Chapter 1

Birth and death are the bookends of our lives. Living towards death in time gives one's life a direction and framework within which to understand the changes that life brings. The world looks very differently to the young and the old.

The young look forward – the old look back.

What matters to us changes as we get older. The prospect of death informs these changes. The young have an intellectual understanding that death comes to us all, but their mortality has not become real to them. For the old, mortality starts to sink in.

Why does the philosophy of death matter you may ask? Well, a very peculiar young man, one whose very own strength derived from the strength of those around him, was learning the meaning of mortality at this very second.

"DODGE!" came a frenzied scream.

With battle senses on high alert and instincts finely tuned from years upon years of overcoming unexpected challenges, completing seemingly insurmountable tasks, and battling eldritch horrors of otherworldly origin, Harry James Potter jumped to his left with all the physical force his legs could muster as a beam of crimson narrowly missed him by a hairsbreadth.

He slammed face-first into the soft soil of Hogwarts' grounds with a loud grunt, his momentum causing him skid for a good meter on a disgusting amalgamation of mud, grime, blood, crushed bones, and severed limbs. Gathering his wits from his supine position, he quickly jumped to his feet and brandished his wand in a defensive manner, his forest green eyes hard as they scanned across the battlefield, across a fight that would ultimately determine the fate of the world as he knew it.

It was the Battle of Hogwarts.

Something in the air seemed… different though.

Usually, the Death Eaters would endeavour to torture or kill all those who tried to fight back whilst only subduing and incapacitating the younger students, as per the directive of the current Dark Lord. This time however, the rage over Harry's miraculous rebirth and the destruction of his Horcruxes – unbeknownst to him – had sent his mind over the edge and into the abyss, into raw insanity.

"KILL THEM! MAN, WOMAN OR CHILD, KILL THEM ALL!" Voldemort bellowed in a magically amplified voice over the sounds of steel screeching, voices baying in their death throes, people screaming for their loved ones, and the howls of anguished souls.

The deranged manner of his reverberating command seemed to knock everyone off kilter for a second, striking witch and wizard into silence as they looked at each other in confusion. The most bewildered were the minority of Death Eaters that were parents themselves, apprehensively looking at each other for affirmation of their master's new command. Unfortunately, a significant part of Voldemort's vanguard were young and impressionable Pure-bloods who had personal tutelage under Voldemort. His dogmatic teachings were branded deeply into all of their minds and spirits, bolstering their confidence as they willingly carried out an act that was reserved only for monsters of men – the slaughter of younglings.

A schism seemed to ripple through the Death Eater's ranks, dividing them almost in near wordlessness, as those who could not bear to turn their wands on the younger students instead turned on their fellow comrades, joining the side of the Light in order defend all those who were young, defenceless and innocent.

The drums of war thundered once again.

And a war it truly was.

For children were crying, their fragile shells of bravery all but broken as they whimpered and wept under the tide of darkness. Sacred monuments, consecrated by the Founders themselves lay in fragments, obliterated from the never-ending fusillade of spells. Any and all wartime and humanitarian rules, ones that gave a semblance of purpose and meaning to war, were all but desecrated.

Harry grit in teeth in fury, his seventeen-year-old body tensing as he decided his next move, one that he'd known would come to pass even before the battle had started – the inexorable clash between him and the user of his wand's twin.

"Neither can live while the other survives," he muttered under his breath, finally understanding what the words meant as he looked upwards at the grey, overcast sky. Basking in the cold touch of drizzle that almost sizzled on his hot skin, he mentally forced himself to calm down and readied his nerves.

The sun had finally set over the horizon by the time he had finished his deliberations, the ball of fire's dying rays calling upon the encroaching blanket of twilight to hide all the atrocities it had just witnessed.

"Regardless of what happens tonight, everything ends now."

And with that last, decisive statement, his body sprung into action. His spirit never dampened as a bitter wind swept the hillside, dancing and curling its icy tendrils across his sallow skin. His will never wavered as he ducked and dodged under spells of a malevolent nature, driven primarily by his instincts. His mental fortitude never weakened as he sprinted across the battlefield towards his target, eyes focused as he ignored dead bodies that lay like dolls over the grass, limbs at awkward angles and heads held in such a way that they couldn't have been sleeping.

He was getting closer to the ophidian monster that was leading the siege on Hogwarts.

Twenty meters…. fifteen meters... ten… two…

"TOM RIDDLE!" Harry screamed loudly as he burst through a throng of huddled wizards onto a raised platform. He didn't care whose side they were on, all that mattered was the creature before him.

Voldemort's lip curled unpleasantly from the utterance of his real name but stayed silent as he appraised the young man that had somehow escaped Death's clutches yet again. Everyone else in the near vicinity froze as one, some with joyous shock on their faces at his undeath, others shaking in fear since they had seen him fall.

"OUR FIGHT ISN'T OVER!" Harry bellowed.

The young wizard's cry galvanized both Death Eater and defender of the Light back into action, causing several things to happen at once. Quick, successive blasts of spells splintered the columns of granite around him as the fighting resumed. As this was happening, the rest of the army seemed to understand their master wanted this fight to himself with no interference and poured as one through the main entrance of Hogwarts, chasing down the fleeing students and slaughtering all those who stood in their way.

Soon, there was no one left in the area but the two wizards whose lives had been shaped and moulded in the crucible of their prophecies.

Come on. Start monologuing. Harry thought tensely as he kept his wand hidden, waiting for the oratorical tendencies of his enemy to show.

"Like a lamb to slaughter. Twice given; twice taken," Voldemort crooned before a cruel smile took over his face, "I shall not deny Fate's reward."

More… Just a bit more…

"Fascinating," Voldemort continued after giving a thoughtful hum, twirling the Elder Wand lazily in his hands, "I don't know how you lived through my killing curse a second time, but–"

NOW.

"EXPELLARIMUS!" Harry roared out of the blue.

Thus, the final battle began; and Harry knew that only one would walk away from this.

Their wands gleamed in the cool moonlight as flashing spells of every colour lit up the stone arena in a dazzling display of lights. As the fight dragged on, Voldemort grew frustrated with each passing second as Harry weaved around and danced past his spells like a slippery snake.

Harry's face was unreadable, no fear, no invitational smirk. He held his wand even, a perfect, undaunted horizon; always levelled with the nose, just as he had been taught so many years ago. Unfortunately, no matter skilled he may be, he was a survivor – not a dueller, and this proved to be his undoing. His eyes lost focus for a split second, and Voldemort took advantage of this to vanish into thin air.

A sudden gush of pain then jolted throughout Harry's body, causing him to realise that his enemy has Apparated behind him and blasted a spell he could not identify into the base of his back.

His stomach ached, his arms lost tension and his legs began to weaken. He will not get the better of me. He thought fiercely as he dropped to the ground. His tongue was soaked in the taste of blood. Bruised and winded, with his back in agony, he grabbed the foot of the ophidian monstrosity and unceremoniously dragged him to the ground with what little strength he had left.

Harry then did something so unconventional, so bizarre, that even Voldemort himself couldn't comprehend the act. He reached over and simply grabbed the Elder Wand out of the other wizard's hands – a wand that was rightfully his the second he disarmed Draco Malfoy, its true previous owner.

When the Elder Wand touched his hand, something world-shattering rippled across his being. Not physical, but rather metaphysical. The Resurrection Stone, a mystical object that was gifted in heart of the Golden Snitch from Professor Dumbledore, started to vibrate in his pocket. The Invisibility Cloak, a Potter heirloom also gifted by Professor Dumbledore on his very first Christmas at Hogwarts, started rustling of its own accord in deep folds of his robes.

The Three then became One.

Thus, The Boy Who Lived unknowingly relinquished his role as the unbroken saviour of the wizarding world and took up the mantle of Master of Death, a title he would soon come to hate with every fibre of his being.

He wasn't sure what happened next, but all he saw was Voldemort's hate-filled face scream in agony as he blasted a spell right through the other wizard's head in a final act of defiance. He wasn't even sure what spell he cast, only that the sweet relief of darkness was taking over him, the wound in his back taking its toll on the teenager that was bleeding out.

As the lifeless body of Voldemort flopped down beside his, he just said one more line in the stillness of twilight.

"The… prophecy..." he whispered in his last moments, "…is complete."

He wasn't sure it was if it was his imagination, but he heard Ron and Hermione faintly screaming his name. It didn't matter though, for his eyes started to blur and breath began to quicken, increasing in intensity until he gave out one long, final exhale.

Thus, Harry James Potter, a hero that will be remembered in the annals of history as being the bravest soul one could possibly be, succumbed to oblivion.

January 1945. Somewhere in the Arctic Ocean.

Imposing cliffs of white, tall as any made from rock sheared vertically from the briny waves. The walls were creviced, patterned with geometric shadows and the kind of white that could make a blank page look grey.

It was without doubt the most pristine and perfect thing Arnim Zola had ever seen.

He was of a short, stocky stature but made up for it by exuding a natural aura of confidence and authority. The sharp angles of his jawline, ones that were cut like diamond, housed a face that seemed to be perfectly in tune with the hostile environment.

He stood solemnly at the prow of a sailing ship, his dark brown eyes carefully documenting every sight and sound and filing it away meticulously in his mind. He pulled his fur jacket tighter around himself and readjusted his dark goggles as the frigid tundra wind whipped his greying hair about, the sudden gust causing him to shiver as he felt the icy numbness penetrate right through his clothes and sink down to his bones.

"Herr Zola," a voice suddenly called out behind him in fluent German, "Our instruments have spotted a body in the water nearly two miles east of us. What's the recommended course of action?"

Arnim's face morphed into a look of irritation, "Of course investigate it, you blithering imbecile," he snapped back in the same language, not bothering to even face the speaker, "It could very well be a spy carrying important information."

The other seemed to hesitate for a split second before responding in a respectful tone.

"As you command, Herr Zola."

The retreating footsteps of rubber upon steel soothed the soul of this particular middle-aged man, one who valued a peaceful silence more than anything else. In this wasteland of white crystalline snow and black turgid water, there was nothing for his mind to hang onto. There was no familiar sight, no sound other than the howling wind, and no illumination other that the albescent rays of sunlight that penetrated through the murky clouds above.

And this pleased him.

He paid no attention to the hustle and bustle of the other crewmen as they carried out his order, shouting orders over the wind to veer starboard, lowering anchors and readying to drop lifeboats and dinghies. Each crewmember on the ship almost had visual personalities about them, just from their movements alone. Each one fought the frigid and inhospitable environment in their own unique way, their gaits ranging from animatedly hopping from one foot to the other to stoically suffering in silence.

His way of dealing with new this environment however, was tranquil meditation. Purportedly branded as 'maladaptive daydreaming' by psychologists who think they knew better, he just summed it up as part and parcel of his own quirks and quiddities.

And thus, he meditated away, ignoring everything and everything as his mind detached from his body and chose to explore the depths of his mindscape instead. His deep introspection however, was woefully short-lived.

"Umm… Herr Zola? Dr Lehmann requests your presence in the medical bay."

A muscle twitched in his face from the second bout of disturbance, but he remained calm. After all, no one on this vessel knew who he really was, only that he was a high-ranking politician – a cover story of course. He was far more important than those on this ship with him and the pitiful iconoclasts back in Germany who constantly questioned the ethics of his work.

Question him? Those who were at this very moment prepping hydrogen cyanide and clearing bodies from chambers – dare judge what he was doing? Inscrutable behaviour at best.

"Is it imperative?" he finally responded, his eyes still transfixed on the never-ending horizon.

He heard some nervous shuffling of feet behind him, prompting his lip to curl upwards at the insolent hesitance.

"Dr Lehmann insists that your presence is vital."

Arnim grumbled internally but eventually acquiesced, "Very well," he responded in a business-like tone, finally moving from his spot that he had been standing in for the last couple of hours, whirling around to face his speaker. It was a female solider, her large fur-laden uniform hiding almost all her features. Whether or not she was a paid mercenary from another country, hailed from the Fatherland, or even just an honest seafarer, it was all the same to him.

"Lead the way," he said lightly with an innocuous smile.

A dangerous glint in his eyes however, promised undesirable repercussions if his curiosities weren't satisfied. The one who carried the message gulped nervously but revealed nothing else in her demeanour as she nodded and then began to escort the him down to the medical bay of the ship.

The simple task of walking down into the bowels of the large ship, a behemoth that consisted of nearly ten thousand tonnes of ancient rusting metal, proved arduous enough.

"Bloody Soviet ships," he muttered distastefully in English, knowing that he was the only one which spoke it on this vessel. He partially blamed the British for this, for the creation of their unstoppable Dreadnought battleships in 1905 prompted the world to undergo a maritime arms race as countries scrambled in bids of power for naval superiority. The Russians however, never really knew how to properly build ships.

For a start, the steel floor of the hallways themselves felt like one was stepping on a trampoline made out of metal, bizarre as it may sound. Outdated triple-expansion steam engines rattled everything that wasn't strapped down, causing windows, mirrors and all other glasswork in the lower decks to almost reach their natural frequencies and shatter from the forced vibration. Alongside this, poorly maintained cabins, paint peeling off walls like a bad sunburn and weather worn staircases were all but hallmarks of classic Soviet negligence.

Arnim hated every second on this ship, but bore through it uncomplainingly… well, relatively so. He had no idea why they were travelling on a Russian ship, but he didn't care either way. All he knew was the reward at the end of this journey would be worth the taxing journey he was so near to completing, one where which he had traversed nearly half the world for.

Before he knew it, he was outside the doors of the medical bay. With a nod of dismissal to the solider that had escorted him, he pushed the thick steel door open and marched in commandingly.

"Well?" he asked brusquely, his forceful entry causing a group of doctors and nurses that were crowded around a particular bed to jump.

The obvious leader of the huddled group of medics, one who looked classically German and was in his late sixties, gave a large sigh of relief at the new arrival who was currently was taking off his hat and goggles.

"Herr Zola, please come quickly. Look at this," the doctor said hurriedly without introducing himself, gesturing to an unmoving figure on a hospital bed, "You are more suited to this type of work than I am."

His mouth formed a sneer at the lack of respect in the other's voice but chose to stay silent as his curiosity reached its critical limit. This had better be worth his precious time.

As he was moving closer he also realized that a small start that the doctor knew who he truly was – which was anything but a politician. Curious, why would the higher-ups hide that from me? He thought with a small frown as he deliberated. Shrugging after no answer came to his mind, he calmly strode up to the bed.

What soon reached his eyes however, was not what he expected.

A young girl approximately aged ten lay supine on a bed. Long black hair splayed out in all directions from her pillow as the soft angles of her facial structure gave her striking character. Carrying porcelain skin that seemed to shine ethereally under the gentle illumination, she looked as if she were a doll instead of a human being.

And a doll she was, for the lack of rising and falling of her chest clearly indicated that she was residing in the land of the living no longer. After all, none survive long when submerged in the Arctic waters. He also noticed that the girl's shirt had been removed, clearly in preparation for an autopsy, and the lack of adolescent features on her flat chest also indicating that she had not started puberty yet.

Arnim hummed disinterestedly under his breath as his scenarios and hypotheses thundered like a train in his mind.

Who does this girl belong to? The Americans? The British? Or is she simply of a native from one of the surrounding Scandinavian countries? Regardless of this, why is she here, in the middle of nowhere?

He had honestly expected more. As a result, he grew slightly irritated that he was called to such a trivial matter with such urgency. Disappointment coloured his next words.

"A dead girl," he stated flatly.

The doctor, obviously Dr Lehmann, quickly shook his head in a negative, "Look again," he quickly refuted, bringing him closer to the girl's bed, "Look at her properly. Medically, this time."

Arnim frowned at the strangeness in the other's voice but ignored it.

Hestiantly, his eyes began to trace over the features of the unnaturally pretty child as he leaned closer, his eyes missing nothing as they even spotted a faint scar that was curiously shaped like a lightning bolt on her head. After careful scrutiny, he still concluded that this girl was resoundingly dead.

Anger filled his system at what he considered blatant bait by the doctor, one he knew was also a part of the secret clique he was in. Just as he was about to explode in anger, two things finally came to his attention, causing the outburst to be immediately quelled.

Firstly, there was a lack of rigor mortis. This should've been obvious to him since this girl clearly had died more than four hours ago, the threshold before biomechanical changes in muscles causes limbs of a corpse to stiffen. Although rigor mortis was dependent on temperature, it was sufficiently warm in this make-shift hospital to kick-start the process, which it clearly hadn't.

Secondly, her skin should be blueish-grey instead of white. Logically, one without medical training would assume that the coldness of the Arctic ocean would make one's body pale from the coldness. However, exposure to sub-zero temperatures would induce hypothermia and would consequently begin to damage tissue below the skin, first changing the skin colour from white, to red, and then to purple. After full tissue damage is achieved after an extended period of time in the freezing waters, the dead skin would finally turn blueish-grey.

These two pieces of information gave him slight pause, causing him to silently ruminate away on his new findings, his excitement as well as his interest growing as a result. Suddenly, as if a torch was lit in the dusty recesses of his mind, an epiphany struck him head on like a truck, prompting him to point at the nearest nurse and give an order.

"A stethoscope, quickly."

The nurse vacillated from the authoritative command, wavering between her medical principals and the authority of this so-called politician they had been hired to send to the roof of the world.

"H-Herr Zola, it is advised to let the doctors handle–"

"GIVE IT!" he shouted angrily, eliciting a terrified squeak from the other but gaining what he desired as a result, the cold object dropping unceremoniously onto his outstretched palm.

In one swift move, he hooked the listening apparatus in his ears and carefully laid the other flat end on the unmoving chest of the girl, ignoring an uneasy murmur that ripped throughout the cabin as he listened.

He was no longer Mr Zola. He was now Doctor Zola, a title he had given up a many years ago in search of a new pursuit. The very same pursuit that was taking him into to the heart of the Arctic tundra.

He began to pace around restlessly after performing more non-invasive medical techniques, jotting down his findings in a little notebook as he muttered under his breath, his words flowing out so quickly it seemed as if his sentences overlapped with the next.

"…leakage of the cerebrospinal fluid… perhaps I should…"

"…coma from hypoxia?... no, her oxygen levels are…"

"…nothing makes sense… her diaphragm isn't moving but air is somehow…"

Arnim Zola, a forty-five-year-old man retired from the practice of saving lives, one who also prided himself in knowing everything there was to know about the human body down to the molecular level, was at a loss for the very first time in his life.

Instead of expressing that sentiment as characteristic anger, he instead gave a deep chuckle before resuming his work with renewed vigour. So absorbed was he of the medical enigma in front of him, he failed to notice that his colleague-in-secret had quietly ordered everyone out of the cabin except himself, leaving only the both of them left.

Dr Lehmann stood silent, hands clasped behind his back as he carefully watched the unfolding scenario, knowing that the man before him was a legend in the eyes of those who endeavoured to change the world for the better, a shining paragon of medical innovation and ingenuity that was almost unrivalled in their proud Fatherland.

Arnim's movements were unhurried, choreographed and deliberate, and after ten solid minutes of working his magic on the now-realized still-alive patient using all manner of new equipment he had found in the room, he came to one final conclusion.

"Dr Lehmann, I have a diagnosis," he announced loudly and confidently. He was about to continue but snapped his mouth shut, pausing before he turned to the other person in the room, "But I want to hear yours first, since you obviously arrived at one before calling me down here."

Dr Lehmann grunted in affirmation.

"I believe she is man-made," he said bluntly, his voice devoid of any humour.

Arnim blinked slowly. This was not the answer he was expecting.

"Elucidate," he commanded, switching back to in English in order to deter any members on the ship that decided to eavesdrop.

"Just look at the rate of her body's natural healing process. Even an amateur can see that it's increasingly exponential," Dr Lehmann answered fluidly, obviously an accomplished polyglot from the way he instantly switched languages, "For example, her hemopoietic and stromal cells, ones relating to the creation of blood cells and connective tissue respectively, are being aided somehow by an external stimulant that seems… like… like magic almost."

Arnim's scoffed, "There is no such thing as magic, my good doctor," he declared emphatically before donning a serious face, one lined with a conviction beyond belief, "Only forces of nature that science has yet to understand."

Dr Lehmann hummed thoughtfully before continuing on with his main point "Anyway, I do believe this little Fräulein is man-made. Not man-made in the sense that some scientist had breathed life and consciousness into a hunk of meat in a laboratory, but rather she had been subjected to some sort of procedure to cause her to have enhanced physical capabilities."

Arnim gave a derisive snort at the very notion, "Trust me doctor, the Allied Powers do not possess the intellectual wherewithal to make even a plant come back to life," he chuckled in amusement before puffing his chest out proudly, "The Third Reich is the prototype of all things to come; glorious and inglorious alike. All other empires will eventually kneel before us, in time."

The other man frowned at the display of overbearing jingoism, "Such loyalty to the Fatherland," he started slowly, "But you hail from Switzerland… do you not?"

The retired doctor twitched imperceptibly before shrugging and deftly changing the topic, "A topic for another day. Let us return back to the main point," he smoothly picked back up, "Yours is an interesting theory – that she is somehow enhanced. It is however, littered with so many holes and logical fallacies that would take would take an eternity for me to cover."

"My diagnosis is somewhat more elegant. For I believe she is... Gifted."

Dr Lehmann raised an eyebrow in incredulity, "Gifted… like in the rumours of those special people we keep hearing about recently? No, no. I think it is folly to assume these powers are inherent and congenital in nature," he refuted, passion laced within his voice, "Like all great things in this world, Man was the one to create them – nature has no part in this. For instance, how would her DNA…"

Thus, the rest of the day was spent with the two geniuses fiercely debating on the true nature of their convalescent young girl. During this time they formally introduced themselves, one calling himself Arnim Zola, the world's most accomplished – and humble – leader in medicine and biochemistry, while the other called himself Heinrich Lehmann, a long-standing doctor who was recently scouted for his curative prowess and was assigned to the same job as his companion, a job that was soon to begin once they had reached the heart of the Arctic tundra.

Day gradually waned into dusk, and with it, created some of the most breath-taking sights the pair had ever witnessed. Hanging in the sky was the aurora borealis, its lights dancing across the dark sky as each colour slowly faded into another. The vibrant shades were in perpetual motion, dancing and flowing as it blazed across the silent heavens like an army marching ever northward.

Everything seemed bigger and brighter; and their ongoing debate, one on the philosophy of life itself, seemed so insignificant under the grandeur of the scintillating empyrean.

The doctors' riveting conversation – one that was thoroughly mellowed thanks to the near-palpable sense of tranquillity that had blanketed the world as twilight finally turned into night – was nearing its conclusion.

"…and before we end on that note, there is something that has been irking me this whole time," came Arnim's calm voice, "Would you permit me to stimulate your curiosities?"

After seeing a nod of agreement from the other, he jumped to his feet, first stretching for a few seconds for his prolonged sedentary state had caused his limbs to stiffen. Once limbered up, he marched over to the comatose girl before carefully prodding and poking various placed on her face in order to find something unknown to the other person in the room.

"Of course," Arnim groaned in exasperation after a period of silence, mystifying the other doctor as he slapped his forehead, "How could I've missed this beforehand?"

He then beckoned the other doctor over to stand by him, and once they were both snug up to the hospital bed, he started, "Look closely at the shape of her dental structure, the prominence of her chin, and the angle of her mandible," he instructed succinctly, pointing to different parts on the child's face with each point, "And then tell me what you conclude from your observations."

The German doctor banished his growing confusion and decided to humour the strange request before plying his trade, tracing the bone structure of the child's face, his sharp eyes and steady heads searching for any apparent abnormalities, odd growths or hidden fractures that he had missed the first time over. After a few silent minutes of checking and rechecking the areas he had been tasked to analyse, he came up empty.

"I…. can't find anything wrong with our patient," Dr Lehmann started hesitantly, breaking the soft silence, "Her dental arcade and the bones in her gonion region are all healthy and sound. I can sense nothing off with them in the slightest."

Arnim gave a sigh of exasperation at an answer that was clearly not what he wanted. Growing slightly annoyed at himself from giving such an ambiguous command and being at fault for such an obvious misinterpretation, he decided the brute force method would work best.

With a dramatic flourish, he pushed past the other doctor and reached over the child's body before yanking off the rest of the clothes that clung to her body like a wet rag, ones which looked like black robes and were twice her size. Levity filled his being for the first time after what seemed like months from the look on the other doctor's face.

"O–Oh…" Dr Lehmann stammered in a shocked voice as his eyes zeroed in onto his patient's groin, his face flushing red with shame from missing such an obvious fact, "So our little Fräulein is actually a… boy."

No matter which angle the doctors looked at the unnaturally pretty child and the unmistakable feminine features that were present, their patient was indeed a biological male. Perhaps it was the long, mass of black hair that flowed to the waist, one that resembled a river of molten onyx, coupled with the softness of the jawline that beguiled an observer into thinking otherwise.

"Dr Lehmann, did you seriously not check under the sheets even once before calling me down?" Arnim grinned in amusement, basking in the widened eyes and gaping mouth of the other.

The good doctor quickly recovered and coughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, "I guess I was too preoccupied with his respiratory system to notice the… minor details," he admitted with a small grin of his own, "A-And to be fair, the morphological differences between the bones of the sexes are almost non-existent before puberty," he added defensively, trying to justify his blunder.

"You are excused, Dr Lehmann, for even my keen senses were fooled," Arnim said mildly as he covered up his patient with a blanket, "However, I'll expect no mistakes of any kind once we begin work on our project."

With the topic of professional work being brought back up, the two men cast aside their light-hearted attitude and immediately sobered. Both then stayed unspeaking as they contemplated the future, each wondering what joys or horrors the next chapter of their lives would bring. As they ruminated away in companionable silence, an epiphany overwhelmed Arnim's senses, causing him to gasp and physically sway on the spot.

"T-This boy," he burst out breathlessly, his eyes locked onto the still figure of their patient, one they had found floating around in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, "He...he could be a potential candidate."

Dr Lehmann frowned in disapproval at the idea, "Don't we already have one candidate?" he argued as he shook his head, "And aside from a lack of auxiliary equipment, a child would not survive the process."

"You are entirely correct. But a child with an accelerated healing factor would survive… no?" Arnim whispered softly, his eyes glinting in a dangerous manner.

Dr Lehmann's breath caught in his throat. He felt a strange ache in his chest as his heart started pounding and a dull ache in his eyes where the beginnings of a migraine were taking form. The fear that coursed through his veins however, never made it to his facial muscles or skin. He wanted no part in child experimentation. He left that to his compatriot Josef Mengele, or more infamously known by his nom-de-guerre back in Auschwitz, the Angel of Death.

He made sure the next words coming out his mouth were careful, precise and layered.

"My friend, I think we should consider all our options before–"

"We have enough!" Arnim interrupted excitedly, clearly in his own world and not listening to a word the other had been saying, "I've just calculated it in my head whether or not we could factor an additional human variable into our calculations. And the answer is yes: we will have enough resources for two candidates."

Dr Lehmann sighed sorrowfully and silently acquiesced in the other's decision. After all, Arnim Zola was the one who was spearheading this program – a program that their shared employer was so generously funding. He then perked up as he realized something he wanted to ask ever since he met the other man.

"Pardon me, Herr Zola, may I ask you something?" he intoned formally as he changed the topic, a perfunctory smile accompanying his neutral attitude. He didn't even wait for a reply before continuing, "I heard you had trouble giving our project a name. Do you need inspiration?"

"Fret not," Arnim replied solemnly, "I'd already decided on the title of our research a while ago. It shall be known as…"

He took a deep breath and he gazed out the cabin window. As a shooting star of the cold winter's night arced across the unfathomable blackness in the heavens, he knew that the name he had chosen was nothing but perfect.

"…The Winter Soldier."

A/N: Just a Harry Potter – Marvel crossover idea I had floating around in my mind. Unsure whether or not to commit to this. Thoughts? Feedback?

The current plan: Harry will be spending some time in the HYDRA Arctic Facility for experimentation (human physiology) and scientific research (interactions between magic and technology) where he meets Bucky Barnes. After the narrative has progressed enough, then there will be a time jump to modern times to just before the creation of the Avengers.

P.S. I guess I should've stated it at the top, but the opening scene was a very slight AU from seventh book. Just needed a logical way for Harry to canonically die while being the Master of Death.

P.S.S. Harry is totally a trap.