**THE CHAMPIONS' CHAMBER**
The side chamber had clearly been designed by someone who understood that important magical business required appropriate ambiance. Tapestries depicting various Tournament victories adorned the walls (though notably, none showed the casualties), while a fire crackled in the hearth with the kind of perfect magical warmth that never got too hot or too cold. Comfortable chairs were arranged in a rough circle, and the whole room whispered of centuries of tradition and probably quite a few dramatic conversations about destiny, duty, and the acceptable casualty rates for educational competitions.
Viktor Krum occupied his chair like he was posing for a statue titled "Brooding International Sports Celebrity Contemplates His Own Mortality." When the door opened, he glanced up with the kind of polite interest that suggested he'd been expecting something like this but wasn't particularly excited about whatever chaos was about to unfold.
Cedric Diggory had claimed the chair nearest the fire, his golden retriever energy somehow managing to make even nervous anticipation look charming. His perfect teeth were currently doing that thing where they looked like they belonged in a dental hygiene advertisement, and his expression held the kind of optimistic concern that suggested he was genuinely worried about everyone involved but still believed things would work out fine because they usually did for people who looked like they'd been personally sculpted by Renaissance masters during their lunch breaks.
And there was Fleur.
She sat with the kind of composed elegance that made other people suddenly aware of their own posture, her midnight-blue dress arranged with the casual perfection that suggested either supernatural grace or really expensive finishing school. Her silver hair caught the firelight and threw it back in patterns that probably violated several laws of physics, and her eyes...
Her eyes were doing their level best to pretend she wasn't having a complete internal meltdown while simultaneously cataloguing every detail of the room's architecture with the intensity of someone memorizing escape routes or possibly trying to distract herself from the fact that her heart was currently attempting to break several land-speed records.
When the door opened and Harry Potter walked in, followed by enough authority figures to constitute a small government, Fleur's carefully maintained composure nearly shattered like spun glass.
*Mon Dieu,* she thought, her internal voice switching to French because apparently even her thoughts needed to retreat to their native language when confronted with this much concentrated... *everything*. *Il est... he is...*
More, was the only coherent thought she could manage. More than she remembered. More than the intelligence reports had suggested. More than her carefully constructed fantasies had dared to imagine.
Four months of relentless training had taught her to assess threats, to catalogue advantages and weaknesses, to read body language like a tactical manual. All of that expertise was currently screaming at her that the man who'd just entered the room was dangerous on levels that most people couldn't even comprehend.
He moved like controlled violence wrapped in deceptively casual clothing, every step calculated to project exactly the right amount of threat and charm. At six-foot-three, he commanded the room through simple physical presence, but there was more to it than that. Power radiated from him like heat from molten metal—not the flashy, obvious power of someone trying to impress, but the quiet, absolute confidence of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve with the right application of wit, charm, and probably some highly illegal magic.
His dark hair was doing that impossible thing where it looked perfectly disheveled without looking messy, and his emerald eyes...
*Those eyes.* The same eyes that had looked at her with concerned kindness while monsters died around them, that had seen her at her most vulnerable and chosen to help rather than exploit. They swept the room now with obvious amusement, cataloguing the other champions with the clinical interest of someone who collected dangerous people as a professional hobby.
When those eyes met hers—just for a moment, just a heartbeat—Fleur felt her carefully constructed mask slip slightly. Recognition flickered in his gaze, followed by something that might have been approval, appreciation, and the beginning of genuine interest.
He remembered her. More than that, he was seeing what she'd become rather than what she'd been.
"Hello!" He spoke, "I'm Harry Potter!"
*Breathe,* she commanded herself sternly. *You are Fleur Delacour. You earned your place here through skill, determination, and four months of transforming yourself into a weapon. You belong in this room. You belong beside him.*
The other champions, meanwhile, were having their own reactions to this unexpected development.
Viktor looked up from his brooding with the expression of someone who'd just realized the evening was about to become significantly more complicated than he'd originally anticipated. His dark eyes assessed Harry with the clinical interest of a professional athlete encountering potential competition, and what he saw apparently didn't reassure him about his chances of having a quiet, straightforward Tournament experience.
Cedric blinked with the kind of confused politeness that suggested his brain was trying to process information that didn't quite fit with his understanding of how reality was supposed to work. His perfectly proportioned features arranged themselves into an expression that was equal parts welcoming and deeply puzzled.
"Er," Cedric said, rising from his chair with the kind of natural grace that made even uncertainty look heroic, "I'm sorry, but... aren't you supposed to be fourteen?"
Harry's grin could have powered half the castle's lighting system and probably most of the surrounding countryside as well. "That's what the birth certificate says. Though I have to admit, the last few years have been unusually educational. Really accelerated the whole growing-up process."
"Accelerated?" Viktor repeated, his Bulgarian accent making the word sound like a formal inquiry into the fundamental nature of time and space. "You look like you could bench press small building. Vhat kind of 'accelerated growing up' produces zis result?"
"The kind that involves government training programs, interdimensional travel, and enough life-or-death situations to make most people reconsider their career choices," Harry replied cheerfully, settling into the remaining empty chair with fluid grace. "Also, really good nutrition and a comprehensive fitness regimen designed by people who collect dangerous individuals as a professional hobby."
Before anyone could formulate a response to what was essentially a casual admission that his teenage years had been significantly more eventful than most people's entire adult lives, the door burst open with enough dramatic flair to suggest someone had been practicing their entrance timing in mirrors.
Ludo Bagman swept into the room like a man who'd been waiting his entire life for exactly this kind of chaos to manage, his face bright with the kind of manic enthusiasm usually reserved for people who'd just discovered they were going to be featured on the front page of the Daily Prophet for reasons that might or might not involve criminal charges.
"Champions of the Triwizard Tournament!" he announced, spreading his arms wide like he was personally responsible for arranging this delightful evening's entertainment. "Or should I say, Quad-Wizard Tournament! Because that's what we have now! Four champions! Not three, as tradition would dictate, but four! Because apparently tradition is more of a suggestion than an actual requirement when you're dealing with ancient magical artifacts and people with government clearance!"
He paused, clearly expecting some kind of response to this revelation. When none was immediately forthcoming—the champions were still processing the implications of sharing their exclusive competition with what appeared to be a highly trained government operative who looked like he could probably take on dragons as a warm-up exercise—Bagman's grin widened even further.
"Right then!" he continued, bouncing slightly on his toes with excitement that was frankly infectious. "Allow me to introduce you all to your fourth fellow champion: Harry Potter, representing the SHIELD Supernatural Educational Initiative!"
Cedric's hand shot up like he was back in Transfiguration class and had suddenly realized he'd missed a critical piece of information. "I'm sorry, but... SHIELD Supernatural Educational Initiative? Is that... is that actually a school?"
"Excellent question!" Bagman declared, clearly delighted by the opportunity to explain something that he probably didn't entirely understand himself but was very enthusiastic about nonetheless. "And the answer is... absolutely! Completely legitimate educational institution! Fully accredited by the International Confederation of Wizards! Specializes in advanced magical combat techniques, interdimensional threat assessment, and what I'm told is a really comprehensive physical fitness program!"
He gestured toward the door, where several more official-looking adults were filing in with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested they were about to make someone's day significantly more complicated and probably more legally actionable.
"And speaking of comprehensive," Bagman continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone about to deliver really important information while somehow making it sound like party planning, "allow me to introduce your fourth Tournament judge: Professor Gideon Adler, Director of Magical Education for the SHIELD Supernatural Educational Initiative!"
Gideon Adler entered the room with the kind of fluid, predatory grace that made everyone else suddenly feel like they were moving through invisible molasses. Tall, lean, and devastatingly handsome in that particularly European way that suggested expensive wine, silk sheets, and the kind of romantic adventures that ended with people writing very passionate poetry about tragic love affairs, he surveyed the assembled champions with obvious amusement and what might have been professional assessment.
His platinum hair was perfectly styled in that effortlessly tousled way that probably required an entire team of professionals and several forms of advanced magic, his ice-blue eyes held depths that suggested he could see right through your soul and was filing away interesting details for future reference, and when he smiled, it was with the dangerous charm of someone who collected secrets like other people collected chocolate frog cards.
"*Guten Abend,*" he said, his German accent wrapping around the words like expensive cologne around a perfectly tailored suit. "Congratulations to you all on your selection. This promises to be a most... *educational* experience for everyone involved."
The way he said 'educational' made it sound like a threat disguised as an opportunity for personal growth.
Fleur found herself studying this newcomer with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. There was something about him—something that suggested layers beneath layers, depths that most people probably never suspected. The way he looked at Harry wasn't quite respectful enough to be properly professional, but it wasn't familiar enough to suggest friendship either. More like... recognition. The way one predator might acknowledge another.
Viktor, meanwhile, had apparently decided that direct questions were the most efficient way to deal with rapidly evolving situations.
"So," he said in his rumbling Bulgarian accent, "ve now 'ave four champions instead of three, fourth judge instead of three, and apparently educational institution zat specializes in things zat sound like zey belong in spy novels rather than academic curriculum. Vhat other surprises should ve expect from zis Tournament?"
"Well," Bagman said, consulting what appeared to be notes written on the back of a napkin, "funny you should ask! Because as it turns out, there are quite a few... *adjustments* we'll need to make to accommodate our expanded field of participants!"
Before anyone could ask what exactly 'adjustments' meant in this context—and whether those adjustments were likely to involve additional forms of mortal peril or just really complicated scheduling logistics—the door opened again to admit Bartemius Crouch Sr., who looked like he'd spent the last hour reviewing international magical law while simultaneously calculating the exact amount of paperwork this evening was going to generate for his department.
His expression suggested the numbers were not encouraging for his personal sanity or his professional future.
"Champions," he said, his voice carrying the flat, official tone of someone delivering news that nobody was going to particularly enjoy but everyone was going to have to live with whether they liked it or not. "Under the terms of the Tournament charter, as modified by recent... *developments*... you are now bound by magical contract to participate in all three tasks, regardless of personal preference, family objection, or concerns about the statistical likelihood of survival."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either nervous laughter or comprehensive psychological breakdowns.
"Right," Harry said finally, his voice carrying that particular blend of amusement and barely contained danger that suggested he'd been expecting this conversation and had already started planning how to make everyone regret their recent life choices. "And what exactly do these tasks involve? Just so we know what we're legally and magically obligated to attempt without dying."
Crouch's expression grew even more severe, which was quite an achievement considering he'd already looked like someone attending a funeral for his own professional competence.
"The first task," he announced with the air of someone delivering a medical diagnosis that nobody wanted to hear, "will take place on November 24th. It is designed to test your courage in the face of the unknown. Beyond that..." He shrugged with studied bureaucratic indifference. "You'll discover the nature of the challenge when you face it. Advance knowledge would compromise the integrity of the test."
"Test of courage in the face of the unknown," Fleur repeated slowly, her French accent making even ominous pronouncements sound elegant. "'Ow wonderfully vague. Very 'elpful for preparation purposes."
"The unknown is rather the point," Gideon observed with obvious amusement, settling into his chair like he was attending an particularly entertaining theater performance. "After all, courage isn't particularly meaningful when you know exactly what you're facing and have had time to prepare seventeen different contingency plans."
"Easy for you to say," Cedric muttered with the kind of nervous humor that suggested he was already starting to question the wisdom of putting his name in the Goblet in the first place. "You're not the one who has to demonstrate this courage while potentially being eaten by something with too many teeth and anger management issues."
Harry's laugh was rich and confident, the sound of someone who'd stared down considerably more dangerous opponents than most people encountered in their entire lives. "Cedric, if it helps, most things with too many teeth are actually quite predictable once you understand their behavioral patterns. It's the things with the right number of teeth that you really need to worry about."
"That," Viktor said with what might have been the ghost of a smile, "is either very reassuring or absolutely terrifying. I cannot decide vhich."
"Both," Harry replied cheerfully. "Usually both, in my experience."
Fleur found herself fighting to keep her expression neutral while her Veela senses catalogued every detail of this conversation. The casual way he discussed mortal danger, the complete lack of anxiety about facing unknown magical challenges, the obvious confidence that whatever they threw at him, he'd find a way to not just survive but win...
*This* was why she'd spent four months transforming herself into a weapon. Not to impress him—though she had to admit that was a pleasant bonus—but to be worthy of standing beside someone like this. Someone who looked at a magically binding contract that could cost him his magic and his life and responded by cracking jokes and making everyone else feel better about the situation.
"Right then," Bagman said, consulting his napkin notes again with the kind of manic enthusiasm that suggested either extensive coffee consumption or a complete disconnect from the reality of what he was organizing. "November 24th it is! Three weeks to prepare for... well, whatever it turns out to be! Should be absolutely thrilling!"
"Three weeks," Cedric repeated, his voice carrying the tone of someone doing mathematical calculations that weren't producing particularly encouraging results. "To prepare for an unknown test of courage involving potentially lethal magical creatures and/or circumstances."
"When you put it like that," Harry said with a grin that could have powered half the castle's defensive systems, "it sounds almost manageable."
---
**MEANWHILE, IN THE GREAT HALL**
While the champions were being informed about their upcoming brush with mortality disguised as education, the Great Hall was experiencing its own form of controlled chaos. Students milled about in groups that shifted and reformed like conversational galaxies, all orbiting around the various SHIELD operatives who'd just fundamentally altered their understanding of how reality was supposed to work.
Rose Potter stood near the Hufflepuff table, radiating the kind of excited energy that suggested someone had just presented her with the social opportunity of a lifetime and possibly several really interesting new sources of entertainment. At fourteen, she was all sharp angles and Potter family attitude, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that somehow managed to look both practical and rebellious, and her emerald eyes—the exact same shade as her brother's—bright with enthusiasm that was frankly infectious.
"This is absolutely brilliant," she announced to the assembled crowd of students who'd gravitated toward her like she was emitting some kind of magnetic field designed to attract people her own age. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've been around this many people who weren't either government agents, reformed criminals, or some combination of both?"
A redheaded girl who looked like she'd stepped out of a medieval illuminated manuscript—all cornflower blue eyes and the kind of gentle beauty that made people want to protect her from the harsh realities of the world—smiled with obvious warmth.
"I'm Susan Bones," she said, extending her hand with the kind of genuine friendliness that made it immediately clear why she'd been sorted into Hufflepuff. "Fourth year Hufflepuff. And honestly? I don't think any of us have ever seen anything quite like... well, all of this."
She gestured toward the assembled SHIELD operatives, who were currently doing their best to look approachable while radiating enough combined firepower to level a small country if provoked.
"Are they all really as dangerous as they look?" Susan asked with the kind of fascinated curiosity that suggested she was torn between running away and asking for autographs.
Rose's grin widened, showing teeth that were definitely inherited from the Potter side of the family and probably came with their own warning labels about associating with people who collected chaos as a hobby.
"More dangerous," she said cheerfully. "Like, significantly more dangerous. Natasha once killed seventeen HYDRA agents with a paperclip, a rubber band, and what I'm pretty sure was a travel-sized bottle of shampoo. Tony can probably build a suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps and then use it to escape from people who definitely wouldn't want him to escape. And Steve? Steve once held off an entire army while everyone else evacuated a city. On a Tuesday. Before lunch."
The circle of students around her had grown steadily larger as more and more people gravitated toward someone who clearly had inside information about the mysterious government operatives who'd just crashed their school's most prestigious event.
"And your brother?" asked a Ravenclaw sixth-year who'd been trying to look like he wasn't desperately curious about this whole situation and failing miserably. "Is he really...?"
"Harry?" Rose's expression shifted to something warmer, more genuine. "Harry's... he's Harry. He saves people. It's what he does. Not because he has to, not because someone told him to, but because he can't not do it. Like, it's physically impossible for him to see someone who needs help and just walk away."
She paused, her voice growing more serious despite the obvious pride in her tone.
"But he's also the most dangerous person you'll ever meet if you threaten someone he cares about. The kind of dangerous that makes hardened criminals reconsider their career choices and probably their entire philosophical approach to existence."
"That," said a new voice from behind them, "sounds absolutely fascinating. And possibly the most attractive combination of traits in the history of interpersonal relationships."
The entire group turned to see a bushy-haired girl approaching with the kind of determined stride that suggested she had questions and wasn't going to be deterred by social niceties or personal boundaries from getting answers. Her brown eyes held the intense focus of someone who'd read extensively about everything they were currently witnessing and wanted to verify the accuracy of their sources.
But it was her limp that caught everyone's attention—subtle but noticeable, the kind that spoke of old injury and incomplete healing.
"Hermione Granger," she said by way of introduction, her voice carrying that particular combination of intelligence and determination that made professors either love her or fear for their academic credibility. "Fourth year Gryffindor. And I have to say, this is by far the most educationally significant thing that's happened at Hogwarts since... well, possibly ever."
Rose studied the newcomer with the kind of assessing gaze that suggested she'd inherited more than just her brother's eyes and hair from the Potter family gene pool. "You're the one who reads everything, aren't you? I can tell. You've got that look."
"What look?" Hermione asked, though her tone suggested she already knew and was mildly insulted by the implication.
"The look that says you've already read seventeen different intelligence reports about everyone in this room and are currently cross-referencing them with historical precedents and international magical law to determine the exact legal implications of this evening's events," Rose replied with obvious amusement. "It's the same look Tony gets when he's trying to reverse-engineer something that shouldn't technically be possible but clearly exists anyway."
Before Hermione could formulate what was undoubtedly going to be an indignant response about the perfectly reasonable nature of thorough research and information verification, her attention was completely hijacked by something significantly more interesting than defending her academic methodology.
Captain Peggy Carter was standing near the head table, engaged in what appeared to be a casual conversation with Professor McGonagall about the structural integrity of the castle's defensive systems and whether they'd been updated to account for modern magical artillery. She was wearing her signature uniform—the one that had become iconic through a decade of intelligence reports, historical documentaries, and probably quite a few unauthorized biographies written by people who'd never actually met her but had strong opinions about her tactical decisions.
And she looked exactly like she had in 1945.
Hermione's eyes widened behind her glasses, and her carefully maintained composure cracked like an eggshell under pressure. Her mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound except a faint squeaking noise that suggested her brain had temporarily disconnected from her vocal cords in sheer disbelief.
"Is that..." she whispered, her voice barely audible above the general conversation, "is that actually Peggy Carter?"
Rose followed her gaze and grinned with the kind of wicked amusement that suggested she'd been waiting for someone to have exactly this reaction.
"Yep. That's Peggy. Though most people call her 'Agent Carter' or 'ma'am' or 'please don't shoot me, I have a family.' Depends on the context and how much they've annoyed her recently."
"But she's..." Hermione's voice cracked slightly, like she was struggling to process information that fundamentally challenged her understanding of how time and aging were supposed to work. "She should be seventy-three years old. She was born in 1921. It's 1994. Basic mathematics suggests she should look... different."
"Super Soldier Serum," Rose explained with casual authority, like she was discussing the weather rather than revelations about biochemical enhancement programs that had been classified above most governments' security clearance. "Not the same one that Steve got—he's basically a walking medical miracle wrapped in excellent muscle definition and questionable fashion choices—but a modified one that was enough to keep her in fighting form and looking like she could still personally win World War II if someone gave her a good reason and adequate ammunition."
Hermione stared at Rose with the expression of someone who'd just been told that everything she thought she knew about biochemistry, aging, and the fundamental nature of human physiology was actually incorrect and also possibly a government cover story.
"Super Soldier Serum," she repeated slowly, like she was testing how the words felt in her mouth. "The same Super Soldier Serum that's been the subject of approximately seventeen classified research programs and at least four major diplomatic incidents?"
"The very same," Rose confirmed cheerfully. "Though I should probably mention that talking about it too loudly might result in a visit from people who take national security very seriously and have excellent soundproofing equipment in their vehicles."
Before Hermione could ask any of the approximately forty-seven follow-up questions that were clearly forming in her academically-oriented brain, Rose had already started moving toward Peggy with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested she was about to facilitate an introduction whether anyone involved was ready for it or not.
"Aunt Peggy!" Rose called out, her voice carrying clearly across the Great Hall with the kind of casual affection that made it clear this was family rather than professional courtesy. "There's someone here who'd like to meet you! She's read all your files!"
Peggy Carter turned with the kind of fluid, controlled movement that made it immediately obvious why she'd been personally selected by the Strategic Scientific Reserve for their most dangerous operations and had survived decades of international espionage work without acquiring more than a few very attractive scars.
At seventy-three chronological years and approximately twenty-five biological years—thanks to biochemical enhancement programs that most governments still officially denied existed—she was a masterwork of controlled elegance and barely contained violence. Her dark hair was pulled back in the kind of practical style that suggested she could transition from diplomatic reception to active combat zone without needing to worry about her appearance, and her brown eyes held depths that suggested she'd seen enough of human nature to be both deeply cynical and surprisingly optimistic about people's capacity for improvement.
When she smiled, it was with the kind of genuine warmth that made people understand why Steve Rogers had spent seventy years thinking about her and also why HYDRA agents had learned to fear the sound of her approaching footsteps.
"Rose, darling," she said, her British accent making even casual greetings sound like they belonged in a particularly well-written spy novel, "I hope you're not bothering the local students with tales of our various professional adventures. Some of those stories are still classified, and I'd hate to have to explain to Nick why we're dealing with international incidents over breakfast conversation."
Rose bounced on her toes with the kind of infectious enthusiasm that made cynical government operatives remember why they'd gotten into the people-saving business in the first place. "Nothing classified! Just basic biographical information and maybe some really impressive statistics about your marksmanship accuracy rates. You know, the fun stuff."
Peggy's smile widened slightly, showing teeth that were definitely too white and too perfect for someone who'd supposedly never had access to modern dental care during her formative years. "I see. And who exactly has been so interested in my 'fun' biographical details?"
Hermione stepped forward with the kind of nervous determination that suggested she was about to either make the best impression of her life or embarrass herself so thoroughly that she'd be remembered in cautionary tales told to future generations of students.
"Agent Carter," she said, her voice carrying a combination of nervous excitement and genuine admiration that made it clear she was meeting a personal hero, "I'm Hermione Granger. Fourth year Gryffindor. And I've read everything about your work with the Howling Commandos during World War II. Everything that's been declassified, anyway. Your tactical innovations during the Italian campaign were absolutely brilliant, and your psychological operations work in occupied France fundamentally changed how intelligence agencies approach deep cover insertion protocols."
Peggy blinked once, like someone had just handed her a particularly impressive academic paper and she was still processing the implications of its existence.
"Well," she said finally, her tone carrying a mixture of surprise and genuine pleasure, "that's certainly the most thorough introduction I've received in quite some time. And possibly the most flattering, though I should point out that most of my psychological operations work is still classified and definitely not available in any public academic sources."
Hermione's cheeks turned approximately the same color as the Gryffindor banners hanging from the ceiling. "I may have... cross-referenced multiple intelligence databases and possibly some archives that weren't technically open to civilian researchers but also weren't explicitly restricted if you knew the right access protocols and had a legitimate academic interest in historical military strategy and also possibly a really good excuse for why you were researching classified World War II operations at three in the morning."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either applause or arrest warrants.
Then Peggy Carter began to laugh—not the polite chuckle of diplomatic courtesy, but the rich, genuine laughter of someone who'd just met a kindred spirit and was absolutely delighted by the discovery.
"My word," she said, wiping what might have been a tear from the corner of her eye, "you've been busy, haven't you? And creative. Very, very creative in your research methodology. I'm almost impressed by the initiative, though I should probably be concerned about the security implications of a fourteen-year-old managing to access classified intelligence archives through academic enthusiasm and creative database management."
From somewhere behind them came the sound of Steve Rogers choking on his coffee, followed immediately by Bucky Barnes' delighted laughter.
"Oh, this is perfect," Bucky said, his voice carrying enough amusement to power a small electrical grid. "Absolutely perfect. Peggy's got a fan who actually did her homework. Steve, you seeing this?"
"I'm seeing it," Steve replied, his voice thick with barely contained laughter and what sounded like paternal pride in someone else's academic accomplishments. "And I'm trying very hard not to think about the fact that a Hogwarts student apparently has better intelligence-gathering skills than half our field operatives."
Peggy shot them both a look that could have frozen lava in its tracks. "Don't you two start. I'm having a perfectly lovely conversation with someone who actually appreciates the finer points of strategic planning and tactical innovation. Unlike certain super soldiers who think charging headfirst into machine gun nests constitutes a comprehensive battle plan."
"It worked," Steve protested with wounded dignity.
"You got shot," Peggy countered with the kind of precision that suggested this was an ongoing argument with well-established battle lines and probably some very creative insults that hadn't been deployed yet
"I got better."
"You bled all over my uniform."
"That wasn't intentional."
"It was inconsiderate."
Hermione watched this exchange with the kind of fascinated attention usually reserved for people witnessing historical figures interact in ways that definitely weren't covered in any of the textbooks she'd read. Her academic brain was probably cataloguing every detail for future reference and possibly unauthorized biographical research projects.
"Agent Carter," she said during a brief pause in what appeared to be a decades-old argument about acceptable battlefield behavior and uniform maintenance, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but... how exactly do you look like you're in your twenties when you should be..."
She trailed off, clearly realizing that asking someone's age—even someone whose age was technically a matter of public historical record—might be considered impolite in certain social contexts.
"Seventy-three?" Peggy supplied with obvious amusement. "Yes, the mathematics are rather obvious, aren't they? Born in 1921, currently 1994... the numbers don't quite add up to this." She gestured at herself with casual confidence, as if discussing the weather rather than biochemical enhancement programs that had probably cost more than most countries' annual defense budgets.
"Is it true what they say in the news?" Hermione continued, leaning forward with the kind of eager curiosity that suggested she was about to ask questions that might require security clearance to answer properly. "About the Super Soldier Serum? Did you really...?"
"Modified version," Peggy confirmed with the casual authority of someone discussing routine medical procedures rather than experimental biochemical enhancement programs that had fundamentally altered human physiology. "Not the same one that turned Steve into a walking advertisement for perfect human genetics and questionable tactical decision-making, but enough to keep me functional well beyond normal human parameters."
She paused, studying Hermione with the kind of assessing gaze that had once been used to evaluate potential intelligence assets and determine their suitability for dangerous operations behind enemy lines.
"Though I have to ask," Peggy continued, her tone shifting to something more concerned, "what happened to your leg?"
Hermione's expression immediately shifted from eager curiosity to uncomfortable embarrassment, and her hand moved unconsciously to her thigh in a gesture that suggested old pain and incomplete healing.
"Troll," she said simply, her voice carrying the flat tone of someone who'd had to explain this particular story more times than she cared to remember. "Halloween, three years ago. During my first year. It... well, let's just say trolls are significantly larger and more destructive than the Care of Magical Creatures textbooks suggest, and their approach to problem-solving tends to involve a lot more property damage and personal injury than most educational materials prepare you for."
Peggy's expression immediately sharpened with the kind of professional focus that had once made HYDRA operatives reconsider their life choices and probably their entire career paths.
"Three years ago," she repeated, her tone carrying undertones that suggested she was already calculating treatment options and probable prognoses. "And the injury hasn't healed properly despite magical medical intervention?"
Hermione nodded, her discomfort obvious. "The professors did everything they could. Madam Pomfrey tried every healing spell in her repertoire, brought in specialists from St. Mungo's, even consulted with some ancient magical healing texts that probably violated several library lending policies. But..." She shrugged with studied casualness that didn't quite hide her disappointment. "Some damage is apparently too extensive for magical healing to completely reverse. The limp is... permanent."
"Bollocks," Peggy said with crisp authority that made everyone within earshot suddenly pay attention. "Absolute bollocks. There's no such thing as permanent when you have access to the right medical resources and people who actually understand how enhanced healing protocols work."
Hermione blinked with surprise. "Enhanced healing protocols?"
"SHIELD medical has been working with enhanced individuals for decades," Peggy explained, her voice taking on the kind of confident authority that suggested she'd personally overseen enough miraculous recoveries to have strong opinions about what was and wasn't medically possible. "Regenerative tissue therapy, advanced cellular reconstruction, biochemical enhancement programs specifically designed to repair damage that traditional medicine considers irreversible..."
She gestured toward Steve and Bucky, who were both listening to this conversation with the kind of careful attention that suggested they had personal experience with exactly these kinds of medical innovations.
"Steve's been shot, stabbed, burned, frozen for seventy years, and subjected to more varieties of physical trauma than most people experience in several lifetimes," Peggy continued with clinical detachment. "Bucky had his entire left arm replaced with advanced prosthetics, underwent extensive neurological rehabilitation, and has been rebuilt so many times he's practically a case study in applied enhancement medicine."
Bucky raised his left hand, flexing mechanical fingers that moved with fluid precision. "Still figuring out what all the upgrades do. Last week I accidentally crushed a door handle. The week before that, I punched through a wall while trying to hang a picture frame. It's a learning process."
"The point is," Peggy said, returning her attention to Hermione with obvious determination, "SHIELD medical could probably have you walking normally within a few weeks. Maybe less, depending on the extent of the original damage and how your physiology responds to enhanced healing protocols."
Hermione stared at her with the expression of someone who'd just been offered something she'd given up hoping for years ago and wasn't quite sure whether to believe it was real.
"Really?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the general conversation.
"Really," Peggy confirmed with gentle certainty. "Though I should warn you that SHIELD medical tends to ask a lot of questions about how you acquired injuries that magical medicine can't fix. Professional curiosity combined with national security protocols. Very thorough in their documentation and follow-up care."
Steve stepped closer, his expression soft with the kind of genuine compassion that had probably made him a good soldier and definitely made him an excellent human being.
"Peggy's right," he said, his voice carrying that particular combination of strength and gentleness that made people want to trust him with their deepest secrets and probably their life savings. "SHIELD's got the best medical team I've ever worked with. If they can put Humpty Dumpty back together again—" he gestured at Bucky, who made an indignant noise "—they can definitely help with your leg."
---
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