Those of you reading my bite-sized-chapter HP fic, The Wayward Familiar, are already aware of this, but:

Thank you SO much for all the love and support this fic has already received. You guys are amazing! I'm overwhelmed, honestly.

Separate note: Monday is my birthday, but because Mondays generally suck, I'll be celebrating sometime this weekend. Therefore, I don't know if I'll be able to update anything again before next week rolls around. If I can't, everyone have a lovely weekend! :D

Chapter Two

Bitter Memories & Midgardian Things

Hermione bit hard on the inside of her bottom lip, keeping her eyes shut tightly and her body perfectly still as she lay on her side on the floor, facing the back wall of the cell. She fought to keep her breaths shallow and even, so he might be fooled.

But every footfall echoing in her ears caused her heart to break further.

"Granger . . . ?"

Even the sound of his whispered voice hurt.

He sighed and hung his head when she didn't stir. This was his last chance, but he didn't know what more he could do. He got her into this, and now the only way out for her . . . .

Well, it wouldn't be pretty for him.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," he said, pausing for a moment to draw in a shivering breath. "I know that means shit to you after everything that's happened. . . . After everything I've done. It'll all be over, soon. Vol—the Dark Lord has set your execution for tomorrow morning."

Hermione struggled not to react. It had finally come to pass. Voldemort had always said she would be special . . . . Her death would only come after his Curse had done its work.

Only when she was the last dirty-blooded one left.

She forced a gulp down her throat, swallowing her tears.

"I just needed you to know . . . ." Another shuddering sigh fell from his lips as he shook his head. "Even if you hate me until your very last breath, I just need you to know that I never meant for it to come to this."

She heard his steps retreating toward the cell door. The sound of it creaking open jarred her bones.

He spoke again, his voice oddly thick. "I hope maybe, I dunno, in some other life, you'll be able to forgive me."

The door swung shut and she listened to his footfalls until they reached the end of the corridor, dropping beyond the range of her hearing.

Sitting up, she opened her eyes, wiping the back of her hand across her cheeks despite that she'd kept her tears in. She sniffled, shifting to glance around her cage when she realized . . . .

She'd not heard the thunk of the bolt sliding into place.

Snapping her head around, she looked to the door. The light slicing in thin lines through the bars on either side severed cleanly across the space between them and the door.

He hadn't locked it.

She was afraid to go check. This could be a trap. Something to bring her execution all the more swiftly. She couldn't trust him, not after what he'd done.

Yet . . . .

If she didn't move now, if she didn't try, she was dead, anyway.

Wincing at the ache the movement caused in her joints, Hermione stood. The sound of her own footsteps beneath her as she crossed the cell floor seemed terrifyingly loud in her ears. But not nearly as loud or terrifying as the creaking of the door as she eased it open a hair's breadth at a time.

Poking her head around, she glanced up and down the corridor, surprised to find it empty. Not like they expected her to go anywhere.

She opened the door just a little further, enough to slip from the cell.

For a painful moment, she only stood there, uncertain quite what to do. They were all over this place she had no hope of getting past whatever lay beyond the far end of this corridor.

She felt the breeze against her skin, then. Holding in a surprised breath, Hermione turned toward the other end of the passage. The stained glass window had been pushed outward. Still latched, she could see even from here how the lacquered wood frame strained against the metal clasp.

The gap was probably just wide enough for her to wriggle through, though the effort was likely going to earn her a fair amount of scrapes and bruises. Maybe a broken rib, or two. Small price to pay for survival.

Though she didn't dare to look, she would wager a guess that if she did check, the lock on the cell was probably broken, adding to the illusion that she'd somehow made her escape on her own. She shook her head, getting her bearings before she darted to the window to look out.

It was a bit of a drop, but she could make it.

Forcing a steadying breath, she slid her arms through the opening. But fabric brushing her hand drew her attention.

She pulled back, tugging the object free from the ledge. Her handbag?

A confused pout playing on her lips, she turned into over in her fingers . . . . And heard a distinct jingling sound. That wasn't right. Her bag should be empty, after all, they'd taken everything of hers.

Opening the bag, she reached a hand inside, coming out with a fistful of Sickles and Galleons. And with the silver and gold coins she found a folded bit of parchment.

Opening it, she felt her heart break all over again.

"The War's coming," she said, her voice somber as she lay with her head cradled against the hollow of his shoulder.

"I know." He trailed his fingers along the side of her face as they stared up at the perfect, cloudless sky. "We've done all we can to stop it, and we failed."

She slid her hand up over his, holding his palm against her cheek. "What'll we do when it reaches us?"

He chuckled, but they both knew the jovial sound was forced. "Fight, of course."

"No." Shaking her head, she shifted, rising up on an elbow to meet his eyes. "I mean what do we do?"

He sighed, dropping his gaze from hers. "Granger, please, don't—"

"What do we do if the War forces one of us down a path where the other can't follow?"

A pained expression flickered across his features at the way her voice sounded. That hollow, tear-thickened whisper.

He sat up, cupping her cheek. For a silent moment, he dropped his head, pressing a kiss against the top of her wild hair.

"Then you run."

"Run?" she echoed, nearly as though she didn't understand. They'd been trained as soldiers, a sad fact they'd only realized in these last few months.

Did soldiers run? She had no idea.

Lifting her face in his hands so their gazes met, he nodded. "You run, and you just keep running. Until you don't have to look over your shoulder anymore."

Just. Keep. Running. She traced the words on the slip of parchment with a trembling fingertip.

Putting the paper away, she forced a sniffle and shook her head. "Draco, you idiot. You know they may kill you for this," she whispered, even as she slipped through the gap in the window.

She still didn't know if soldiers ran, but she knew they didn't let others risk their lives in vain.

Loki stormed inside, the door swinging shut in a violent motion in his wake. He bared his teeth at the orb, barely refraining from hurling it across the room.

No, such a display of anger would accomplish nothing. It would shatter the orb, and possibly tear a hole straight through whichever wall he aimed it toward.

He settled instead for bringing his fist down against the table in the center of the room. His shoulders slumped and he rolled his eyes as it shattered to the floor. Damn Midgardian furniture.

Everything here was so bloody fragile!

Sitting down . . . carefully, he placed the orb on another decidedly frail little table beside the arm chair. Less chance he crush the relic in another fit of irritation.

"Wretched Midgardian brute," he said in a whisper, the words spilling from between his lips in a hiss.

Yes, this was all his fault. And he would pay. Loki hadn't intended to injure the girl . . . he'd only meant to stop her, but he'd not expected her to be so breakable. Why weren't even the Witches here sturdy?

But no. That oaf's interference—Loki curled his fingers into a fist, stopping the thought. He was going around in circles, and stewing served no purpose, either.

He'd simply shove his anger to the back of his mind and let it out when he caught up to them.

No, shaking his head, he turned his gaze to the orb to await the next indicator.

What he had to focus on now was her. Witches were not as easy to coerce as non-magical Midgardians, and her memory of him harming her would not bode well for his attempts at winning her to his cause.

Sighing, he propped an elbow on the armrest and dropped his chin down into his hand as he waited.

He would have to give her a reason to trust him. Or at least a reason to want to trust him . . . . Something that could lead her to overlook that minor incident at their first meeting.

And then he would concern himself with finding amusing and delightful ways of making that Midgardian brute pray for death.

Bucky heard the shifting of leather on the seat beside his and glanced over. A pair of confused chestnut-brown eyes stared back at him.

He started just a little at how intently she was looking at him, before he turned his gaze back to the road. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he realized he had absolutely no fucking clue what to say to this woman to explain what had happened.

Well, except for the truth. Which might send her combat-rolling from the car despite her head injury just to get away from him, considering how utterly bat-shit it would all sound.

"So . . . ." Hermione started, as much to sort the situation aloud as to break the awkward silence. And to distract from the absolutely stunning pain lacing the side of her head. "I'm to take it you rescued me from that odd man in the street, then?"

For some reason—maybe it was how easily she assessed what had happened while she'd been dazed, or what a startling contrast her calm tone was to the panicked freak out he was expecting from her—Bucky found himself laughing.

After a moment, he drew a breath, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She had the fingers of one hand pressed against her swollen temple as her eyebrows drew together.

"Have I said something funny?"

"No, it's just, um, calling that guy odd was such an understatement. I couldn't help it." He cleared his throat, his expression sobering as he said, "Look, it's going to all sound completely nuts, but I'll tell you what's going on. Anything you want to ask first?"

"Where is he?" she asked as she turned to look out the back window.

"Still back in Manhattan, I think?" He pointed to a road sign coming up. "And we're on our way Upstate. Unless he can fly, I'm pretty sure we've put a bit of distance between us and him."

Again, he gave a start—this time at the serious expression she adopted in response to his joke.

"I hope to Merlin he can't fly," she whispered, wide-eyed.

Bucky just barely refrained from stopping the car in the middle of the night-darkened road—empty though it was—to give her a long, hard look. Instead, he merely glanced at her from the corner of his eye, once more.

But suddenly he was wondering which one of them had the more interesting story to tell.

"Are we going somewhere safe?" She pulled her feet up onto her seat and wrapped her arms around her legs, appearing impossibly small in comparison to . . . well, him sitting beside her.

"I certainly hope so. Where that might be? No clue. We just . . . need somewhere to lay low for a few days."

Hermione had heard those words before. From Harry, after she'd reunited with him. He knew when word broke of her escape, everyone would look to him.

You'll just have to lay low for a few days. When it's over, I'll come get you, I promise.

And he had.

"Okay," she said, nodding. "Tell me."

Broad shoulders drooping, Bucky sighed. And gave her the lengthy explanation of everything. The Asgardians, Steve's involvement in the Super Soldier program, the Avengers—since whatever was going on in her version of the world had meant she'd never even heard of them before.

Lastly, he filled her in about who—and what—he was, as that was key to how he tied into all this.

"So . . . you're an experimental, formerly brain-washed super-soldier with a cybernetic arm?"

Sighing again, he took his hands from the wheel just long enough to wrench the glove from his left and flexed his fingers for her. The orange light of the intermittent streetlamps glinted off metal.

Her eyebrows shot up and she sat a little straighter. "Oh. There's something you don't see every day."

Bucky's bottom lip poked outward in a confused pout. He'd expected . . . . Well, okay, he wasn't quite sure what he expected from her after the world's most bizarre introduction, but much more of a fuss, that was for sure.

"And so Loki and Thor, they're aliens, but there also the Loki and Thor the Viking myths are based on?"

"Yup."

"I suppose I can see that. I mean, there is that whole Ancient Alien theory . . . . And here I always thought Big-Hair was barking."

"Okay, I have to ask . . . ."

"Hmm?" Hermione turned inquisitive eyes on him.

"Why are you taking this so calmly?"

She couldn't help a smirk. "Is it bothering you?"

Shaking his head, he chuckled in spite of himself. "A little, yeah."

With a laugh, she shrugged, surprised that something in the conversation had taken the edge off the pain in her head. "Well . . . . I'm not really supposed to tell you this, since you're a Muggle—"

"A what?"

She waved a hand toward him in a dismissive gesture. "A non-magical person. Which I also shouldn't have just said, but my world has sort of imploded with a War of its own the last three years, and I understand that you're trying to help me. Your efforts would be crippled if you don't know the full truth."

He frowned as he repeated those first words, "Non-magical person? What, exactly, are you?" At this point, Bucky wouldn't be surprised to hear the girl was a goddamned fairy.

Though, if she said that, he couldn't be sure he wouldn't be the one combat-rolling from the car.

"I'm a witch." She shook her head, hurrying on before he could pick at that. "Not the dancing naked in groves and chanting to the night sky sort."

Bucky bit his lip, keeping himself from giving her a once-over at that. Because he hadn't wondered for a split-second what she might look like dancing naked in a grove. Not at all.

"Don't be cute," she said with a short laugh.

"Okay, then. What's your story?"

"Well . . . ." She distracted herself with picking little bits of lint from the knees of her faded black leggings. "In my world, there are really two types of witch and wizard. Pure-blood, and Muggle-born. Just like it sounds, the first are born of magical lineage, and the second of non-magical." She nodded to herself. "Of course, there's Half-bloods, but even they're better off than Muggle-borns.

"The darkest wizard ever to walk the earth started a War . . . . He wanted witches and wizards to come out of the shadows, break down the barriers between our worlds and basically rule over the Muggles. And part of his plan was to wipe out the very existence of Muggle-born witches and wizards. People like me. Without us around, the distinction between Muggles and Wizards would be that much clearer. No muddied lines, he liked to say." She winced at that word, at though the syllables sliced her tongue on the way out.

She tipped her head to one side and pulled down the collar of her jacket and her shirt. The letters M B stood out against the smooth skin of her shoulder in thick, jagged lines. She couldn't bring herself to mention that the mark did not stand for Muggle-born.

Bucky's jaw fell. It looked like it had been seared into her skin like a burn . . . . Or a brand.

"He enacted a Curse that marked us. Those who had practiced the Dark Arts were drawn by the Curse's power to collect us . . . murdering us on the spot, unless there was a price on our heads." She uttered a mirthless laugh as she sniffled. "The youngest of us . . . only eleven years old. And the magic of the Curse lashed out into the world. It leeched the magical energy from what would have been the next generation of Muggle-borns.

"As long as Voldemort lived, there would never be another one of us." Again she shrugged, forcing her tears back before they could fully surface and lightening the tone of her voice. "My best friend was his mortal enemy, so I was being saved for last. But I escaped, then said best friend killed him, and the Curse broke with his death. Even with that, I might be the only one of my kind for the next . . . oh, ten years, or so?"

Bucky had no idea what to say to everything she'd just told him. Yup, she was the one with the more interesting story, albeit sadder, too.

Clearing his throat, he gave his head a shake. "Is that what Loki might want with you? Something to do with you being the only, um, Muggle-born . . . ?"

She nodded.

"The only Muggle-born witch or wizard left?"

"It's possible. I mean, I came here because I've been searching for any other Muggle-borns who might've survived in secret. But I don't know what he thinks one of us can do that pure-blood can't."

"With any luck, we won't have to find out."

Again, she nodded.

"Well," he said with a side-to-side bob of his head, "at least now none of this surprising you makes perfect sense." Really, how shocking could being hunted by a god-complexed alien seem after surviving a magical War and genocide caused by a curse, of all things?

Hermione bit her lip in thought. "Yes, true. Though, that scuffle between you and Loki almost did the trick."

A half-grin curved Bucky's mouth. Everything she'd been through, and she still maintained her sense of humor. Not too different from himself or Steve, he supposed.

They'd get along fine. One less head ache.