A/N: Hey, yall! Bucky/Hermione is gaining speed. And in this chapter, she gets a new name. It, sadly, won't be Russian. :( I know it will take some time to get used to. You'll probably hate it, but I promise, in time, she'll call herself Hermione Effing Granger again. Gosh, I'm sickening myself, too, you know? This whole HYDRA! Hermione is tough for me. She's precious, and I'm making her do things again she wouldn't normally do, only I think this is worse. :/

The review about about her absence in Harry's life and that will influence his world. Sadly, we will not get to find that out until later. We'll also see how she "settles" as she develops with wandless magic.

And...brace yourself for the next chapter. A familiar face may pop up. ;)

Enjoy the chapter and please review. I'm grateful to those who have and have given this fic a shot. It's an odd one, I know.


Chapter 6: The Enemies We Make

Dreams of being pain-free and limitless are cut short one night, a week before 17's departure. She's sound asleep on her cot when weight falls on her. Hands no bigger than her own wrap around her neck and squeeze. There's a crushing pressure on her ribcage. In the dark, 17 makes out 54's figure.

Traitor!

Air is becomes an issue, as in, 17 needs it bad. Her lungs burn, and she scratches at 54's hands and arms and tries to buck her off. The other girl's hands tighten.

"You," begins 54 in shallow, disgusted breath, "are weak. You don't deserve The Baron's attention. You don't deserve to go to Moscow. He's going to send me away, and it's not because I'm graduating. But if you die…"

Energy pulses under 17's skin, and she curls her fogging mind around it, amplifying it, forcing it to explode. The release throws 54 off her and causes her to hit the wall. 54 lets out a surprised yell and moan of pain before falling to the floor. 17 hops off the bed and runs to the light switch to flip it. In the light, she sees 54 get to her feet, dark eyes wide but not because of fear but shock. Her body tenses in defense, and 17 mimics the pose.

"How did you do that?" asks 54.

"Leave," 17 tells her. "The guards will show up soon, and I will tell them what you did."

"You will anyway." She shrugs. "But you're not the only one can do tricks."

54 extends her arms and flexes her fingers, and 17 lifts from the floor and catapulted to the other side of the room. It's her turn to hit the wall, and she forces her body to take the blow on the side instead of the head. Her ribs smart, and the wind is knocked out of her, but she's on her feet, adrenaline pumping.

The light flickers in and out above them, and 17 flicks her gaze at them for just a moment.

"We're the same," she tells the girl. "You shouldn't be fighting me, 54. I'm all you have in the world. There's no one else like us."

The girl she once called a friend laughs. "You are nothing like me. I'm stronger. I don't get headaches when I have to elevate a bloody pencil."

"Probably because The Baron doesn't overuse you," snaps 17. "You should be relieved."

"How can I be? You're taking my dream! My purpose! And I refuse to step down and watch you embarrass and likely expose HYDRA with your weaknesses."

Oh! Hurt, sharp and treacherous, hits 17 in the gut. Had 54 really ever been her friend? It seems naïve of 17 to even think she could have a genuine, trusting relation with anyone of the kids aside from 48.

And hadn't 48 warned her about 54 once? She can't remember, but she thinks he had.

The sound of the guards are heard from outside in the hallway. 54 glares at the open door and jerks her arm, the door slamming shut. She stands tall and stares down 17 head on.

"There's only one of us getting out of this room alive."

17 frowns and glances at the door, the handle jiggling. She hears the men shouting outside. "They'll be able to get through. They're not reinforced steel like the ones down on the first floor."

54 grins. "What does The Baron have you do in all those sessions? Still having you butcher animals and read a guard's mind here and there? You're weak and wasted. Those guards aren't getting through my barricade," she taps her temple, "of my own design."

The light dips. "You'll short circuit the wiring," says 17. "Even if I die, you'll be stuck in here because the door is rigged to—"

She's cut short when a force hits her in the chest and sends her colliding with the wall. The back of her skull hits the white brick and has her seeing stars. Her vision blurs, and she hears shots fired at banging at the door. She pictures the lock on it and twists, a dull throb blooming behind her forehead.

The door doesn't open.

"I didn't just lock the door, idiot. I told you," 54 hisses. "I barricaded us in."

Her former friend is really looking for a fight, 17 thinks. This isn't some school yard quarrel at the obstacle course or dueling at practice. 54 really believes, and 17 can't help but be envious. She loyal to HYDRA, yes, but she can't see herself launching a vendetta on a peer because she finds them undeserving of their position. The program is competitive, and all the mentors have favorites. 38 and 39 are dumb as slugs, but Mr. Wallenberg adores them. It's just how things are. The world's not fair, and everyone's got an agenda.

"Even if you kill me, you won't go to Moscow. You'll be punished."

"48 wasn't punished when he killed 3 and 12."

"Because it was self-defense." 17 juts out her chin. "Are you really sure you want to go there?"

"I'm not going to lose, 17. I'm stronger and faster than you in every way."

"You may be right," she says softly. The energetic thrum returns to buzz underneath her skin. She channels it to the front of her brain and to the tips of her fingers. "But I guess I'll have to learn to find out if that's true since you're giving me no other alternative."

17 watches 54 clench her entire body, the girl ready to strike but 17 doesn't hesitate. She shoots her energy across the room and forces it into 54's skull, taking a tour. Over the rumble of and rush of images, 17 vaguely hears the girl scream in agony. This is a…painful thing. For both of them. But 17 can't help but feel pleased. 54 should know hurt like she does.

Inside 54, 17 sees hazy images of a beautiful woman with a soft, China-doll bone structure but cruel, impatient eyes. The woman shouts in Korean, her tone blameful, and grabs at 54. The image fades at they're at a doorstep in the rain. The woman, 54's mother, pounds on the door. Soon the barrier opens to reveal a stricken but handsome man with fluffy brown hair and light blue eyes. His attire is peculiar, and his expression is fearful as he looks from the woman to child.

"Hyun-sook, what you are you doing here?" he says in French. "If my wife if she sees you and the girl..."

"Where is my fucking my money, Andre?!"

The man breaks out in a sweat. "It's not a good time and funds have been tight with Michel being born—"

"Funds!" shrieks Hyun-sook. "I spent the last of mine getting here, and I promised I would go to the papers and expose you. Not just about us but about everything. I know your ties to that retched Lestrange family and that movement happening. I'll go to the papers. I'll tear your whole life apart if you don't give me my money!" There's a crack in her voice. "I-I've been offered money for her, you know. By them. There are people that would love to get their hands on someone like her."

"My father's cut me off! He found out about…" He looks at 54 with anxiety.

54's mother sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes narrow and pensive. "Well, then. I clearly knocked on the wrong man's door. Apologies."

She turns, and 17 feels 54's her arm smart at the woman's yank. They make it several feet when a green flash hits the peripheral, and the woman is face-down on the cobblestone, her body unmoving and stiff. Her face is turned to the side and her dark eyes are open and abruptly lifeless.

"Mama!" shouts 54 in Korean and suddenly she's picked up by Andre who's running down the street. Everything blurs and it feels like 17 is on a horrible roller coaster. When she's put down, it's more like a shake off, and she's on a grassy hill overlooking a tiny neighborhood. In the distance, there's a city.

Andre stares down at 54, a stick in hand and then takes off in a sprint. 54 watches after him, crying, and sees him disappear.

17 pulls out of 54's head and sees she's in the dark. The light must've blown, and she hears the sound of a strangled but soft sob. Her eyes adjust and see 54 is on her hands and knees, shaking. The door flies open and light from the hallway floods into the room. Three guards come crashing in, their boots hitting the floor and cracking the broken glass.

"What happened here?" one of them growls.


17 meets with The Baron after 54. He takes a visual survey of her, taking in her ruffled appearance. From her blood-crusted nose to her bruised throat, to the blood stains on her nightshirt. He massages his jaw and then hands her damp cloth which she accepts it gratefully, wiping her nose.

"How deep did you go this time?" he inquires.

"Sir," she begins, unsure, "I think…I can do more than just read minds and move things. 54 set up an invisible forcefield with her mind. With enough practice, I could probably do that, too. But not even that, I think I could damage someone."

"You threw 54 against the wall…"

"I think I can cause brain damage."

The Baron is quiet.

"When I entered her mind, I did it slowly as to find the worst memory to throw at her. Doing so, I felt her brain matter, her neurons firing. Her cells. Her life. They were so tangible to me. I could've killed her." She presses her lips together and then asks, "Should I have?"

He kneels and brushes his thumb over her throat. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was your decision to make, but I do hope you show more prejudice in the future. Not all of your opponents will be eleven-year-old girls."

"What's going to happen to her?"

"Isolation chamber, most likely."

"Sir." She sighs. "I can't help but think she's right. About her being stronger than me. More skilled. Are you sure it's me you want in Moscow?"

He considers her for a moment. "Truthfully?"

She nods.

"Up until recently, it was going to be her, but other matters came into place. However, child, I'm astounded at what you discovered about yourself and how you pushed through beyond the pain. You stopped focusing on your own weaknesses and dedicated yourself onto your opponent's. I have no doubt you will do wonders for us whilst in the heart of Russian Intelligence."

"Thank you, sir," she says and then puffs up her chest. "Another thing?"

"What?" He's impatient now.

"Her memories. There was a part I couldn't make sense of—"

"Did it involve 54's parents?"

17 dipped her chin. "I saw…it was like there was bit missing."

"How so?"

"After her mother died, her father grabbed her and then…a blur, and they were likely miles and miles away from where they first were."

A sigh escapes The Baron. "Keep in mind, 54 was likely three when this took place. Time perceived isn't always sensical to small children."

"It wasn't that kind of blur, sir." 17 steps forward confidently. Yes, there were things in 54's memory that were obviously odd given the young eyes that had perceived them. The out of place green light for instance. "The sensation was physical. I think…I' mean, there are theories out there about teleportation. I'm almost certain that's what happened—"

"Forget what you saw if you're going to be—"

"Listen to me," she hissed, clenching her fist and daring another step, ignoring the anger painted on The Baron's face. "I'm trying to tell you that I can do that."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Not now but someday." She's silenced him, so she continues to elaborate. "54 and I are alike. We can do much of the same things. I think what she got, she inherited from her father. He killed her mother without even touching her, and he teleported her far away from the scene and disappeared into nothing. One day, 54 will likely be able to do the same, and if she can, so can I."

In the time she's known The Baron, 17 is fascinated by what impresses him and what doesn't when it comes to her abilities. This is one of those times where he's definitely not curious, and she can't fathom why. Teleportation would be an incredible and powerful thing to behold.

The Baron says nothing but pats her on the head. "Return to your quarters."

"Sir—"

"That is an order."

17 returns back to her room, uncaring she likely not sleep for the rest of the night. She grabs her day clothes and heads to the showers and gets ready for the day before heading to the books cellar. Later, her peers ask about her bruises which she nonchalantly replies that 54 tried to kill her. None of them seemed surprised except 48 who looks a bit upset.

Why?

Oh, yeah. They're friends. She kind of remembers now. They came on a boat together. She lets him touch her throat at lunch and ignores him when he says he's going to make 54's life a living hell for the rest of his stay. She can't afford to think he's protective. That he cares for her in any way shape or form.

"Did we meet on the boat?" she asks once he stops touching her bruises.

"It was a ship, Hermione," he replies, exasperated.

She blinks and then remembers that's her name from before. "Hermione," she says, testing the name on her tongue. "Do I look like a Hermione?"

He shakes his head, mutter a curse under his breath. "You look more like a Hermia. You know, from that play? The shrilly, short brunette?"

"Maybe Hermia will be my new name."

He chuckles. "It's too close to home. There's no way."

"Hermia," she says. "Helena."

"Like the play."

"No." She shakes her head. "Helena."

She sets down her fork and cups her head, exhaling deeply as memories bombard her. Her mum. Her mum's name is Helena. She used to sing her to sleep, and she had beautiful, wild hair and kind brown eyes. She had a crucifix around her neck and would speak of God and Jesus but also of demons and devils.

"Demon!" her mother cries, finger pointed at her. Tears run down her cheeks and she sobs in the direction of a man standing off to the side. Dad. He doesn't look like he agrees with his wife but he does seem devoid of sympathy or empathy towards his daughter's.

The image subsides, and 17 crosses of her theory about inheriting abilities from her birth parents like 17 must've. The memory stings, but she's glad it popped up. It makes things…easier. To know they're not worrying over what happened to her. That they're likely relieved to be rid of her.

Some of the kids, they talk about their parents. Many who remember theirs speak lofty-like, spinning promising tales of vengeance for abandoning them.

48 wants to kill his uncle. She's certain he's brought it up once or twice, and yet, she doesn't see herself returning to England to confront them.

17 scans her tiny room with his concrete-slab of a cot and her rickety desk. Home, she thinks. This is home, and she can't imagine her life any other way. Here, she has true purpose. She has a destiny. There, in England, she would've been held back. Maybe even hidden forever in that institute.

This place, her room and the facility will not be home much longer, she knows. Moscow calls. It's almost time to serve HYDRA and prove 54 wrong. She won't let The Baron down.


The night before 48 leaves, he kisses her in the book cellar, and she hates him a little bit for it. She had snuck into cellar like she always does, and he finds her like he always has but instead of play-attacking in hopes of roughhousing, he spins her around and lays his lips on hers.

He's not being romantic. 17's sure he doesn't know how to be nor will he ever, and he certainly doesn't kiss her because he fancies her. He and 82 have a mutual-crush-thing going on. No, he's staking a claim on her because when he pulls away, he tells her she's allowed to forget everything except this.

"Because when I see you again, I'm going to do exactly this."

He says it like a threat.

"You best be careful then. I may tear you apart." She adds a beat later, "without even touching you."

He laughs and backs out of the cellar. His expression of mischief turns into pride. A proudness directed at her. "I might miss you, you know."

"I won't remember to return the sentiment."

"You're going to be amazing," he tells her."HYDRA is making you into something incredible. Hail HYDRA!"

He takes off running, and she says to no one, "Hail HYDRA."

Many years will go by before she's sees him again.


17 is strapped to a chair, gums and jaw numb as an oral surgeon attempts to climb into her mouth with his hacking metallic tools. The pressure from tugging and grinding and breaking makes her ill. She forces herself not to vomit and reminds herself this is necessary. She can't go to Moscow with her wisdom teeth still in place. Not that they really are. Only one is available for extraction—which is impacted—the others have to be drained. She's out of commission for several days after the procedure and then she has to return to her routine, swollen cheeks and all. When the puffiness and pain reside, and her gums and jaw are healed, braces are slapped on her.

Unfortunately, she's not one of the lucky ones like 24 and 82 who only need retainer plates. As she packs a humble little suitcase, she licks the metal ridges glued to her teeth. She's had them for a month, and they still bother her. There are cuts and cankered wounds inside her mouth, but she has to deal with them. The Baron tells her to be grateful. Orthodontia is a luxury in the program. A luxury, 17 notices, primarily given to girls and not boys. Not all the girls, though, just a select few, and 17's not going to speak for herself, but they are very pretty. Temporary, undercover field assignments are their future.

To put it simply, assassins.

Their purpose is to lure and kill. She can't help but think that may be her future, too, but how boring would that be with all she can do and will be able to do? Killing is simple. Being pretty is easy, too. 17 wants more. Moscow won't give her all that, she knows, but it's an opportunity to serve HYDRA and as long as she does, they'll mold her into what she desires. What she's meant to be.

Mold.

That word.

Something tickles her brain.

"Are you ready?"

17 looks over her shoulder. The Baron stands at her threshold dressed smartly in suit she's never seen him wear before. "How long with the journey be again?"

"Over night. Kristof will be joining you to ensure your safe arrival."

She nods, closing her suitcase. Soon she's in the back of a car with The Baron and Kristof who's out of uniform. He's in more casual attire and both men chat to each other in Norwegian, a language she knew but a few words, but from his body language, The Baron's giving Kristof instructions. It's the first time she's been in a car since she arrived. 17 vaguely remembers the ride to facility. She remembers feeling afraid. Good thing she wasn't alone… She rubs her head and sees a boy. Oh, 48. That's right. He'd been with her. He's graduated now, she assumes. She doesn't remember seeing him at breakfast. Or 54 for that matter. Wonder where they went.

Huh.

"Are you all right, 17?" asks The Baron."

I'm fine." She smiles at the scenery outside the window. "I forgot outside could look different in places."

"Bask in it. You'll rarely leave the theatre after you begin this next phase."

"I'll make you proud, sir."

He smiles and even chuckles. "See that you do. A prize is waiting."

The rest of the drive to the train station is pleasant, and all three of them get out of the car. The station is bustling and 17 thinks it has something to do with USSR falling. People are wanting to come and go now, she guesses, as she walks the station with the two men. It is strange to think if or when she returns, this place may have a different name because she's heard talk.

Sokovia is what they'll call it.

They reach her platform, and The Baron kneels to adjust the lapel of her new coat and her ushanka. "I have an arrangement—an expensive one with an orthodontist—who will be caring for you monthly," he tells her.

"Thank you, sir."

"You may find," he starts hesitantly, "the next seven years very difficult. Do as your teachers tell you, but never forget your purpose. Your mission."

From an outsider's point of view, he's a father bidding his daughter goodbye. On the inside, he's embracing her to whisper, "Hail HYDRA," in her ear.

"Hail HYDRA," she repeats, mustering up as much conviction as she can. He dips his chin at her and withdraws a black booklet. Her passport. She opens it and sees her face on a page, the name Milas Abegglen, age eleven. Born in Dresden "Milas."

She tests the name on her tongue. She tries again more firmly. "Milas Abegglen."

"You're German but don't speak it while you're there. They'll know it's not your first language. Only speak Russian."

"Understood," she says quietly. He affectionately pinches her chin and walks off, leaving her with Kristof.

They board the train, and Kristof ushers her to the dining cart. It's not long before the vodka is flowing, and he's red-cheeked and grinning, speaking of when she first came to the facility. "You've come a long way, 17," he tells her, patting her hand. "From the frightened little child who came to us with a book she could read. Filthy and smelling of fish water. Do you still have the book?"

"Yes."

Kristof reaches for his briefcase and sets it on the table, clicking it open. He pulls out a wrapped, brown-paper package and offers it to her. "A gift from Strucker."

"Do remember to be more formal around him, sir," she playfully reprimands. She breaks open a flap and slides a paperback book out from the encasing. Her eyes scan the title, and she murmurs, "A Century of Russian Ballet. How nice. Wish I would've gotten this months ago, but I'll take what I can get."

"You will be dancing with girls who have done so since they were three. At least you can be on level with them in this one aspect until you are caught up."

Night falls faster than 17 likes. Chasing the scenery from the window had been addictive. Russia is more beautiful than she realized. But she needs to get started on her reading, and so Kristof takes her to their impossibly tiny room with a shared bunkbed. That night, she doesn't fall asleep quickly, but stays up with her little flashlight reading her new gift, absorbing every word, thinking of the other girls at the theatre. They'll likely hate her at first. Even the new ones like her. She doesn't have ballet training. The only kinds dancing she knows is the waltz and the Viennese waltz.

The train arrives at the station late in the morning, and Kristof escorts her off the train and onto the platform. They don't walk long until they meet with a beautiful young woman, golden hair styled carefully into a twist. Her posture is textbook, and when she acknowledges them with a dip of her chin and a slant of her hazel eyes, the subtle shifts are careful. 17 finds it odd the KGB sent someone so young to fetch her. The closer she gets to the young woman, 17 sees how young she really is.

More of a girl, really. Maybe eighteen.

Her makeup is heavy. Thick eyeliner and ruby lips.

The older girl sizes her up and smirks. "Ah, the awkward, pre-teenage stage. I don't miss it," she says in German though her accent is heavily Russian. "But I see your potential, Milas. You're going to break some hearts."

The hairs on her neck rise at the mention of her new name and tries to come to terms with herself. She needs to stop addressing herself as 17. It's Milas now.

The girl offers her hand to her. "Katja," she says.

Milas takes the hand, momentarily stunned by the strength and callouses coming from the tiny, pale appendage. Katja smiles, teeth and everything, at Kristof. "I will take her from here, good sir, and bring her to her new home."

Milas watches Kristof disappear in the crowd, nerves catching up with her which only heighten when Katja's squeezes harder. Her perfectly pleasant masks morphs into a severe expression. "Listen to me, you little ugly duckling. I will not have any crying or whining on the way to the theatre. You so much as make a sound of protest or try and fight me in anyway, I will cut your throat and feed your body to stray dogs."

Katja's not bluffing, and Milas knows herself to be replaceable and wonders about other girls at different times that had to be picked up from the train station. Maybe not all of them had been so "briefed" on the situation, and they put up an inconvenient fuss.

"Seems fair," replies Milas, unable to kick the stiffness from her tone.

Katja shakes her head. "It's really not, but you're going to a place where nothing is. Keep that steadiness. You're going to need it."

To Be Continued...