Meeting her
His last days in the army would coincide with the celebration dinner held at the Royal Military Academy in Sandhurst to commemorate the British Army's service in Afghanistan.
At the celebration dinner, Harry stood among his peers one last time, their camaraderie a bittersweet reminder of the bonds forged in battle. Speeches were made, toasts were given, and Harry was presented with a plaque commemorating his service. Colonel Thompson, now more a friend than a superior, spoke warmly of Harry's dedication and valour, highlighting his crucial role in their missions.
Amidst the mingling crowd, Harry's gaze caught a glimpse of a striking figure across the room. She stood out effortlessly, a tall woman with dark red hair cascading down her shoulders. Her piercing eyes scanned the room with a sense of purpose, and her presence exuded an aura of confidence that drew Harry's attention amidst the sea of uniforms and formal attire.
She wasn't alone. Harry noticed her accompanying a Major, who introduced her as his plus one for the evening. Despite her stunning beauty and finely curved athletic figure, it was her steely blue eyes and the subtle but unmistakable air of military training that intrigued him the most. She couldn't have been more than 20 years old, yet her demeanour suggested a maturity and experience beyond her years, resonating with the same steel and determination Harry saw in his fellow soldiers each morning. She may act like a civilian but he knew that she was trained as a soldier like he was from a very young age.
Throughout the event, Harry maintained a discreet watch on the redhead, subtly positioning himself to keep her in sight without drawing attention. His colleagues noticed his attention shift, teasing him about being smitten for the first time in ages, but Harry brushed off their remarks with a wry smile, his focus unwavering.
As the evening progressed and dinner was served, the atmosphere shifted to a more relaxed phase. The dance floor filled with couples swaying to the music, and Harry observed as the red-haired woman subtly slipped away from her companion, who was engrossed in conversation with other officers.
Harry's curiosity piqued when he saw her heading towards a restricted area of the venue. Instinctively, he excused himself from his conversation and discreetly followed her path, blending into the shadows of the ornate hallways and corridors that led to the off-limits section.
The venue was filled with the murmur of voices and soft strains of music, but the area she entered was quieter, dimly lit, and noticeably devoid of guests. Harry trod cautiously, his training guiding his movements as he maintained a safe distance, keenly observing her actions without revealing his presence.
She moved with purpose, her strides confident and deliberate, betraying her familiarity with the surroundings. Harry noted the subtle shift in her demeanour—a blend of grace and alertness honed through rigorous training, akin to his own experiences in the field.
As she disappeared around a corner, Harry hesitated briefly, weighing the risks of following further. Yet, the allure of unravelling the mystery she presented, coupled with his ingrained sense of duty, spurred him onward. With silent footsteps, he ventured deeper into the restricted area, mindful of each turn and potential encounter.
Natasha Romanoff was having a peculiar day. As a seasoned veteran of the Black Widow Program, she approached every mission with precision and clarity, but today felt different. Her instincts, honed through years of training and countless missions, whispered caution in the back of her mind—a subtle warning that not all was as it seemed.
The mission itself appeared straightforward: infiltrate the Royal Military Academy's celebratory dinner and plant crucial intel within their database. The objective was clear—to implant false information about Russian spies posing as new recruits, turning them into sleeper agents. Their task would be to monitor and report on the performance of assigned troops, feeding valuable intelligence back to their handlers.
Tonight's dinner was grander than Natasha's usual assignments, the opulence and formality a stark contrast to the covert operations she typically undertook. The celebration of the returning troops from Afghanistan provided the perfect cover for her infiltration. If not for the event, gaining access to the Academy and its sensitive database would have been far more challenging, even for someone of her capabilities.
Dressed impeccably in an elegant black gown that subtly accentuated her athletic frame, Natasha mingled effortlessly among the guests. She exchanged pleasantries with officers and dignitaries, her demeanour poised and graceful—a facade carefully crafted to disarm and deceive. To the casual observer, she appeared as a dignified socialite, her presence masking the deadly skills and strategic mind beneath the surface.
The strangest thing was that Natasha felt she was being watched, but she couldn't pinpoint where or who was observing her. It was an unsettling sensation, a flicker of unease that threatened to undermine her confidence in the mission. Her instincts, whispered caution, suggesting that perhaps she should abort and reassess the situation. Yet, Natasha dismissed these thoughts as mere paranoia, reminding herself of the meticulous planning that had brought her this far.
After the formal processions and the elaborate dinner concluded, Natasha found herself strategically positioned. She subtly administered a few pills into her date's drink, a calculated move to ensure his inebriation and distraction. As he became increasingly boisterous and indiscreet, drawing the attention of his concerned colleagues, Natasha slipped away unnoticed.
She navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Royal Military Academy with practised ease, her steps purposeful and silent. Passing by vigilant guards, she blended into the shadows, her presence undetected as she descended towards the secure underground levels housing the Academy's servers.
The hum of machinery greeted her as she entered the server room, a vast expanse of racks and blinking lights that housed the Academy's critical data. Natasha's focus sharpened as she approached the main console, her fingers flying over the keyboard with precision born of expertise. She accessed the encrypted files, implanting carefully crafted data packets within the Academy's database.
Amidst the concentrated silence of the server room, Natasha sensed a subtle shift in the atmosphere—a prickle at the back of her neck that signalled someone's watchful gaze upon her. Instinctively, she scanned the room, her senses on high alert. She couldn't identify the source, but the feeling persisted. Yet, Natasha's resolve hardened. She couldn't afford to falter now, not when the mission hung in delicate balance. With steely determination, she pushed aside her apprehension and focused on the task at hand.
The planting of the information went off without a hitch. In just 15 minutes, Natasha had infiltrated the server room, uploaded the fabricated data, and smoothly made her exit from the secure area. With each step, she maintained the composed facade of a distinguished guest departing from a celebratory event.
However, as she made her way back through the labyrinthine corridors of the Royal Military Academy, Natasha's sharp ears caught the faint sound of footsteps ahead. Two guards, having taken an unauthorized break, were now investigating the stairwell nearby. Their voices echoed through the hallway, prompting Natasha to quicken her pace and seek refuge in the nearest alcove.
"Damn," she muttered under her breath, assessing her limited options. Confrontation with the guards was not an option; discretion and swift evasion were her only allies now. Natasha slipped into a darkened alcove, her back pressed against the cool stone wall as she weighed her next move.
Just as she was contemplating her next move, a commotion erupted from the stairwell entrance. Voices mingled in confusion, one authoritative and familiar, the other hesitant yet compliant.
"Captain Potter, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be in this area."
"Ah, I apologize, cadets, and Please call me Harry, I will no longer be a part of the army after tonight" came the calm, authoritative reply. "My date for tonight seems to have wandered off while looking for the restroom. She might be in this vicinity. It's her first time at such an event, and she's not familiar with the protocols like we are."
Natasha's heart skipped a beat as she listened intently. The description Captain Potter gave matched her own appearance—tall, with deep red hair and striking blue eyes, clad in a black gown. It was unnerving and unexpected; she hadn't anticipated assistance, especially not from someone unfamiliar with her mission.
Intrigued by this unexpected turn, Natasha swiftly adjusted her demeanour, adopting the guise of a startled and vulnerable young woman. She emerged from her hiding spot, her expression a mix of apprehension and relief as she approached the 3 men at the entrance of the stairwell.
Harry didn't fully understand why he was doing this. Deep down, he knew it was against protocol, yet something primal stirred within him—a pull ingrained in every Potter. There was always something about redheads, a magnetic attraction that defied reason. And now, faced with this enigmatic woman who may well be an enemy spy, Harry felt his instincts urging him to act.
He maintained a composed front in front of the Army cadets, masking his inner turmoil as he made his case to assist her. The tension of the moment was shattered when the unexpected happened—a young woman rushed towards him with evident relief on her face.
"Harry!" she exclaimed breathlessly, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and gratitude. "I'm so sorry, I got lost and I was so scared I'd end up somewhere I shouldn't be. Thank goodness I found you."
Harry was caught off guard by her sudden appearance, but he swiftly composed himself, drawing on his innate charm and quick thinking. "Ah, Natalie, there you are," he said smoothly, choosing a name that seemed to suit her. He hoped she would play along with the facade. "Don't wander off alone again. Are you alright now?"
She nodded fervently, looking up at him with teary blue eyes that tugged at his conscience. "Yes, I'm okay now, but I think I've had a bit too much to drink. Could you please take me home?"
Harry nodded in understanding, masking his inner turmoil behind a reassuring smile. He bid a polite farewell to the guards, his mind racing with questions and calculations. Leading her discreetly through the bustling hallways and corridors, they eventually reached the quiet solitude of the Academy's car park.
With practised ease, Harry guided her to his car, all the while maintaining a facade of calm professionalism. The situation was precarious—transporting a potentially dangerous woman who could compromise national security—but his Potter instincts, guided by an inexplicable pull towards redheads, compelled him forward.
As they settled into the car, Harry's mind buzzed with uncertainty. Who was this woman really? What game was she playing, and why did his magic hum with approval in her presence? Despite the risks, he resolved to uncover the truth, to navigate the intricate web of deception and intrigue that surrounded her.
The car ride to Harry's home passed in a comfortable silence, though Harry couldn't shake the feeling of being scrutinized under Natalie's amused gaze. He attempted to ask where she wanted to be dropped off, but instead, she simply requested to be taken to his place. Nervous and uncertain of what to expect, Harry complied, driving them to his apartment in the quiet of the night.
Upon arriving and welcoming her inside, Natalie closed the distance between them with surprising swiftness, pinning Harry gently against the wall. Her voice was low, carrying a hint of gratitude and an air of mystery.
"This is my thank you for rescuing me from that predicament and not prying too deeply," she murmured, her lips brushing against his ear before capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss.
Caught off guard by her boldness, Harry's initial surprise melted into a surge of desire as their passion ignited. In the warmth of his home, under the dim glow of soft lighting, they surrendered to the intoxicating pull between them. Clothes were shed in haste, mingled with eager caresses and urgent whispers.
Their bodies moved together with a raw intensity, each touch a testament to their shared longing and the unspoken understanding that this night was both a release and a reckless indulgence. Time lost its meaning as they explored each other's depths, seeking solace and pleasure in the embrace of the other.
When Natasha Romanoff awoke the next morning, the realization that the bed was empty struck her as odd. She was accustomed to being the one who slipped away silently after such encounters, leaving no trace behind. Yet here she was, alone in his bedroom, in his house. It was a departure from her usual modus operandi.
Running a hand through tousled red locks, Natasha frowned thoughtfully. The man—Harry—was undeniably attractive in a rugged, soldierly way, though not typically her type. The events of last night had unfolded unexpectedly, the allure of mystery and the thrill of danger perhaps clouding her usual judgment.
She swung her legs out from under the covers, sitting up as she processed the implications of her actions. Harry had been kind, gallant even, in coming to her aid without probing too deeply into her motives. It had been a calculated risk on her part, a means to indulge herself under the guise of gratitude and necessity.
"It's just business," she murmured to herself, a mantra to justify the intimacy shared with him. In her world, lines blurred between duty and desire, and she had allowed herself this indulgence as both a treat and a strategic diversion.
As she gathered her belongings, Natasha's mind raced with calculated steps. She needed to leave, to vanish into the anonymity of her world once more. The fun was over and this soldier boy was a fleeting encounter, a chapter in a story she couldn't afford to linger over.
As Natasha made her way to the entrance, dressed in the same attire from the night before, ready to slip away unnoticed when she spotted Harry waiting for her with an extra plate set at the table.
"I hope you like pancakes," Harry greeted her with a warm smile, his eyes flickering with a mixture of uncertainty and sincerity. "I made some with scrambled eggs and bacon. Would you like some orange juice?"
Caught off guard by his unexpected hospitality, Natasha hesitated for a moment, her guard momentarily faltering. This wasn't part of her usual exit strategy, and Harry's genuine gesture unsettled the calculated composure she typically maintained.
"Shit," she thought inwardly, grappling with the unfamiliarity of the situation. She wasn't accustomed to someone like Harry, someone who extended kindness without ulterior motives—or so she hoped.
"You don't need to feel awkward," Harry continued, his voice gentle yet resolute. "I'm just trying to be a gracious host. I understand if this isn't your usual protocol, especially if you're, well, a spy or something. But I still believe in kindness and courtesy. And I won't deny that I'm interested in you. I think that was pretty clear last night. So, before I embarrass myself any further, please don't dismiss my gesture."
His cheeks tinted with a faint blush, Harry's vulnerability tugged at Natasha's carefully guarded heart. Here was a man who saw beyond the facade she wore, who dared to extend empathy and acceptance despite the secrets she harboured.
Natasha studied him quietly, weighing her options with a calculating gaze that betrayed none of her inner turmoil. She was adept at reading people, deciphering their weaknesses and strengths with a glance. Yet Harry remained an enigma—a soldier with a heart laid bare, offering her a glimpse of a world she had long believed herself excluded from.
With a sigh that betrayed her conflicted emotions, Natasha relented, the corners of her lips twitching into a faint smile. "Pancakes sound good," she replied softly, taking a seat opposite him. "And some orange juice would be nice."
As Harry served breakfast with a quiet efficiency, Natasha's mind raced with unspoken questions and tentative possibilities. She was accustomed to navigating treacherous waters, to maintaining her distance and independence in a world fraught with deceit and danger, not this - whatever this was.
"He is cute," Natasha silently admitted to herself, a half-smile tugging at her lips. It was the first time in a long while that she had been treated with such genuine kindness, free from judgment or suspicion. As the breakfast progressed she hadn't realized how much she needed this no-questions-asked respite. Harry's simple act of kindness stirred something within her—a fragile hope, a longing for connection that whispered of vulnerabilities she rarely acknowledged. In his presence, she found herself teetering on the edge of unfamiliar terrain, uncertain of whether to retreat or to step forward into the unknown.
As they sat together in the quiet intimacy of his dining area, the aroma of pancakes mingling with the warmth of morning sunlight filtering through the windows, Natasha began to understand that perhaps there was more to Harry than met the eye. And perhaps, just perhaps, she owed it to herself to explore what lay beyond the shadows of her past.
"What's your name?" Harry's voice broke the comfortable silence.
"Natalie," she replied simply, her tone guarded yet tinged with a hint of amusement.
"Is that your real name?"
"No."
"Will you tell me your real name?"
"Maybe."
Harry let out a frustrated sigh, his attempts at conversation met with Natasha's succinct responses. He knew pressing further would be futile, but curiosity gnawed at him. After all, she was an enigma he couldn't resist trying to unravel.
"Uhhh! So, what do you do?" Harry tried again, his voice tinged with a touch of exasperation.
"Nothing," Natasha replied, her gaze steady as she sipped her orange juice.
"Are you British?" Harry persisted, hoping for a bit more insight.
"Maybe," she answered cryptically, her expression giving nothing away.
Realizing he wouldn't get much more out of her, Harry sighed inwardly, conceding defeat. They continued their meal in companionable silence, the clinking of cutlery against plates punctuating the quiet intimacy of the moment. Despite the unanswered questions lingering between them, Harry found himself strangely content in Natasha's presence. Something was refreshing about her guarded demeanour, an allure that piqued his curiosity and tugged at his desire to understand her better.
Setting down his utensils, Natasha cleared her throat softly before speaking, breaking the quiet spell that had settled between them.
"Thanks for breakfast," Natasha murmured, her voice betraying none of the emotions swirling inside her. She rose from the table gracefully, her movements fluid and purposeful.
Harry stood as well, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. "You're welcome," he replied, a faint smile playing on his lips despite the unanswered questions that still lingered between them.
After they finished their breakfast, Harry walked Natasha out to the bustling main street where a cab awaited. The morning air was crisp, a contrast to the warmth of the small apartment they had shared briefly. As Natasha prepared to step into the waiting cab, Harry's words caught her off guard. "I understand if this is the last time we meet," he began, his tone gentle yet firm. "But if you ever need a safe haven in the future, you can find me. I was raised to be a weapon since I was one year old. I managed to break free from my past, and maybe I can help you escape yours if you want."
Natasha felt a stirring within her at Harry's offer. His sincerity touched a part of her that she had long kept hidden beneath layers of detachment and survival instincts. In that fleeting moment, she realized that perhaps he was the only person who truly understood the weight of her choices and the shadows that trailed her. A small, genuine smile graced her lips as she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Harry's cheek. It was a brief but intimate gesture, a silent acknowledgement of the unexpected connection they had shared over breakfast.
"You're sweet," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But my hands are too tainted."
With those words hanging between them, Natasha stepped into the cab, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The door closed behind her, separating them once more as the cab pulled away into the busy morning traffic.
The second meeting between Harry and Natalie occurred six months later on a cold, stormy winter night. Thunder rumbled ominously, and rain poured incessantly, creating an eerie atmosphere that mirrored Harry's unsettled thoughts. It was 2 a.m., and Harry sat in his dimly lit living room, poring over the scant information he had gathered about the enigmatic woman he knew as Natalie. Despite his experience in uncovering secrets, she remained a mystery, her existence almost ghostly in its elusiveness.
The night after the celebration dinner, Harry had reported the encounter to the relevant authorities. MI6 had taken a keen interest, subjecting him to a lengthy interrogation before seeking his help to track her down. Yet, despite their combined efforts, they had found nothing. Natalie had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only questions and a cold trail. Her date from that night had proven to be a dead end, confessing under pressure that she had seduced him into taking her to the event. The poor guy was lucky to avoid a court-martial. Harry himself had narrowly escaped severe consequences by convincing his superiors that Natalie might be turned into an asset, that what he did was to provide an opportunity for her to defect. The army wasn't pleased but they were familiar with his antics by now.
As Harry sat alone in his living room, his mind kept drifting back to Natalie. She was an enigma, a puzzle he couldn't quite piece together. Every fragment of information he had managed to uncover only deepened the mystery. Who was she? Why had she chosen to infiltrate that particular event? And why had she chosen him to reveal her true self to, even if only for a fleeting moment?
Harry felt a strange connection to Natalie, one that he couldn't easily explain. He saw in her eyes a reflection of his haunted past, a deep well of pain and guilt that matched his own. He had endured hellish experiences, first in his youth and later in his military service, and he sensed that Natalie had faced similar torments. There was a darkness about her, but also a glimmer of hope, a hint of the person she might have been if her life had taken a different path. He believed he could save her. He had seen too many good people lost to the shadows of their own minds, consumed by the horrors they had witnessed or inflicted. Natalie was different, though. Despite the danger she represented, he felt a strong urge to protect her, to help her find a way back from whatever abyss she had fallen into.
As Harry sat lost in thought, the sudden, urgent banging on his front door jolted him. His military instincts kicked in, and he cautiously approached the door, half expecting trouble. He peeked through the peephole and was stunned to see Natalie, drenched and shivering, standing on his doorstep. Opening the door Natasha was clad in a combat suit stained with blood, her injuries stark and alarming. Her whole body was covered in cuts, a bullet wound marred her left shoulder, and a deep stab wound gashed her right thigh. She looked desperate, a stark contrast to the confident, composed woman he remembered.
Harry's weariness evaporated instantly, replaced by deep concern and urgency. "You should go to the hospital," he urged, his voice tight with worry as he guided her inside.
"No hospitals," Natasha managed weakly, her voice barely above a whisper but firm in its refusal.
Harry nodded grimly, his military training kicking in. "Okay, I'll do what I can," he said with a sigh, fetching his military medical kit. He moved quickly and efficiently, his hands steady despite the gravity of the situation. "Any bullets still in there?" he asked, trying to assess the extent of her injuries.
She shook her head slightly. "No," came her terse reply.
"Do you trust me?" Harry questioned, his tone serious.
"No," Natasha responded honestly, her gaze locking with his, revealing the ingrained wariness of someone who lived a life constantly on the edge.
"Good," Harry murmured, almost to himself, as he prepared a sedative. Despite her protests, he administered it gently, knowing it was the only way to tend to her wounds effectively.
Once Natasha drifted into unconsciousness, Harry cast additional sleeping charms to ensure she wouldn't wake prematurely. With meticulous care, he began the arduous task of treating her injuries. Healing charms were very useful in closing the light wounds while he skillfully sutured the bullet and stab wounds. The room hummed with magical energy as he worked, focused and determined.
After what felt like hours, Harry wrapped Natasha's body in bandages, resembling a protective cocoon. "There," he muttered to himself, surveying his handiwork. "You're going to be okay."
He cast a few cleaning charms to remove traces of blood and dirt, ensuring she looked more peaceful in repose than she had upon arrival. Standing back, he couldn't help but feel a swell of mixed emotions—relief that she was safe, concern for what she had been through, and a deepening sense of connection that transcended their initial meeting.
"If anyone saw you now," Harry muttered to himself, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, "they'd think you've become a mummy."
With a last glance at Natasha, now resting peacefully, Harry retreated to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee for himself. The storm outside continued to rage, but within his safe haven, a fragile sense of hope flickered—a hope that this time, perhaps, he could offer Natasha more than just a fleeting sanctuary from the storm.
Natasha woke the next morning to the soft light filtering through the curtains, her body wrapped in bandages and her mind slowly clearing from the sedative's haze. Blinking groggily, she took in her surroundings—the cozy yet unfamiliar room, the faint scent of herbs and potions lingering in the air, and the steady rhythm of rain against the windowpane. Looking around, she spotted a pair of scissors, fresh dressings, a set of clothes, and towels. Alongside these items was a note:
"I've gone for my classes. If I don't arrive by the time you wake up, use the scissors to cut the bandages and apply the new dressing patches to the stab and gunshot wounds. I've left some sandwiches in the fridge, and there are painkillers on the bedside table. You can have one every six hours, preferably after you eat something.
P.S.: If you're thinking of leaving, please don't. You're in no condition to travel. At a minimum, stay a couple of days, but I would like it if you stayed the week."
Natasha chuckled at the note and did as instructed. Once the bandages were removed, she examined her injuries in the mirror. The mission that had led to this was the assassination of a Russian Mafia boss operating in London who had forgotten the support provided by the Kremlin. She had spent the last six months infiltrating the mafia, waiting for an opportunity to strike. However, her cover had been blown by a mole in the Kremlin. As soon as she realized she was betrayed, she attempted a suicide mission to kill the mafia boss on the spot. The assassination was the easy part; getting out alive had been the real challenge. She had used all her knowledge and skills to escape, and though she hadn't expected to survive, she had made it. But knowing there was a mole who had ratted her out, she couldn't use the Black Widow resources available to her—at least until things settled down.
She needed a place to lay low for a while. Luckily, she knew just the place: a small apartment in London that belonged to a war hero with no ties to her. That's why she had shown up in the middle of the night at Harry's place.
Deciding to accept the reality that this was the safest place to stay, she began to make the apartment her new temporary safehouse. Natasha moved around the space, familiarizing herself with Harry's modest yet comfortable living quarters. She found the sandwiches in the fridge and ate one, washing it down with a glass of water before taking a painkiller.
Natasha's thoughts wandered to Harry. Despite the brief time they had spent together, she felt a strange sense of trust towards him. His willingness to help without asking too many questions had been a rare display of kindness in her harsh world. She wondered what drove him to be so compassionate, especially towards someone like her.
She spent the day resting and regaining her strength. Harry's home was simple but cozy, with a few personal touches that gave it character. Photos of him with fellow soldiers and what looked like his family, some books, and a few souvenirs from his travels adorned the shelves. It was a stark contrast to her own sterile and sparse living arrangements.
As the day wore on, Natasha found herself growing more comfortable in Harry's space. She appreciated the tranquillity and the lack of immediate danger, something she hadn't felt in a long time. She knew she couldn't stay here forever, but for now, it was the perfect place to recover and plan her next move.
By the time Harry returned in the evening, Natasha had made herself at home, albeit discreetly. She was seated on the couch, a book in her hands, looking far more at ease than she had in the past twenty-four hours. Harry entered, carrying a bag of groceries and looking pleasantly surprised to see her up and about.
"Hey," he greeted, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Natasha replied, closing the book and setting it aside. "Thank you for everything."
Harry smiled warmly. "I'm glad to hear that. I got some groceries—thought you might need a proper meal."
She nodded, appreciating his thoughtfulness. As Harry began to prepare dinner, Natasha watched him, feeling a sense of normalcy that was foreign yet comforting. She realized that while she was here, she could momentarily let her guard down and perhaps, for once, allow herself to enjoy a bit of peace.