# **Austrian Alps - Nazi-Occupied Territory**
**November 1943, when heroes learned to fall gracefully**
The descent was impossible.
Steve knew this the way you know certain things—intellectually, distantly, while the rest of your brain is occupied with screaming. They were falling through Alpine darkness at what should have been terminal velocity, except Harry's magic had other ideas about what "terminal" meant.
The wind didn't roar past them. It *whispered*.
They didn't plummet. They *glided*.
Steve could feel it—something invisible cradling him like a giant's palm, adjusting his trajectory with subtle precision. Harry floated ahead and slightly below, wand extended, his attention split between navigation and maintaining the spell that kept them from becoming smears across Austrian mountainside.
Peggy descended beside Steve with the casual grace of someone who'd done this before and found it only moderately more interesting than taking the stairs.
Below, the fortress resolved itself from darkness. Built into the mountain like a tumor growing from stone. Concrete and steel. Guard towers. Searchlights sweeping geometric patterns across snow. Hydra's sigil—the skull with tentacles—painted large enough to be seen from the air.
Arrogance. Confidence. The particular kind of evil that announces itself because it doesn't believe anyone can stop it.
They were about to learn differently.
Harry adjusted their descent, steering them toward a rocky outcropping roughly half a mile from the facility's eastern perimeter. The kind of place that offered cover and concealment and a strategic vantage point for people planning violence.
Steve's boots touched stone with barely a sound. The magic released him gently, like setting down something fragile.
Peggy landed beside him. Harry touched down last, immediately crouching and sweeping his wand in a wide arc. His lips moved silently—incantations Steve couldn't hear but could somehow *feel*, like pressure changes before storms.
"Perimeter's clear," Harry whispered. "No magical sensors. No proximity wards. They're relying entirely on conventional security, which tells me Grindelwald's people aren't permanently stationed here. They visit. Consult. Supervise experiments. But the day-to-day operation is pure Hydra."
"Meaning?" Steve asked, unslinging his shield.
"Meaning we're not walking into a fortress full of dark wizards. Maybe a dozen at most, mixed in with conventional soldiers. The ratio favors us." Harry's mask gleamed dully in the starlight. "Though 'favors' is relative when you're three people attacking a military installation."
"Actually," Peggy said, pulling binoculars from her pack and scanning the fortress, "we may want to reconsider our force composition."
Harry straightened. "You called in backup without telling me?"
"I didn't. But you're about to." She lowered the binoculars, her expression thoughtful. "That facility is larger than the intelligence suggested. More guards. More infrastructure. Three of us might manage the rescue, but we'd be cutting it extremely close."
Steve studied the fortress through the darkness. She was right. The intelligence reports had undersold it. This wasn't just a prison camp—it was a full military research installation.
"What are you suggesting?" he asked.
Peggy looked at her brother. "Harry. You've been operating alone for three years. But you're not the only wizard fighting Grindelwald, are you?"
Harry's posture shifted. Something like reluctance crossed his features, visible even through the mask.
"No," he admitted quietly. "I'm not."
"Then perhaps," Peggy continued with the patient firmness of someone who'd had this argument before, "it's time to stop being quite so magnificently martyred and ask for help?"
"I'm not—" Harry stopped. Sighed. "Fine. You're right. I hate it when you're right."
"You hate it *frequently*, then."
Harry pulled off his mask, and even in the darkness, Steve could see the complicated expression on his face. Pride warring with pragmatism. The lone wolf acknowledging that sometimes wolves needed packs.
"There's a group," Harry said, not quite meeting Steve's eyes. "Wizards who've been fighting Grindelwald's forces for the past two years. Independent operators—the ICW won't officially sanction them because they're too aggressive, too willing to break rules. But they're effective. Brutally effective."
"How many?" Steve asked.
"Roughly forty combat-trained wizards. Former Aurors—that's magical law enforcement. Former Hit-Wizards. A few former dark wizards who decided they preferred fighting against Grindelwald rather than for him. They call themselves the Black Dragon Legion."
Steve blinked. "That's... dramatic."
"They're dramatic people. Their commanders are two of my former schoolmates—Charlus Potter and Arcturus Black. Both from old magical families. Both absolutely mad. Both ridiculously competent." Harry's expression softened slightly. "We served together early in the war. Before the ICW decided my methods were problematic and before Charlus and Arcturus decided the ICW was more problematic."
"And they're in Austria?" Peggy asked.
"Last I heard, they were operating somewhere in the region. Hitting Grindelwald's supply lines, disrupting operations." Harry withdrew his wand, studying it thoughtfully. "I could... reach out. See if they're close enough to assist."
"How would you reach them?" Steve asked. "Radio?"
Harry's smile was brief and sharp. "Something better. More reliable. Harder to intercept."
He turned away from them slightly, facing the darkness beyond their rocky outcrop. His wand rose, held steady in his right hand. His left hand pressed against his chest, over his heart.
"*Expecto Patronum*," Harry said clearly.
The spell was different this time. Steve had heard the words before—or had he? No, he *knew* them, the way you know things in dreams. But the execution was different. More personal. More powerful.
Light erupted from Harry's wand.
Not the gentle silver mist Steve might have expected. This was *brilliant*—white-gold radiance that drove back the darkness like dawn arriving early. The light twisted, coiled upward, and began to take shape.
Wings unfurled. A serpentine neck extended. Scales materialized from pure luminescence, each one perfect and terrible and beautiful.
A dragon.
Forty feet of ethereal magnificence, translucent and solid simultaneously, there and not-there, real in a way that bypassed Steve's eyes and spoke directly to something older in his brain. Something that remembered when dragons meant something.
The Patronus—because that's what Peggy had called it earlier, Steve remembered now—circled once above them. Majestic. Impossible. Moving with the fluid grace of something that had never known gravity as a limitation.
"Harry," Peggy breathed, "your Patronus has gotten *larger*."
"Has it?" Harry's voice was distracted, his focus entirely on the spell. "Hadn't noticed."
The dragon descended until its massive head—transparent but somehow *present*—hovered before Harry. Those eyes—silver-white and knowing—fixed on the wizard.
Harry spoke to it. Not in English. Not in any language Steve recognized. The words were liquid, ancient, the kind of sounds that predated language and meant things language couldn't capture.
The dragon's head tilted. Listening.
Then it launched itself skyward with a single powerful beat of wings that made no sound but somehow reverberated through Steve's chest. It climbed rapidly, becoming a bright point in the darkness, then a star, then gone—moving faster than anything that size should move, faster than anything at all.
Harry lowered his wand slowly. His breathing was heavier, like the spell had cost him something.
"What..." Steve started, then stopped. His vocabulary for impossible things was expanding rapidly but hadn't quite caught up with current events. "What was that?"
"A Patronus," Peggy supplied, her voice warm with obvious affection and pride. "A manifestation of positive emotion given form. It's one of the most difficult spells in existence—most wizards never master it. Harry's Patronus is... particularly powerful."
"It's a Hungarian Horntail," Harry said, still catching his breath. "The most aggressive breed of dragon. Seemed appropriate for a spell that's supposed to defend against darkness." He managed a slight smile. "Also, Charlus dared me in sixth year to make mine as impressive as possible. I'm nothing if not competitive."
"What did you tell it?" Steve asked. "The dragon. What did you say?"
"I gave it a message. Instructions to find Charlus Potter and Arcturus Black, wherever they are. To show them where we are. To let them know we're about to assault a Hydra facility and could use professional assistance." Harry's smile turned wry. "I may have also mentioned that Captain America is here. Charlus has opinions about American propaganda. He'll come just to see if you're real."
"How long until they arrive?" Peggy checked her watch. "Assuming they're in the region?"
"If they're within fifty miles? Twenty minutes. Patroni can move faster than any physical creature—faster than birds, faster than brooms. Faster than most things except Apparition, and you can't Apparate to somewhere you've never been."
Steve processed this. Magical messaging. Instantaneous communication across distances. A combat unit of forty trained wizards possibly inbound.
The mission parameters were changing rapidly.
"Tell me about them," Steve said. "The Black Dragon Legion. What should I expect?"
Harry sat on a boulder, his armor making soft metallic sounds. The mask dangled from his hand.
"Charlus Potter is... imagine if someone took natural charisma, added tactical genius, mixed in reckless bravery, and then removed most of the common sense. That's Charlus. Heir to one of the oldest magical families in Britain. Could have spent the war safely in England managing family affairs. Instead, he's here, blowing up Grindelwald's operations and generally being magnificent."
"And Arcturus Black?"
"More serious. More aristocratic. Comes from a family that's... complicated. Some of the Acolytes—Grindelwald's followers—came from the Black family. Arcturus is trying to redeem the family name by killing as many of Grindelwald's people as possible. He's brilliant, ruthless, and has the kind of cold strategic mind that makes enemies regret being born." Harry paused. "They're also the best friends I've ever had. Saved my life more times than I can count."
"Why didn't you call them earlier?" Steve asked. "If they're this capable, why work alone?"
Harry's expression flickered. Something painful crossed his features, there and gone.
"Because every time I work with people, some of them die. Every mission, every operation—we'd succeed, but someone wouldn't come home. After the fourth funeral, after watching Charlus's face when we buried another friend..." Harry stopped. "I decided alone was safer. For everyone else."
"Harry," Peggy said softly. "That's not—"
"I know. I know it's not rational. I know soldiers die in wars. I know it's not my fault." Harry's voice was quiet but firm. "But knowing it and feeling it are different things. So I work alone. Fewer funerals that way."
Silence settled over them. Steve understood that kind of guilt. That kind of weight. He'd felt it every time he read casualty lists. Every time he performed while real soldiers died.
"Tonight," Steve said carefully, "two hundred men are in that facility. Maybe more. We can rescue them with three people, or we can rescue them with forty. More people means more risk, but it also means better odds that everyone—prisoners included—goes home alive."
Harry looked at him. Those green eyes were old despite the young face.
"You're right," Harry admitted. "I know you're right." He stood, brushing off his armor. "Doesn't make it easier. But you're right."
A sound interrupted them. Not quite thunder. Not quite the air tearing. Something between crystal bells and distant explosions.
**CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.**
Four sounds in rapid succession, each one announcing that reality had briefly negotiated different terms with physics.
Four figures appeared ten feet away.
No—*materialized*. One moment empty space, the next moment occupied by people who'd decided to be there.
The lead figure was tall, lean, with dark messy hair and hazel eyes that glinted with intelligence and carefully controlled chaos. He wore black combat robes that looked like they'd seen extensive use. A wand was holstered at his hip like a gunslinger's pistol. His grin was immediate and infectious.
"Harry Carter, you magnificent bastard!" The man's voice was cultured British with edges of pure delight. "Working alone, you said. Flying solo, you said. Too dangerous to risk others, you said. And here you are, staging a prison break with Captain bloody America!"
"Charlus." Harry's voice was warm despite the exasperation. "You came."
"Of course I came. Your Patronus showed up looking magnificent and murderous, told us you needed help assaulting Nazis, and mentioned you were working with an American super-soldier." Charlus's grin widened. "I brought friends."
The second figure stepped forward—broader, more aristocratic, with black hair and grey eyes that looked like winter sky given human form. His bearing was military-perfect, his expression controlled, but something fierce burned beneath the composure.
"Agent Magus," he said formally. Then, softer: "Harry. It's good to see you alive."
"Arcturus." Harry clasped his hand, then pulled him into a brief, hard hug. "You as well."
The other two figures hung back slightly—a woman with sharp features and auburn hair, and a man who looked like he'd been carved from stone and decided to take up violence as a hobby.
"Dorea Black, Arcturus's cousin," Harry introduced them. "And Marcus Savage, former Auror, current explosives enthusiast."
"Demolitions specialist," Marcus corrected in a gravelly voice. "There's a difference."
"Yes, one sounds professional and the other sounds like you enjoy your work," Charlus said cheerfully. He turned his attention to Steve, and his expression shifted into genuine curiosity. "Captain Rogers. Steven Grant Rogers. The first super-soldier. Volunteer for Project Rebirth. Born in Brooklyn, raised on stubbornness and the absolute inability to back down from fights you couldn't win."
Steve blinked. "You know a lot about me."
"Patronus included details. Also, we've been following your war bonds tour. The comics are entertaining, if factually questionable." Charlus extended his hand. "Charlus Potter. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Tell me—are you actually planning to rescue two hundred men from a Hydra facility with minimal backup and no detailed plan?"
Steve shook his hand. The grip was firm, warm, genuine. "That was the idea."
"Outstanding. Absolutely barking mad, but outstanding. I approve." Charlus looked at Harry. "He's perfect. Where did you find him?"
"Italy. He found me, technically. Through Peggy." Harry gestured to his sister. "You remember Peggy."
"Agent Carter." Arcturus inclined his head respectfully. "Always a pleasure. Your brother speaks of you often."
"Does he?" Peggy's smile was knowing. "How flattering. Does he mention that I'm usually right?"
"Constantly. With significant frustration."
"Excellent."
Charlus was studying the fortress through the darkness, his expression shifting from jovial to tactical. "Right. Four of us plus the three of you makes seven. Not enough for a full assault on a facility that size. But—" He pulled a small mirror from his robes, tapped it with his wand. "Dragon Actual to all Dragon units. Converge on my location. Priority Alpha. Repeat, Priority Alpha."
A chorus of voices responded from the mirror, crisp and professional. Steve counted at least twenty distinct acknowledgments.
"The Legion is ten miles north," Charlus explained, tucking the mirror away. "We've been watching this facility for two weeks. Mapping it. Waiting for the right moment to strike. Tonight appears to be that moment."
"You've been *watching* it?" Steve's tactical mind seized on this. "You have intelligence?"
"Extensive intelligence." Arcturus withdrew a rolled parchment from his robes—from *inside* his robes, from a space that shouldn't exist inside fabric. Magic, Steve reminded himself. Stop being surprised by magic.
Arcturus unrolled the parchment on a flat rock. Steve leaned in.
It wasn't paper. The map *moved*. Tiny figures paced along corridors. Lights blinked to indicate guards. Sections glowed different colors—red for high security, blue for magical wards, yellow for experimental areas, purple for prisoner detention.
"Merlin's beard," Peggy breathed. "Is this real-time surveillance?"
"Scrying enchantments," Arcturus confirmed. "We've had spotters maintaining the spell in shifts. Everything you're seeing is happening right now, give or take a ten-second delay. The 107th prisoners are being held here—" He tapped a section marked in purple. "Eastern barracks. Roughly two hundred men, held in cells designed for fifty. Overcrowded, undersupplied, but alive."
"Barnes?" Steve's voice came out rougher than intended.
Arcturus's wand touched the map. The view zoomed, focused. A single cell resolved into clarity. Steve could see bunks. Men lying on them. And there—
"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes," Arcturus said quietly. "Serial number 32557038. Captured three days ago during the engagement at Azzano. Cell forty-seven, eastern barracks. Injured but mobile. They've marked him for the enhancement program but haven't transferred him yet. You have perhaps twenty-four hours before they move him to the research wing."
Steve stared at the map. At the tiny figure that represented Bucky. Alive. Breathing. Waiting.
"We're getting him out," Steve said. "All of them. Tonight."
"Agreed." Charlus was studying the map with the focused intensity of someone planning violence. "But we're not just rescuing prisoners. This facility is a joint operation—Hydra and Grindelwald's forces collaborating on research. They're trying to replicate the super-soldier serum using magical enhancement. They've killed seventeen prisoners in failed experiments."
Cold fury settled in Steve's chest. "Then we destroy it. All of it. Make sure they can't hurt anyone else."
"Now you're speaking my language," Dorea said warmly. She set down a canvas bag that clinked with promising menace. "I've been preparing something special. Magical explosive charges keyed to Tesseract energy signatures. When we plant these in the research wing, the interaction will be catastrophic. The facility will be uninhabitable for decades."
More sounds—**CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.**—as wizards began Apparating into their location. Each arrival was precise, professional, military in execution.
They materialized in groups of three and four, forming up automatically into a loose perimeter. Combat robes in dark colors. Wands at the ready. The disciplined silence of soldiers who'd done this before.
Steve counted them as they arrived. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
The last group included a woman with silver-blonde hair and cold blue eyes that looked like they'd seen the worst of humanity and decided to fight it anyway.
"Cassiopeia Black," Harry introduced her. "Arcturus's sister. Former Unspeakable—that's Department of Mysteries, intelligence and research division. Currently the Legion's intelligence officer."
"Captain Rogers." Her voice was cultured, precise. British aristocracy given lethal purpose. "Your reputation precedes you. Harry speaks highly of your determination, if not your tactical planning."
"My tactical planning is evolving rapidly," Steve said.
"Excellent. Evolution is survival." She turned to her brother. "Arcturus. Status?"
"Forty operatives present. All combat-ready. We have real-time intelligence on the facility. Captain Rogers wants to rescue approximately two hundred prisoners. Agent Magus wants to destroy Grindelwald's research capability. I propose we do both."
Cassiopeia smiled. It was a cold smile. A winter smile. "Obviously."
Charlus whistled sharply. The gathered wizards fell silent immediately, attention focusing on him with military precision.
"Right, everyone listen up!" His voice carried authority despite the jovial tone. "Tonight we're hitting the Hydra facility we've been watching. Three objectives: First, rescue approximately two hundred Allied prisoners held in the eastern barracks. Second, destroy the research wing and all associated experiments. Third, eliminate or contain any Grindelwald's forces present. We're working with Agent Magus and Captain America—yes, *that* Captain America, no he's not taller in person, yes the shield is real."
Quiet laughter rippled through the assembled wizards.
"We'll be operating in three teams," Arcturus continued, his voice colder, more tactical. "Alpha Team—my command, fifteen operatives. We take the main entrance. Loud, obvious, maximum chaos. We want every guard in the facility focused on us."
"Beta Team," Charlus picked up seamlessly. "My command, twelve operatives including Dorea. We infiltrate through the eastern ventilation system, reach the research wing, plant explosives, destroy data, neutralize Grindelwald's people."
"Charlie Team," Harry said, stepping forward. "Captain Rogers, Agent Carter, myself, and ten additional operatives. We're the extraction team. Direct assault on the eastern barracks, free the prisoners, guide them out through the northern service tunnel."
"Delta Team," Cassiopeia added. "Remaining operatives with me. Overwatch and rapid response. We maintain surveillance, coordinate communication, and deploy to wherever the situation gets most complicated."
"Rules of engagement," Arcturus's voice went harder. "Hydra soldiers are hostile combatants. Lethal force is authorized. Grindelwald's people are priority targets but well-defended—contain if possible, eliminate if necessary. The prisoners are our primary concern. Their safety supersedes all other objectives including our own survival."
"Timeline," Charlus consulted a pocket watch. "We move in fifteen minutes. Alpha engages at 0200 hours exactly. Beta moves at 0203. Charlie at 0205. By 0230, we want all prisoners evacuated and the facility rigged to explode."
"Extraction point," Cassiopeia indicated a location on the map. "Northern clearing, three miles from the facility. I'll have Portkeys staged there—enchanted objects for group transport. They'll take the prisoners directly to an Allied field hospital in northern Italy."
"Questions?" Arcturus surveyed the assembled wizards.
A young wizard with nervous energy raised his hand. "What about the American? No offense, Captain, but he's not magical. Won't he be a liability in combat?"
Harry's laugh was sharp. "Perkins, Captain Rogers is a super-soldier who just survived being magically levitated into Austrian mountains and learned magic exists approximately ninety minutes ago. I think he'll manage. Also—" Harry's smile turned dangerous. "He's going to be *very* good at punching dark wizards who think magic makes them invincible."
"The shield deflects spells," Steve added, surprising himself. "Harry mentioned that. Something about the metal having interesting properties."
"Vibranium," Charlus said immediately. "Rarest metal on Earth. Absorbs kinetic energy, which includes magical energy. Howard Stark provided it, didn't he?"
"How did you—"
"We pay attention, Captain. Also, Arcturus is slightly obsessed with materials science." Charlus grinned. "That shield is going to be a nasty surprise for Grindelwald's people. They'll throw curses at you expecting them to work, and instead they'll bounce off. Very embarrassing for them. Very entertaining for us."
Steve found himself smiling. These were dangerous people. Competent people. People who'd been fighting a hidden war while he sold bonds and performed for crowds.
He was in good company.
"Assignments," Arcturus began distributing small coins—Portkeys, emergency evacuation devices. "Alpha Team, with me. Beta Team, with Charlus. Charlie Team—Captain Rogers, Agent Carter, Agent Magus, and operatives Flint, Warrington, Travers, Meadowes, Bones, McKinnon, Prewett, Vance, Dearborn, and Podmore."
Names Steve couldn't track, faces he couldn't memorize. But they nodded at him as they were called. Professional. Ready.
"Charlie Team, you're on the extraction," Arcturus continued. "This is the most important mission. Those prisoners are counting on you. Get them out. Whatever it takes."
"We will," Steve said. Not a promise. A certainty.
Charlus stepped forward, extended his hand to Steve again. "Captain Rogers. It's an honor. Genuinely. What you're doing tonight—volunteering to rescue your friend and two hundred strangers from a Nazi prison, despite having never seen combat, despite the impossible odds—that's real heroism. Not the propaganda kind. The kind that matters."
Steve shook his hand. "Just trying to do the right thing."
"Aren't we all." Charlus's smile was genuine. "Try not to die. Harry would be insufferably sad, and he's already insufferably dramatic."
"I'm standing right here," Harry objected.
"Aware. It's why I said it." Charlus turned to his team. "Beta Team, on me. Let's go blow some things up properly."
His team Disapparated with a series of cracks—gone to prepare, to infiltrate, to begin the mission.
Arcturus clasped Harry's shoulder. "Stay alive, Harry. That's an order from a friend, not a commander."
"Same to you."
"Obviously." Arcturus turned to his team. "Alpha Team, move out. We have Nazis to distract."
More Disapparations. The rocky outcrop became less crowded.
What remained was Charlie Team. Steve. Peggy. Harry. And ten wizards whose names Steve needed to learn but whose competence was evident in how they moved, how they checked their wands, how they prepared for violence with practiced efficiency.
"Right," Harry said, pulling his mask back on. Becoming Agent Magus again. "Charlie Team. Our job is simple: get in, get the prisoners, get out. Fast, quiet, efficient. Captain Rogers leads once we're inside—he knows soldiers, knows how to organize panicked men. We provide magical support and handle any threats. Understood?"
Nods all around.
"Captain," Harry turned to Steve. "You're about to walk into your first real combat. You're going to see violence. Blood. Death. Men will try to kill you. You will have to kill them first. Are you ready?"
Steve thought about Bucky. About those two hundred men. About every day he'd spent being too small, too weak, too sick to fight.
"Yes," he said.
"Good." Harry's wand traced patterns in the air. Silver light rippled across the team. "Disillusionment Charms on everyone. You're not invisible, but you're hard to see. Move carefully. Stay together. And remember—tonight, we're heroes. The real kind. The kind that saves people."
The team moved forward into darkness.
Toward the fortress.
Toward two hundred men who didn't know rescue was coming.
Toward violence and blood and the hard work of doing right in a world gone wrong.
Steve's shield felt good in his hands. Real. Solid. Something to hold onto.
Behind them, the Black Dragon Legion deployed.
Ahead, Hydra waited.
And somewhere between the two, in cells and corridors and the dark spaces where evil made itself comfortable—
Bucky Barnes was still alive.
Still breathing.
Still waiting.
Not for much longer.
Rescue was coming.
Impossible.
Inevitable.
Written in magic and steel and the stubborn determination of people who refused to accept that some things couldn't be saved.
The mission had truly begun.
And the darkness was about to learn why underestimating heroes—whether they wore stars and stripes or carried wands—was always a fatal mistake.
—
The wall exploded inward.
Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. *Literally* exploded—stone and concrete and rebar erupting into the corridor like the mountain had coughed out its teeth.
Steve Rogers followed the explosion through the breach, shield raised, boots hitting floor that was still settling from Travers's Blasting Curse. Dust hung in the air like fog. Alarms screamed. Red emergency lights painted everything the color of urgency.
This was it.
His first real fight.
And it was *loud*.
A Hydra soldier appeared in the corridor ahead—young, surprised, raising a weapon that glowed blue with Tesseract energy. His mouth opened to shout.
Harry's wand moved faster.
"*Stupefy*."
Red light struck the soldier in the chest. He dropped like someone had cut his strings. Unconscious before he hit the ground.
"Keep moving!" Harry's voice was muffled behind his mask but clear. Commanding. "Charlie Team, standard breach formation. Flint, McKinnon—watch our six. Captain, you're on point. That shield isn't decorative."
Steve moved forward. The shield felt different now. Not a stage prop. Not a symbol. A *weapon*. An extension of his arm that knew things about momentum and angles that his conscious mind hadn't learned yet.
The corridor branched. Left toward the research wing where Charlus's team would be planting explosives. Right toward the barracks where Bucky waited.
Steve went right.
Two more Hydra soldiers rounded the corner. These ones were ready—weapons up, firing.
Blue energy bolts screamed toward Steve's chest.
He raised the shield without thinking.
The bolts hit vibranium and *stopped*. Not deflected. Not absorbed. Just *stopped*—energy converting to light and sound and a high-pitched whine that set Steve's teeth on edge.
Harry was right. The shield worked against magic.
Steve threw it.
He'd practiced the throw ten thousand times. In training. On stage. In that space between performance and reality where muscle memory lived. But practice was different from *this*—the shield leaving his hand with perfect spin, cutting through air that smelled of ozone and violence, striking the first soldier's weapon with a metallic clang that sent the gun spinning.
The shield ricocheted. Physics and vibranium and something that might have been luck or might have been destiny. It caught the second soldier in the chest—not the edge, Steve noticed distantly, he'd thrown it flat, non-lethal—and the man went down.
The shield bounced off the wall and returned to Steve's hand like it had never left.
"Bloody hell," one of the wizards breathed. "Did you see that?"
"Move!" Harry barked. "We're not here for sightseeing. Bones, Dearborn—secure those soldiers. Stunners first, then bind them. Everyone else, follow the Captain."
Steve ran. The serum sang in his blood. Every muscle fired perfectly. Every breath came easy. He'd been training for this his entire life—all those years being too small, too weak, too sick. His body remembering what it wanted to be. What it was always meant to be.
Strong. Fast. *Capable*.
The corridor opened into a wider space. A checkpoint. Six Hydra soldiers in full combat gear, taking defensive positions behind overturned tables and supply crates.
They saw Captain America coming.
They opened fire.
Steve raised the shield. Bullets sparked against vibranium—conventional rounds mixed with Tesseract energy. The shield drank it all. Kinetic energy becoming heat becoming the high-pitched singing of stressed metal.
Behind him, Harry's team deployed with military precision.
"*Protego Maxima*!" Harry's wand swept wide. A shimmering barrier materialized across the corridor's width—translucent, opalescent, turning the air into shield.
Bullets hit the barrier and stopped. Simply stopped. Hanging in mid-air for a heartbeat before falling harmlessly.
"Captain!" Harry shouted. "The barrier will hold for thirty seconds. After that, they're yours."
Steve nodded. Thirty seconds. Time to think. Time to plan.
The soldiers were well-trained. Good positioning. Overlapping fields of fire. They'd expected resistance.
They hadn't expected *this*.
Steve looked at Peggy. She'd moved up beside him, pistol drawn, eyes calculating angles with the cold precision of someone who'd done this before.
"Suppressing fire on my mark," she said calmly. "Flint, Warrington—lightning curses on the left position. McKinnon, Prewett—stunning spells on the right. Captain Rogers will advance center. We'll provide cover."
"That's insane," Warrington objected. "He'll be exposed—"
"He's *Captain America*," Peggy interrupted. "Being exposed is rather his specialty. Trust me."
Steve felt something warm bloom in his chest. Trust. She trusted him. They all did.
Time to earn it.
"On three," Peggy counted. "One. Two. *Three*."
Harry's barrier collapsed.
The world exploded into violence.
Lightning—actual *lightning*, blue-white and crackling—erupted from Flint's wand. It forked, branched, struck two soldiers simultaneously. They convulsed, weapons falling, bodies collapsing.
Red stunning spells streaked past Steve's shoulder. One hit home. Another missed, scarring the wall.
Peggy fired three times. Precise. Professional. Two shots struck a soldier's weapon, destroying it. The third hit his shoulder. Non-lethal. Disabling.
And Steve *ran*.
Not superhuman speed. Not yet. The serum made him fast but not impossible. Just fast enough. Just good enough.
A soldier pivoted, tracking him. Finger tightening on trigger.
Steve threw the shield.
It struck the gun barrel, deflected upward. The shot went wide. The shield continued its arc, ricocheted off a pipe, came back.
Steve caught it without looking. His hand simply *knew* where it would be.
He was among them now. Close quarters. Too close for guns to matter. Perfect range for a super-soldier with a shield and a lifetime of taking beatings in Brooklyn alleys.
The first soldier swung his rifle like a club. Steve ducked under it, drove the shield's edge into the man's midsection. Not lethal. Disabling. The soldier folded, gasping.
The second soldier lunged with a combat knife. Fast. Well-trained.
Not fast enough.
Steve caught the wrist, twisted, heard something crack. The knife clattered away. Steve's other hand—shield-hand—came up. The flat of the shield struck the soldier's temple. Calculated force. Enough to stun, not kill.
The soldier dropped.
Three left. They were backing away now. Fear in their eyes. This wasn't supposed to happen. Captain America was propaganda. A comic book. A joke.
Except he was *here*. Real. Dangerous.
"*Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy*!" Harry's voice from behind. Three red bolts. Three soldiers dropping.
Silence fell over the checkpoint. Sudden. Jarring.
Steve stood among the bodies—unconscious, not dead, he checked desperately, *not dead*—and realized he was breathing hard. Not from exertion. From adrenaline. From the realization that he'd just fought six trained soldiers and *won*.
"Captain." Harry appeared beside him, mask pulled up. Those green eyes gleamed with something that might have been pride. "Not bad for your first combat engagement. Sloppy on the approach—you left your left side exposed twice—but effective. You're a natural brawler."
"Brooklyn," Steve managed. "Lots of practice getting hit."
"Yes, well, now you get to do the hitting. Feels better, doesn't it?"
It did. God help him, it did.
"Barracks are through there," Peggy pointed to reinforced doors at the corridor's end. "Locked. Probably guarded from inside."
"Not a problem." Harry's wand moved. "*Alohomora*."
Click. The lock opened.
"Sometimes," Harry said conversationally, "magic is wonderfully straightforward."
He kicked the door open.
Beyond lay the barracks. Cells lining both walls. The stench hit Steve first—unwashed bodies, fear, despair. The smell of men who'd given up hope.
And in those cells, faces appeared. Gaunt. Hollow. Bruised. Two hundred men who'd been fighting and losing and waiting to die.
Two hundred men who were seeing Captain America standing in their doorway like a promise made flesh.
Someone laughed. Broken. Disbelieving.
"Is that—" a voice croaked. "Is that Captain America?"
Steve stepped forward. Lowered his shield. Let them see his face.
"My name is Steve Rogers," he said. His voice carried. Clear. Strong. "I'm with the Strategic Scientific Reserve and the Black Dragon Legion. We're here to take you home."
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