Hello again, ladies and gents. Sorry that this one took a little while – the last chapter took a lot out of me, in both physical and emotional energy (mostly emotional. Seriously, it was gruelling). As a result, it took a while for me to get going on this one. Also, I hit a couple of points which were… not difficult to write, but difficult to focus on, when my brain wanted to wander onwards, as it so often does.

Still, here we are, and here this chapter is. This one… it's a recovery chapter for Harry, as well as a follow-up for one or two others. I'll be trying to balance necessary recovery for Harry with not simply wallowing in it for its own sake. I do hope I have succeeded.

Additionally, those of you with sharp eyes and very good memories will see me sowing the seeds for this book's equivalent of Chaos Reigns. It's going to be called Unfinished Business, and involve Carol, Peter Parker, and Gambit in New Orleans, dealing with a problem that, as the most recent living wielder of the Green Lantern Ring, Carol has inherited from her predecessor: Project Pegasus, SHIELD's ill-fated attempt to weaponise magic. Something that, last time it got loose, took the full might of a Green Lantern to put down…

Anyway, dear reader, as ever: read on.

Barondoctor: Congratulations on your anniversary and your raise. Also, congratulations to me on making you cry. :P In all seriousness, I am profoundly glad that I judged it right.

Trigon: Good, that was the desired effect. And nah – work 'em out for yourself. Also, do not keep bombarding me with variations on the same anon review, on the same chapter, when – since you refuse for whatever reason to review under an actual account I can reply to – I can only respond in an A/N. It is intensely annoying, especially since for whatever reason they didn't show up anywhere outside my email inbox.

SilverLion80: I'm glad I had such an effect. The tears were intentional, as was the obscurity of some of the characters in their lines. I like to keep you guys guessing.

The next morning proceeded much as such mornings often did in the Avengers' household: various people traipsed down at various different times, in various different states of wakefulness. There were a few differences, of course; more dark circles under the eyes, a more haggard look, and, in many cases, the wakeful tiredness that is only achieved by those who never really went to sleep. And there was a certain wary expectation that, inevitably, it would all go sideways.

Yet the fragile peace of last night seemed to have solidified somewhat. Not into anything concrete, it had to be said, but perhaps into thin plywood rather than spun sugar. Everyone was acting relatively normally, even if most of them were rather conspicuously trying not to stare at Harry, who was tucked into his father's side. He looked more or less recovered, but there was a wan tinge to his skin and a thinness about his face that left him with a rather striking and unfortunate resemblance to his uncle, emphasised by the way he picked somewhat unenthusiastically at his food.

The figure most obviously trying not to stare at Harry was Carol, who was seated diagonally opposite him – not out of his line of sight, but not directly in it, either. Every time he did seem to look at her through dark, surprisingly thick lashes, she would look away. Whenever he looked away, she would then look back.

On another occasion, under other circumstances, this kind of furtiveness might have been accompanied by blushes and indulgent amusement from those around them. Now, however, the hesitancy was one born of brittle tension, as if the two were bound together by frozen cobwebs; unwilling to move apart, but unable to move any closer, either, for fear of breaking entirely.

The break in this awkward two-step on an emotional knife-edge inevitably came, but when it did, it was by rather unexpected means. Namely, Pepper had all but flowed in, a fussing Ada in the crook of her arm and a cold bottle of milk in her other hand.

"Harry, could you warm up her bottle?" she asked, tone perfectly normal. "I could use the microwave, but it'll take longer and she'll fuss more if it looks like disappearing."

Harry blinked, then nodded, taking the bottle and focusing on it for a few moments. There was a hint of a heat haze around it, and the milk bubbled ever so slightly for a few moment, before settling. As he went to hand it back, however, Pepper – using skills honed by years of handing things to someone who did not like being handed things – smoothly swapped the bottle for the now fussing baby, which Harry took automatically.

She then leaned over and gently slipped the nub of the bottle into her daughter's mouth, supporting it while Ada's pudgy fingers tried to get a grip on it, and Ada's youngest godfather looked like he didn't know what had hit him.

"Here," Pepper said smoothly, slowly and gently arranging Harry's arms to better hold the baby, making sure all the while that he could see exactly what she was doing and wasn't discomfited by it. He wasn't, as it happened. Mostly, he just looked baffled, which was why he didn't resist when she carefully took the fingers of his free hand and wrapped them around the bottle, before stepping back. Harry looked up at her, confused but not upset, and got a sad, affectionate smile and an encouraging nod.

Expression slightly doubtful, he looked down at Ada, who was determinedly suckling at the bottle as the entire table, frozen in place, stared at this bafflingly normal tableau. After a couple of minutes of pure silence, sucking noises aside, Ada deigned to take her eyes off the bottle and its steadily dropping level of milk for a moment, looking up at Harry, who'd been staring down at her in a kind of detached confusion. Baby blue met emerald green for a long moment. Then, Ada let out a happy sounding gurgle, an innocent smile dimpling her cheeks. A matter of seconds later, its mirror appeared on Harry's as his gaze softened and his heart turned to goo, shifting his grip slightly so he could gently rub his thumb through her baby-fine coppery hair.

"Harry Thorson, slayer of dragons, spoiler of babies. This gets out, your reputation is gonna be shot."

The wry, fond remark popped out before Carol could stop it, and she cringed, her hand jerking towards her mouth in an attempt to take it back and avoid breaking the precious moment of peace. For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, everything and everyone was silent, Harry not even looking at her. Then, he took a deep breath and, slowly and deliberately, looked up. He didn't flinch. True, there was a brief tic in the corner of his jaw, a hint of a suppressed twitch, but that was all. Instead, the soft smile was replaced by one that, while a little wobbly around the edges, was both decidedly mischievous and fundamentally real.

"I'm a modern man, Miss Danvers," he drawled. "Who says I can't do both?"

And for one shining moment, it seemed like everything was all right.

It wasn't, of course.

But that didn't mean it wasn't going to be.

OoOoO

After breakfast, preparations started to be made for Harry's departure. He did, after all, have school the next day and a five hour time difference to account for. As it happened, there wasn't really anything in the way of packing, so the remaining few hours that Harry did have were largely his own. Those few hours were mostly spent with Ada in his arms, acting as a small, warm anchor to peace and sanity.

Perhaps predictably, Carol wasn't that far away. She was, in fact, trying to hover at a safe distance out of his direct line of sight while also not obviously hovering or being entirely out of view for his peace of mind. The manifold contradictions in this approach did not go unnoticed, but the somewhat awkward end result worked well enough for all parties involved – Harry didn't quite flinch on reflex every time he saw her, and he seemed to appreciate her presence.

While the two remained in almost total silence, according to Wanda, they maintained a steady dialogue through their psychic link, albeit one mostly composed of emotions rather than concrete thoughts. Furthermore, Carol felt confident enough to perch on a chair opposite Harry and lean over and affectionately tickle Ada.

Shortly before he departed, while Jane and Tony were preparing the Bifrost gate for departure, Harry slipped the baby entirely into her arms. This came as something of A surprise to both her and Steve, who was keeping a close eye on both of them from a discreet distance.

He then became considerably more surprised when Natasha murmured in his ear, "Give it ten years and they won't have to borrow a baby any more."

Steve choked on his own spit for a moment and shot her a reproachful and somewhat sceptical look. "I didn't think that you were that much of a romantic," he said.

"I'm not," Natasha said, and smiled slyly. "Got you going for a moment, though, didn't it?"

Steve, who had indeed briefly been confronted with the mental image of Carol with a daughter of her own (and no prizes for guessing who the father was), dialled up the reproachfulness of his expression. Natasha, by now immune to all but the most severe cases of the Captain-America-Is-Disappointed-In-You face, merely smirked.

"How do you think they'll make out?" Steve asked.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, which got a set of rolled eyes from Steve.

"You know what I meant," he said.

Natasha smirked again, before looking more thoughtful. "They'll be fine," she said after a moment. "Harry's got a lot of strong support networks to fall back on, including people who know how to deal with this kind of trauma. The fact that he's experiencing it at a slight remove, through those memories, helps." She glanced up at Steve. "As for your daughter –"

Steve shot her a sharp, surprised look and was met with a smile that was, this time, by turns knowing and falsely coy. It was the one that Steve had inwardly categorised as Natasha's playful, 'why, Steve, didn't you realise that I know everything?', smile. He rolled his eyes. "Pepper told you?"

"It's come up before," she said. "She saw what I did. Tony picked up on it ages ago. Thor's noticed it too, actually."

"Am I the only one who missed it?" Steve asked, half self-deprecating, half annoyed.

Natasha shrugged. "Loki, Clint, Bucky, and Bruce have been too busy to notice," she said. "Jane didn't pick up on it, probably because the teenager she's most concerned with is her future step-son, ditto Sirius and Remus, while Darcy's been working on her degree."

"They haven't set a date yet," Steve reminded her.

Natasha waved a hand. "It's a matter of time," she said.

Steve cocked an eyebrow, then looked back at Carol and Harry. Carol had just moved in for a hug, then stopped herself just as Harry flinched. Her face was now a picture of confused emotions; pain, disappointment, and recognition, all warring with self-recrimination for being disappointed in the first place. Then, Harry closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again, they flared gold and Carol jumped, surprised. Steve would later find out that she'd just received what could be best summed up as a psychic hug.

"A bit of time apart will be good for them," Natasha remarked. "She's got a school trip to New Orleans coming up, and he's got the Second Task of that Tournament to work on. So long as they don't try and bury their feelings, it should be good for them to have other things to focus on."

"That's a big 'if'," Steve said. "Harry buries his emotions like a natural, and Carol… well. I'm not sure if she gets it from Peggy, me, or just herself, but she's prone to it too."

"She grew up with an emotionally abusive father who tried to force her to conform to a particular standard of femininity," Natasha said bluntly. "It's unsurprising that she doesn't like to display stuff that she perceives as weakness."

Steve's jaw muscles clenched briefly, and he nodded. "I'd noticed," he said, then cocked his head listening.

"… I know you might be feeling up to, well, talking. But my door's open, you know? When you want to, when you're feeling… up to it. I'm here. I mean, I'll be waiting. For when you're ready. Always. Because… because I…"

The stream of words, sputtering forth in fits and starts, interwoven with nervousness and hesitancy, unable to get half the words out with the expectation of a rebuke was heartbreaking. But he didn't step forward to intervene, much as he was tempted to do so. For one thing, he somehow doubted that Carol would want it known that someone had overhead her. Just as he was about to tactfully tune out, he caught the soft reply.

"I know why," Harry said quietly. "I do too." His lips twitched into a slight smile, a little grimmer than it would once have been, but still sincere for all that. "I'll try not to keep you waiting too long, then," he said.

Carol's eyes widened. "I didn't mean –" she began, stricken.

"I know," Harry said, interrupting her, grimacing. "Sorry. Put that badly. But you know what I mean."

"Funnily enough, I think I do. Better than I know what I mean, actually."

Harry grinned suddenly, a flash of flame on a dark night. "Know the feeling," he said.

Quick as a whip, his hand shot out and took hers, squeezing tightly for a second, conveying an aching eternity of meaning and anguish. Then, as soon as it had begun, it ended, and Harry turned away, handing Ada to a newly arrived Pepper as his father came over to guide him to a Bifrost gate, while Carol stared after him, nestling into Steve's side as he came up to stand next to her. As he later observed, it was a tribute to their shared capacity for emotional self-control that it was only after Harry stepped through that they started crying.

OoOoO

Harry's return to Hogwarts was a relatively muted one. Those even vaguely in the loop sent him looks that were at minimum sympathetic, but, fortunately, didn't bring it up.

Others who had been a bit more closely involved had had slightly more overt reactions: Betsy had been the one to greet him as he had arrived, had noticed the damp eyes, and had, after assuring herself that he wouldn't react badly to it, pulled him into a brief, fierce hug; Sean and Professor Dumbledore had quietly taken him aside and let him know that their doors were open if there was anything he wanted to talk about; Hagrid had invited him around to tea with such a concerned look on his face that Harry couldn't find it in himself to say no, while Professor McGonagall had simply held him back after class on the pretense of discussing his transfiguration work, ordered tea, and practically force-fed him several ginger newt biscuits.

The students had been rather more obvious, lacking either the tact or the need to be at least semi-subtle in public. Ron and Hermione had been among the first to greet Harry, tracking him down through the good offices of Fred and George, who had delivered them into Harry and Bucky's presence, then tactfully vanished, anticipating that no one present would want much of an audienc. While Bucky was present, his uncanny knack for fading into the foreground meant that as far as most people were concerned, he didn't count.

Ron had then hovered somewhat awkwardly, not knowing what to say, and truthfully, neither had Harry. They were both saved from saying anything when Hermione shot into Harry's chest like a curly haired cannonball, tears on her face, and an alarming crimson glow in her eyes, as she was caught between grief and fury. The hug of a thankfully somewhat shellshocked Harry might have lasted a little longer if the scarlet sparks spitting from her fingers hadn't started turning his jeans to ectoplasm.

After that, she had peppered Harry with anxious questions of whether or not he was all right, interspersed with internal contradictions when brain caught up with mouth and realised that the previous question might have been a little too intrusive. Harry, caught up in this whirlwind, found himself somewhat adrift and Ron intervened at this point, to everyone's relief.

"Easy, Hermione," he said. "Let him breathe." He looked up at Harry. "You okay, mate?"

Harry considered this for a long moment. Then, with total accuracy and a world of subtext, he said in a neutral voice, "I've definitely been worse."

Wisely, they left it at that, as did most of the other students, who remembered what things had been like the last time that Harry had turned up in a somewhat touchy mood. Seamus had speculated that maybe it was 'girl trouble', but had thankfully been well out of Harry's earshot. He had not, however, been out of Hermione's. The ensuing ear-bashing had left him with ringing ears for several days, wistfully dreaming of the days when such comments merely triggered borderline murder-reflexes from angry demigods and/or teenage cosmic horrors.

It had therefore been established that this was just not a subject that anyone wanted to get into. Even the other Triwizard Champions only touched on it briefly, Fleur and Krum accepting Harry's somewhat brusque brush-off with equanimity, and the apparently fearless Cedric persisting only long enough to establish that Harry had unwittingly stirred up some very bad memories, before vanishing into Professor Sprout's office, then the library for half an hour, and emerging from the Restricted Section with a book on memory management techniques that mixed psychology and magic in ways that even Hermione didn't recognise.

"Drop it off with one of my housemates when you're done with it," he said. "They'll get it back to me, and I'll get it back to the library."

Perhaps unsurprisingly, when Harry asked where he'd about it from, Cedric had admitted that it had been recommended to him by Draco Malfoy.

Of all the students that Harry spent the most time talking to over the next fortnight or so, was probably one that most people hadn't expected: Ginny Weasley. It wasn't that much of a surprise in restrospect. Her own experiences with violation had left her with, unfortunately, a much greater insight into Harry's particular situation than most – though mercifully, her own experience had not been quite so… physical.

Speaking of Ginny, she had had to endure certain reactions to her and Diana's kiss at the Yule Ball – which, since it involved a notable family, by Wizarding standards, and a demigoddess and Princess who happened to be related to Harry, at least made the society pages of the Daily Prophet. Even if it hadn't, the Wizarding World practically ran on gossip, and Rita Skeeter, while 'mysteriously' unable to provide a direct report of the night's events, had been assiduously gathering rumours.

Those reactions had been somewhat attenuated at school by the protection of her brothers, Hermione, Cedric Diggory, and Draco Malfoy, of all people. There was also a dim awareness that Harry was fond of her and would therefore be Not Pleased if it came to his attention that she was being upset. Given Harry's reputation for being terrifyingly overprotective and somewhat temperamental (to put it mildly), this was not a minor consideration.

The main issue had been at home, with the broader Weasley-Prewett clan rallying after the loss of one of their own. While Mrs Weasley had been both awkward and confused (and of the belief that her daughter might have somehow got confused), she had slid into 'protective outraged mother' mode when her Great-Aunt Muriel had started making some rather unpleasant comments and insinuations. The words, "not my daughter, you bitch!", were reported in hushed rumour. While this might have been something of an exaggeration, they seemed to contain the essence of the message. While Molly Weasley might have had many faults, they usually came from a place of love and good intentions. One, specifically, was being over-protective of her children – and that fault was quite understandable considering the kind of trouble they managed to get themselves into, often entirely without Harry's involvement. In other words, woe betide the foolish person who threatened to upset one of her own.

Other than that, apparently there had been little more than some awkwardness, including on the part of Percy who it seemed had been a little worried of how it might reflect on him at work. Harry was, however, assured that he had opted on the right side of being protective of Ginny – after what was apparently a screaming row when he had attempted, with thoroughly misguided good intentions, to encourage her away from Diana on the grounds that people might not react well.

On a supposedly unrelated note, St. Mungos had had to deal with an influx of those who had attempted to send letters and packages that were either cursed or full of unpleasant substances. The properties of said curses and substances had not merely been reflected back upon their caster/sender, but their effects had either been magnified, or proved curiously stubborn. No one quite knew who was responsible, but the list of candidates was not a long one, and those who were in a position to notice were generally in a position to figure it out.

All in all, though, Harry seemed to be on the mend. It would be a mistake to describe him as well – while he took to calling Carol daily, he avoided using the video call function. But progress was being made, and consequently, his occasional perambulations towards the edge of the grounds, out near the forest, were tolerated once more.

On one of those walks, late one winter evening, as the last pale orange rays of sunlight reflected off deepening purple clouds, Bucky lightly nudged his shoulder. Harry, by now well-trained, didn't automatically look up and ask what was going on. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly – attentive, but not obvious.

"On the edge of the tree-line," Bucky said quietly, nodding towards the forest. Harry followed his gaze, sweeping along lengthening shadows, before stopping suddenly on a dark shape. It was deeper and darker than the shadows around, and two pale eyes gleamed from within it. As he focused, the shape became clearer, in the same way that a pattern could suddenly leap out from the clouds or the stonework of the castle, forming into a huge, gaunt black hound. A hound, moreover, that Harry recognised well enough even without a by now automatic telepathic check.

"Sirius," he said, surprised. "What's he doing here?"

"Checking up on you, or so I'd imagine," Bucky said dryly.

Harry frowned. "He could have called," he muttered.

Bucky shot him a somewhat disapproving look at this apparent ingratitude. MI13 largely controlled Hogsmeade at the moment, those Aurors who were around weren't likely to lift a finger (much less a wand) in the grounds that it was unlikely that the Ministry would do anything that might annoy Thor – and arresting his best friend would most certainly qualify as that. In theory, Sirius was safe. When he pointed this out to Harry, however, it cut little ice.

"It only takes one idiot," Harry retorted. "And I only have one godfather. More to the point, while I'm not particularly worried about protecting him if it comes to it, I don't think Professor Dumbledore would be too happy if I ended up beating up Ministry officials. Again."

Bucky half tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"He has come all the way out here, though," Harry said with a sigh. "Which is both sweet and completely unnecessary."

"I'm sure that he'd disagree with you."

"I'm sure you're right," Harry said wryly.

As it happened, Bucky was indeed right, and Sirius used many of the same arguments:namely, that MI13 didn't answer to the Ministry, and therefore wouldn't care about him, even if Peter Wisdom didn't a) happen to be his brother, b) enjoy psychologically torturing Cornelius Fudge. Most of the remaining Aurors were spread all over the country, for the time being, and as for those in Hogsmeade...

"They're wandering around, trying to look serious and official, and like they actually have something to do," Sirius said. "Truth is, they don't know what they're supposed to be doing, and they're too scared to try and push Wisdom."

"Because he's itching for a fight?" Harry suggested.

"Yes."

"No."

Sirius and Bucky shared a look, having contradicted each other in near perfect unison.

"My brother definitely wants to pick a fight with the Ministry," Sirius said, after a moment. "He knows that they're weak, so he's pushing Fudge and the rest of them so they'll have no choice but to respond. After that, he can crush them and take them over completely."

"That does sound like Wisdom," Harry muttered.

Sirius shot him a grim smile. "You can't say that he's short of ambition," he agreed.

"He's also a pragmatist," Bucky said bluntly. "He's got a lot of things on his plate right now, and if he pushes the Ministry too far into a corner, they'll lash out. Maybe under someone far more competent than Fudge. He's got all of what he needs from them, and most of what he wants. The rest can wait. More importantly, what with recruitment, he's got them in a stranglehold – all he has to do is hold on."

"Cold, pre-meditated, ruthless… that also sounds like him," Harry admitted.

"I still wouldn't put it past him to crush the Ministry if the opportunity came by," Sirius said, and Bucky shrugged in concession. With this addressed, he turned to Harry, expression turning concerned. "Are you –"

"I'm fine," Harry said, a little irritably, before sighing. "Sorry. It's just that everyone – almost literally everyone – has been asking me that. I'm fine. More or less. I've been better." He exhaled sharply. "A lot better, if I'm honest. But I'm managing. And I'm right here, you know, I can see you looking to check with Bucky."

Sirius, who had indeed been shooting Bucky a querying look, had the grace to look a little guilty. But only a little. "You don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to admitting when something's wrong, Harry," he pointed out.

"He's got you there," Bucky murmured.

Harry shot his bodyguard a chilly look that – naturally – was completely ignored, before looking up sharply. Both Sirius and Bucky, recognising the signs, settled back into wary defensive postures, scanning their surroundings.

"Harry?" Sirius asked quietly.

"There's someone around," Harry said softly. "I can feel them. They're…" He frowned. "And they're gone. Whoever it was, they're fast, and heading towards Hogsmeade."

"Probably someone from MI13 feeling nosy," Sirius said, holding his wand in a way that belied his dismissive words. "Or just a student."

"Probably," Harry echoed, frowning.

"Come on," Sirius said, beckoning them towards the Forest. "Let's get out of sight. I can catch you up on where I've been – why I didn't get here earlier."

"I heard that you were on an assignment," Bucky remarked, as they headed into the undergrowth.

"Assignment?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Nick, Nick Fury, wanted a favour," Sirius explained. "It's about… well. What do you know about werewolves?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "They like tea and they're very patient, if past experience is anything to go by," he said, earning a bark of laughter from Sirius. "Seriously? They come in all shapes and sizes: some infect with a bite and turn monthly, others are cursed and turn monthly and are next to indestructible, some are blessed and can control it, some are part human with the power to do it as part of what they are, and, uh, some are basically just animagi, and some use magic belts and stuff like that."

"Pretty much," Sirius said. "The last one, hexenwolves. They used to be really popular in Central and Eastern Europe – anyone, even a muggle, could bargain with a demon or a powerful witch or wizard and get a magic belt. They put it on, turn into a wolf, and hunt down anything they want. Or anyone, come to that."

"So I've heard," Harry said. "Are they becoming popular again, or something?"

"Bingo," Sirius said, nodding. "Some of the new designs are mixing muggle technology and magic – it used to be that you could just take the belt off and that would be that, but now, some people are keeping the thing they're using to transform in their bodies. And that's just the start of it."

"Of course it is," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

Sirius glanced over his shoulder and smirked. "Yep," he said. "Anyway, Eastern Europe's a mess right now, and a lot of people like the idea of being able to turn into a giant wolf; some for self-defence, some for a bit more than that, others to put a bit of food on the table… and others just for the fun of it."

"If I remember correctly, don't those things usually involve dark magic?" Harry asked.

Sirius waggled a hand. "Not necessarily," he said.

"But the results still tend to be messy," Bucky said, with an air of experience. "The belts come with a kind of bloodlust attached."

"Lovely," Harry said flatly. "So what did Fury have you doing?"

"Someone was producing the enchantments on an industrial scale," Sirius said. "As a kind of tattoo, actually."

"Clever," Bucky commented.

"Very," Sirius said sourly. "More than can be said for most of the people who got them." He shook his head. "I was working with Remus and John Constantine. Heard of him?"

"In passing," Harry said carefully. Sirius, not fooled, shot him a crooked smile.

"Let me guess," he said. "Wanda?"

"… Yes."

"Those two didn't end on good terms," Sirius remarked. "Neither of them ever said why. All I know is that it was serious, and John was lucky to get away with his skin."

Harry considered this comment, what he knew of the situation, and more pertinently, what he knew Wanda was capable of, for a moment. "Yeah, I think that's a pretty good summary," he said.

Sirius shot him a cock-eyed look, and went on. "Anyway, we were out there looking for the source of these tattoos and talismans," he said. "Nick reckoned – and I think he's right – that Voldemort was behind them."

Harry stopped in his tracks. "Wait, what?" he said in disbelief.

"He's not doing them himself," Sirius elaborated. "Some witches and wizards with a knack for alchemy – kids, really – were doing it. They didn't really know what they were doing, though, not thinking of the consequences. And they definitely didn't have the brains to come up with it. See, the basic concept was relatively simple, and so was the practise once you knew how to do it. But the theory behind it?" He shook his head. "I'm good at transfiguration. I'm really good. But this was on a whole different level; it involved figuring out how to bind something from the spirit world as well as a physical transformation, and most of the time, into hardly anything more than skin deep tattoos."

"That sounds… complicated," Harry remarked.

"It is," Sirius said. "Remus reckoned it was based on some old Celtic spellwork, from centuries before Merlin."

"Except updated," Bucky said.

"Except updated," Sirius said. "Into something that could turn your average drunken idiot into a giant, hairy, homicidal killing machine."

"Except that," Harry said. "That sounds… fun."

Sirius snorted. "Oh, it was. And that was before we got to Latveria, since the people responsible decided to hop over the border."

"… There is no way I can see that failing to end badly," Harry said, after a long moment.

"Von Doom wasn't all that pleased, no," Sirius agreed, before his expression turned grim. "No, he wasn't pleased at all." At Harry's questioning look, he grimaced. "You've met him, Harry. I can imagine you know better than most the kind of tolerance he'd have for that sort of hell-raising."

"Not much," Harry admitted. "So they're all…"

"Dead," Sirius confirmed. "Dead, or detained at Lord Doom's pleasure, for the crime of being bloody stupid and meddling with things they shouldn't. They weren't evil, not really. Dangerous, definitely, but they could have been straightened out. I doubt they'll get that chance, though – we're not the only ones who want to know what Voldemort's up to."

Once, Harry might have asked indignantly why Sirius and the others hadn't tried to stop it. Now, he was rather more realistic: he knew very well that Sirius and Remus were both powerful wizards, and that John Constantine, while less powerful, was far more dangerous when was minded to be. However, he also knew very well just how powerful Viktor Von Doom was, and more than a little of what he was capable of. And that was if his robots hadn't got involved.

So instead, he reached out and squeezed Sirius' shoulder, getting a slightly startled twitch, then a grateful half-smile. "Thanks," Sirius said. "But I'm fine." He eyed Harry, looking half sad, half guilty. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. Your cousins managed to reach me and Remus, but we'd been cut off for a while, so your dad couldn't get to us, and when we found out something was wrong… well, we were still in the middle of things in Latveria. We didn't have the time to get back. But we should have –"

"Sirius, the only person I know who might be able to make time is Doctor Strange," Harry said, interrupting him gently, but firmly. "So if you want to blame someone, blame him. I usually do. If he wanted to make sure you were there, he could have done. Besides, my uncle wasn't there either, because, like you, he was busy. It happens." He paused. "I can't pretend I didn't wish you were there, because… I did. But things are the way they are." His tone turned dry. "Anyway, it wasn't like I was lacking for emotional support – I think dad and Wanda are still trying to make up for a decade or so of overdue parenting and godmothering."

Sirius grinned. "Well then," he said. "Let me at least make it up to you like a true Marauder; by showing you around some of the more interesting bits of the Forest."

"I have been in here before, you know," Harry said, a little amused.

"Including when you weren't supposed to be," Bucky murmured.

"Not some of the places I have to show you," Sirius said, absolutely certain as they slipped into the undergrowth. "For one thing, there's more to this place than meets the eye."

"Like what?" Harry asked, expecting something like 'it has giant talking spiders in it'.

"Like the fact that it's bigger on the inside."

"What."

OoOoO

As Harry explored the Forest with Sirius' encouragement, other potentially dangerous matters were explored. Specifically, the composition of the rest of the Triwizard Tournament: the Tasks had already been reshaped to accommodate a fourth Champion (and one capable of levelling mountains if he was minded to do so, at that). Now, other concerns were coming to the fore.

"What about Mr Thorson's enemies?" Karkaroff asked abruptly. "There is no shortage of them. Indeed, it seems that as soon as one is gone, another four pop up out of the woodwork!"

While most in the room at least disliked, if not despised, Karkaroff, it had to be admitted that he had a point. Even, as it happened, by Bucky, who stood up, removing a series of silver balls from his pocket, which he rolled out onto the table.

"Anticipating that risk – and your question, Professor Karkaroff," he said. "I've prepared a summary."

As he did, they glowed, and a series of double-sided images flickered into life. Then, he spoke, his tone taking on the detached, clinical aspect of a soldier briefing officers. The kind of demeanour, once upon a time, held by Sergeant Barnes of the 107th Infantry.

He expanded one of the images – HYDRA's emblem, before tapping it, revealing a series of profile images: Lucius Malfoy, Alexander Pierce, Gravemoss, Zemo, Zola, and a fully masked Winter Soldier.

"HYDRA are largely inactive – they're trying to rebuild and fly under the radar in the process," he said. "Of their big guns from their global takeover last year, almost all of them are off the board: Gravemoss, armed with the Darkhold, and Zola, commanding the Dreadnought, were killed or crippled at the Battle of London. Gravemoss hasn't been since, with no sign of him anywhere near the Nine Realms, while the Darkhold is back locked up under Castel Montesi, with drastically increased security. Zola's current status is unknown, but it's believed that he may not have escaped the Dreadnought, which was destroyed by Magneto. The Winter Soldier also died during the fighting."

He tapped each image in turn, the image going red.

"Alexander Pierce, head of HYDRA's infiltration of SHIELD and related agencies, is currently incarcerated. His interrogators are screened, frequently and thoroughly," he said, tapping Pierce's image twice, causing it to go amber. "Malfoy and Zemo are active, so far as we know, but on the run," he continued, tapping their images, turning them green. "As best we can tell, they, and the core of what's left of HYDRA, have taken refuge on Madripoor, an island-state in the Indian Ocean. They're believed to have bought protection from its current ruler, this man: Nicodemus Archleone."

In response to his words, another image appeared, of a middle aged man who could have passed as a native of anywhere from the Mediterranean. A connecting gold line appeared between Zemo and Malfoy, and a silver one between the two of them and Nicodemus.

"For those who don't know, Nicodemus is the leader of a group known as the Knights of the Blackened Denarius – Denarians, for short," he continued. "Each Denarian is a human hosting a Fallen Angel. Each one is different in appearance, methods, and powers. Some Fallen work in partnership with their host, while others treat them as vessels. While there are thirty of them, there's usually at least ten off the board at each time, and the remaining twenty are divided into at least two factions. Nicodemus, believed to be the oldest of them at 2000 years old, leads one. At least nominally, he leads all of them – his Fallen, Anduriel, was apparently a direct subordinate of Lucifer. He's functionally impossible to kill, and Anduriel specialises in knowledge gathering."

"Is he likely to be a threat?" Wisdom asked.

"Hard to say," Bucky said. "On the one hand, he apparently avoids Asgardians and others from the Nine Realms. However, this doesn't seem to be out of fear. The fact he's hosting HYDRA says that much, and he's recorded as having killed Asgardians in the past. However, he isn't inclined to pick fights he can avoid, and shows little interest in them. While his ambitions are literally apocalyptic and he could target Harry as a means to that end, I think it's unlikely – too much risk, too little reward. Next; the Red Room."

Another image came to life: a red five pointed star.

"The Red Room has been comprehensively destroyed," Bucky continued. "Its senior operatives are dead or imprisoned, while its junior operatives are simply dead," he said, bringing up the images of the Red Room leadership and ticking them off appropriately. Notably, Sinister was not included. "The new Russian government, largely formed from the remains of the previous one, is hunting down any remaining associates. They don't have the means to get involved even if they wanted to. Their threat is negligible."

He gestured again.

"The Grey Court. Specifically, its King, Dracula," he said. "Who has something of a grudge against Harry, trying to kill him at least once last Halloween."

"'ow did that 'appen?" Madame Maxime asked, puzzled and concerned.

"And why wasn't he here?" Karkaroff asked, eyes narrowed. "Did he just fly off to pick a fight after his… outburst?" His gaze darted to Crouch, whose eyes flickered.

"Harry got between Dracula and something – someone – he wanted very badly," Bucky said evenly. "As for why he left, he – we – did so with the assistance of Doctor Strange, to help the person in need. We succeeded."

"Dracula's not likely to make a move, though," Wisdom remarked. "Our intelligence says that he's been skulking around Western Russia and Ukraine recently, licking his wounds. That fight on Halloween took a toll on his most powerful supporters, and to some of the other, older Grey Court vampires, maybe showed a bit of weakness. Plus, he doesn't have a good history with Britain. We've got a vampire over here, monarch-class power-levels, who feeds on blood bank extras and mostly just wants to be left alone. He pays his rent by keeping other vampires out of Britain, and him and Dracula have clashed in the past. That's not a fight Dracula would want to be picking right now, much less another round with the Avengers." He smiled grimly. "Or us."

Bucky nodded. "Dracula has a reputation for military brilliance," he said. "He picks his moments and marshals his resources carefully. Those resources have been significantly reduced, and he'll probably be trying to reconsolidate his position. However, he also has a reputation for revenge, especially if he feels that he has been humiliated. Several centuries ago, he crossed paths with Thor, and lost the resulting fight. After that, he hunted down and killed another thunder god, Perun, solely to prove that he wasn't going soft. While he's unlikely to make a move so soon, or here, I wouldn't rule out something indirect."

His expression turned grim. "Other than that, we have two factors that are largely unknown: Svartalfheim and Muspelheim," he said.

"Two of the Nine Realms," Dumbledore said, frowning. "Respectively, Muspelheim is the world of fire, and, if I remember correctly, Svartalfheim is the home of the original dokkalfar – the Dark Elves."

"Why do I get the feeling that whatever trouble is brewing dates back to last summer?" Wisdom asked shrewdly. "London, Ladoga, or both."

"Ladoga?" Bagman asked, puzzled.

Surprisingly, both Crouch and Karkaroff looked sharply at Wisdom.

"The cause of the incident at Lake Ladoga was unidentified," Crouch said.

"Some say a demon, others, the wrath of a god, others still some kind of great magic," Karkaroff added, then shrugged. "Perhaps even muggles." A hint of sneer added what he thought of that.

"Oh, it's been identified," Wisdom said, shooting Karkaroff another shark-like smile. "Mister Thorson was attacked by the Red Room, initially, quite successfully. Unfortunately for them, like all attacks on that young man that are a little too successful, they ran into that protection his mum put on him all those years ago."

"Protection?" Madame Maxime asked, confused.

"Oh yes, Madame," Wisdom said. "A very particular protection. The same one that destroyed a HYDRA assault team last year, pounding several thousand tons of enchanted stone to dust. The same one that took on a fragment of an Elder God capable of destroying universes at the Battle of London and burnt it up like dry paper." His gaze lingered on Karkaroff. "The very same one, in fact, that swatted aside a Killing Curse and its caster, a fully fledged Dark Lord, like they weren't even there. And each time, it left him with whole and healthy, with barely a scar to show for it."

"What are you saying, old man?" Bagman asked, baffled.

"I'm saying, Bagman, that there's two good candidates for whatever's got the Nine Realms stirred up," Wisdom said, now looking Bucky dead in the eye. "One was Chthon: an incursion like the Battle of London leaves scars on more worlds than this one. It makes changes, even after the repair work is done. Forests reclaiming land they once held, creatures not seen for tens of thousands of years returning from the past and the spirit world alike… and, of course, ancient dragons from the dawn of time waking up and deciding to cause some mischief."

As he spoke, everyone bar Dumbledore and McGonagall – who, respectively, were eyeing Wisdom and looking troubled – turned to look at Bucky, who had purposefully gone blank.

"The other is something that'll either attract all sorts of nasties," Wisdom continued. "Or make them run for another galaxy, screaming. The latter, if they have any sense."

"What is your point, Director?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"I've done my reading," Wisdom said. "Good thing about Britain: if you know where to look, there's a surprising amount of information on Asgard. And the Nine Realms as a whole, in fact. This wasn't really their stomping grounds, of course, but they had a few run-ins with the local pantheon, the Asgard-Avalon wars. As you probably know, Professor, some of the battles weren't all that far from here. And as far as the gods of Avalon are concerned, it wasn't all that long ago. All in all, you'd be amazed what they were willing to cough up when I started asking the right questions."

Karkaroff scoffed. "You cannot seriously expect us to believe that you can summon up gods, Wisdom," he said.

Wisdom glared at him, making the man shrivel a little.

"Eet does seem a leetle unlikely, Director," Maxime said, rather more diplomatically.

"Unlikely or not, Madame, I did it," Wisdom said. "They're not quite so easy to reach as Asgard, and they need a bit more ceremony than just a floo call. But if you know how to call, they'll answer."

"Director," Dumbledore said, voice hard now and carrying an edge of danger. "The point, if you please."

Wisdom eyed him, then nodded slightly, before swivelling his gaze back to Bucky.

"Something's on the move," he said. "All through the Nine Realms. Something very old, very big, and very, very bad. They weren't inclined to say what. Or rather, I think they were, but I also think they weren't allowed to. Maybe plausible deniability, maybe something more solid. Either way, they were very clear: it calls back to the Nine Realms, and it had something to do with that dragon." He folded his arms and crossed his legs. "Now, I've got piles of files on the Nine Realms, one of which is Midgard a.k.a. Earth. A lot of the rest is speculation, especially since most of the myths are rubbish. But what with that dragon, it doesn't take a genius to start joining the dots."

He leaned forward.

"Surtur's awake," he said. "And he's trying to start Ragnarok, isn't he?"

Despite the inflection, it wasn't a question.

Bucky nodded. "He is," he said.

"I thought so," Wisdom said. His eyes said more. And I know what else he is, too. I've worked it out.

Bucky's eyes said. I know you have.

"Ragnarok?" Bagman said, baffled.

"A supposed prophecy of the end of the world in Norse mythology," Dumbledore said. "One of many such prophecies," he added pointedly. "The end of the world, or its possibility, being a popular subject."

"You knew about this?" Karkaroff demanded, apoplectic, eyes bulging.

"I am familiar with both the prophecy, distorted as it is, and the reality, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore said calmly. "Which includes the threat posed by Surtur. I am informed that he is currently contained. That containment was damaged by the Battle of London and Chthon's actions during it, and it is weakening. He cannot act directly, I believe, but his servants grow stronger. One of them was the dragon that Harry killed – with the aid of a number of others – during the first task, the Elder Wyrm. It was one of many, planet-killers all, and they were commanded by creatures that snuffed out stars as you or I would a candle. I am reliably informed that their master destroyed a galaxy."

He regarded Karkaroff. "Yes, Igor, I knew about this. I also realised something that is very difficult to accept: there is nothing that I, or any of us, can do to stop it."

His gaze swept the room, largely overlooking Bucky. "When we arranged this tournament, we hoped to build a new unity after a time of chaos, to restore a degree of peace following the horror instigated by HYDRA and Chthon," he said. "It was meant to be a relatively subdued affair, in a world that was getting back to its feet and dusting itself down. However, the simple fact is this: events have overtaken us. We are at the edge of a storm that is consuming worlds, a war of gods and monsters. As the First Task demonstrated, if a wave or a particularly strong gale from that storm comes our way, then all our powers cannot prevent it from doing so. This is not to say that nothing can be done: the dragon could not be prevented. However, it could be mitigated, adapted to, and ultimately defeated. That is the challenge we face for the next two Tasks."

"Because of your student, Dumbly-dorr," Maxime said, a little chilly, but without real rancour.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "Though only in the sense that he is the one targeted, and not through any choice or fault of his own. I have no doubt that he will protect his fellow Champions to every extent of his considerable ability. He has stated it to me before, repeatedly, and he demonstrated it during the First Task, twice saving all of their lives. However, it is also our responsibility to protect them, as well as the other students at Hogwarts. All of them, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students included. This leads to the question of how best to do that. Do we keep the Tasks here, in Hogwarts and its grounds, where they are in theory most controllable? Or do we take them further afield, where a separate site can be secured, and the other students kept out of the way?"

"Which leads to our final problem," Bucky said quietly, flicking up an image. "Voldemort. He is active, mobile, and his location is currently unknown. For the time being, at least, he is believed to be operating alone, though he's been using every piece of information he can lay his hands on to make deals with various other parties. He is also the one who put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire, ensuring his entry. His exact reasons are unknown, though the most plausible suggestion is that he wanted Harry put in lethal danger."

"He wants the boy to die in the Tournament?" Crouch asked, speaking up for only the second time.

Bucky shook his head. "No," he said. "While I doubt it would bother him too much, he knows that that's unlikely to work. He was more interested in assessing Harry, better understanding his powers and his protection. He's also made a play for some dangerous knowledge: he was an accomplice to Selene Gallio in her attempt to perform a Darkhallow, a necromancy based rite of ascension to Greater Godhood. In exchange for what, I don't know, but in a duel with Harry Dresden he freely admitted that he had his own aims."

"Such as?" Dumbledore asked.

"After he stole it and before he delivered it to Selene, he made his own copy of the Word of Kemmler," Bucky said grimly.

Everyone in the room, bar Bagman, went bone white. Even Wisdom, who already knew, had gone pale.

"Kemmler… wasn't he that fellow who worked for Grindelwald?" Bagman asked, puzzled.

"And a very powerful Dark Lord in his own right, Mr Bagman," Dumbledore said quietly. "A necromancer who mastered the art of consuming spirits to gain power, instigated the muggle first World War to exploit the millions of deaths that would result, and returned from the grave as many as seven times. It is a mark of how powerful Grindelwald became that he was the master in that relationship, not of any weakness on Kemmler's part. Kemmler's final death in 1961 required the full military capacity of the White Council, and triggered one of the most powerful earthquakes of modern times as a side-effect."

He steepled his fingers.

"His greatest threat, however, was a willingness to share his knowledge. He took several apprentices; all of them became powerful, and one has become a Dark Lord in his own right, capable of matching Wanda Maximoff in single combat. Worse, Kemmler also published his teachings in several books, which he spread far and wide. The Word of Kemmler was the last, and believed to be lost. It was rediscovered, however, and contained his final teaching, one he failed to complete – the Darkhallow. Which, it seems, Voldemort now has access to."

"What could he do with it?" Wisdom asked.

"I'm not sure," Dumbledore admitted. "The problem is that all indications are that the Darkhallow is remarkably simple. Kemmler had a genius for distilling magic and its theory down to its essentials, making it easy to understand and perform – I doubt that the instructions for the rite would even fill a pamphlet, let alone a book, no matter how slim. However, like all ascension rites, the Darkhallow can only be performed at certain times. So the immediate problem is not necessarily the Darkhallow…"

"… but what else is in there," Bucky finished.

"Is there another copy?" Crouch asked.

"None that I know of for certain," Dumbledore said. "However, I think that a moment's thought will bring to mind the one person who almost certainly has one."

There was a long pause, then Karkaroff cursed in Russian. Once again, he was expressing the sentiments of most of the room.

"And just when we need him, he is not here," he said.

"I have long grown accustomed to the fact that Doctor Strange keeps his own schedule," Dumbledore said.

"I find it curious that you are so relaxed about that, Dumbledore," Karkaroff said, tone turning ugly. "Can you not control your staff?"

"No one in this world or any other can control Strange, Professor Karkaroff," McGonagall snapped. "As you should well know!"

Dumbledore laid a restraining hand on her wrist as Karkaroff bridled. "Thank you, Minerva," he said firmly. "It is true, I do not claim any ability to control Doctor Strange. To the best of my knowledge, no one can. While he is on Hogwarts' premises, he does me the courtesy of deferring to me in my capacity of headmaster, but we both know that it is only a courtesy. In summary, he shows up to teach his classes, he marks his homework in timely fashion, and other than that, he does whatever he chooses." He smiled pleasantly as Karkaroff went red with indignation. "If you have a problem with this arrangement, Igor, then I'm sure he'd be glad to discuss it with you."

Karkaroff opened his mouth, then closed it again, going pale. For the most part, he'd tried to avoid directly attracting Strange's attention for the very simple reason that Strange a) hated Death Eaters, b) held grudges, c) had a legendary propensity for creative nastiness when provoked. Or, in Karkaroff's case, given an excuse.

"Strange has a copy of this book, then?" Wisdom asked, eyebrow raised.

"I would be very surprised if he hadn't at least read it," Dumbledore said. "I recall skimming a few unfinished manuscripts captured during the War, but those memories tell me little more than that the Darkhallow wasn't the only rite in the book, and the extent of Kemmler's meticulous depravity. As it is, there is only one living person that I know for certain has held the completed book, if only briefly: Harry Dresden."

Wisdom drew his wand and half-turned, muttering a few words. A ball of silver light shot out of the room, heading down the corridor. "My people will set up an interview with him," he said. "Though I think it's safe to assume that whatever's in that book involves necromancy and is absolutely sodding awful."

"And, with a mind like Voldemort's at work on it, can be made worse," Dumbledore said grimly. "Yes. Whatever happens next, it's likely that he'll try and involve himself somehow in either or both of the remaining Tasks. With that in mind, my immediate thought is that the Second Task should take place in the Forbidden Forest. That should provide a balance between challenge and security – both for the Champions, and for other students, as well as the residents of Hogsmeade."

"Eet 'as eets advantages," Maxime conceded. "Though the security will need to be far greater."

"I intend to request a small force from Asgard on top of the precautions we already have, Madame," Dumbledore said. "The White Council have also followed my line of thought and, considering the events of the First Task and their own proximity to Hogwarts, have requested a role in security oversight. I have accepted." He looked over at Wisdom. "While I have every faith in MI13's capabilities in terms of actual confrontation with a threat, as was so aptly demonstrated during the First Task, differently trained eyes might see what we otherwise might not."

Wisdom eyed him, then nodded grudgingly. "Makes sense," he said.

"I am glad to hear it," Dumbledore said. "Doubtless we shall have other matters to consider – including confirmation of the Forest or presentation of an alternative location for the next task – but for now… I think we all have much to think on. Agreed?"

There was a reluctant sursurration of agreement.

"Good," Dumbledore said. "With that in mind, I shall consider this meeting adjourned, and invite you all to lunch." He smiled genially. "I don't know about you, but such weighty discussions often leave me rather peckish."

OoOoO

Not all meetings were quite so civil, as it happened. Doctor Strange, after all, applied a very particular brand of diplomacy when feeling piqued. He was feeling somewhat piqued right now, in this case by the fact that circumstances required him to explain things to people he didn't want to. But circumstances were what they were, so he was standing before the Senior Council in one of their more opulent meeting chambers, the decoration disguising extensive warding. There was a large, slowly drying red stain at his feet, and a trail of drops leading away from it.

So far, he had covered what he had done to the Red Court, as well as why he had done it, and why he had done it at that particular point, along with the continuing issues to do with Harry and the Tournament.

Both were matters of courtesy. After all, the White Council had been at war with the Vampire Courts – though almost exclusively the Red Court – for several years at this point, and had taken serious losses. The Senior Council therefore had reason to wonder why, given that Strange had been capable of ending that war singlehandedly, he had waited for so long to do so (the answer of "it was the right moment" was not appreciated).

As for the latter, the Tournament (and Harry) were near their traditional stomping grounds, their headquarters having been in Edinburgh for the last millennium and a half.

"… and that is why I will be giving you some very particular instructions to follow," Strange said. "The gist, though, is education, education, and, oh yes… education. Simply put, your current system is insular, outdated, and unfit for purpose."

"Rich indeed coming from the world's most famously reclusive wizard," LaFortier sneered. His tone was an expression of the increasingly ugly mood of a body that did not like being dictated to at the best of times – and not without good reason. Such a response, however, was perhaps not wise given who was doing the dictating.

Strange simply stared at him for several very long moments. It was not an aggressive stare, or even a particularly cold one. It was just… distant. Detached. As if the person in question was regarding a particularly annoying gnat.

"I have taken few apprentices, it is true," he said in deceptively mild tones. "Proportionate to my lifetime, anyway. I have had my reasons for doing so, and while some of those reasons were bad, others were very necessary. For instance, the fact that reality usually required my undivided attention or it might have done something unfortunate. Like unravel."

He conjured a chair and fell back into it, folding one leg over the other and swept his gaze across the lot of them. "The aptitude for magic is genetically based. With the permission of Charles Xavier, I have helped augment his Cerebro device, usually used for finding prospective students and other mutants, to detect potential Wizards. He is already compiling a list with appropriate data; names, ages, locations, that sort of thing. You'll need secure accommodation to suit a more formalised teaching regimen, of course, but, well…"

He gestured all around them. "I know for a fact that you don't even use half of what's available down here," he said casually. "Older, or at least more advanced, students will be able to access the resources of that rather charmingly enormous tower, filled with laboratories, libraries, and a mining complex near Hogwarts, soon to become a magical certain of tertiary education. I rather think it will pay for itself."

He paused, looking thoughtful, then snapped his fingers.

"Oh, and before I forget," he added. "Young Master Dresden had a rather good idea recently, to help those who are, shall we say, the have-nots of the magical community, the ones who don't quite make the rather arbitrary Wizardly grade. Essentially, it was to use modern technology to track them down, connect to them, and teach them how to defend themselves, and, in turn, let them show young talents the ropes. Plus, if anything decides to make a meal of them that's out of their league, they can call for help."

He waved a magisterial hand at the stunned looking Senior Council.

"It'll take funding, of course, but don't fret – your voluminous pockets probably won't be required," he said. "Master Dresden's investigative apprentice is Bruce Wayne, a very promising young man. He along with his parents, is well aware of the supernatural, remarkably skilled at adapting technology to deal with it, and of a philanthropic turn of mind. I'm sure he'll be very happy to help."

"And you did not see fit to consult any of us on this?" the Merlin asked, voice deadly quiet. Many other Wizards, indeed, many other people and beings of power, would have hesitated at that silky, stiletto edged tone.

Strange's eyes hardened and his smile vanished. "No," he said coldly. "I did not. I was there when Merlin, my friend and brother, whose name you presume to bear, created this Council as we now know it. He took a huddle of confused and pathetic old men caught between cowering in the rotting husk of the Roman Senate as the Western Empire was dismembered and seeking a new Imperial boot to lick in Constantinople, and somehow turned them into this august body."

He stood, and between one instant and the next, he was standing right before the Merlin, staring down at him with cold contempt.

"I have known every single one of your predecessors, Arthur Langtry," he said, full of soft menace. "An apparently endless parade of hypocritical and often depressingly small-minded plutocrats with barely a spark of true intelligence buried under the weight of mean cunning, wafted to eminence by a mixture of sly patronage and thuggish power. You are superior to most, I'll grant, but even you allowed an agent of the Outside into your close councils – apparently a mere secretary, but more than just that. Until I… rectified matters." He shot a pointed look at the red stain, before looking up. "I was, and remain, unimpressed."

"There was no way for any of us to know of Peabody's treachery, much less its extent, Doctor Strange," Listens-To-Wind said. "Wizard Peabody was a wizard in good standing for over 150 years, and his method was designed to pass beneath notice and obscure any attempt to discover it."

"There was," Strange said coldly. "You were simply not good enough. Even if you did not suspect him of treachery, another could have tainted or swapped the ink. It was a logical agent to conceal any potion or poison in, after all."

His gaze flicked over them, cool and judgemental.

"You are all highly competent in your own ways, don't get me wrong," he said. "I will even concede the occasional usefulness of the Council, and that much of your apparent idleness has been justified caution. I am not even particularly interested in the activities of the group that some call the Circle, and others, the Black Council, which Peabody was a part of. A number of them are currently spending an extended period at the pleasure of the Winter Queen, and the rest of that matter is in the hands of the Sorceress Supreme and her apprentice."

He shook his head.

"No, most of my contempt is not for what you are, but for what you have failed to be. You have been over-cautious, closed to new ideas, and forgetting the purpose for which you were formed, all for fear of getting your hands dirty. And while once, your ways were sufficient, that is no longer the case."

"You propose to change us?" McCoy asked, tone carefully neutral.

"Yes," Strange said bluntly. "By force if necessary."

The atmosphere positively hummed with power a mere moment later, with an an attendant surge of emotions so thick that they could almost be tasted: rage, indignation… and fear. From anyone, they would have been fighting words. From Strange, they were much more. Strange, himself, however, just twitched half his mouth upwards in a brief half-smile.

"Too slow, children," he said. "Much, much too slow. And incorrectly assumed, in any case. I don't intend to pin you down until you cry uncle, or even break you. The simple fact is that you will change, one way or the other, and I shall make you. Why? Because it is that or die, or you are too set in your ways to do so without… encouragement. I make no apologies for the means or the necessity. The world is changing, the entire universe is in uproar."

His gaze swept over them, the aura of energy fading somewhat.

"You call yourselves 'wizards'? 'The Wise'?" he asked sharply. "Then you shall have to prove it, and fast, because all the magical lore of Earth alone will not be enough to save us from what is coming. I did not destroy the Red Court simply to provide you with surcease, or to remove an inconvenient obstacle to my successor's apprentice, or even because they were a plague upon this realm and others. I did it, in part, because now you are ready for war and they would only have impeded the next stage of your preparations. There is no going back to the way things were before, ladies and gentlemen. Far from it. Your preparations will have to be for a different kind of threat. One coming from up… there."

He pointed skywards and as he did, a soft voice interrupted him.

"Thanos."

Everyone turned to looked at the Gatekeeper, whose false eye gleamed like steel.

"Yes," Strange said quietly. "Thanos. The Mad Titan. He is up in the stars. And he is the endgame. You may think that you all know the mysteries of the universe, and I'll grant, you know many of them. You have peeled back the layers of this realm and those around it, walking through dimension after dimension, expanding your understanding of the realms around you. But I assure you there is far more to the universe than you ever knew. You may have had doubts after the Chitauri came, and if you did, you were right to do so. This world, this mad, fragile, beautiful world… it is a mote of dust in a sunbeam, one of so very many. While few worlds are quite as magical as this one, many of them are still deeply magical in their own right, fountains of life and magic."

"And you have been to these worlds?" Ancient Mai asked sceptically.

"Many of them," Strange said calmly. "By various ways and means. Not all of my education has been on Earth, in this era, or others. Why should it be? Many of these other worlds mastered magic millions upon millions of years before mankind even evolved. You know some of them already: the Aesir, the Vanir, the Ljosalfar, the Svartalfar, the Jotnar, and the Dvergar. The inhabitants of the rest of the Nine Realms."

He let that sink into the conversation like a lead weight.

"All of them, once mortal, once 'aliens', until they formed Yggdrasil a million years ago," he continued. "As to why they did that, well." He smiled humourlessly. "Let's just say that the stories of Surtur don't do him justice. And he is just one of those who is coming." His smile widened. "I can explain the truth to you…" His hand flicked up, a series of slim books fanning out within it. "… if you are willing to listen."

The Senior Council shot him long, hard looks, the kind of looks that carried pressure sufficient to turn coal into diamond. Strange, however, just smiled, shedding such pressure like water off a stone – perhaps, a diamond.

Finally, the Merlin broke the silence. "You may… elaborate," he said carefully.

Strange bared his teeth briefly. Unsurprisingly, this did not reassure the Senior Council in the least. "Glad to hear it."

OoOoO

It had, Lois felt, been an interesting few days. This trip hadn't promised much; flight out west, get picked up by uncle Gabe, spend a few days in a place so middle-of-nowhere that was actually called Smallville, most notable for being half-flattened in a meteor shower when she was little, and babysit Lucy – who, naturally, would drive her nuts out of boredom and act like it was Lois' fault that the General wanted shot of them. If it wasn't for the chance to see Chloe again, she'd have ruled the entire trip a bust from the start. Plus, there was the opportunity to maybe meet that hick farm-boy Chloe was so crazy about, see what made him special.

Chloe waxed lyrical, in between bouts of fond exasperation and regret that sometimes, he hardly seemed to realise she existed. Lois wasn't so surprised, and going by what she'd heard? Clark Kent, whoever he was, was a moron.

Yet things hadn't exactly gone to plan. Smallville had become ground zero for an Avengers-level super-battle, with Iron Man and War Machine involved. The latter was apparently soon to be rebranded Iron Patriot apparently, and god, what a terrible idea that was. The General thought that it would do soldiers good to see a serving soldier in the red, white, and blue, especially if that solider was effectively indestructible – plus, it sounded better than 'War Machine'.

For her part, Lois found herself pitying the poor man who had to wear such a ridiculous get-up. She also felt the name was ridiculous. At the very least, 'War Machine' was an honest name, because that was exactly what the suit was: a war-machine, with guns bolted to every spare surface, a functional tool with a job to do. Truthfully, she reckoned that her father thought the same way, but orders were orders and that was the end of it, as far as he was concerned.

Lois didn't do very well with orders.

She also didn't do very well with her and Lucy being pawned off onto a couple of aides while the General went to a bunch of meetings about the so-called 'Battle of Smallville'. Did he drop by to check on his daughters, both of whom had nearly died in a plane crash? No. Did he even acknowledge their existence, beyond said aides and a brief message? Nope. Did he show any sign of even calling any time soon? Going by the uncomfortable looks and evasive answers on the aides' faces, that would also be a no.

Having fallen out of a plane that day, Lois wasn't feeling especially charitable. As a result, she'd made them explain that to Lucy – and may god (or the gods, or whatever) have mercy on their souls.

Now, having managed to get hold of a pack of cigarettes by means that she wasn't inclined to reveal, she retreated to the balcony and shut the door behind her, closing off the sounds of Lucy's – to be fair, entirely understandable – tantrum behind her. Leaning on the balcony railing with a sigh, she flicked her lighter. Then, a voice spoke behind her.

"You know, those things aren't very good for you."

The lighter, still burning, dropped like a stone from the balcony's edge as Lois nearly swallowed the cigarette in shock, choking for a moment before she managed to spit it out. Before it landed, a blue armoured hand blurred out in front of her, catching the now somewhat soggy cigarette. Looking up, Lois blinked as she saw a very familiar armoured figure. It was true what they said: you never forgot your first. Even if, in this case, that 'first' was 'first person to rescue you from a falling plane'.

"Kal?" she asked, incredulous, annoyed, and a little baffled. After all, last time she'd checked, his suit (or whatever it was) hadn't had gloves or an Iron Man-like helmet.

"Yes?" He looked down at the cigarette, then over the balcony after the lighter, and despite his size and slightly intimidating masked helmet, he managed to look somewhat embarrassed. "Sorry about that. I guess I picked a bad moment."

"It is you," Lois said slowly. "Right?"

That got a puzzled head-tilt, until, slowly, she pointed at her head. He paused, then jumped a little, hands darting towards his head.

"Oh. Uh. Sorry. Forgot I had that on."

The helmet flowed away, down into his collar and shoulders, revealing the dark hair, blue eyes, and admittedly very handsome face of her rescuer. At the same time, she noticed, the gloves flowed away too, revealing pale hands.

"I didn't want anyone to get a good picture of me," he explained. "Especially not my face."

"Yeah, I got that impression before," Lois said, shifting to lean against the railing and tilting her head to study her companion. "I didn't rat you out, don't worry. Everyone seems to have bought my story that I blacked out while falling, and came to on the ground, near the river. I mean, it looked like they all really wanted to know how that happened, but since Iron Man and War Machine popped up, the go-to story so far seems to be some kind of Iron Man drone catching me. Gimme the cig. And can you get my lighter? If, you know, it survived."

Kal hesitated, and she rolled her eyes.

"I know, I know, they're unhealthy," she said. "But if I come in smelling of cigarette smoke, Exhibit A and Exhibit B aren't going to wonder what I was doing out here."

Reluctantly, Kal conceded the logic of this and handed the cigarette over. As he glanced down at the ground, Lois felt it. A little damp, but hardly a disaster. "The lighter's dead," he said.

"How do you know?" Lois asked.

"I can see it."

"… we're fifteen stories up."

That got a small grimace. "I know," he said. "I can still see it."

"Huh," Lois said. "Super-sight. Cool. Can you go buy another for me? I'll get you the cash."

Kal looked down at his suit, then back up at her, with a pointed expression on his face.

"Oh, yeah," Lois said. "Mister Secretive, I forgot." She looked him up and down. "Plus, you probably don't have anywhere to keep the change."

"You'd be surprised," Kal said, smiling a little. He seemed pleasantly surprised at her lack of reaction. She wasn't sure why – having been caught by him after falling out of a plane and being put down without taking a scratch, then seeing him catch that plane with his bare hands had more or less used up reserves of 'surprise', at least for now. She was curious, certainly, but shocked? Not really. "But if you'll give it back for a moment," he continued. "I might be able to do something about that."

Lois raised an eyebrow, intrigued, then handed back the cigarette, inwardly slightly impressed at his lack of wince at – once again – encountering unexpected and unpleasant bodily fluids. Kal held it up to eye level, carefully pointing it away from her. There was a long pause, when nothing happened, and a frustrated expression appeared on his face.

"Well?" she asked eventually.

"I… I'm trying to do something, and it's not working," he said, annoyed, glaring at the cigarette. "I'm not sure – oh."

Suddenly, he looked as if an idea had struck him, his gaze darting to meet hers. Then, astonishingly, he blushed, gaze flicking back. Before Lois could ask what he meant, his eyes flashed red, and the tip of the cigarette – and most of an inch below it – lit up.

"Here," he said, handing it back.

"Huh," she said. "Laser eyes, right?"

"I was going with heat-vision, but yeah," Kal said, still a little pink.

Lois eyed him, and made a guess. "You couldn't always do it, could you?" she said.

"No," Kal said. "Not until yesterday, actually. I suspected I could fly, but…" He trailed off, and sighed. "Until yesterday, all I was, was a lot faster, stronger, and tougher than most people." He blushed again. "With a, uh, recent extra."

Lois raised an eyebrow. "Like flying?" she asked.

"No, actually," Kal said. "I mean, I floated a couple of times, but that was it. Now? Well, like you said, I can fly. I've got this heat vision stuff. I've got all sorts of other abilities, and I'm even stronger, faster, and tougher than I used to be."

"Strong and tough enough to safely bring down a crashing jet," Lois noted.

Kal nodded. He looked a little troubled by that for some reason, before shaking his head. "How's your sister?" He tilted his head, as if listening, then winced. "Other than angry."

"Fine, considering," Lois said, inwardly adding 'super-hearing' to the list. "I mean, she's being a cranky little bitch right now, but that's because our dad's pawned us off on a couple of aides while he goes to some big meeting about 'the Battle of Smallville'. Also, she was in a plane that fell out of the sky, and which her dearly beloved big sister fell out of while it was still in the air, so I can't really blame her."

"You seem to be taking it pretty well," Kal observed.

Lois let out a rough laugh and took a long draw on her cigarette. "Seem is the word, Kal. I'll get the shakes and the nightmares later," she said. "Up 'til now, my baby sister's needed me to be the adult in the room, so the freak-out's been postponed. Plus, I've got my cigs. Terrible for my lungs, but great as a coping mechanism. Not as much as booze, but I don't feel like dealing with the General bitching me out for picking the lock on the minibar." She eyed him, ignoring the puppy-dog eyes and concerned look, even if it was kinda cute. "You seem to be dealing even better. That had to be, what, your first battle?"

When he looked startled, eyes widening like a deer in headlights, she smirked.

"Army brat," she reminded him. "I can spot the wet-behind-the-ears look a mile away. Plus, you just mentioned that you didn't have most of your superpowers 'til yesterday, and you also mentioned that you weren't even sure how to get that uniform or whatever of yours off when I threw up on it."

"You're pretty observant," Kal said, after a moment. He sounded guarded, and she supposed that she couldn't blame him. Secretiveness aside, first battles were, from what she'd gathered, a usually touchy subject.

"It runs in the family," Lois said, shrugging. "My cousin's the really observant one. By which I mean nosey. She says it's me, but she's the one who wants to be a journalist, not me, so that answers that one."

Kal blinked, frowning, before looking away. "It was my first big fight," he said. The last word was emphasised, as if making a point. "But not my first fight overall. Not even my first serious one. First really, really serious one, but…"

"You've seen a few nasty skirmishes, but you hadn't been in the middle of a proper battle until yesterday," Lois finished, watching him closely. Yep, he definitely didn't like the word 'battle'. That was interesting. Maybe that was why he was the one sent to handle the civilians while Iron Man, War Machine, and whoever else – and there had been someone else – had handled the bulk of the fighting.

She'd spent the afternoon looking up pictures and online accounts of the battle, and while a couple of people had mentioned glimpses of a red and blue blur, most of them were pretty definite about someone in silver-white armour fighting some kind of monster and, somehow, stopping a bunch of tornadoes. Most of the online guesses were that this was Thor in new gear, but something, to Lois, said otherwise. For one thing, she thought that Kal might have mentioned it. In fact, she had a pretty good idea who it was.

"Something like that," he said after a moment. "I've had a few… trouble-makers to deal with. Trouble-makers who were more than the police could handle."

"So you took care of them," Lois said.

"Left them for the police, when I could, yes."

"And when you couldn't?" Lois asked, before she could stop herself.

There was a very long, uncomfortable silence.

"When I couldn't, it was because I couldn't save them," Kal said eventually. He looked genuinely sad. "A lot of the time, their powers were unstable. I think that's why they became unstable, as people, I mean."

"So, less Captain America, more Red Skull," Lois guessed.

Kal looked unhappy. "Maybe," he said. "Some of the stuff I read suggested that the serum drove Schmidt – the Red Skull – crazy. I mean, he was bad before, but after… he became worse."

"But when it happened to a good guy, it turned out pretty well," Lois said. "Like Captain America." She took a drag. "And you."

"I didn't take anything to end up the way I am," Kal said, a little stiffly.

"I believe you," Lois said. "I mean, if the military or whoever had some serum that could make people like you, you can bet they'd be going to town with it. Most super soldiers I ever heard about were just faster, stronger, etcetera. Not even close to your league, either, except for the Hulk and that Abomination thing. And even then; no flying, no heat vision, and whatever else. Some of the stuff I read said that the Russians had some kind of super psychic to help them when everything went nuts over there late last summer, but that's pretty much it."

She took another drag, and tilted her head.

"So, you have powers, other people have powers – those 'troublemakers' you mentioned – and that super-psycho you and the other guy went up against, flattening half of Smallville," she said. "I don't know how the other people, whoever they are, got them, and I'm not sure I care either. But you? You're Asgardian, right?"

That got a pair of very wide blue eyes, then a small smile.

"Not quite," he said. "Though, uh… I suppose you could say I'm a relative."

Lois raised an eyebrow. "First secretive, now cryptic," she remarked. "What are you hiding, Kal?"

His eyes narrowed, and it might just have been the reflection of the flame at the end of her cigarette, but for just a moment, there seemed to be a hint of red in his eyes. "That's my business," he said harshly.

Lois raised both hands. "Okay, okay," she said. "Keep your secrets. I won't stop you. Hell, I'm helping you keep them, remember?"

Kal's expression softened, and he looked away, a hint of shame on his face. "Right," he said. "Yeah. Sorry. It's just a bit of a sore subject for me."

Lois watched him for a long moment. "I get that," she said eventually. "I think. I mean, you've got all these powers, even if, for whatever reason, some of them are very new. You look a lot like Thor's kid, who's meant to have some serious power. You've been dealing with bad guys with powers and by your own account, you've been doing it for a while now. Yet, you've been staying in the shadows. The suit, armour, whatever, is new. Practically the first thing you asked me after you knew I was all right was if I could not mention you. And I think I know why."

She tapped ash off her cigarette and looked him in the eye. "I've been hearing a lot of army chatter, from pretty high up," she said. "When I call my father 'the General', it isn't a fun nickname. Part of that chatter is that after HYDRA and Russia, second coming of the Winter Soldier included, everyone wants super suits and super soldiers. Especially the latter. And here you are, about my age, and already faster than an F-22, stronger than a falling plane, and probably more powerful than any super suit out there, even the original. You're scared, aren't you? Of someone coming after you."

Kal nodded.

"You think they could get to you?" she asked. "I mean, no offence, but you seem kind of… invincible."

"No one's invincible," Kal said. There was a ring of grim certainty to it, suggesting that he knew this from personal experience. Lois filed this away, and cocked her head, waiting. "And even if I'm the next best thing, as far as most people are concerned… there are people that I care for who aren't."

"You have a family?" Lois asked, surprised.

Kal looked away, expression shuttering. "People that I care for," he repeated.

"And you think that the Army, or whoever, might come for you through them," Lois said.

She wasn't as surprised as she might be, either by the prospect or Kal's nod. While a large part of her wanted to insist that the US Army didn't do that, the fact was that Kal had a lot of power. Going by the fact that he'd got some new powers recently, it was still growing. That kind of power would be both tempting and frightening to a lot of the people she'd met at the best of times. And now was not the best of times. It wouldn't even necessarily be because they wanted to hurt him, or even use him. They'd just want a failsafe. A 'just in case'.

"So," she said. "What brings you here?"

"I just wanted to check you were all right," he said. "You are all right, aren't you?"

Lois smiled a small, involuntary smile at the earnest concern. It was cute.

"I'm all right," she said. "Well, you know, as all as I'm going to be for a while. Unless you can fix my head, there isn't much you can do about that."

Kal frowned, then shook his head. "No," he said, sounding a little sad. "I suppose there isn't."

Lois wasn't one to turn to goo at a soulful look – a manipulative and aggressively cute little sister had invested her with no small degree of knee-jerk suspicion. However, she wasn't made of stone. "This visit, you being here… it's helped," she said.

"Really?" he asked, perking up instantly.

"I am trying very hard not to coo in the most patronising fashion possible, I hope you realise that," Lois said in amusement.

Kal rolled his eyes. "You sound like my cousin," he said.

"Your cousin often coos over you?" Lois asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, but he does sometimes give me a look that says he thinks I'm being… sweet," Kal said grumpily. "Or that I'm being an idiot. Or both."

"Going by our limited acquaintance, I can see why," Lois said, smirking, drawing a scowl. "Oh, don't sulk. It's charming. Adorable, even. Also, you have a cousin?"

Kal looked cagey, and Lois raised her hands again, recognising a touchy subject.

"I won't push," she said. "Just curious. Though I'm pretty sure that I have a good idea who it is."

"Oh?"

Lois rolled he eyes. "Kal, I'm an observant person and I've had a good hour or so to get a look at you, often up close," she said. "Maybe not as 'up close' as I might like…" she trailed off suggestively, grinning as Kal went bright red. "… but close enough to spot certain things. Like resemblances. Including the striking one you bear to a certain half-Asgardian Prince. It's why I thought you were one to begin with." She tilted her head and regarded him. "He was there, wasn't he? The mysterious Mr Thorson was in Smallville. He was the one who handled the tornadoes."

Kal's eyes widened briefly, before he coughed. "Uh, what makes you think that?" he asked.

Lois smirked. "Piece of advice, Kal," she said. "Never play poker. Ever."

Kal soured. He looked like he was sulking. "Fine," he muttered. "He was there. He handled the tornadoes while I took care of the plane. And you. How did you know?"

"Process of elimination," Lois said, shrugging. "Not many super-people that I know of can do anything with storms. The main one's Thor, and he wasn't there. Neither was Loki. Now, I know enough to know that there are a lot of super-people that I don't know of, and it could have been one of them. But, considering your resemblance, it seems like the best candidate is the son of the God of Thunder, don't you think?"

Kal sighed. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or uncomfortable that you figured out all that," he said frankly.

"You mean you can't be both?" Lois said, smirking as she dragged on her cigarette.

That got a huff of reluctant laughter. "I suppose I can," he admitted. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Trust me," Lois drawled. "It won't be the last."

That got real laughter this time. "I'm sure it won't," Kal said, then tensed at the sound of footsteps.

Lois whipped her head around to see the balcony door open and the face of a disapproving and somewhat harried looking military aide.

"Where did you get that?" she asked stonily.

Lois followed her gaze to the mouldering cigarette. "Out of a hat," she said. "I got a bunny too, but I traded that for a lighter."

The aide glared and Lois rolled her eyes, taking the opportunity to look up. As she'd expected, Kal was floating about twenty feet above her. As she met his gaze, he smiled and waved. Lois smiled back and, with apparent idle melodrama, waved her cigarette holding hand in a flourish. His smile widened into a brief grin and he gave her a jaunty and absolutely terrible salute. Then, just like that, he vanished. With difficulty, Lois stifled a laugh, shaking her head, before looking back at the military aide, Sergeant whatever-her-name-is.

"Miss Lane," she said stonily, glaring at the cigarette.

"All right, all right, keep your panties on," Lois said, stubbing it out and sauntering inside. "After the day I've had, I should be halfway down my second bottle of Scotch. Also, seriously – it's Lois."

As she went inside, correction entirely ignored, she looked back out the window and murmured a few words into the newly falling snow.

"See you around, pretty boy."

Well, this chapter took rather longer than expected. Still, it is done and dusted, and I am rather pleased with it – I do hope it conveys what I wanted it to. In any case, we are done here, as always, until next time. Though that 'next time', could quite easily be something completely different…