A/N: I'm sorry for the delay. I wanted this chapter to be perfect. It's not quite there, but it'll do. Plus, I kept writing and erasing and trying to find new approaches and just tried to make it simple without getting too complicated. There will be room for that later.

Okay, after reading this chapter, please don't get frustrated, my Bucky/Hermione shippers. You're time to shine will come. I promise. There's just a few things that need to be done first.

Anyway, thank you readers, followers, and especially reviewers. Your words give me strength and motivation to write.

Enjoy and tell me your thoughts!


Chapter 24: Beating the Beaten

The door to her hospital room slides open. Natasha glances at the intruder and then looks away, pointedly staring at the muted television on the wall.

"Hey," says Rogers. So softly she wants to choke him with her IV tubes. She doesn't want his softness. His sky-blue eyes and kicked-puppy expression. She doesn't want him to care. She doesn't want him dressed in his casual jeans and plaid shirt. Like he came here on his free time to visit her. She wants him dressed for the field. She can't handle one more person showing they fucking care about her on their free time. Pretending they fucking care.

"Has Clint seen you yet?" He sits down on the doctor's rolling chair. There are no visitor chairs. She doesn't want visitors. She told Fury that the moment she got admitted.

She shrugs her good shoulder. Yeah, he has, but she couldn't bare to speak to him which he thought was fine. He just stood next to her, snagging the remote and changing the channel to Family Guy. He didn't say anything. Not one word until the pain killers kicked in, and sleep hit her like train. She might've felt him kiss her forehead. Or it could've been the drugs.

"I guess Pepper tried to come and see you—"

"Rogers," she warns.

"I talked to Fury." It's like he's incapable of skipping a beat. "This isn't your fault. She isn't your fault. Fury knows that. Everyone knows that."

"Not my fault?" She grabs the TV remote and chucks it at the screen, cracking it. The move jostled her injured shoulder, and she hissed, glaring at Rogers. "I brought her in. She lived with me for the last two years. I couldn't catch she was feeding secrets to Russia. It is my fault."

"Nat—"

"Romanoff," she corrects.

He shakes his head and rolls closer to her. He points his finger at her. "Nat. You couldn't have known."

"But I did. I turned her over because I was selfish, Rogers. Not because I genuinely thought she could be rehabilitated." She bites her lip, hating herself for showing this much of herself to him. "Please just leave."

"Nat—"

"Now. I don't want you here."

"He can stay." Fury emerges from the hallway and closes the door behind him. "We've got to go over your next assignment."

"She hasn't even healed—" starts Rogers.

"This assignment won't start until the beginning of next year. In the meantime," he throws an apologetic expression at Natasha, "you're on leave. When you get back, it'll be you two and the Alpha S.T.R.I.K.E. team. You'll no longer be partnered with Agent Barton at all."

"On leave." She says it because it's all she heard. It's all that matters. She cocks her head at Rogers. "Everyone knows it's not my fault, huh?"

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, not saying anything but does glare at Fury's ear.

"It's fine," she mutters. "I got something I got to do, anyway."

Rogers frowns, but Fury gets her drift. He massages his bottom lip. "We got eyes all over. Still haven't found her. She did," he nods in consideration, "make a phone call from England to CIA's Everett Ross. Surrey, specifically. Kinda out of the way from the airport. It doesn't fit. You got anything on why she'd be there? Or, hell, I don't know. Call the CIA?"

She leans her head against the pillow and searching for an idea and coming up with nothing. "I don't know why she went there. I don't why she'd call Ross unless…she felt like she could work out a deal with them." Her brows furrow. "You know what's weird?"

"Everything about Agent Abegglen is weird," replies Fury. "And funny enough, her secret super strength isn't even at the top of the list."

"She didn't stay in Russia. She ran."

"The entire intelligence community of the United States is after her. Why wouldn't she run?" pitches Rogers.

"What Romanoff is saying, Cap, is that Russia isn't housing her. And we don't have eyes or ears in the FSB anymore to confirm or deny she's receiving help from them. Our spy in the embassy hasn't said anything about her asking for safety from any of the government official. Which supposedly, she had connections. In fact, she sprinted out of Eastern Europe and stopped to make a phone call forty-five minutes away from the academy."

"Maybe when I find her, I'll ask what the hell before shooting her in the face," Natasha comments.

"When you find her?" There goes Rogers again looking all worried. "If you're going to go run off and find her, you're calling m—" He clears his throat. "S.H.I.E.L.D."

She rests her eyes on Fury. Her shoulder throbs. "There's no bringing her in this time. No imprisonment. The next time I see her, I'm going to kill her."

When Steve Rogers gets back to his apartment, there's an envelope taped to the door. Written on the envelope, it says:

I'm not really sure what to do with these except give them to you. Abegglen asked for them a couple of months back. They're supposed to be a gift, I guess.

P.S. I'm confused, too.

-Everett Ross

Steve pulls out two Yankee game tickets for the following month. Seats reserved for 18A and 19A.


Pierce loosens his tie, takes a drink from his glass, and sits down at the undercrowded conference table. On each side, he's got Malick and most importantly, he has Strucker.

"The officer I indirectly paid off in the Grangers' case was found dead three days ago in their old house. The family that lives there now discovered him when they arrived home that evening. We had agents assist in the investigation as well as arrange a quick autopsy and funeral. Abegglen was uncaringly sloppy in leaving the man there. We can cover up cause of death. Why he was there to begin with?" He sighs. "More difficult, but it was taken care of."

Slamming his glass on the table, Pierce leans in towards Strucker. "I want to know where she is."

"The longer she's unaccounted for," begins Malick, "increases the likelihood of her coming forward about HYDRA."

"Maybe she still sympathizes," offers Strucker.

"If that were so, she would've stayed to face her punishment."

"We have many agents who would die for HYDRA, Malick." Pierce interlocks his fingers. "Very few of them would offer up their neck for the sake of chastisement. Pride. It's a killer."

"My honest opinion as someone who knows her fairly well. I've watched her grow and molded her into what she is. Was." Strucker raises a few of his fingers. "She's killed herself."

"As comforting as your fantasies are, until there's a body, we can't stop looking. We'll scour Africa and South and Central America. We'll put her on the CIA's and MI-6's most wanted list. We'll try for the top ten, but those assholes in the Middle East are competitive."

Pierce strokes his chin. "We haven't considered the other possibility."

Strucker and Malick consider him, but it's Strucker who catches the drift. "How would that even be possible, Pierce?"

"She's a being of their nature, and we haven't exactly been keeping her under the radar since 9/11. What if she made a blip on theirs? Let's not forget our source in The Fridge."

"He's still alive?" Malick chuckles and salutes his glass. "Impressive. Is he mad as a hatter after thirteen years locked up?"

"He's…tamed." Strucker drums his fingers on the table. "And I may have an idea. Why not send the man home? For a little while. A year. If he scrounges up nothing of our little witch, he'll return and report. If he does, he'll bring her home if possible. Kill her immediately if not."

"There are too many factors that could go wrong," says Pierce. "I would never release the subject on such a low chance of success."

"Worse than Milas coughing up HYDRA secrets to any foreign intelligence agency willing to listen?" Strucker snorts.

"Almost." Pierce drains his glass. "Get me a detailed layout of this plan and the subject's history of compliance. You have six hours."

"I hope you know what you're doing," comments Malick, eyes swiveling back and forth between the men. "Both of you."

Strucker dips his chin and darts out of the office, phone to his ear. "Prepare my quinjet. We need to be en route to The Fridge as of yesterday. Prep Prisoner 73180. It's time for Mr. Tonks to go home."


Nott stubbed out his fag, only to ignite another. He typically doesn't chain smoke like this but given the circumstances, he's hoping his lungs will have mercy.

Hallelujah! Praise Salazar! The bloody portkey worked.

Maybe?

Risky chances in disguising portkey's as grave ornaments. There's a possibility an unlucky fellow could happen upon it by accident, but low and behold, there's a woman locked up in the room he and Soo-jin prepared long ago. The woman somewhat fits the description Soo-jin provided. The coloring is there. Brown hair and brown eyes, although Soo-jin mentioned how unattractive looking Hermione Granger had been.

Alas, the ugly duckling grew into a mighty fine swan.

Not that he relayed that to Soo-jin and not that he's certain this woman is the one they've searched years for. Plenty of brown haired, brown eyed bints in England.

Speaking of his ex-fiancé, she's waring a hole into his great-grandfather's rug.

"How was Sarsaparilla?"

"She's missed me. It's not right I'm the only one who takes her out for fresh air, you know."

"Enough of this. It's been three days. You need to go in there and verify it's her. We didn't fall in and out love and go near-broke in the process to have her rot in Dipper's old room."

"A part of me believed I'd never find her."

"If it's her."

"Of course it is! Who else would it be?"

He shrugs, playing off his anxiety quite spectacularly aside from another drag of his cigarette. "Some feckless Muggle who tripped over the portkey."

"Who fits the description of Hermione Granger?" She stops her pacing, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "Did you see an apple on her forearm?"

"Like a tattoo?"

"No, then." Her eyes roll.

"I didn't get a chance to linger. Neutralizing the room from most magic is one thing, but I'm not adept in Muggle defense or offense mechanisms. I was lucky to get out of there with my broken hand." He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, everything now healed.

"It's her. Ordinary Muggles don't know hand-to-hand combat."

"I'm not making the call until you identify her. Because if it's not, and I make that call to Potter and Clearwater—"

"We can say goodbye to steady paychecks."

"And showing our faces in public. We'll be jokes. Clearwater made it abundantly clear the story she'd run if this was all just a hoax." His exhales impatiently. "Face her in the next ten minutes. If you don't, I'll Obliviate her and dump her in the middle of Muggle London. We've wasted enough time."

"I know, Theo, I do." She stops her pacing and sits down in the chair across from him. "It's just…I haven't been completely honest with you about everything."

Or almost anything, she muses. She studies his handsome face, absorbing every detail and imagining his jaw slack, chocolate brown eyes lifeless. Dead. She imagines him slumped on this very floor, and it sickens her. It's more than late to chastise herself for getting too involved, even to the point of having a ring on her finger once.

She loves him almost as much as she despises him.

When he's dead, she pictures herself weeping though she hasn't shed a tear since leaving Sokovia. Those were the times she allowed herself to be weak but once her new reality had set in, her skin thickened up again soon enough.

"Disappointed but not surprised," he clips.

"Hermione Granger and I didn't part on the best of terms."

"It's been nearly twenty years. You two were eleven. I doubt the first thing she's going to do when she sees you is kill you. You were her friend."

Oh, her delightful Theodore could be terribly naïve about things, but that's not his fault. He doesn't know what he doesn't know, and she can't tell him. And it's a wonder he hasn't seen through her at all. He's not stupid, and yes, she credits herself as a good actress. She's had to be to survive this world she got dragged into. Still, he doesn't wonder about the carefully woven lies she's fashioned herself concerning her faux Muggle childhood because…

Because at the end of the day, he's a Pureblood and the woman he's been fucking for the last five years? Her years from age one to eleven are unremarkable due to the fact that Muggles, for the most part, are unremarkable.

Unimportant.

And a number of other things not typically associated with positive adjectives.

No, she won't cry, Soo-jin decides. Because no matter how much Theo doesn't want to be like his father, he didn't stray far enough from the tree to accomplish it. He's still comfortably comfortable underneath the shade of the poisonous branches that is his daddy's wretched racism. Would Theo still care for her so much if she told him the truth? That yes, she's a Half-blood, but her mother was a Squib whore and her biological father is vice president of Wizarding France.

"You're right." Soo-jin gets up from the chair, standing tall. "It has been twenty years." Horrible and torturous. "I've waited for my friend long enough."


On her cot more fit for a child, Hermione sits cross-legged in her underwear and camisole. Her clothes are folded not too far away from the tray of dishes. She might be up to having them washed if the option is still open. She had to take them off. There's hardly an circulation in the room, and she reckons she must be in a multi-leveled property because the air is warm.

There's music in her head. It can happen sometimes when she's by herself for too long. Melodies will plague her mind, and now is no different. She's passed the point of thinking and overthinking how she got here and who that man was—that seemed both terrified and skeptical at the same time—and how he trudged through the door not long after she got here.

He said hello, and she tried to kill him

He was impressively quick in escaping.

And speaking of the door he came through.

It comes and goes. Kind of like the food trays.

Every two hours, the door appears, and it leads to a small bathroom with no mirrors or cupboards or windows, only a lonesome porcelain tub and toilet. Somehow that man went through there and escaped.

Maybe down the drain.

She chuckles, the music wafting in her head, she begins to sway. Someday My Prince Will Come is embarrassingly loud in her head. She'd been thumbing her scar, thinking of her parents and that staticky nightdress, and how her father called her his little princess all the time.

"Will I marry a prince, Daddy?" she asked once.

He kissed her forehead and then her cheek, tucking her into bed. "You accept nothing less, Button."

"Will he save me?"

"I pray you never have to be saved from anything." He looked at the open door nervously and then leaned down closer to her. "Don't tell your mother I said this. She thinks you're too young, but she and I won't always be around to protect you. You'll grow up and sometimes be alone. Not now but someday, you'll have to learn to save yourself." He pinched her chin. "Until then, the monsters in your closet and under the bed are my bitches."

"Daddy!" She gasped.

"I'll go put a few pence in the jar."

"That deserves at least a note."

"You're so like your mum. Goodnight, princess."

"If we only knew what would be coming, Dad," she whispers aloud.

Memories of the times she'd gotten her ass saved resurface, and Natalia's there. Even Brock. She misses them both for different reason. Or maybe the same. She's not sure. There are mixed feelings she has towards Brock right now. He ordered The Asset to pull the trigger on Nat.

The Soldier's face hits her, and her turkey sandwich she ate an hour ago rallies to make a comeback.

Oh, God, she'd forgotten about him. He's still under HYDRA's control, and she'd promised herself five years ago she'd kill him. Put him out of his misery. He saved her, and she couldn't pay the same respect.

More likely the man buried deep within revived her after what Amdaal did. With the Soldier being out of cryophase too long, Sargent Barnes started pawing at the wheel. The mission was complete, but what about the woman who brought him to Kabul in the first place?

It certainly had been mostly Barnes who forced oxygen into her lungs and then held her gently as she recovered. It was like a scene from the movies, and she weakly let herself get lost in the moment. A trained, cold-blooded assassin broke protocol to come save her, so she kissed him.

And then scrambled away from him and threw herself into Brock's arms, upset with herself for kissing him and then disgusted for not taking the chance to slit his throat. The Soldier had knife right there strapped to his boot. Quick and efficient. He could've been free, but she enslaved him longer with a soft peck of her lips.

Hermione's unsure what the future has in store. She may die soon. Who's to say? Certainly not the strange man who's hand she broke. He hasn't been back since. If she lives, though, and manages to get away from wherever she is, she'll free Barnes as HYDRA crumbles to dust. Then she'll confront Natalia with an apology and open arms.

And if Hermione knows Nat—and she does—her best friend and former lover will shoot her in the face regardless of said apology.

Then she can finally be free, too.

Look how bold she's being surrounded by these enclosed and cobbled walls that she fancies she'll be free one day. Because even if she dies in this room, she won't be free. When she goes on her terms, then her leash will finally be removed.

It's a strange thing, but she can feel the door materialize without even looking. Not so much as hair standing on end at the back of her neck but a tingling in her blood. A familiar energy that had been near-muted by the bracelet.

Interesting. Two hours hasn't passed just yet.

Hermione decides she's not going to attack the man right away. She'll let him explain himself and the reason of her capture and then hurt him bad enough, he'll be begging to get rid of her. And unfortunately, not in the way she'd prefer. She'd love to slither her powers up through his nostrils and rat-a-tat-tat on his prefrontal cortex, but her powers have ceased completely. Even her strength is somewhat diminished, and it's like she can feel something raking at her veins, pressing down at her core. Not even the bracelet quite made her feel this way. It's like she could feel power, and it's strangling her own.

"I was always a Sing Sweet Nightingale girl myself. Not that I had or even have much exposure to Disney films."

A woman.

Not the man.

Still, Hermione is indifferent. She continues to hum and sway, mulling over the woman's Ukrainian lilt with a peculiar polishing of Norwegian. The woman will have dark blonde hair green eyes, almost like Nat's but with a hint of blue. She'll be tall with a trim waist and athletic shoulders. Her attire will be practical aside from the pink goulashes on her feet.

"It's near tea time."

The sound of a tray being set on the tiny, bolted down table, reaches Hermione's ears.

"I think you're dying for a cup of chamomile."

That almost makes Hermione stop humming because, damn it, that sounds amazing.

"And a pile of chocolate biscuits."

The rushed tinkling of liquid hits the teacup and soon, the cup is appearing in Hermione's peripheral. The hand attached is tiny. Tinier than her own and even Natalia's. The nails aren't too long and are painted black. Hermione wouldn't have guessed, and now she's drawing up another picture.

She takes the cup and goes back to staring at her wall.

The woman will be average height with orangey-red hair. Her eyes are hazel, and her clothes are an elegant shade of grey. Pristine, white ballet flats on her feet.

"You were so eager to attack my companion. I'm pleased and grateful you haven't dealt me the same sentiment."

Thumbing the rim of her teacup—which must be part of an expensive china set—Hermione doesn't even bother to believe there's poison in the cup. If they wanted her dead, they could've done it already by poisoning the food.

"Where are you from?" she asks the woman.

There's a pause and then a chuckle. "Funny, that's your first question. I'd think you'd be curious on how you got here. Travelling that way is unpleasant." Her throat clears. "You're American. My companion didn't even mention it."

"I didn't speak to him, and you know more about me than you want me to think. You know I'm not American. Whatever the hell that thing was, you put it on my father's grave knowing I'd touch it sooner or later."

"I don't…didn't expect to have your back to me and for a moment, I thought I'd play, but we're not children anymore, Hermione. Shove away your cowardice you're masking for indifference and face me."

Calmly, she takes a drink of her tea and slowly turns around to face a five-foot-nothing Asian woman of orient descent. Her black hair is long and tied up in a ponytail. Her eyes are dark, both widely set and slanted. She's dressed like she got done horseback-riding in the countryside. There's even traces of hay and dirt smudged on her trousers and boots.

Hermione drains the rest of her tea, attempting to remain coolheaded. "You will not call me, Hermione. Understand?"

"What do they call you now then? Surely not 17, still." 54 touches her chest. "Soo-jin."

Darting her eyes around the room like it's the first time she's seen it, processing information. "You weren't even on the list of people who I considered responsible for this."

"You probably thought I was dead."

"I had no reason to think otherwise." No longer feeling safe enough to lounge on the cot, Hermione stands.

54's gaze glides over her the exposed skin of her legs and arms, a wave of sentiment washing over her features. "You've grown up beautifully, but I see the years have been unkind in other ways." The corner of her mouth quirks. "And to think I wanted it to be me when either way was unfortunate."

"You look mighty unfortunate, 54," hisses Hermione. "What do you want? Revenge? Believe me if I could go back—"

The woman laughs. "Oh, 17, you would have not liked being in my shoes. You would've had it worse than I did, and who's to say I would've made it out of the Red Room alive or even be worthy enough for Strucker's gift? We were put on the pathways we were, and there's no changing that. But I worked hard at getting them to cross. I was always too late by a few days or even hours. I eventually had to come up with a trick that would make you come to me. Sooner or later, I figured you'd remember who you were—you always did when we were kids—and you'd come looking for your parents."

"None of this makes sense. Not just the grave wreath and this room and the door. If this wasn't about revenge, then why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" 54 shuffles closer, offering both of her hands in a seemingly friendly gesture. "To save and hide you from HYDRA."

Hermione doesn't have to read the woman's mind to know that's a lie.

To be Continued...