# **SSR London Base - Operations Planning Room**
**December 1943, when teams assembled and plans crystallized**
The London base of the Strategic Scientific Reserve occupied a converted Georgian townhouse in Kensington that had the aesthetic appeal of a filing cabinet trying to cosplay as architecture. Four stories of bureaucratic functionality wrapped in a historical facade. The kind of place that looked dignified from the outside and felt like a headache from the inside.
Harry stood in the courtyard, enjoying five minutes of London winter air that tasted of coal smoke and impending rain. The enhancement had changed his relationship with temperature—he was comfortable in shirtsleeves despite December's insistence that coats were mandatory. The serum regulated his body temperature with ruthless efficiency.
Two weeks since the procedure. Fourteen days of training, testing, learning what his new body could do. The results had been extraordinary and occasionally alarming in equal measure.
He could lift a jeep. Could run thirty miles without breathing hard. Could take a bullet to the shoulder and heal within hours. His magic had become powerful enough that casual spells occasionally shattered windows or set things on fire when he wasn't paying attention.
The Hallows' integration was ongoing. The Invisibility Cloak's power let him vanish at will—useful for reconnaissance, terrifying for anyone who looked away for a second and found him gone. The Elder Wand amplified every spell to devastating effect. And the Resurrection Stone...
He still hadn't tested that. Wasn't ready. Calling back the dead felt like opening a door he couldn't close, and Harry preferred keeping certain doors firmly locked until necessity demanded otherwise.
"Agent Carter?"
Harry turned.
A woman approached from the base entrance. Mid-twenties. Blonde. Strikingly beautiful in the way that suggested symmetry and good genetics more than artifice. She wore a Women's Army Corps uniform—Private's insignia, perfectly pressed, regulation everything.
Except her eyes. Her eyes were wrong. Not obviously—you had to look closely. But they were too observant. Too calculating. The eyes of someone who'd spent years watching people and learning how they moved, how they thought, how they *lied*.
Private Lorraine. Recently transferred to the SSR from general assignment. Personnel file listed her as a typist with exemplary accuracy and the kind of boring efficiency that made commanding officers forget she existed.
Harry knew better.
"Private Lorraine," he said, affecting the casual friendliness of someone who definitely didn't know she was lying about everything. "Morning. You're here early."
"Couldn't sleep, sir." Her voice was sweet. Southern American accent—Georgia, maybe Alabama. The kind of drawl that made men underestimate her immediately. "Thought I'd get a head start on the filing Colonel Phillips requested. The Nurmengard operation generates a *remarkable* amount of paperwork."
"Paperwork's the real enemy in any war," Harry agreed. "Nazis and dark wizards are manageable. Filing systems are eternal."
She laughed. Perfectly pitched. Charming without being flirtatious. "You're different from the other officers, Agent Carter. Most of them don't talk to us clerks. We're furniture that occasionally types."
"Then most officers are idiots." Harry moved closer. Leaned against the courtyard wall with studied casualness. "Everyone in this organization contributes to the mission. Typists know what everyone's doing because they process the reports. That makes you valuable. Possibly more valuable than the officers giving orders."
"That's kind of you to say, sir."
"It's accurate to say." Harry studied her. "Tell me, Private Lorraine. How are you finding the SSR? Is it everything you hoped when you transferred?"
"It's interesting," she said carefully. "More interesting than general assignment. Working with experimental operations, classified projects—" She gestured vaguely. "—it's exciting. Makes me feel like I'm contributing to something important."
"You are contributing." Harry's smile was warm. Genuine. "Though I suspect you're contributing more than your file suggests."
Something flickered behind her eyes. Brief. There and gone. "Sir?"
"Your typing speed is listed as ninety words per minute. Exceptional. But yesterday I saw you transcribe Colonel Phillips's dictation at closer to one-twenty. Which means either you're getting faster with practice, or you deliberately understated your capabilities during evaluation."
Lorraine's expression didn't change. "I might have been nervous during testing. Performance anxiety."
"Might have been." Harry's voice stayed friendly. Conversational. "Or might have wanted to seem competent but not *too* competent. Because women who are too capable make men uncomfortable. And uncomfortable men don't trust you with the interesting work."
Her smile turned genuine. Real. "You're perceptive, Agent Carter."
"I pay attention. It's a survival skill." Harry straightened. "Between you and me, Private? I don't care if you're understating your abilities. I care if you're competent. And based on everything I've observed, you're significantly more competent than your file suggests. Which means when this operation moves forward, I'm going to request you for my support staff. Because I want people who are good at their jobs, not people who are good at pretending to be average."
"That's—" Lorraine stopped. Recalibrated. "That's very flattering, sir. But I'm just a typist."
"And I'm just a wizard who punches people," Harry said cheerfully. "Everyone's 'just' something. The question is whether they're *good* at it. You're good at what you do. So I'm going to make sure you're where your skills are most useful."
He pushed off the wall. Started walking toward the entrance.
"Oh, and Private Lorraine?" He glanced back. "If you're going to maintain a cover identity, remember to make your mistakes consistent with your supposed skill level. A nervous typist who types at ninety words per minute wouldn't instinctively correct a misspelled German word in yesterday's intelligence report. That requires fluency most American typists don't have."
He disappeared inside before she could respond.
Lorraine—Raven Darkholme—stood in the courtyard, staring at the space Harry had occupied.
*Shit.*
He'd made her.
Not completely. He hadn't said "you're a shapeshifter using an assumed identity." But he'd noticed the inconsistencies. The places where her cover didn't quite align with her capabilities.
She'd been sloppy. Overconfident. Assumed that looking like an attractive blonde typist would make men's brains turn off.
But Harry Carter was different.
Enhanced. Powerful. And apparently *observant* in ways that made maintaining cover significantly harder.
She'd need to recalibrate. Tighten her performance. Or—
Or she could stop pretending.
If Harry knew she was more than she claimed, if he was still requesting her for his team despite that knowledge, then maybe he wasn't interested in exposing her. Maybe he was interested in *using* her.
That could work.
Raven had been trained by the best. Had spent years infiltrating organizations, gathering intelligence, serving masters whose goals aligned with her survival. The SSR was just another assignment. Another cover. Another role to play.
Except—
Harry Carter had looked at her and *seen* her. Not Lorraine. Not the disguise. *Her*. The person underneath. The competent operator pretending to be harmless.
And instead of arresting her, interrogating her, treating her as a threat—
He'd complimented her.
Recognized her capabilities.
Offered to put her somewhere useful.
That was new.
Raven smiled.
This operation was going to be interesting.
---
# **SSR London Base - Second Floor Corridor**
Steve Rogers navigated the SSR's corridors with the confidence of someone who'd been lost in this building exactly seventeen times and had finally memorized the layout through sheer frustrated repetition.
The enhancement had given him perfect spatial memory. He could recall every room, every turning, every door. Unfortunately, it hadn't given him the ability to predict which corridor would be blocked by someone moving filing cabinets or which stairwell would be occupied by maintenance.
British military efficiency was an oxymoron. The SSR had imported that confusion and added American bureaucracy on top. The result was organizational chaos with good intentions.
He found Harry on the second floor, leaning against a window and watching the courtyard below with the focused attention of someone monitoring something interesting.
"Morning," Steve said.
Harry turned. Smiled. "Steve. Good morning. Sleep well?"
"Bucky snores like a freight train. The serum didn't fix that." Steve moved beside him, looked out the window. "What are you watching?"
"Private Lorraine." Harry gestured to where the blonde typist had been standing moments ago. She'd since moved inside, but her position was still visible through the ground-floor windows. "Interesting woman. Significantly more capable than her file suggests. I'm planning to request her for the operation."
Steve frowned. "A typist? For an assault on a magical fortress?"
"A typist who speaks German fluently, demonstrates tactical awareness inconsistent with administrative personnel, and yesterday corrected a translation error in an intelligence report that most native speakers would have missed." Harry's expression was thoughtful. "She's undercover. Probably an intelligence operative. Possibly not American—her accent is good but occasionally slips. I'm guessing Eastern European origin with extensive language training."
"You think she's a spy?"
"I think she's *someone's* spy. The question is whose. She could be British intelligence running parallel surveillance on the SSR. Could be Soviet—they have agents everywhere. Could be freelance—there are operators who sell information to whoever pays best."
"And you want her on our team?" Steve asked incredulously. "Someone who's lying about her identity?"
"I want her talents on our team," Harry corrected. "If she's hostile, better to have her where I can watch her. If she's friendly but hiding her capabilities, then I'm giving her an opportunity to be useful honestly. Either way, bringing her into the operation is strategically sound."
Steve studied Harry. The enhancement had changed his friend—made him harder, more calculating. The Harry who'd helped rescue two hundred prisoners had been idealistic. This Harry was pragmatic.
"You've changed," Steve observed. "Since the serum. You're more—"
"Ruthless?" Harry supplied. "Willing to use people? Yes. The enhancement amplified what was already there. I've always been practical about achieving objectives. Now I'm just more efficient about it."
"That's what worries me."
Harry's smile was brief. "Worry noted. But Steve, we're about to assault a fortress held by a dark lord who's killed thousands. We can't afford to be squeamish about using available assets. If Private Lorraine has skills, I'm going to deploy them. That's what commanders do."
"You're not a commander. You're a Hit-Wizard."
"I'm whatever the mission requires me to be." Harry straightened. "Come on. Phillips wants us for the planning session. Time to figure out how we're going to break into an impregnable magical fortress and rescue three hundred prisoners while killing Grindelwald's forces."
"Just another Tuesday," Steve muttered.
They walked together through corridors that were still confusing despite Steve's perfect memory. The building's layout made sense on paper. In practice, it felt like someone had designed it specifically to make navigation annoying.
They reached the third floor. The operations planning room occupied the entire eastern wing—one large space that had been converted into a war room. Maps covered every wall. Tables held scale models of terrain. Filing cabinets lined the perimeter, stuffed with intelligence reports and classified documents.
The room was already occupied.
Colonel Phillips stood at the primary map table, reviewing topographical surveys of the Austrian Alps. His expression suggested he'd discovered something simultaneously important and annoying—his default state.
Peggy Carter occupied a chair near the window, reading through prisoner manifests with the focused attention of someone who took her work personally. She'd dressed in her field uniform today—trousers, jacket, boots designed for actual use rather than ceremonial polish. Ready to deploy.
Bucky Barnes leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, looking healthier than he had two weeks ago. The unstable serum Howard had synthesized stabilization treatments for was integrating properly. Bucky was stronger now—not to Steve's level, but formidable. Enhanced enough to be dangerous. Enhanced enough to be useful.
And beside Bucky—
"Dum Dum!" Steve grinned. "When did you get here?"
Corporal Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan turned, his massive frame making the war room feel smaller. His mustache was magnificent—clearly he'd been maintaining it with military precision. "Yesterday. Phillips said you were planning something monumentally stupid and needed soldiers with experience surviving your leadership. I volunteered."
Behind him stood the men Steve recognized from the Hydra facility rescue. Gabriel Jones. James Morita. Jacques Dernier. James Montgomery Falsworth. Good soldiers. Competent. Men who'd survived captivity and come out harder.
"Gentlemen," Steve acknowledged them. "Glad you're here. We're going to need everyone we can get for this operation."
"Operation Valkyrie," Phillips said without looking up from his maps. "That's what we're calling it. After the Norse myth about warriors choosing who dies in battle. Seemed appropriate given we're assaulting a fortress named after a dead prison."
"Nurmengard isn't dead," Harry corrected, moving to the map table. "It's very actively full of prisoners and Acolytes who'll be trying to kill us."
"Details." Phillips finally looked up. "Agent Carter. Captain Rogers. You're late."
"By thirty seconds," Harry said. "Hardly late. Fashionably prompt."
"In the military, thirty seconds late is still late. Sit down. We have planning to do."
Everyone found chairs or leaning positions. The room settled into the particular kind of focused attention that preceded complex operations.
Phillips pulled out a master file. Thick. Marked with security classifications that suggested reading it without authorization would result in immediate court-martial and possibly execution.
"Operation Valkyrie," he began. "Objective: assault Nurmengard Castle, Grindelwald's primary fortress. Rescue three hundred forty-seven prisoners currently held in the dungeon levels. Destroy Grindelwald's operational capacity. Eliminate or capture key Acolytes. And if possible—" He looked at Harry. "—kill or capture Gellert Grindelwald himself."
"Ambitious," Charlus Potter's voice said from the doorway.
Everyone turned.
The Black Dragon Legion's leadership had arrived. Charlus led them—looking cheerful despite discussing an operation with catastrophic failure probability. Behind him came Arcturus Black, Dorea Black, and Cassiopeia Black. The aristocratic quartet who'd spent three years fighting Grindelwald's forces and surviving through skill and ruthless efficiency.
"Sorry we're late," Charlus continued, not sounding sorry at all. "Had to coordinate with the ICW. They're very invested in this operation succeeding. Also very nervous about it failing catastrophically and exposing the magical world to widespread non-magical scrutiny."
"Tell them we'll try not to fail catastrophically," Phillips said dryly. "Find seats. We're discussing team composition."
The wizards distributed themselves around the room. Arcturus took position near the map, already studying terrain with tactical focus. Dorea claimed a chair and immediately began reviewing intelligence files. Cassiopeia stood near Peggy—the two had developed professional respect bordering on friendship over the past weeks.
"Team composition," Phillips continued. "This operation requires integration of conventional military forces and magical operatives. Captain Rogers and Agent Carter will serve as joint commanders—Rogers handles conventional tactics, Carter handles magical operations. They'll coordinate through Agent Margaret Carter, who'll serve as operational intelligence and liaison."
Peggy looked up sharply. "Sir, I'm not qualified to—"
"You coordinated the rescue of two hundred prisoners through hostile territory," Phillips interrupted. "You did it efficiently, with minimal casualties, against opposition that included both conventional forces and magical combatants. That qualifies you. Don't argue."
Peggy's mouth opened. Closed. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Now—personnel." Phillips consulted his file. "Captain Rogers, I understand you have specific requests for your team?"
Steve stood. Moved to the map table. "Yes, sir. For conventional forces, I want the men who survived the Hydra facility. Sergeant Barnes—enhanced capabilities make him valuable for close-quarters combat. Corporal Dugan—leadership experience and intimidation factor. Corporal Jones—communications expertise. Lieutenant Falsworth—British liaison and tactical planning. Corporal Morita—engineering and explosives. Private Dernier—French Resistance experience, unconventional warfare."
He paused. "And Agent Peggy Carter. She proved herself during the rescue. She's competent under fire, understands both conventional and magical tactics, and—" He met Phillips's eyes. "—she's the best intelligence officer we have. Leaving her behind would be strategic stupidity."
Phillips grunted. "Noted. Though I'll remind you that Agent Carter is technically a liaison officer, not a field operative."
"Then promote her," Harry said flatly. "Make it official. Agent Margaret Carter, field operative, intelligence specialist, attached to Operation Valkyrie. Problem solved."
"It's not that simple—"
"It's exactly that simple," Arcturus interjected. His aristocratic voice carried the weight of someone who'd spent years navigating bureaucracy and didn't care about protocol when it conflicted with efficiency. "Colonel Phillips, with respect, we're planning an assault on the most fortified magical installation in Europe. We'll face opposition from trained Acolytes, dark creatures, and possibly Grindelwald himself. Every qualified person we can deploy increases our survival probability. Agent Carter is qualified. Deploy her or explain to your superiors why you prioritized paperwork over operational success."
Silence.
Phillips stared at Arcturus. The British wizard stared back with aristocratic composure.
"Fine," Phillips said finally. "Agent Carter is promoted to field operative for the duration of this operation. If she survives, we'll make it permanent. If she doesn't, I'll take responsibility for approving her deployment." He turned to Peggy. "Congratulations, Agent. Try not to die. The paperwork would be tedious."
"I'll do my best, sir," Peggy said. Her voice was steady, but Steve saw relief flash across her face.
"Agent Magus," Phillips continued. "Your team?"
Harry stood. Moved beside Steve at the map table. "For magical forces, I want the Black Dragon Legion's core leadership. Charlus Potter—strategic planning and combat magic. Arcturus Black—tactical coordination and defensive spells. Dorea Black—curse-breaking and explosive enchantments. Cassiopeia Black—intelligence analysis and ward manipulation."
"Four wizards," Phillips observed. "Against potentially dozens of Acolytes. The math seems unfavorable."
"The math improves when the four wizards are some of the most dangerous combat casters in Europe," Harry said. "Besides, I'm not finished. I want three additional operatives."
"Who?"
"First: Auror Alastor Moody. Currently stationed in Scotland with the British Ministry's law enforcement division. Twenty-six years old. Exceptional combat record. Already killed seven dark wizards in direct confrontation. Has a pathological hatred of Grindelwald's forces and the paranoia to back it up. He's suspicious, aggressive, and exactly the kind of wizard you want watching your back when everything goes wrong."
"You want a paranoid Auror," Phillips said.
"I want a competent paranoid Auror," Harry corrected. "Moody's paranoia has kept him alive through situations that killed his partners. He assumes everything's a trap, everyone's compromised, and death is waiting around every corner. Which makes him perfect for this operation, where all of those assumptions are probably correct."
Phillips made a note. "I'll coordinate with the British Ministry. They won't be thrilled about losing an Auror."
"They'll be less thrilled if Grindelwald wins because we didn't have enough competent wizards," Charlus said. "Moody's good. Harry's right to want him."
"Second operative," Harry continued. "James Howlett. Currently serving with Canadian forces on the Italian front. Enhanced. Mutant physiology—accelerated healing, enhanced senses, retractable bone claws. He's virtually unkillable and absolutely vicious in close combat."
Everyone stared at him.
"Mutant?" Bucky asked. "As in genetically enhanced? That's real?"
"Very real," Harry confirmed. "Mutants exist. Humans born with genetic anomalies that grant superhuman abilities. Most keep it quiet—public perception of mutants is... complicated. But Howlett's been fighting since World War One. Doesn't age normally. Heals from anything. He's a weapon, and we need weapons."
"How do you know about him?" Phillips demanded.
"Magic has ways of finding enhanced individuals," Harry said. "Howlett's fought alongside wizards before. He knows about the magical world. Trusts it more than he trusts conventional military. I can recruit him."
"And his brother," Steve added. Everyone turned to stare at him. "What? Harry briefed me. Victor Creed. James's brother. Also enhanced. Also healing factor. Less stable, more violent, but effective. If we're bringing James, we should bring Victor. They work better together."
"Two mutants with healing factors and violent tendencies," Phillips said. "This operation keeps getting better."
"It gets better," Harry said. His expression was carefully neutral. "Third operative: Private Lorraine."
Dead silence.
"The typist?" Phillips asked slowly. "You want to bring a typist to assault a magical fortress?"
"I want to bring someone with her actual capabilities," Harry corrected. "Private Lorraine is undercover. Probably intelligence specialist. Demonstrates fluency in multiple languages, tactical awareness inconsistent with administrative personnel, and combat training she's hiding. I don't know who she's working for, but I know she's significantly more qualified than her file suggests."
"You want to bring a potential enemy agent on our most classified operation," Phillips said.
"I want to bring someone competent on an operation where competence matters more than loyalty," Harry countered. "If she's hostile, I'll know immediately—magical detection is hard to fool. If she's friendly but hiding her capabilities, I'm offering her a chance to be useful honestly. Either way, her skills are valuable."
"This is insane," Phillips muttered. "You're all insane. Mutants. Paranoid Aurors. Undercover spies. This isn't a military operation. It's a circus."
"Circuses are entertaining," Charlus said cheerfully. "We're going to be *effective*. Slightly different."
Phillips rubbed his face. "Fine. FINE. Recruit your mutants. Coordinate with the Ministry for your paranoid Auror. And bring Private Lorraine. But if she turns out to be a Nazi spy and kills you all, I'm putting 'I told you so' on your gravestones."
"Fair," Harry agreed.
"Now—operation timeline." Phillips returned to business, his discomfort with supernatural recruitment filed away for later complaints. "We have two weeks until deployment. That's two weeks to train, coordinate, brief everyone on magical and conventional threats, and pray to whatever gods are listening that this doesn't end in catastrophic failure."
"Gods are probably busy," Dorea observed. "We should rely on planning instead of divine intervention."
"Planning," Phillips agreed. "Which brings us to Nurmengard's defenses."
He pulled out detailed schematics—architectural drawings that shouldn't exist. Plans for a fortress that was hidden under enough enchantments to make it invisible to normal detection.
"Where did these come from?" Arcturus asked, moving closer to study them.
"The Mokeskin pouch," Cassiopeia said. She'd been quiet until now, but recognition lit her features. "Pollux's intelligence package. These are Grindelwald's own plans. Interior layouts, ward configurations, defensive positions. This is complete architectural intelligence."
"Complete except for one thing," Phillips said. He pointed to a section of the plans marked in red. "This area. Central tower. Grindelwald's personal quarters. The plans show a space here, but no interior details. No ward configurations. Nothing. It's marked as 'Keeper's Sanctum' with a notation in German that translates to 'only the master enters.'"
"That's where Grindelwald will be," Harry said with certainty. "His personal space. His sanctum. The most heavily defended location in the entire fortress."
"Can we bypass it?" Steve asked. "Focus on rescuing prisoners, destroying operational capacity, and avoid confronting Grindelwald directly?"
"We could," Arcturus said slowly. "But that leaves him alive. Leaves him capable of rebuilding. This operation destroys his fortress but doesn't end the threat. He'll just relocate. Establish a new base. Continue the war."
"So we have to confront him," Steve said.
"Someone has to," Harry corrected. His voice was steady. Calm. "Someone enhanced enough to match his power. Someone carrying the Hallows. Someone who can face him directly while the rest of you handle the operational objectives."
Everyone looked at him.
"You're volunteering for a solo confrontation with Grindelwald," Peggy said. Her voice carried layers of concern. "Harry, that's suicide. Even enhanced, even with the Hallows, you're not—"
"I'm Master of Death," Harry interrupted. "The Hallows chose me. Death itself modified the serum to make me stable, permanent, powerful enough for this. If anyone can face Grindelwald, it's me. And if I can't—" He shrugged. "Then nobody can, and we've already lost."
"That's defeatist thinking," Charlus objected.
"That's realistic thinking," Harry countered. "Grindelwald is one of the most powerful wizards in history. The only person who could match him is Dumbledore, and Dumbledore won't fight him. That leaves me. Enhanced. Amplified. Carrying the weapons Grindelwald spent his life searching for. I'm our best option. Possibly our only option."
Silence fell over the war room.
Steve studied Harry's face. Saw determination there. Saw acceptance. Saw someone who'd already made peace with the possibility of dying.
"You're not fighting him alone," Steve said finally. "I'll be with you. Backup. Support. Someone to watch your six while you handle the magic."
"Steve, you can't—"
"I can and I will," Steve interrupted. "You helped rescue Bucky. You saved two hundred men. You've trained me in how to fight alongside magic. Now I'm returning the favor. You go after Grindelwald, I go with you. End of discussion."
Harry looked like he wanted to argue. Then saw the expression on Steve's face—stubborn determination that had survived Brooklyn alleys and super-soldier serum and wasn't backing down now.
"Fine," Harry conceded. "But you follow my lead. If I say run, you run. If I say take cover, you take cover. Grindelwald can kill you with a gesture. Don't give him the opportunity."
"Deal."
Peggy made a frustrated sound. "You're both idiots. Brave idiots, but idiots. Fine. You two handle Grindelwald. The rest of us will focus on prisoners and Acolytes. Charlus, can your team handle magical opposition?"
"Absolutely," Charlus confirmed. "We've been fighting Acolytes for three years. We know their tactics. Their spells. Their weaknesses. Give us conventional backup and we'll clear the fortress level by level."
"Conventional backup will be Sergeant Barnes's team," Steve said. "Bucky, you'll coordinate with Charlus. He'll handle magical threats. You handle conventional soldiers and provide suppressive fire. Work together. Keep each other alive."
"Can do," Bucky said. He looked at Charlus. "You wizards any good in a fight?"
"Better than good," Charlus said cheerfully. "Magnificent, actually. You'll love it. Lots of explosions. Some fire. Possibly a dragon if things get interesting."
"Dragon?"
"Patronus," Harry clarified. "My Patronus is a Hungarian Horntail. Big. Aggressive. Useful for clearing rooms."
"Magic is weird," Bucky muttered.
"Magic is *effective*," Harry corrected. "Weird is just a side effect."
Phillips cleared his throat. "If we're finished discussing the philosophical implications of magical warfare, can we return to actual planning? We have two weeks. I want training schedules, coordination protocols, equipment manifests, and contingency plans for seventeen different failure modes. We're assaulting the most defended fortress in Europe. I want every detail planned, every variable accounted for, every possible disaster prepared for."
"And if disaster happens anyway?" Dugan asked.
"Then we improvise, adapt, and try not to die," Phillips said. "Standard operating procedure for impossible missions."
The planning continued.
Maps were studied. Routes were debated. Magical capabilities were explained to non-magical soldiers who looked increasingly concerned about fighting alongside people who could turn invisible or summon dragons.
Hours passed.
Coffee was consumed in quantities that violated medical recommendations.
And slowly—painfully, through argument and compromise and the particular kind of chaos that preceded military operations—a plan emerged.
Operation Valkyrie.
Assault on Nurmengard Castle.
Rescue of three hundred forty-seven prisoners.
Destruction of Grindelwald's operational capacity.
And if everything went right—if luck and skill and Harry's enhancement were enough—
The death of Gellert Grindelwald himself.
Two weeks.
They had two weeks to prepare for the most dangerous operation of the war.
Two weeks to train.
To coordinate.
To become a team that could fight together despite being wizards and soldiers, enhanced and ordinary, magical and mundane.
Two weeks to prepare for hell.
And as the meeting broke up—as people scattered to their assignments, their training, their preparations—
Steve caught Harry's arm.
"Hey," Steve said quietly. "Earlier. When you said you'd made peace with possibly dying. Did you mean that?"
Harry met his eyes. "Yes."
"Don't," Steve said firmly. "Don't make peace with it. Stay angry. Stay determined. Stay committed to survival. Because we're going to win this. We're going to assault that fortress, rescue those prisoners, and come home alive. All of us. That's not hope. That's the plan. Understand?"
Harry smiled. Brief. Genuine. "Understood, Captain."
"Good."
They walked together through corridors that were still confusing, toward training rooms where impossible teams would learn to fight together, toward a future where magic and science merged into something that could defeat evil.
Two weeks.
The clock was ticking.
And the storm was coming.
---
# **SSR London Base - Later That Evening**
Private Lorraine sat in the typing pool, transcribing intelligence reports with mechanical precision while her mind worked on entirely different problems.
Harry Carter knew.
Not everything. But enough. Enough to be dangerous. Enough to compromise her cover if he chose to expose her.
Except he hadn't.
He'd offered her a position. Recognized her capabilities. Suggested deploying her where she'd be useful.
That was unprecedented in Raven's experience.
Most people who discovered her deception responded with anger. Betrayal. The particular kind of outrage that came from realizing you'd been lied to. Harry had responded with pragmatism—*you're competent, so I'll use you*.
She could work with that.
The question was whether she *should*.
Raven's current handler—a Soviet intelligence officer who thought he was brilliant and was actually just adequately paranoid—wanted information on Project Rebirth. On the super-soldier program. On how America was creating enhanced soldiers.
He'd sent her to infiltrate the SSR, gather intelligence, report back.
She'd done that. Filed reports. Sent encrypted communications. Played her role.
But now Harry Carter was offering her something different.
An opportunity to be *useful* honestly. To deploy her actual capabilities rather than pretending to be harmless. To fight alongside people who respected competence regardless of where it came from.
That was... tempting.
More tempting than it should be.
Raven had spent years serving masters who viewed her as a tool. Useful. Valuable. But ultimately disposable. Harry had looked at her and seen a *person*. Someone with skills worth respecting.
That mattered.
More than strategic considerations suggested it should.
She'd need to decide soon.
Cooperate with Harry's operation and risk exposure to her Soviet handlers. Or maintain her cover and miss an opportunity to actually *do* something meaningful.
Raven smiled.
She'd always been good at risk assessment.
And sometimes the riskiest choice was the one worth taking.
---
Meanwhile, in Scotland, Alastor Moody—young, whole, not yet scarred by decades of fighting dark wizards—received an official communication from the ICW requesting his immediate deployment to London for a classified operation.
He read the orders three times. Checked them for forgery. Verified the authentication runes. Cast detection spells to ensure they weren't cursed or compromised.
Then he packed his trunk, grabbed his wand, and Disapparated.
Because if the ICW wanted him for classified operations, it meant someone somewhere needed killing.
And killing dark wizards was what Alastor Moody did best.
---
In Italy, two men who looked like brothers but moved like predators received orders reassigning them from frontline combat to special operations in London.
James Howlett—who'd fought in every major conflict since 1914 and hadn't aged a day—read the orders with suspicion.
"Special operations," he growled. His voice carried the rough edges of someone who'd spent decades not talking when violence would suffice. "Classified mission. Magical coordination. This smells like a setup."
"Or an opportunity," Victor Creed said. He was bigger than James. Broader. More obviously dangerous in a way that made normal soldiers nervous. "Been killing regular Nazis for months. Gets boring. Maybe this'll be interesting."
"Interesting usually means someone's trying to kill us."
"Yeah." Victor's smile showed teeth that were slightly too sharp. "Looking forward to it."
They packed. They deployed.
And somewhere in the machinery of military bureaucracy, Operation Valkyrie's team was assembling.
Piece by piece.
Soldier by soldier.
Wizard by wizard.
Each one dangerous.
Each one competent.
Each one exactly what they needed.
For the mission that would define the war.
For the assault that would determine whether evil could be stopped or would continue consuming the world.
Two weeks.
The clock kept ticking.
And everyone prepared for hell.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!