever she said, the Auror looked wary. Hermione understand only as much as his reply was something akin to "You must be mad."

The Muggle tipped her head to one side, her expression lethally serious. "I said leave us." Vocal chameleon, this one. She spoke English with an American accent; Hermione's time in the country before her imprisonment had allowed her enough audible language exposure to detect that this woman was a native Russian speaker.

Though he grumbled some distinctly displeased statement about the order, the Auror nodded. Stepping out, he pulled the door closed behind him.

"Make no mistake," the Muggle woman went on as she took a seat and opened the folder before her on the conference table. She didn't look up as she continued, "Try anything, I can kill you before you'll even know I got up out of this chair."

Hermione folded her arms, shrugging. She pushed aside that hearing a voice other than her own for the first time in . . . God, she didn't even know how long she'd been here, anymore, but she was so relieved at the sound of someone else speaking that she thought it a miracle her knees didn't give out.

"I can't imagine what I could possibly gain from killing complete stranger."

Flicking her gaze up from the paperwork, the redhead nodded. "So, we'll say your time here hasn't dulled your cognitive abilities or nurtured any undue aggression?"

"Oh, I have aggression, Miss Whoever-You-Are, but it's not undue, and you're not one of the people I'd direct it toward, given the opportunity."

"My name is Natasha Romanov. And I am a . . . liaison, of sorts, between the governments of the magical and non-magical communities."

"So, then, you are a Muggle."

Natasha nodded, waving her hand toward the seat opposite her. "Yes. But I'm here to discuss you, not me, Hermione. Do you mind if I call you Hermione?"

Taking the offered seat—despite its stiffness, the simple wooden folding chair felt like a bloody cushion compared to the cold, hard floor, covered by no more than a thin mattress and thread-bare blanket that was the closest thing to comfort she could remember—Hermione shrugged. "No offense, but it honestly doesn't matter to me, either way."

"You always so short tempered?"

Again, Hermione shrugged. "I've never been incredibly patient, but it's been this place that's shot even the reserves I did have to hell. I'm not used to having company."

Nat smirked. "Yeah, I understand being incarcerated for murder can take the edge of one's people skills."

Her chestnut eyes rolled—and she cared little if the gesture came off as rude, since it was meant to be. "And there in lies our problem, Ms. Romanov."

"Please, Natasha or Nat will do. And what do you mean by that?"

Frowning thoughtfully, Hermione shook her head. "Because I don't consider what I did murder."

Fixing her gaze on Hermione's, Nat closed the folder and pushed it aside. She clasped her hands before her as she asked, "You killed someone. According to your record you, in fact, tracked this . . . Antonin Dolohov from the UK all the way to Moscow for the sole purpose of killing him."

"Yes."

Nat waved dismissively. "But it wasn't murder?" Oh, she wasn't one to pass judgement on someone for taking a life when necessary, but how necessary it was, and what made a killing necessary in Hermione Granger's eyes were the issues at hand.

"Would you have considered it murder if someone killed Jack the Ripper?"

"Was Dolohov like Jack the Ripper?"

"In a way, only he was not so discriminatory as to who his victims were. I made a murderer, a torture specialist for a madman who called himself Lord Voldemort, pay for his crimes. Though, I'm not even truly certain I did that, I made his death quick. A luxury I can assure you he afforded none of his victims. I gave the scales of justice a tip in the right direction. No more, no less."

Nat's brows furrowed as she braced her elbows on the table and tucked her clasped hands beneath her chin. "So in the end, you showed him mercy, even though you felt he didn't deserve it?"

"Oh, I know he didn't deserve it. But yes, I suppose I did."

Another smirk plucked at one corner of the other woman's lips, then. Reopening the folder, she looked over its contents one more time. This witch had been locked away in this miserable place for years, and yet, she seemed as sharp as the day she went in, if the intel the prison kept on her was to be believed.

"What is it you want with me?"

Nat sighed. Opening a second folder, she pushed it across the table to Hermione. "There's a problem in the States. One that has to do with magic, your world's kind of magic. I reached out to my contact at the Ministry, they put me in touch with the Head Auror here at Deathlock."

Hermione shifted the papers in front of her, glimpsing just enough of the writing to get the gist of the situation. "You want someone who's not really a criminal, and hasn't been driven 'round the bed by this place, but who no one will miss?"

"Yes, but I'm in a position to make you a deal. You help us, you earn your freedom."

Arching a brow, Hermione gave the file's contents a more careful look. "Sort of like a work-release situation?"

"Sort of like, yeah."

"Wait . . . you've lost Iron Man? The Iron Man? The bloke in the red and gold suit?"

"We didn't lose him, he was taken."

"By magical means." Hermione wanted this to be true—not the superhero being kidnapped part, the freedom at the end bit. Really, desperately, wanted it. But she couldn't bring herself to trust the situation. Swallowing hard, she idly picked at the corners of the pages. "So, that's it, no tricks?"

"No tricks. You help us find him, your life becomes your own, again."

"I want the terms in writing, and I want you to take veritaserum and tell me all this, again."

Nat shrugged. "In writing, I can do. The truth potion? That's a no-go. Can't risk it. I have too much sensitive information about both our worlds up here," she said, tapping the tips of her fingers against her temple.

A somewhat petulant look took over Hermione's features. "Well . . . I'll need a wand."

"You'll have one. But know that if you attempt any harmful spells on my partner or myself, the deal's off."

The witch nodded. "I would expect as much. I'd like to get word to some friends back in England, if possible. I know the Ministry probably gave them the only story there was to tell, that I'm serving time for breaking the law in a foreign Wizarding community. I just want to let them know I'm all right after all this time. You can read it before sending, if that's necessary. I'll also need clothes, I don't even have the basics. And God, access to a warm bath before we leave Russia. Oh, and deodorant. Bloody hell, I can't even imagine what it must be like for you having to sit across from me right now." Okay, she was going off on unnecessary tangents—of course she'd probably have access to basic toiletries, but the loss of a filter between her mind and her mouth due to her lengthy, solitary incarceration was starting to show through.

And she was rather certain she was offending her own senses, right now. She thought the Aurors must use some sort of charm to not gag when dealing closely with the prisoners.

Her demands were so simple, but Nat knew that under the circumstances, these were the only things that mattered to Hermione Granger. "Nothing that can't be arranged."

"But you mean this?" Hermione asked, tapping the paperwork before her. "If I help you, if we find him, I'll really be free?"

The Muggle woman nodded, a half-smile curving her mouth. "I do. What do you say?"

Hermione knew it could be a trick. They might use her and then throw her back in here. But then, wasn't even some time out in the sun and the fresh air better than refusing and being stuck in here, every waking moment, until she'd drawn her last breath?

"Where do I sign?"