AN: To the people who don't like this story, feel free to move along. I always see Harry's background as more essential to who he is than his powers and HP magic outside of the HP verse is annoying because you have to either invent limits or just have him be OP neither of which I want to do. Not your cup of tea, there are other crossovers to choose from.
This story is primarily about finding family and self-identity when the world falls apart around you.
P.s. I'm bringing in the original cast of the Agents of SHIELD, none of those events happens in these fics, so literally, you don't have to know anyone other than that Agent May was the actress who voiced Mulan and she is a global treasure. Anyone I bring in from the MCU gets developed, please don't worry about what media you have and haven't seen.
Chapter 4 - Dead & Gone
Harry had just killed Umbridge.
He had just killed a teacher.
Again.
Accidentally.
Also again.
He didn't know what he was thinking when he threw that rock.
He hadn't thought he would really hit her, he hadn't known he could throw that hard.
The sound her head had made as it cracked…
He ran, and ran, and ran.
He kept expecting for someone to catch up to him, kept expecting someone to stun him in the back.
Murderer. Freak.
He ran faster. The trees seemed to blur by him, his feet moving as if they had wings. Nothing tripped him. His lungs filled with air and he felt… good.
He felt great.
Strange, he had never realised how much he hurt until he felt like this; painless, free. It was like flying, only better because there was no risk of falling. He could trust his feet, trust that he would be whatever and whoever he wanted to be.
He was strong and he did not tire.
He was hungry, but not achingly so.
He ran through the night, till dawn crested the mountains. Harry found the train tracks of the Hogwarts Express.
He broke his own wand.
It was useless to him now, and he wouldn't give anyone else the satisfaction. He was also terrified they would track him with it.
Somehow, he had traded magical powers for superpowers.
Super strength, endurance, agility, speed, and even healing, like Captain Carter or Wolverine.
Neither Harry nor Hermione could fathom how Ron hadn't known about Captain Peggy Carter, the most famous British person ever.
The scars Umbridge had given him, I must not tell lies, had vanished, and so had the scrapes from the fallen staircase.
That had bloody hurt, but it hadn't killed him as it should have.
His reflexes had always been above average, but now that he had everything to go along with it?
He felt invisible. The cold of the following nights bit at him, but his hands never chilled, not even when it rained. He never once felt like he would have hypothermia.
Hedwig found him on day four of his journey on the train tracks.
Sometimes he wondered how no one had found him yet—aside from Hedwig, that is, who flew ahead of him, leading the way.
Yelena had dragged him through the tactical store and Soldat had been… at a loss.
When Natasha woke him, she had distracted him with familiar, if intimate, care. The only reason he had accepted such treatment was because he had a standing order to seduce the Widow with 'physical distractions.'
And then there had been the mission against the Red Room. Simple, Hydra had long been wary of the spiders' nest, even if they hired them out on occasion.
Followed by the immersion, simple enough, if only because he was surrounded by creatures who were like him, broken like him.
Stark's tower had been a change, but Soldat was no stranger to living in laboratories, and Melina's 'deprogramming' was more painful and more rigorous than his conditioning had been.
Unbeknownst to Natasha, Yelena, Banner, and Stark, she had even been reversing his trigger words to signal pain, primarily with a fucking cattle prod.
It was different from the chair, but similar enough. Melina's goal was that each trigger word caused conflict.
Where there is conflict, there is intelligence. You are not a machine, even if it is electricity that allows your brain to function. You possess the ability of higher reasoning. Where there is contradicting information, it is you, not your programming, that must decide your next action.
It was brutal, terrifying, and… addictive. He had been trained to fear pain, but Melina was teaching him to crave it.
Who you are arises from pain.
Conflict, not pain, and confusion was no longer a cause to worry, but an opportunity for escape and freedom.
It was all very difficult, but in the parameters of this new life, it gave him something to do, something to work through as he tried to change himself into someone who would be an asset to Natasha and Yelena, not a liability when Hydra caught up to him.
However, nothing had really prepared him for this day's shopping venture.
Yelena had bounced back from her training quicker than he had, mostly because she had an insta-cure and a family structure to settle back into.
Still, Soldat was perturbed as she pulled him through aisles, asking him questions too quickly for him to answer.
Confusion about obeying orders was one thing. Coming up with personal preferences on fashion was quite another.
Soldat eventually began to speak up when he noticed the look in her eyes, how her expression would shift slightly when she found something she truly liked. He waited until he caught those expressions, even when it came to choosing his own clothing.
Yelena seemed thrilled to be the one allowed to pick his clothing.
But when they got to the back of the store where the weaponry was, Soldat did find he had quite a few preferences, and even was able to disagree with Yelena about the various knives and guns they piled into their cart.
By the time they returned to Stark Tower after the day trip they had taken out of the city—New York's laws were near laughable when just a state or two over one could acquire military-grade weaponry—Yelena was all smiles as she recounted their purchases as if he hadn't been there the entire time.
Well, the weapons were not quite military-grade. These guns were slicker and more prone to jamming if not taken care of properly.
Soldat didn't mind, though, he enjoyed seeing her happy, and he found it particularly endearing as Yelena spoke of her new vest with all its varied pockets.
It was not hyperbolic to say that he would do just about anything to keep her safe from harm.
Harry Potter had been missing for over a week in the woods and was presumed dead.
His brutal killing of Umbridge had been rewritten in its retelling. As the story goes, Harry Potter had thrown a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes's firework at her head and freed the school from her fascist regime.
In other words, Harry Potter was immortalised as a Hogwarts legend.
He was the student who killed the most hated professor of all time. The majority of students who attended Hogwarts at that time would remember Harry Potter more fondly for having defeated Umbridge than the Dark Lord Voldemort.
They were camped out on the floor of one of Stark's work rooms. Yelena had fallen asleep in the curve of his metal arm. Though Soldat thought that must be uncomfortable, her head was tipped back, her throat exposed, and she was completely lax in sleep in his arms.
Natasha came to sit on his other side.
"She hasn't slept truly since she's been freed."
He cut his gaze to her with a glare that was meant to say, Then shut the hell up and let her sleep.
But Natasha only smiled, leaning into his side. "You feel safe to her, to us, and trust is not something easily given by a Widow."
He said nothing because there was nothing to say. They might be free, but he wasn't yet, not even under Melina's worst efforts.
No one should trust him.
But Natasha simply curled against his side on the floor, dropping lower so her head rested on his thigh, her flaming hair spilling over his lap. When her hand came up, it wasn't to grope him, but to take Yelena's hand.
Soldat did not feel for Natasha what he felt for Yelena, because it was not brotherly thoughts or images that raced through his mind as he stroked that silken hair.
But it wasn't wholly unfamiliar either. If Natasha never wanted to touch him again, he would be fine with that, but there was something nice about her weight, something familiar and non-intrusive.
Despite Natasha being a handler now since she knew all his codes, he didn't fear her, not because she couldn't hurt him, but because he knew she wouldn't.
These two women were important to him and worth protecting. Worth attempting to live up to the trust they placed in him.
He didn't let himself sleep, content to have these small hours to be both needed and wanted.
What would Stevie say to all this?
Soldat hadn't the foggiest idea.
Even knowing who Steve had been, Soldat had trouble recalling anything of the golden super-soldier he had been made into a sorry shade of.
No, what he remembered of Stevie was a little guy who could barely breathe, who got pounded in alleyways, and who had a more stubborn set to his mouth than anyone he'd ever met.
He couldn't remember Stevie's voice, couldn't remember his laughter. All Soldat could remember was the ache in his chest, the admiration he had for him and the fear he held that anything might happen to someone who, despite his size, was deeply and fundamentally good.
Logic held that such a person would never forgive Soldat for his weakness, for the crimes he had committed and for the blood that ran over his hands. But he also knew that Steve would never have given up and would never accept Soldat giving up.
There was still good that could be achieved.
Yelena snored a bit. Soldat couldn't help the slight smile that crossed his lips as she shifted closer to him.
Soldat's sisters might be dead, Stevie might be many decades gone, but Soldat, it seemed, still had people who depended on him, people who were better and kinder than he ever would be.
Just as he had been for Stevie, he would be their shield and their fist.
"What the hell do you mean, 'Agent Romanov has gone rogue'?" Agent Melinda May demanded.
The two scientists, FitzSimmons, just stared wide-eyed at him.
Phil Coulson sighed. "We've been requested by Fury to discover what happened to her and the other the Black Widows. As far as we know, they all fell off the map."
"It's Romanov. If she doesn't want to be found, she won't be," Grant said.
May rolled her shoulders. "I've worked with her before and I don't believe she would rejoin Hydra. There's more going on here than meets the eye."
Phil nodded. "She also stole an advanced alien weapon from SHIELD storage that we know next to nothing about. Hence, FitzSimmons."
Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons exchanged a look.
May crossed her arms, scowling at Phil.
He smiled at her. "It will be just like old times."
She rolled her eyes, turning on her heel and heading back to her brand new jet.
That jet, Phil was pretty sure, was the only thing that had convinced her to come back on active duty.
Jemma said quietly to Fitz, "I didn't know there were more Black Widows than Agent Romanov."
"I don't think I want to meet them," Fitz answered.
Phil couldn't quite suppress his grimace. Natasha Romanov was the best, but that didn't mean anyone who had ever passed through the Red Room was one of your garden espionage spies.
No, this wasn't going to be an assignment.
Bucky held onto Stevie as he shook in his sleep, his breathing rattling and hissing as he tried to breathe with water filling up his lungs.
Stevie laid across Bucky's lap and chest so he could rest upright. Bucky held his hands to either side of his ribcage. Stevie was clammy, and the blankets they had weren't enough to chase the chill from the room.
So Bucky held on, glad that, for all Steve's ailments, he was small enough for Bucky to surround him, to prop him up so he could manage a few hours of sleep without rolling over and drowning himself.
Bucky wasn't an overly religious man, any god who would damn someone as good and as strong as Stevie was a god he didn't care much about.
Or maybe this was punishment. Maybe God was as wrathful as everyone said, and this was punishment for the shy kisses they had exchanged as boys.
It didn't matter how many girls Bucky seduced or allowed himself to get carried away with, he was always going to love Stevie.
Frail and dying, Stevie, who would be strong enough to lift up the whole damned country if given half a chance.
But love like theirs was cursed.
Buck was going to hell, he knew it.
The War to End All Wars had re-ignited, and hell had returned to Europe, blooming in Japan.
It was only a matter of time before the draft came, and Bucky would have to go.
It would be a miracle if Stevie survived without him.
Bucky hugged him, pressing his cheek to Steve's sweaty head, and whispered, "It's always been you, pal. Survive for me? Please, give me a home to return to?"
Steve didn't stir, his shallow breath sucking in and hitching out.
Bucky knew he was kidding himself. When he left, Steve wasn't gonna make it, no matter if he was scrappier than a half-starved fighting dog.
It would be a miracle if Steve saw the sunrise.
Bucky woke with a strangled scream. His back scraped against tree bark.
Dugan twirled his ridiculous moustache at him. "It's going to be a cold one on the front today."
A part of Bucky's heart shrivelled up at those words, his thoughts a thousand miles away.
Stevie was cold and Buck had no way to protect him.
Something exploded, and Bucky didn't have time to think about anything but scrambling behind cover.
He saw a body down and spotted the tab on his vest.
He didn't have time to process what that meant. Orders were shouted out in French.
Dugan took a moment, just long enough to grab the tag and swipe the marker.
A moment later, Buck caught the thing Dugan threw at him. "Congratulations on your promotion, Sergeant Barnes."
Soldat woke abruptly, bile on the back of his tongue, a shadow standing over him.
He didn't think. If this was a handler trying to wake him, they damn well should have turned on the lights or used a hose.
Kicking out, he caught the outreached arm, using it as leverage to bear down on the intruder.
He knew his teeth were bared, knew his eyes must be wild, if whoever it was had adjusted to the ambient light of the city outside his windows.
The body didn't fight him.
It was a woman who had gone completely lax beneath him, where he pinned her to the bed.
He didn't recognize her. He put his flesh hand to her throat and squeezed.
He would feel the life go out of her, and she wouldn't even be able to call out for help.
Her breath hitched, and Soldat was immediately thrown back into memory.
The next thing he knew, he had his knee kicked down and his arm and hand were pulled to the side.
He grunted as he slipped onto the woman, her every curve pressed against him.
It wasn't arousing.
It was jarring.
"Where are your knives?" he asked without thinking.
Natasha huffed. "Who says I don't have them? Seems you're going to have to search me, Soldier."
He rolled off her. "What are you doing here?"
He was shaking and his mind felt like an open wound, shredded by the knowledge that God had worked his miracles.
Steve had lived and had grown strong and healthy.
Then gone and killed himself in the war.
For the damn alien tech that Stark was now poking at down in his labs.
His God wasn't wrathful, he was wicked and crooked.
A no-good cheat and a cruel bastard.
A mad sadistic architect whose ideas on free will and redemption needed some work. Soldat had several notes that the deity might want to take a look at if he actually cared about his creations.
Though Soldat was pretty certain that he didn't.
Natasha sat up in his bed. "I heard you call out in your sleep."
When he didn't answer, she waited, and after several long minutes, in which he got his pulse under control, she said, "Melina might—"
He didn't look at her as he interrupted, "You're surprised I have nightmares? Sorry to tell you this, but your dearest mama is the nightmare."
"Have you been getting better?"
Soldat sighed. "Better is relative."
"Relative success is all we're really capable of here."
He turned on her. "What do you want me to say? That I'm okay? I'm not. I never will be."
"Yelena loves you."
"Then prepare for her heart to be broken."
"Not like that," Natasha sighed. "Even as bad as things are… you would make a good father."
"Only in comparison to Shostakov," he said bitterly.
"No, you're—"
He stood up. "I'm helping you, Natalia. But I'm not fit for any kid."
"What if he isn't a kid?" she asked. "What if he's all grown because alternate universes may not run fully parallel to ours?"
"Then I doubt he'll want to come to this universe," he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
They were words meant to hurt.
Natasha stood, too. "If you need anything, I'm right across the hall."
She showed herself out.
It wasn't until she was gone that Soldat allowed himself to sink to the floor. Leaning against the bed, he put his face in his palms. The cold metal felt good.
Sometimes I think you like getting punched.
I had him on the ropes.
Soldat didn't cry, but sometimes, he wished he could. If only so he could relieve the pressure on his chest.
If only so he didn't feel as if he were drowning, as he listened for another laboured breath.
But aside from his own rushing blood in his ears, the darkened room was quiet.
Soldat had never feared the dark, but he had always feared the quiet.
And Stevie was quiet now.
Dead and gone.
Thank you, Sectumus! And to everyone reviewing, it means a ton!
AN: Thoughts, blue whales, or feedback, pretty please?
