# **SSR Safehouse - Morning After**
**December 1943, when dawn brought complications**
Harry woke to blue.
Not sky-blue. Not paint-blue. The particular indigo of Raven's skin pressed against his chest, her breathing soft and even in sleep.
The morning light filtered through thin curtains, painting the room in shades of grey and gold. His enhanced senses catalogued everything instantly—her heartbeat steady against his ribs, the scent of her hair (something wild, like storms and open spaces), the weight of her leg draped over his.
He didn't move. Didn't want to disturb this moment. Didn't want reality to intrude on whatever this was.
Except reality had excellent timing.
Raven stirred. Her eyes opened—yellow, bright, focusing immediately with the alertness of someone who'd spent years sleeping in dangerous places. She saw him watching her.
"Morning," she said. Her voice was rough with sleep. Unguarded.
"Morning." Harry's hand found her hair. Auburn. Soft. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in months." She stretched—feline, graceful, her body rippling slightly as she moved. "You're comfortable. Surprisingly comfortable for someone made of enhanced muscle."
"I aim to please."
"You succeeded." Raven propped herself up on one elbow. Studied his face with those penetrating yellow eyes. "So. What happens now? Do we pretend this didn't happen? Maintain professional distance? Avoid each other awkwardly during briefings?"
"God, I hope not," Harry said. "That sounds exhausting. Also dishonest. I'm terrible at dishonesty."
"You're a spy. Dishonesty is your profession."
"I'm a Hit-Wizard who occasionally does spy work. There's a difference." He pulled her down for a kiss. Morning breath be damned—the serum probably handled that anyway. "What happens now is we acknowledge that this was wonderful, that I'd very much like it to happen again, and that we're both adults who can maintain professional competence while also being involved."
"Involved," Raven repeated. Testing the word. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you prefer?"
She considered. "Partners?"
"Partners works. Partners in terrible decisions and impossible missions."
"The best kind of partners." Raven kissed him again. Deeper this time. Her hands explored—relearning what she'd discovered last night. "Though if we're being honest, we should probably shower. Separately. Because together would be—"
"Extremely distracting and we'd be late for briefing?"
"Exactly."
"Then let's be extremely distracting and late." Harry rolled, pinning her beneath him with careful strength. "Phillips can wait. The war can wait. Right now—" He kissed her neck, felt her pulse jump beneath blue skin. "—I want to be distracted."
Raven laughed. Wrapped her legs around his waist. "You're a terrible soldier. No discipline."
"I have excellent discipline. I'm just choosing to deploy it elsewhere."
What followed was urgent and playful and absolutely going to make them late. But some things were worth being late for.
Eventually—regretfully—they separated. Harry stood, offered his hand. "Shower?"
"Together?"
"Efficiency. Water conservation. Strategic use of limited resources."
"Is that what we're calling it?" But she took his hand. Let him pull her up. "Fine. But if we're actually going to make briefing, we need to be disciplined about the shower. No distractions."
"I'm excellent at not being distracted," Harry lied.
They moved to the adjoining bathroom—small, utilitarian, the kind of space designed for function rather than comfort. The shower was barely big enough for one person, let alone two enhanced individuals.
They made it work.
Harry turned on the water. Waited for it to warm. The building's plumbing was ancient—it would take thirty seconds before hot water arrived.
Raven stepped under the spray first. Water darkened her auburn hair, ran in rivulets down blue skin that gleamed like polished stone. She was stunning. Absolutely, undeniably stunning.
"You're staring," she said without opening her eyes.
"Can you blame me?"
"No. But we're supposed to be efficient. Staring isn't efficient."
"Right. Efficiency." Harry joined her under the spray. The shower was cramped—they had to press together to both fit under the water. Which was definitely not helping with the "no distractions" mandate.
He reached for soap. Plain military-issue. Nothing fancy. Started washing her shoulders with careful attention.
Raven made a sound—soft, pleased. "That's nice."
"Just being thorough."
"Very thorough." Her hands found his chest. Returning the favor. Tracing muscles with professional interest that had nothing to do with hygiene. "The serum really did enhance everything, didn't it?"
"Everything," Harry confirmed. His hands moved lower. Down her back. Learning the topology of her spine. "Though I suspect your mutation did the same thing. You're stronger than you look."
"Shapeshifters have to be. Changing bone structure, muscle density—it requires enhanced physiology. Otherwise we'd hurt ourselves every time we shifted."
"Fascinating." Harry's hands reached her hips. Pulled her closer. "Tell me more about shapeshifter physiology. I'm extremely interested."
"Liar." But she pressed against him. "You're interested in other things."
"Can't I be interested in multiple things simultaneously?"
"Not if we're being efficient."
"Efficiency is overrated."
They kissed. Water streaming over them. Steam rising. The bathroom becoming a private world where military briefings and impossible missions didn't exist.
Harry's hands explored. Raven's responded in kind. They moved together—not urgent like last night, but slow, deliberate, learning each other in new light.
"We're definitely going to be late," Raven murmured against his mouth.
"Catastrophically late," Harry agreed. "Phillips will be furious."
"Worth it?"
"Absolutely worth it."
What happened next was private. Sacred. The kind of intimacy that happened between people who'd found each other in impossible circumstances and decided to hold on regardless of consequences.
Eventually—finally—they actually washed. Harry shampooed her hair with careful attention. Raven returned the favor, her fingers working through black strands that were longer than regulation suggested they should be.
They dried off. Found clothes. Raven shifted into something practical—British women's auxiliary uniform that she probably shouldn't have but did anyway because shapeshifters and regulations had a complicated relationship.
Harry dressed in his usual: black trousers, white shirt, shoulder holster for his wand. The Elder Wand stayed in expanded space storage—too distinctive, too powerful, too likely to make people nervous. His original holly wand served for daily use.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be." Raven checked herself in the mirror. Made minute adjustments to her disguise. "How do I look?"
"Like someone trying very hard to look professional despite having recently been extremely unprofessional."
"Perfect. That's the aesthetic I was going for."
They moved to the door. Harry opened it—
And nearly collided with Steve Rogers.
Who was also clearly just leaving someone's room.
Who looked extremely well-rested despite it being oh-seven-hundred and briefing starting in fifteen minutes.
Who was wearing yesterday's clothes and had the particular expression of someone who'd spent the night somewhere that wasn't his assigned quarters.
The three of them froze.
Stared at each other.
Harry broke the silence. "Captain Rogers. Good morning. Lovely weather we're having."
"Agent Carter." Steve's voice was carefully neutral. "Yes. Very lovely. Very... morning-like."
"Indeed. Morning is definitely happening. Probably has been for several hours."
"Probably."
Behind Steve, Peggy Carter emerged from her room. She wore a robe. Her hair was down. Wet. She looked absolutely radiant and completely aware that they'd been caught.
"Gentlemen," she said crisply. "Lovely morning for a walk, isn't it?"
"Very lovely," Harry agreed. "Raven and I were just—"
"Discussing operational planning," Raven supplied. "Very intense planning. Required multiple hours. And apparently a shower."
"How thorough," Peggy said. Her expression was carefully bland. "Steve and I were also discussing planning. All night, actually. Very complex strategic considerations."
"I'm sure they were extremely complex," Harry said.
"Extraordinarily complex," Peggy confirmed.
Silence fell. All four of them standing in the hallway. All four of them clearly having spent the night with someone they probably shouldn't have according to military regulations.
Steve cleared his throat. "So. We're all adults here."
"Very adult," Harry agreed.
"And what happens in safehouses stays in safehouses?"
"That seems like an excellent policy."
"Good." Steve glanced at Peggy. Then at Harry. Then at Raven. "Breakfast? We have fifteen minutes before briefing. Might as well show up together. Make it look intentional."
"Intentional strategic morning meeting," Harry said. "I like it. Very professional."
They walked together down the stairs. A super-soldier, a wizard, a spy, and a shapeshifter—all of them trying very hard to look like they hadn't spent the night doing exactly what everyone would assume they'd spent the night doing.
The common room was already occupied.
Bucky sat at the table, nursing coffee. He looked up as they entered. His eyes tracked over the group—Steve and Peggy walking close together, Harry and Raven similarly positioned.
His expression transformed. Delight. Pure, unfiltered delight.
"Oh no," Steve muttered.
"Oh *yes*," Bucky said. His grin was enormous. "Good morning, everyone. How was your night? Sleep well? Everyone get... adequate rest?"
"Bucky—" Steve warned.
"Because you all look very well-rested. Refreshed, even. The kind of refreshed that comes from—"
"Sergeant Barnes," Peggy interrupted. Her voice carried Command Authority. "Would you like to continue that sentence? Because I have extensive files on your activities in London. Detailed files. The kind that mention specific establishments and specific chorus girls and specific—"
"I think everyone slept very well," Bucky said quickly. "Excellent rest all around. Very appropriate. I'll stop talking now."
"Wise choice."
Charlus Potter entered from the kitchen, carrying toast. He took one look at the assembled group and burst out laughing.
"Oh this is *magnificent*," he said. "The Americans got laid. All of them. Simultaneously but separately. The timing is *impeccable*."
"I'm British," Harry objected.
"You're British-flavored American at this point. Close enough." Charlus bit his toast. "So. Steve and Peggy finally acted on their completely obvious mutual attraction. Harry and Raven decided that shapeshifters and Death-Masters make excellent partners. Everyone's thoroughly compromised military protocol. This is fantastic."
"It's not fantastic," Steve said. "It's complicated."
"Complicated is just interesting with consequences." Charlus gestured with his toast. "Besides, half the Black Dragon Legion is sleeping with each other. Arcturus and Cassiopeia have been involved for months—yes, I know they're siblings, that's complicated, but they're adults and wizards have different standards about these things. Dorea's seeing someone in intelligence. I'm casually involved with three different people depending on which country I'm operating in—"
"That's too much information," Bucky said.
"You asked about rest. I'm explaining rest. Wizards rest differently than Americans. We're very efficient about personal relationships."
Arcturus entered. Took one look at the scene—Harry and Steve both clearly having spent the night elsewhere, Bucky grinning, Charlus explaining wizard relationship philosophy—and sighed deeply.
"It's too early for this conversation," he said. "Whatever happened last night stays private. We're professionals. We don't discuss personal relationships during operational periods."
"Thank you," Steve said gratefully.
"However," Arcturus continued, "if anyone compromises operational effectiveness because they're distracted by romantic entanglements, I will personally curse them until they remember what mission focus means."
"That's fair," Harry agreed.
"Good. Now—breakfast. We have briefing in ten minutes. Phillips will be insufferable if we're late. Everyone eat something. Coffee's in the kitchen. Try to look professional despite obvious evidence to the contrary."
They scattered. Toward food. Toward coffee. Toward the business of pretending they were serious military personnel rather than people who'd spent the night discovering that war made you grab happiness wherever you could find it.
Harry caught Raven's hand under the table. She squeezed back. Silent communication. We're okay. This is okay. We'll figure it out.
Across the table, Steve's knee pressed against Peggy's. Same message. Same understanding.
They were adults. They were soldiers. They could handle personal relationships and impossible missions simultaneously.
Probably.
Maybe.
They'd figure it out.
---
# **SSR London Base - Operations Room**
**0730 Hours**
Colonel Phillips stood at the head of the conference table, reviewing reports with the expression of someone who'd discovered the universe was actively conspiring to make his job harder.
The team filed in. Steve and Peggy together. Harry and Raven behind them. Bucky and Dugan bringing up the rear, both trying very hard not to laugh.
Phillips looked up. His eyes tracked over the assembled group. Noted body language. Timing. The particular way people stood when they'd recently been horizontal together.
He sighed. Deeply. The sigh of commanding officers throughout history who'd realized their personnel were human and humans were complicated.
"Let me guess," he said. "Everyone had a very productive evening of strategic planning?"
"Extremely productive, sir," Steve said.
"I'm sure." Phillips set down his reports. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to pretend I didn't notice that half my operational team is currently compromised by personal relationships. You're going to pretend you're still professional soldiers capable of following orders. And we're all going to focus on the mission—rescuing three hundred prisoners from a magical fortress defended by dark wizards. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear, sir," Peggy said.
"Good. Because if personal drama interferes with operational effectiveness, I will separate you all so thoroughly that you'll need written permission to be in the same country. Understood?"
"Understood, sir."
"Excellent. Now sit down. We have a fortress to assault and exactly twelve days to finalize planning."
They sat. Professional. Focused. Definitely not thinking about last night or this morning or the fact that impossible missions were easier to face when you had someone worth surviving for.
The briefing began.
And outside, the war continued.
Twelve days until Operation Valkyrie.
Twelve days until they'd assault Nurmengard.
Twelve days until everything changed.
But this morning—this morning they had coffee, planning, and the particular determination that came from people who'd found connection in chaos and refused to let it go.
That had to be enough.
For now, that had to be enough.
—
# **SSR London Base - War Room**
**December 1943, when plans crystallized into action**
The war room had evolved over twelve days from organized chaos into something approaching military precision. Maps covered every vertical surface—topographical surveys of Austrian Alps, architectural schematics of Nurmengard, intelligence reports arranged by classification level and operational relevance.
The scale model dominated the central table. Someone—probably Howard with help from Cassiopeia's precise memory—had constructed a miniature Nurmengard. Seven towers rising from a mountain base. Walls thick enough to see even at 1:50 scale. Defensive positions marked with colored pins. Ward locations indicated by tiny crystals that glowed faintly under magical detection.
It was beautiful in the way that fortresses designed to contain evil were beautiful. Elegant. Precise. Absolutely terrifying if you were planning to assault it.
Colonel Phillips stood at the table's head, pointer in hand, looking like a man who'd accepted that reality was negotiable and his job was managing the negotiations.
"Operation Valkyrie," he began. His voice carried the flat authority of briefings given too many times. "Final operational briefing. Deployment in seventy-two hours. If anyone has objections, voice them now. After this meeting, we're committed."
Silence. Nobody objected. They'd spent twelve days preparing for this. Backing out now would be strategic cowardice.
"Good. Team composition—confirmed and final."
Phillips consulted his notes, though everyone suspected he'd memorized them days ago.
"Strike Team Alpha: Captain Rogers, Agent Harry Carter, Sergeant Barnes. Primary objective: penetrate central tower, locate and eliminate Gellert Grindelwald. Secondary objective: prevent enemy reinforcement of prisoner wings."
Steve nodded. He stood near the model, studying approach vectors with the focused intensity of someone who'd spent twelve days memorizing every detail.
He wore Howard's creation—the uniform he'd sketched during planning sessions when tactical discussions turned to equipment.
It was magnificent.
The base was reinforced navy blue—darker than his stage costume, more practical for combat. The material was Howard's newest synthetic weave, designed to stop conventional ammunition and disperse impact force. Not invulnerable, but close.
The star blazed white across his chest—larger than the stage version, more prominent. A target, yes. But also a *statement*. Captain America wasn't hiding. He was announcing his presence and daring enemies to try stopping him.
Red and white stripes ran down his sides, across his shoulders. More subdued than theatrical versions. These were tactical markers—making him identifiable to friendlies at distance while maintaining combat effectiveness.
The cowl was new. Fitted. Reinforced with Howard's synthetic mesh. It protected his head while leaving his face visible—important for morale, for being recognized, for being *human* rather than faceless symbol.
Gloves covered his hands—armored knuckles for punching, reinforced palms for shield work. Boots rose to mid-calf, treaded for mountain terrain, plated for protection.
The utility belt carried equipment: first aid, ammunition for the pistol Howard had insisted he carry ("Shield's great, Rogers, but sometimes you need to shoot people"), communication device, and emergency rations.
He looked like Captain America. Not the propaganda version. The *real* version. The soldier who'd earned the title through action rather than performance.
Bucky stood beside him, wearing similar tactical gear minus the patriotic symbolism. His uniform was practical black—combat fatigues reinforced with Howard's protective weave. He carried an M1 Garand and enough ammunition to fight through a fortress. The enhanced serum made him stronger, faster. The gear made him effective.
And Harry—
Harry had changed.
The Invisibility Cloak's power—integrated into him through Death's intervention—had evolved. During training, he'd discovered he could manifest it physically. Not as a cloak anymore. As *armor*.
It emerged when he needed it. When he *called* it. The magic responding to intention rather than words.
He stood now in full manifestation, and everyone who saw it understood why dark wizards feared Agent Magus.
The armor was obsidian black—not painted, not dyed, but *void-black*. The absence of light given form. Shadow made tangible. It covered him completely, sculpted like layered dragon scales or ancient hardened leather, each plate flowing seamlessly into the next. The surface had an organic quality, as if the armor were alive, breathing with him.
The silhouette was imposing. Broad shoulders enhanced by jagged pauldrons that rose like a dragon's crest or dark wings. The plating followed his musculature with anatomical precision, making him appear larger, more dangerous. The impression of a warrior-sorcerer who'd transcended mortal limitation.
Deep crimson accents marked strategic points—the pauldrons' edges, the bracers, the segmented hip-guards that hung like a battle-skirt. Blood-red against void-black. The colors of nobility and violence in equal measure.
Gold trim traced across the armor in intricate patterns—not decorative, but *runic*. Ancient magic engraved into the black plating. Spells older than Hogwarts. Protective enchantments that most modern wizards had forgotten existed. The gold caught light strangely, seeming to glow from within, pulsing with arcane power.
The chestplate was the armor's focal point. Sculpted black plates formed a foundation for the centerpiece: the Deathly Hallows symbol rendered in brilliant gold. Triangle, circle, line—but stylized into a fiery, triangular sigil that looked like a relic from forgotten ages. The symbol was mounted on a crimson base shaped like an inverted flame, making it appear as though the Hallows burned with supernatural fire.
This was no mere decoration. The emblem radiated power. It proclaimed him Master of Death, marked by forces beyond mortal comprehension.
The pauldrons were angular, gold-edged, resembling wings ready to unfurl or a predator's crest. They added to his imposing presence without restricting movement—protection and intimidation perfectly balanced.
His bracers were heavy, segmented, engraved with patterns that resembled spellwork or ancient runes. Black material reinforced with gold lines. These weren't just armor—they were *conduits*, designed to channel magic with perfect efficiency.
A crimson belt wrapped his waist, secured with a golden buckle shaped like an ornate diamond. The buckle appeared ornamental but radiated faint magical energy—likely a runic focus or protective charm. Below it, the battle-skirt flowed in layered red segments, enhancing movement while adding theatrical menace.
The leg armor was sleek black, reinforced with subtle gold plating that maintained flexibility. Every piece worked together—mobility, protection, intimidation combined.
And the hood—
A deep crimson hood rose from his shoulders, draping over his head and casting his entire face in shadow. Beneath it sat the mask: angular, segmented like a tactical helm merged with medieval plague-doctor motifs. Metal plates formed an expressionless face, smooth and polished as obsidian.
But the eyes—
Fiery orange light blazed from the mask's eye-slits. Not reflecting light. *Generating* it. The glow of something that had looked at Death and been acknowledged. That carried the Hallows' power. That walked between life and mortality and served neither exclusively.
The overall impression was overwhelming. A dark, mythic enforcer. A dread knight stepped from legend. Something that belonged in ancient stories about sorcerers who commanded armies and toppled kingdoms.
Harry looked like Death's chosen champion wrapped in arcane fury and military precision—a supernatural warrior who'd become more symbol than man.
"Jesus Christ," Dugan had said the first time Harry manifested the armor during training. "You look like Death came to collect and decided to stay for the apocalypse."
"That's the idea," Harry had replied. His voice through the mask carried strange harmonics—still recognizably his, but layered with something older, darker. "Psychological warfare. If I look terrifying enough, maybe some Acolytes surrender without fighting."
"Or they wet themselves and run," Charlus had added cheerfully. "Also acceptable."
Now, standing in the war room, Harry's armor made even Phillips uncomfortable. The Colonel had seen enhanced soldiers, wizards, mutants. But Harry in full manifestation was something *else*. Something that suggested the war had produced weapons beyond conventional understanding. A warlock-warrior who stood at the intersection of magic and violence.
The glowing orange eyes tracked across the room, assessing, cataloguing. Even motionless, Harry radiated menace. The armor seemed to drink in light, creating a pocket of shadow around him despite the room's illumination.
"Strike Team Bravo," Phillips continued, forcing his attention away from the walking nightmare standing beside Captain America. "Agent Margaret Carter, Private Darkholme, Corporal Jones, Lieutenant Falsworth. Objective: infiltrate administrative wing, access prisoner manifests, coordinate extraction routes. You're intelligence and coordination. Keep everyone connected."
Peggy stood straighter. She wore British field uniform—practical, reinforced, equipped with communication gear Howard had modified to interface with magical detection. She carried a sidearm and backup weapon, plus enough classified intelligence documents to start an international incident if captured.
Beside her, Raven had chosen her true form for the operation. Blue skin. Yellow eyes. Auburn hair pulled back practically. She wore the same tactical gear as Peggy but modified for her physiology—shapeshifters had different requirements. Her ability to assume any form made her invaluable for infiltration. Her training made her deadly in close combat.
"Strike Team Charlie," Phillips said. "Charlus Potter, Arcturus Black, Dorea Black, Cassiopeia Black, Alastor Moody. Objective: breach dungeon levels, disable magical defenses, secure prisoners. You're our magical heavy hitters. Keep the Acolytes busy while we extract civilians."
The Black Dragon Legion's core stood together. They wore dragonhide combat robes—not the theatrical robes of peacetime wizards, but *combat* robes. Spelled for protection. Reinforced with enchantments that stopped curses, deflected hexes, turned blades. Black primarily, with house colors as accent. Potter crimson. Black silver. Practical and intimidating.
Charlus grinned. He loved combat. Thrived in it. The prospect of fighting Acolytes in their own fortress made him genuinely happy.
Arcturus was more subdued. Professional. His aristocratic bearing suggested he was attending a formal dinner rather than planning to assault a magical fortress. But his wand hand was steady. His eyes sharp.
Dorea checked her equipment with mechanical precision. She'd prepared explosive charms. Curse-breakers. Every tool necessary for dismantling Grindelwald's defenses systematically.
Cassiopeia reviewed intelligence reports even now, her mind processing tactical variables. She'd spent twelve days analyzing Nurmengard's defensive layers. She knew them better than most Acolytes who'd served there.
And Moody—
Alastor Moody stood apart from the others. Paranoid. Watchful. His eyes tracked every person in the room, cataloguing threats, escape routes, ambush positions. Twenty-six years old but moved like someone who'd seen forty years of combat.
He wore dragon-hide robes darker than the Blacks'—practical midnight that bordered on black. Functional. No house colors. No decoration. Just protection and pockets for equipment.
His wand was out. Always out. Moody never holstered his wand unless sleeping, and even then he probably kept it under his pillow.
"You're all bloody mad," he'd announced during first training session. "Assaulting Nurmengard. With Americans. Using conventional soldiers alongside wizards. Every part of this operation violates basic tactical sense."
"That's why it'll work," Charlus had said cheerfully. "Grindelwald expects sensible tactics. We're giving him magnificent insanity instead."
"Strike Team Delta," Phillips continued. "Corporal Dugan, Corporal Morita, Private Dernier, James Howlett, Victor Creed. Objective: secure perimeter, prevent enemy reinforcement, establish extraction corridors. You're our conventional heavy hitters. Hold the line while magical forces work."
Dugan stood with his team—all of them wearing Howard's tactical gear. Reinforced combat fatigues. Body armor. Helmets with communication integration. They carried conventional weapons—M1 Garands, Thompson submachine guns, grenades both conventional and incendiary.
But the Howlett brothers—
Logan and Victor stood slightly apart from the conventional soldiers. They wore tactical gear reluctantly. Pants. Boots. Shirts that wouldn't restrict movement. But minimal armor. They didn't need it. Healing factors meant injuries were temporary. Protection was redundant when you regenerated from anything.
Logan's claws were retracted. For now. Bone protruding from between his knuckles when needed—six inches of natural weaponry sharper than most blades. His eyes were cold. Patient. A predator waiting for permission to hunt.
Victor was larger. More overtly dangerous. His claws were longer—seven inches. Slightly curved. His teeth were filed sharp deliberately. Intimidation. Psychological warfare. If you looked monstrous enough, enemies hesitated. Hesitation got them killed.
"Support Team," Phillips said. "Howard Stark, medical personnel, communication specialists. You'll be stationed at the extraction point three miles north of the fortress. Coordinate tactical communication, provide medical support, prepare Portkey evacuation for wounded."
Howard stood near the back, looking simultaneously excited and terrified. He wore a flight jacket over civilian clothes. No armor. No weapons. He was support. Intelligence. The man who'd designed their equipment and would maintain it during operation.
"Rules of engagement," Phillips continued. His voice went harder. "This is enemy territory. Hostile forces. You are authorized to use lethal force against all combatants. Acolytes, Hydra soldiers, dark creatures—all of them are legitimate targets."
He paused. Let that sink in.
"However. Prisoners are non-combatants. Civilians. Allied soldiers and wizards who've been tortured for information. You will *not* harm prisoners. You will *not* leave prisoners behind. Every person in those dungeons comes home. Are we clear?"
"Clear, sir," Steve said. The others echoed.
"Good. Because if I find out someone sacrificed prisoners for tactical advantage, I will personally ensure their next assignment involves cleaning latrines in Antarctica."
"Understood, sir."
Phillips moved around the table, pointing to specific locations on the model.
"Insertion will be via magical transport. Portkeys for conventional forces, Apparition for capable wizards. We're targeting three landing zones—Alpha near the main gate, Bravo at the eastern wall, Charlie at the northern service entrance."
His pointer traced paths.
"Strike Alpha—Rogers, Carter, Barnes—you're Portkeying to Charlie. Service entrance is closest to central tower. You'll breach, advance, reach Grindelwald's sanctum. Expect heavy resistance. Grindelwald will know you're coming the moment you breach his wards."
"We're prepared for that," Harry said. His voice through the mask carried strange harmonics, layered with dark resonance. The fiery orange eyes pulsed brighter for a moment. "Grindelwald's powerful. But I'm Master of Death and carrying the Elder Wand. We're matched."
The Deathly Hallows symbol on his chest seemed to glow in response to his words, the golden triangle pulsing with arcane fire.
"Strike Bravo—Carter, Darkholme, Jones, Falsworth—you're hitting Alpha. Main gate. Obvious insertion point. You'll draw attention while other teams work. Find the administrative wing. Get prisoner locations. Coordinate extraction."
"Understood," Peggy said.
"Strike Charlie—the Blacks, Potter, Moody—you're Apparating directly to Bravo. Eastern wall near the dungeons. Breach the wards, disable defenses, start moving prisoners. Strike Delta will establish perimeter and protect your extraction route."
Phillips straightened. Looked at the assembled team.
"This operation has approximately sixty percent success probability. Those are terrible odds. Unacceptable odds in normal circumstances. But these aren't normal circumstances. We're rescuing three hundred prisoners from a fortress defended by one of the most powerful dark wizards in history."
He paused.
"I expect casualties. I expect complications. I expect Murphy's Law to apply with extreme prejudice. But I also expect professionalism. Competence. And the particular kind of stubborn determination that makes impossible missions merely improbable."
"We'll get it done, sir," Steve said.
"See that you do. Because I've already written the after-action reports assuming success. Changing them to reflect failure would be tedious." Phillips's expression softened. Fractionally. "You've trained well. You're prepared. Go rest. Final equipment check tomorrow. Deployment in seventy-two hours. Dismissed."
The team scattered. Toward quarters. Toward final preparations. Toward the business of soldiers before impossible missions.
Harry's armor rippled and dissolved like smoke, leaving him in standard combat robes. The transition was seamless, the arcane plating simply *ceasing to exist* until he called it again.
He caught Raven's hand as they walked. "Nervous?"
"Terrified," she admitted. "But ready. You?"
"Same. The armor helps. Makes me feel—" He paused. "Makes me feel like Death itself is walking beside me. Like I can't lose because losing isn't permitted."
"Let's hope Death agrees," Raven said.
They walked together through corridors that had become familiar. Toward whatever future waited beyond Nurmengard's walls.
Tomorrow they'd train one final time.
The day after, equipment checks.
Then—
Then they'd assault hell.
But tonight, there was rest.
And the particular comfort that came from people who'd found each other in war's chaos.
That had to be enough.
---
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