# **SSR Training Facility - Final Session**
**December 1943, when teams became weapons**
The training facility occupied an abandoned aircraft hangar in East London that had been repurposed for "experimental operations." Translation: a place where super-soldiers could punch things, wizards could cast destructive spells, and mutants could regenerate from training injuries without terrifying civilians.
The space was vast. Empty. Perfect for full-combat simulation.
Harry stood in the center, armor fully manifested. The Deathly Hallows blazed gold on his chest. The crimson hood cast shadows that seemed alive.
Across from him, thirty training dummies arranged in defensive formation. Not ordinary dummies—these were Howard's creation. Enchanted by Cassiopeia to respond like actual combatants. To dodge. To counter. To simulate Acolytes defending their fortress.
"Ready?" Charlus called from the observation platform. He was coordinating this session—testing how Strike Alpha worked together under combat stress.
"Ready," Harry confirmed. His voice through the mask carried command authority. "Steve, Bucky—standard formation. I'll engage magical threats. You handle conventional combatants. Maintain visual contact. Don't let them separate us."
Steve moved to Harry's right, shield raised. The star-spangled uniform seemed to absorb light. Make him more visible. More *present*. "On your word, Harry."
Bucky took left position, rifle ready. Enhanced reflexes made him dangerous at range. Enhanced strength made him lethal in close quarters. "Let's show these dummies why assault teams practice."
"Engagement in three," Charlus announced. "Two. One. *Execute!*"
The dummies activated. Twenty magical constructs in the center—simulating Acolytes. Ten conventional combat forms at the perimeter—simulating Hydra soldiers.
They moved with coordinated precision. Attacking. Flanking. Using tactics that actual enemies would use.
Harry's wand—the Elder Wand—appeared in his right hand. Already glowing. Already gathering power.
"*Confringo!*"
The Blasting Curse erupted from his wand like artillery. Orange-red destruction that screamed across the hangar. It struck three magical dummies simultaneously—not hitting them individually, but exploding in their midst like a bomb.
The constructs shattered. Pieces flying. The curse's power amplified by the Elder Wand, by Harry's enhancement, by the armor that channeled magic with perfect efficiency.
"*Bombarda Maxima! Reducto! Expulso!*"
Chain-casting. Each spell flowing into the next without pause. Destruction layered on destruction. The magical dummies couldn't dodge fast enough. Couldn't shield effectively. Harry's power was overwhelming.
Meanwhile, Steve engaged conventional dummies. His shield sang as it left his hand—that distinctive *thwing* sound of vibranium cutting air. It struck the first dummy's center mass, ricocheted perfectly to strike the second, caught the third on its return arc.
Steve caught it without looking. Muscle memory from twelve days of intensive training. The shield was extension of his arm now. Natural. Instinctive.
He threw again. Different angle. The physics were complex but his enhanced mind calculated trajectories automatically. Shield struck dummy. Bounced. Struck wall. Bounced. Struck two more dummies. Returned.
"Left flank!" Bucky shouted. He'd spotted dummies trying to flank. His rifle cracked—three shots, three hits. Enhanced accuracy making him lethal. "They're trying to separate us!"
"Not happening!" Harry's left hand extended. No wand. Pure wandless magic channeled through the armor's gauntlets. "*Protego Maxima!*"
A shield materialized—not translucent like normal shields, but solid. Visible. A wall of shimmering gold that intercepted the flanking dummies and stopped them cold.
Steve exploited the opening. Charged through Harry's shield—it parted for him automatically, recognizing ally—and hit the dummies with shield and fist. Enhanced strength made each impact devastating. Dummies crumpled. Fell. Stopped functioning.
"Center's breaking!" Bucky called. He'd moved to elevated position—using the hangar's scaffolding for height advantage. His rifle cracked steadily. Controlled fire. Each shot calculated. "Four magical constructs remaining!"
Harry advanced. The armor made him look larger. More imposing. The golden eyes blazed.
"*Fiendfyre!*"
Cursed fire erupted from his wand. Not the wild, uncontrollable version that most wizards feared. This was *directed*. *Controlled*. The fire took shape—serpents, dragons, creatures of living flame that moved with intention.
The remaining magical dummies tried to scatter. Too slow. The fire consumed them. Burned them. Left nothing but ash and the smell of destroyed magic.
Silence fell. Thirty dummies eliminated in ninety seconds.
Charlus whistled from the observation deck. "Bloody hell. That was magnificent. Brutal, efficient, absolutely terrifying. Perfect for what you'll face."
Harry demanifested the armor—it rippled away like smoke, leaving him in normal combat robes. His breathing was elevated but controlled. The enhancement meant he could fight longer, harder, without exhaustion.
"How'd we look?" Steve asked.
"Coordinated," Arcturus said. He'd been watching with tactical focus. "Your formation held. You protected each other's blind spots. Harry handled magical threats while you managed conventional combatants. That's exactly what you need to do in Nurmengard."
"Though I'd recommend less Fiendfyre," Moody added. His paranoid voice carried from his corner position. "Cursed fire in enclosed spaces risks friendly casualties. Use it outdoors. Or when you don't care what burns."
"Noted," Harry said. "Though in Grindelwald's sanctum, I might not have better options."
"Then make sure Rogers and Barnes aren't in the blast radius," Moody said flatly. "Dead allies are tactically inconvenient."
"I'll try to remember that," Steve said dryly.
---
On the hangar's opposite end, Strike Charlie was running their own simulation.
The Black Dragon Legion plus Moody faced fifty dummies. Aggressive scenario. Overwhelming numbers. The kind of odds they'd face when breaching the dungeons.
"Formation Delta," Arcturus commanded. His aristocratic voice carried authority. "Cassiopeia, ward-breaking. Dorea, explosive charms on structural supports. Charlus and I will handle direct combat. Moody—"
"Watch for ambush, check for traps, assume everything's trying to kill us," Moody interrupted. "I know my job, Black. Done it longer than you've been alive."
"You're twenty-six," Arcturus said.
"Started young. Very dangerous childhood." Moody's wand was already moving. "*Homenum Revelio!*"
The detection spell washed across the training area. Revealing positions. Identifying threats. "Fifty hostiles. Three hidden behind illusions. Two equipped with projectile weapons. One's got dark magic signature—cursed object or prepared dark spell."
"How can you tell all that?" Dorea asked.
"Practice. Paranoia. Assuming everything's worse than it looks." Moody's wand traced a defensive pattern. "*Protego Horribilis!*"
A shield materialized—not standard protection, but *horrifying* protection. The kind designed to stop dark magic. Unforgivables. Curses that killed.
"Engage!" Arcturus commanded.
The Black siblings moved like they'd been fighting together for years. Because they had. Family tactics. Bloodline magic. The kind of coordination that came from shared heritage and countless battles.
Arcturus and Charlus took point. Their wands moved in synchronized patterns—one casting offensive spells while the other maintained defenses. It was beautiful. Deadly ballet performed with magic instead of movement.
"*Reducto! Bombarda! Confringo!*"
Blasting curses. Explosive hexes. Destructive magic layered with aristocratic precision. Dummies shattered. The ones that survived scattered, trying to flank.
Cassiopeia was faster. Her wand traced complex patterns—ward-breaking sequences. The training dummies had magical defenses. She was dismantling them systematically.
"*Finite Incantatem! Salvio Hexia! Protego Totalum!*"
Each counter-curse targeted specific defenses. The dummies' protections failed. Left them vulnerable. Open to attack.
Dorea exploited openings immediately. She'd prepared explosive charms—small crystalline constructs that she threw with perfect accuracy. They struck dummies, adhered, *detonated*.
Not with fire. With pure magical force. Overpressure that shattered constructs without collateral damage.
"Seven down!" she called. "Flanking group eastern side!"
Moody was already moving. His paranoia had predicted the flanking maneuver. He'd positioned himself perfectly to intercept.
"*Stupefy! Incarcerous! Petrificus Totalus!*"
Stunning spells. Binding ropes. Petrification hexes. He wasn't using lethal force in training. But his movements said he'd switch to killing curses instantly if these were real enemies.
"Clear left!" he shouted. "Check right! Could be—"
A dummy emerged from concealment. Cursed object in its grip—simulated dark artifact.
"*Expelliarmus!*" Moody's disarming spell tore the object away. "*Diffindo!*" A cutting curse shredded the dummy before it could activate the cursed item.
"Paranoid bastard," Charlus said admiringly. "Knew that was there before it moved."
"Course I did. Assume everything's trapped. Be pleasantly surprised when it isn't." Moody's eyes tracked constantly. "Twenty remaining. They're regrouping. Preparing coordinated assault."
"Let them," Arcturus said calmly. He raised his wand. "Charlus, ready?"
"Always."
They cast simultaneously. "*Incendio Maxima!*"
Fire. Pure magical fire—not cursed like Fiendfyre, but intense. Controlled. A wall of flame that swept across the training area.
The remaining dummies ignited. Burned. Stopped functioning.
Silence fell.
Fifty dummies eliminated in two minutes.
"Time?" Cassiopeia asked.
"One minute fifty-three seconds," Arcturus said. He'd been counting. "Improvement from yesterday. We're getting faster."
"We'll need faster," Moody growled. "Real Acolytes don't stand in neat formations. They use dark magic. Curses that kill. And they've got Grindelwald backing them. This—" He gestured at the destroyed dummies. "—this is practice. Real thing'll be worse."
"Then we'll be ready for worse," Charlus said confidently.
"Confidence gets you killed," Moody said.
"So does pessimism. At least confidence is more fun."
Moody grunted. But he didn't argue. Because Charlus had a point. And because even paranoid Aurors had to admit that sometimes confidence was necessary.
Even when circumstances didn't warrant it.
---
At the hangar's third training zone, Strike Bravo worked on infiltration.
Peggy stood with Raven, Jones, and Falsworth. Their objective wasn't combat—it was intelligence. Get in. Find information. Coordinate extraction. All while avoiding detection.
"Private Darkholme," Peggy said formally. She was maintaining military protocol despite their personal relationship. "Demonstrate infiltration capability."
Raven nodded. She stood in her true form—blue skin, yellow eyes. Then rippled.
Her body *changed*. Not slowly. Instantly. Like someone had switched photographs.
She became a German officer. Male. Tall. Harsh features. SS uniform perfect down to the insignia. Even her voice changed when she spoke: "Heil Hydra. Wo sind die Gefangenen?"
"Perfect," Peggy said. "Can you maintain that under stress? While moving? While being questioned?"
"For hours," Raven confirmed. She shifted again—becoming British private, American sergeant, generic Acolyte. Each transformation flawless. "I've been doing this since I was a child. It's instinctive."
"Good. Because you'll be our primary infiltrator. You'll assume enemy identity, access restricted areas, gather intelligence." Peggy turned to Jones. "Corporal, communication protocol?"
Jones held up the radio equipment Howard had modified. "Got magical detection integration. Can track both conventional frequencies and magical signatures. Range is approximately five miles. We'll maintain contact with all strike teams throughout operation."
"And if communication fails?" Falsworth asked. The British lieutenant had been coordinating with Peggy—their countries' different intelligence methods combining into something more effective than either alone.
"Fallback protocols," Peggy said. She pulled out a map marked with rendezvous points. "If we lose contact, teams converge here—northern extraction point. Howard's got Portkeys staged for emergency evacuation. We don't leave anyone behind."
"Even if they're compromised?" Jones asked quietly.
"*Especially* if they're compromised," Peggy said firmly. "Nobody gets left to Grindelwald's interrogation. We extract everyone or we die trying."
"That's dark, Agent Carter," Falsworth observed.
"That's reality, Lieutenant. This operation succeeds or it fails catastrophically. There's no middle ground."
They continued drilling. Practicing communication protocols. Rehearsing infiltration scenarios. Learning each other's capabilities.
By the end of the session, they moved like they'd been working together for months instead of days.
That's what intensive training did. Compressed experience. Made teams from individuals.
---
As training sessions concluded, the teams assembled for final briefing.
Harry stood with Strike Alpha. Steve and Bucky flanking him. They looked like the propaganda posters America would print after the war—super-soldier, enhanced sergeant, and the wizard who'd become Death's champion.
Except propaganda would never capture how tired they were. How scared. How determined despite fear.
"Final equipment check tomorrow," Phillips announced. He'd joined them in the hangar, watching final drills. "Howard's made adjustments based on training. Your gear will be optimized for Nurmengard's environment."
"What adjustments?" Steve asked.
"Your shield's been treated with additional protective enchantments," Howard said. He appeared from somewhere carrying a clipboard. "Cassiopeia worked with me. Added spells that'll help it deflect dark magic more effectively. Won't stop Unforgivables—nothing stops those except dodging—but it'll handle most curses."
He turned to Harry. "Your armor's integrated with communication equipment. You'll be able to hear all strike teams even when the mask's manifested. Also added magical amplification runes. Your spells will be approximately fifteen percent more powerful."
"I'm already powerful enough to level buildings," Harry said.
"Now you can level them fifteen percent more efficiently. You're welcome."
"Bucky, your rifle's been modified for enhanced accuracy," Howard continued. "The serum gives you superhuman aim. The rifle's been calibrated for that. Effective range is now approximately twelve hundred meters. You can shoot people from nearly a mile away."
"Terrifying," Bucky said. "I approve."
Phillips cleared his throat. "You've trained well. You're prepared. Tomorrow, rest. Final checks. Personal time. In forty-eight hours, we deploy. Questions?"
"What happens if we fail?" Dugan asked. The question everyone was thinking.
"If Strike Alpha fails—if Grindelwald survives—he'll know we have operational intelligence. He'll relocate. Disappear. We'll lose our chance to end him." Phillips's expression was grave. "If Strike Bravo fails—if we can't coordinate extraction—prisoners die. If Strike Charlie fails—if we can't breach the dungeons—prisoners stay imprisoned. If Strike Delta fails—if we can't hold perimeter—everyone gets trapped inside a fortress with no escape."
He paused.
"So don't fail. Simple."
"Motivational," Charlus said dryly. "Really inspiring stuff, Colonel."
"I don't do inspiration. I do reality. Reality says this operation is dangerous, probably suicidal, and our chances of everyone surviving are approximately thirty percent. But we're doing it anyway because three hundred prisoners need rescuing and Grindelwald needs stopping."
Phillips looked at each team. Each person.
"You're the best people for this mission. Conventional forces and magical operatives working together. Enhanced soldiers and ordinary humans. We're writing history here. Not the propaganda version—the real version. Where heroes are scared and fight anyway. Where impossible missions get attempted because someone has to try."
He straightened.
"Make me proud. Come back alive. And bring those prisoners home."
"Yes, sir," they said.
Together.
As one.
A team.
Ready for hell.
—
# **RAF Hendon Airfield - Departure**
**December 1943, when warriors went to war**
The airfield existed in that strange pre-dawn darkness where night hadn't quite surrendered to morning. Not black. Not grey. That liminal blue that belonged to soldiers and insomniacs and people about to do something monumentally stupid.
Three C-47 transport aircraft squatted on the tarmac like patient metal birds. American planes, British pilots, international cargo of enhanced soldiers and wizards about to assault a fortress that had never been breached.
The air smelled of aviation fuel and winter cold and the particular tension that preceded combat operations. The kind of smell you remembered forever or died before you could forget it.
Harry stood near the lead aircraft, watching his team assemble. The armor was stored—manifesting it now would waste energy. He wore standard combat robes over reinforced clothing. Practical. Warm enough for Austrian mountains. Dark enough to blend with night.
His wands were holstered. Both of them. The Elder Wand at his right hip in its distinctive pale holster. His original holly wand at his left—backup, sentiment, the part of him that remembered being young Harry Potter learning magic at Hogwarts.
The Mokeskin pouch hung from his belt, expanded internally to hold equipment they'd need. Medical supplies. Emergency rations. Magical detection devices. The accumulated gear of people who planned for disaster.
Steve approached from the hangar, already in full uniform. The star blazed against navy blue even in pre-dawn darkness. His shield was strapped to his back—ready but not deployed. His helmet sat tucked under one arm.
He looked exactly like propaganda posters would paint him. Except propaganda couldn't capture the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw was set. The expression of someone who'd memorized every detail of the plan and was already identifying where it would fail.
"Morning," Steve said. His breath misted in the cold air. "Sleep?"
"Some," Harry lied. He'd spent most of the night reviewing intelligence, checking equipment, and trying not to think about how many things could go catastrophically wrong. "You?"
"Enough." Steve glanced back toward the hangar. "Peggy's doing final coordination with Strike Bravo. Bucky's checking ammunition loads for the third time. Everyone's nervous."
"Nervous is good. Nervous means they're taking this seriously."
"They're taking it *very* seriously." Steve managed a slight smile. "Dugan's been praying. I didn't know he was religious. Apparently extreme danger brings out spirituality."
"Can't hurt. Maybe God's paying attention." Harry doubted it. In his experience—both lives—divinity was notably absent during the moments when intervention would have been useful. But soldiers praying before combat was tradition older than Christianity.
Bucky emerged from the hangar, carrying enough ammunition to invade a small country. His tactical vest was loaded—magazines, grenades, backup weapons. The enhanced serum meant he could carry weight that would crush normal soldiers.
Behind him came Dugan and the rest of Strike Delta. They moved with the practiced efficiency of men who'd done this before. Not assaulting magical fortresses—that was new—but preparing for combat operations where success wasn't guaranteed.
Dugan's mustache was magnificent in the half-light. His expression was grim but determined. He carried a Thompson submachine gun like it was an extension of his arm.
"Captain," he nodded to Steve. "Agent Carter," to Harry. "Weather report says clear skies over Austria. That's good for flight. Bad for concealment on approach."
"We'll manage," Harry said. "The wards around Nurmengard will be focused on magical detection. Conventional aircraft flying at altitude won't trigger them. Not until we're much closer."
"And when they do trigger?"
"Then stealth becomes irrelevant and we fight." Harry's voice was matter-of-fact. "That's always been the plan. Get as close as possible before detection. Once they know we're coming, hit them fast and hard."
From the hangar's secondary bay, Logan and Victor Creed appeared. They moved with predatory grace—not obviously threatening, but something in their body language set off primal warnings. Apex predators pretending to be soldiers.
Logan wore minimal gear. Tactical pants. Boots. A shirt that wouldn't restrict movement. That was it. His healing factor meant armor was redundant. His claws meant weapons were optional.
Victor was similarly equipped but larger. Broader. His filed teeth caught what little light existed and turned it into threat display. He looked like he was anticipating violence and would be disappointed if it didn't arrive.
"You two ready?" Steve asked.
"Been ready since they briefed us," Logan growled. His voice carried the rough edges of someone who'd been fighting since before anyone present was born. "Just tell us where to point the claws."
"Perimeter defense," Harry said. "Once we breach, you're holding the extraction corridors. Nothing gets through you to the prisoners. Nothing reinforces the Acolytes. You're the wall between them and us."
"Can do," Victor said. His smile showed too many teeth. "Been wanting to fight dark wizards. See if they bleed different than regular soldiers."
"They bleed red like everyone else," Harry said flatly. "They just have more creative ways of making you bleed first. Don't underestimate them. Acolytes are trained killers who can murder you with words."
"Then we'll kill them before they finish talking," Logan said.
It wasn't bravado. Just statement of tactical intent.
---
The Black Dragon Legion arrived as a unit.
Charlus led them—looking inappropriately cheerful for someone about to assault a fortress. He wore dragon-hide combat robes in Potter crimson and black. His wand was already out, twirling between his fingers with casual expertise.
Arcturus followed—aristocratic bearing intact despite the circumstances. His robes were Black family silver and black. Formal even for combat. Because appearances mattered. Even—especially—when facing death.
Dorea and Cassiopeia flanked them. The Black sisters moved with synchronized precision. Years of training together. Bloodline magic. The particular coordination that came from family who'd fought alongside each other long enough to predict each other's moves.
And behind them—
Alastor Moody walked alone. Deliberately. Maintaining distance from the others. His paranoid eyes tracked every shadow, every movement, every potential threat.
He'd already cast detection spells. Harry could see the faint magical residue hanging around him—*Homenum Revelio*, *Caterwauling Charm*, probably half a dozen others. Moody assumed ambush was imminent and had prepared accordingly.
"Morning, Harry," Charlus said cheerfully. "Lovely day for invading an impregnable fortress. Weather's perfect. Visibility's excellent. All the conditions for spectacular success or catastrophic failure."
"Let's aim for spectacular success," Harry said.
"Obviously. Though catastrophic failure would make for better stories. If anyone survived to tell them."
Arcturus moved to the aircraft, studying it with professional interest. "American transport. Range approximately 1,600 miles. Cruising speed 160 miles per hour. Capacity twenty-eight troops or equivalent cargo weight." He glanced at Harry. "We're overloading. Forty personnel plus equipment. That's beyond recommended capacity."
"Howard's modifications account for that," Harry said. "He reinforced the airframe. Upgraded the engines. Says it'll handle the weight."
"Howard 'says' many things," Arcturus observed. "Some of them are even accurate."
"He got us here alive," Steve pointed out. "That counts for something."
From the hangar, Peggy emerged leading Strike Bravo.
She'd dressed practically—British field uniform, reinforced with Howard's protective weave. Her hair was pinned back military-precise. She carried a sidearm, backup weapon, communication equipment, and enough classified documents to start an international incident.
Behind her came Raven—still in true form. Blue skin and yellow eyes and auburn hair that caught what little light existed and turned it copper. She wore tactical gear modified for her physiology. Carried equipment that would let her infiltrate, deceive, become anyone necessary.
Jones and Falsworth followed. Both professionals. Both nervous. Both ready anyway because ready was all you could be.
"Strike Bravo reporting," Peggy said formally. Then, softer: "Morning, Harry. Steve."
"Morning," Harry said. He wanted to say more—wanted to tell his sister to be careful, to stay safe, to not do anything heroically stupid—but that would violate professional protocol. So he settled for: "Your team ready?"
"As ready as we can be." Peggy's eyes were soft. Worried. But her voice stayed steady. "We'll coordinate extraction. Keep everyone connected. Make sure the prisoners get out."
"We know you will," Steve said. His hand found hers briefly. Squeezed. Public affection was unprofessional. But some things mattered more than protocol.
---
Howard appeared from the lead aircraft, clipboard in hand, looking like someone who'd been awake for thirty-six hours on coffee and nervous energy.
"Final equipment check," he announced. His voice carried that manic focus he got when doing science under pressure. "Everyone line up. I'm verifying gear before we commit to this magnificent disaster."
They lined up. Soldiers and wizards mixing. Enhanced and ordinary. Magical and mundane.
Howard moved down the line with systematic efficiency.
"Rogers—shield?" Steve unstrapped it. Howard ran his hands across the surface, checking enchantments Cassiopeia had woven into vibranium. "Good. Protective spells are active. Should deflect most curses. Don't test it against Unforgivables."
"Wasn't planning to."
"Barnes—rifle?" Bucky presented the modified M1. Howard checked the scope, the barrel, the enhanced firing mechanism. "Calibrated for enhanced accuracy. Effective range twelve hundred meters. Don't shoot friendlies."
"I'll try to remember."
"Carter—" Howard stopped in front of Harry. "Your armor. Can you manifest it? I want to verify the communication integration."
Harry concentrated. The armor rippled into existence—shadow made solid, crimson and gold accents blazing. The Deathly Hallows symbol burned on his chest. The fiery orange eyes opened, casting light.
Howard pulled out a scanner that shouldn't exist—magical detection married to electrical engineering. "Communication frequencies active. Magical amplification runes functioning. Power draw is—" He stopped. Stared at the readings. "Jesus Christ, Harry. The magical energy you're channeling—if these readings are accurate, you're operating at power levels that should be physically impossible."
"Death's modifications," Harry said through the mask. His voice carried strange harmonics. "She didn't do things by half measures."
"Apparently not." Howard made notes frantically. "You're reading as—I don't even have terminology for this. You're off the scale. Multiple scales. If these instruments are correct, you're channeling more magical energy than most wizards could handle in a lifetime."
"Will it work for the mission?"
"It'll work spectacularly. Or explode spectacularly. Honestly unclear which." Howard looked up at the glowing eyes. "Try not to channel so much power that you rip holes in reality. That would be inconvenient."
"I'll add it to the list of things to avoid," Harry said. The armor dissolved, leaving him in standard robes.
Howard continued down the line. Checking equipment. Verifying modifications. Making last-minute adjustments.
By the time he finished, forty people stood ready. Armed. Equipped. Prepared for impossible missions because someone had to try.
"All equipment verified," Howard announced. "Communication devices tested. Portkeys charged. Emergency evacuation protocols active. You're good to deploy."
He paused. Looked at the assembled team.
"For what it's worth—you're all insane. This operation violates every principle of military strategy. The odds of success are terrible. The probability of casualties is extremely high. And I've run the numbers approximately seventeen different ways and they all say this shouldn't work."
"But?" Steve prompted.
"But you're enhanced soldiers and trained wizards and people who've survived impossible situations before. So maybe—*maybe*—you'll beat the odds. I hope you do. Because I've gotten used to most of you and would prefer you didn't die."
"That's touching, Howard," Charlus said. "Very emotional. We're all moved."
"I'm serious. Don't die. The paperwork would be tedious."
Phillips emerged from the command vehicle—he'd been coordinating with Allied intelligence, ensuring nobody did something stupid like bombing the area while they were operating.
"Final authorization received," he announced. "You're cleared for deployment. Rules of engagement remain: lethal force authorized against combatants, prisoners are non-negotiable priority, no one gets left behind." He paused. "Any last-minute concerns?"
"Just the usual," Moody said. His paranoid eyes swept the airfield again. "Could be an ambush. Could be compromised intelligence. Could be walking into a trap designed to eliminate multiple strike teams simultaneously."
"Could be," Phillips agreed. "Could also be a successful operation that rescues three hundred prisoners and ends Grindelwald's power base. We won't know until we try."
"Comforting," Moody muttered.
Phillips moved to stand before the assembled team. His expression was unreadable—decades of military service hiding whatever emotions existed underneath.
"Listen up," he said. His voice carried across the tarmac. "In approximately six hours, you'll begin the most dangerous operation of this war. You'll face trained killers. Dark wizards. A fortress designed to be impregnable. The odds are terrible. The stakes are everything."
He paused.
"But you're the best people for this mission. Every one of you earned your place here. Through training. Through combat. Through the particular kind of stubborn determination that makes impossible missions merely improbable."
Another pause. Letting the words sink in.
"Three hundred prisoners are counting on you. They don't know rescue is coming. They've given up hope. You're going to prove them wrong. You're going to show them that no fortress is impregnable. That no prisoner is forgotten. That we don't abandon our people."
His voice went harder.
"So go do your jobs. Fight smart. Fight hard. And come home alive. Because I've already written commendations assuming success. Making them posthumous would ruin my paperwork."
Quiet laughter rippled through the team. Tension breaking slightly.
"Load up," Phillips ordered. "First aircraft—Strike Alpha and Charlie. Second aircraft—Strike Bravo and Delta support. Third aircraft—remaining Delta forces and equipment. Flight time approximately four hours. Drop zone is thirty miles north of Nurmengard. You'll trek remaining distance on foot to avoid magical detection."
He stepped back. Saluted formally.
The team returned it. Then moved toward their aircraft.
---
Harry climbed into the lead plane with Strike Alpha and Charlie.
The interior was cramped—bucket seats along both walls, cargo straps holding equipment, the smell of hydraulic fluid and military efficiency. Not comfortable. Not meant to be. Just functional space for moving soldiers from point A to point B.
Steve took position near the front, shield secured to the bulkhead. Bucky sat beside him, checking magazines one final time despite having checked them seventeen times already.
The Black Dragon Legion claimed the opposite side. Charlus looked excited. Arcturus composed. Dorea focused. Cassiopeia calculating. Moody paranoid and alert and probably already planning seventeen escape routes.
Harry found a seat near the cargo door. Partly because it offered good sightlines. Partly because if they needed rapid deployment, he could manifest armor and exit first.
Raven slipped in beside him. She'd shifted slightly—still blue-skinned, but her features had adjusted to be softer. More approachable. "Mind if I sit here?"
"Please." Harry made space. "Nervous?"
"Terrified," she admitted. "But that seems appropriate given we're about to assault a magical fortress."
"Completely appropriate." Harry's hand found hers. "We'll get through this."
"Promise?"
"No. But I'll try very hard to make it true."
The aircraft's engines started—that distinctive roar of radial engines coming to life. The plane vibrated. Settled. Prepared for flight.
Peggy appeared at the cargo door, checking final details. Her eyes found Harry. Then Steve. Lingered on both of them.
"Be safe," she said. Simple. Direct. Everything complicated compressed into two words.
"You too," Harry replied.
She nodded. Moved to the second aircraft where Strike Bravo was loading.
The cargo door closed. Sealed. Locked.
They were committed now.
The plane began to taxi. Moving toward the runway. Gaining speed.
Then—liftoff.
The sensation of leaving ground. Of being carried into sky by metal and physics and the particular faith that made flight possible.
Harry looked out the small window. Watched England fall away below. The airfield becoming small. London's lights fading. The Channel approaching.
They were going to war.
Not the performative war of bonds rallies and propaganda. The real war. The kind where people died and missions failed and heroism was measured in survival rather than glory.
Harry closed his eyes. Felt the plane's vibration through his seat. Let the engine noise wash over him.
Four hours until drop zone.
Four hours to prepare mentally for what came next.
Four hours until they'd learn whether impossible missions stayed impossible or became history.
Beside him, Raven's hand squeezed his.
Across the aisle, Steve caught his eye. Nodded once. Solidarity. Understanding. Two enhanced soldiers about to face a dark lord and hoping competence would be enough.
The plane climbed higher. Into clouds. Into darkness. Into the uncertain future that waited beyond Austrian mountains.
Operation Valkyrie had begun.
And there was no turning back now.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!