133 Task-Master

When Harry and Natasha returned to their secluded cabin in the Norwegian woods, after their trip to Gstaad, Natasha claimed her favorite spot on the sofa, pulling Harry down beside her and wrapping a blanket over them both. Used to the routine by now, Harry used his magic to prepare a bowl of popcorn as two bottles of beer floated from the fridge to rest within reach.

Natasha dimmed the lights of the cabin so that the only light came from the television screen flickering to life. “Moonraker,” she declared with a smirk, clicking play as the iconic Bond theme filled the room.

Harry groaned quietly, already resigned. “Not again.”

“It’s a classic,” Natasha said without taking her eyes off the screen. “Besides, I like the space one.”

“You like it because you know every single line,” he muttered, leaning into her shoulder.

She grinned, not denying it. “‘Good evening, Mr. Bond. I’m Dr. Holly Goodhead.’” she quoted perfectly, matching the actress’ tone. Harry rolled his eyes but smiled all the same.

The movie played on as Roger Moore’s charm echoed through the room. Natasha mouthed along to every quip, every one-liner, her lips curling into a grin each time Bond delivered a smug comeback. Harry, meanwhile, had already surrendered to the drowsiness that derived from boredome. His head found her shoulder, and his arm slipped around her waist as he drifted between sleep and half-awake amusement.

By the time Bond reached outer space, Harry’s breathing had slowed to the gentle rhythm of sleep. Natasha, however, was completely absorbed, her eyes reflecting the glow of the screen, utterly focused as if she were watching it for the first time instead of the fiftieth.

When Bond fired his laser gun, she whispered the line in sync: “Take a giant step for mankind.” Harry mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, probably a protest, but she only chuckled softly and brushed her fingers through his hair.

As the movie carried on, Harry felt a faint jolt from the sudden ripple in his wards causing him to wake up. He opened his eyes to the dim flicker of the TV, his magic had already caused his grogginess to dissipate.

“You missed the best parts of the movie,” Natasha complained, nudging him in the ribs with a scrunched-up face. “You promised ‘till death do us part,’ but apparently, that doesn’t cover mid-movie nap time.”

Harry blinked, still half-leaning against her shoulder. However, he wasn’t listening to Natasha but more focused on the signals his magic was providing from the wards around the cabin. “Honestly, you can’t even stay awake for—” Natasha however stopped when she noticed the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes had hardened from drowsy green to sharp emerald focus.

Her teasing expression faded instantly. “What is it?” she asked.

“Someone tripped the wards,” Harry explained as his eyes glowed faintly with his magic.

Natasha’s teasing expression vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of the Widow. “How many?” Without hesitation, Natasha reached under the coffee table and pulled out a matte-black handgun and checked the magazine. The click of the slide echoed softly in the room as she switched off the TV, plunging the cabin into darkness except for the silver moonlight streaming through the window.

“One,” Harry replied.

 “Guess the honeymoon’s over,” she muttered.

“Temporarily,” Harry replied, already waving his hand. The popcorn bowl vanished. The beer bottles straightened and disappeared into the sink. Cushions fluffed themselves as the blanket folded neatly on the armrest. Within seconds, the cozy chaos of their movie night was replaced by the pristine emptiness of an unoccupied cabin.

They moved silently up the narrow staircase, the wood barely creaking under their trained steps. At the top landing, Harry murmured a soft incantation, and both of them shimmered briefly before fading from sight with the help of a disillusionment.

The two of them waited in perfect silence, crouched behind the wooden railing of the upper loft.

“I thought you said this cabin was safe,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

“It is,” Natasha murmured back through clenched teeth.

“Then why is someone disturbing us here?”

“How do you know they’re here for me and not for you?”

“Because you’re the one with the lifetime membership to the ‘Haunted Past’ club,” Harry countered.

“Don’t throw accusations without evidence,” Natasha hissed.

“Pretty strong reaction for someone innocent,” Harry whispered back with a smirk she could practically hear.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered. “If this turns out to be one of your magical fanboys, I’m making you fix the damages.”

A minute later, the front door shuddered once… then was kicked clean off its hinges. Splinters flew across the floor as the door slammed against the wall.

The intruder stepped inside, Harry and Natasha could finally see who it was. Armor plates glinted under the moonlight filtering through the window. A hood concealed most of the head, and beneath it gleamed a skull-shaped helmet, its visor glowing faintly blue as it swept the room. There was a compact sidearm holstered on the right thigh and a tactical backpack was strapped tightly across its back.

The intruder turned its head from side to side, scanning for life. Its movements were too precise, not the nervous searching of a thief or spy, but the cold, calculated sweep of someone trained to breach, clear, and kill.

To their surprise, the intruder didn’t head upstairs or sweep the room for occupants. Instead, it turned sharply toward the broom closet. Natasha tilted her head, eyebrows lifting behind her disillusioned shimmer. “See? Not here for me,” she whispered with smugness creeping into her tone.

Harry gave her a sidelong glance she couldn’t see but definitely felt. “Yeah, no, not for you, just for Fanny Longbottom.”

Her expression froze. “...You did not just say that.”

Below them, the intruder opened the broom closet. The hinges groaned quietly as the armored figure crouched, methodically rummaging through cleaning supplies, fishing supplies, and the unassuming cardboard box tucked in the back corner. It found what it was looking for and took out box came with a dull scrape against the floor.

“Oh look,” Harry murmured dryly, “the mysterious agent of death is after your Fanny Longbottom’s junk mail. I’m sure that’s a totally normal Tuesday.”

Natasha folded her arms. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Well, it’s not every day a skull-faced mercenary breaks into our vacation cabin to steal your alias’s mail from Budapest,” Harry whispered with his lips twitching.

She sighed through her nose. “Merlin help me, if that box has anything sensitive—”

“—then it’s your fault for leaving spy souvenirs in a closet like it’s a coat rack.”

The armored intruder straightened and placed the box on the counter to go through its contents.

Natasha rolled her eyes, already checking the magazine of her sidearm. “How do you want to engage him?” she whispered, thumbing off the safety with the same calm she’d use to butter toast.

Harry tilted his head, considering. “I mean, I could just use my magic to freeze him in place, and then we can ask questions, or rummage through his mind to extract all the information he’s got.” He shrugged as if discussing dinner plans.

Natasha turned her head slowly, giving him a stare so flat it could have been laser-cut steel.

“What?” Harry whispered defensively. “I’m just telling you the most efficient plan of action.”

She kept her eyes on him with a dead serious expression. “You know I don’t like using your magic to cheat in fights we can win with overwhelming force. Besides, I haven’t gotten a good spar in since Sokovia. I don’t want to get rusty.”

Harry smirked faintly. “You want to fight a skull-faced mercenary because you’re bored?”

She gave a small shrug. “Better than cardio.”

He exhaled through his nose, resigned. “Alright, fine. We’ll do it your way, the non-magical, risk our lives unnecessarily way.”

Natasha’s lips twitched upward. “You can even take notes, in case you ever need to remember how mortals do things.”

“Cute,” Harry said dryly. “You can have first crack at him, then.”

That earned him a grin and a quick peck on the lips, swift, warm, and completely out of place amid the tension. “Deal.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled as he followed her down the stairs. At the base of the stairs, Harry waved his hand once, dissolving the disillusionment charm around them. The world shimmered as they faded back into visibility.

The intruder froze after it sensed Natasha and Harry’s presence appear out of thin air, head snapping toward them instantly.

 “Hi there,” Natasha called out, “you’re kind of interrupting our honeymoon, you know. That’s bad manners.”

The intruder’s black visor of the helmet reflected the moonlight as it slowly turned to face them. Its head tilted, just slightly with that predatory kind of curiosity that made Harry’s skin prickle.

Natasha’s tone hardened. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

There was no response. Not a word, not a gesture, just that steady, mechanical breathing through the helmet.

Harry sighed dramatically from behind her. “I don’t think it speaks English. It’s from Budapest, right? Maybe try Hungarian?”

That earned him a sideways exasperated glare from Natasha. Her fingers flexed slightly, just enough to loosen her shoulders before the inevitable fight.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the intruder didn’t seem interested in their banter. Without a word or warning, it moved fast as a circular metal shield materialized from a compact mechanism on its forearm, locking into place with a sharp clack.

Before either of them could react, the intruder hurled it towards Natasha. The shield sliced through the air with a shrill metallic whirr, forcing Natasha to duck instinctively. It tore through the wooden wall behind her as if the timber were made of paper, leaving a jagged crescent of splinters in its wake before ricocheting into the shadows.

Harry’s reflexes flared, but Natasha was already in motion ready to fire. The intruder did not give her the opportunity. The intruder closed the distance in an instant, tackling her with the full weight of armored momentum. But Natasha was ready for the follow-through. She twisted her hips, using the momentum against the attacker, and rolled. In one fluid motion, she reversed their positions and kicked off with her heel, sending the armored figure crashing through the door and out onto the dock.

Wood splintered. The cold air from the lake rushed in.

Natasha rose smoothly to her feet, brushing a stray lock of red hair from her face, her expression sharpening into the familiar, predatory calm that Harry recognized all too well.

“You want me to tag in?” Harry asked, sounding far too amused for someone facing an armed intruder. He leaned against the doorway, clearly enjoying the show.

Natasha didn’t answer, she was already moving, fast and precise. Natasha charged forward and her leg hooked up in a perfect scissor kick meant to drop the opponent cold, but instead, the intruder caught her momentum midair, twisted, and reversed the same move with startling finess. In a blink, both Natasha and the assailant hit the ground.

Harry blinked. “Did it just reverse your move and do the exact same thing to you?”

He stepped out of the cabin, eyebrows raised in sheer disbelief.

Natasha didn’t reply, she was in full combat mode now and kicked herself up. Then, in perfect unison, the mimic did the same, the two bodies moving like reflections in a mirror.

Harry whistled softly. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Natasha’s drew a knife from her ankle and slashed for the intruder’s throat, following up with a lightning-quick cut toward the abdomen. The intruder dodged backward effortlessly. But Natasha’s heel shot up in the same breath, connecting squarely with its gut.

The mimic caught her leg before she could retract it, twisting sharply and hurling her sideways. Natasha hit the floor, rolled with the momentum, and came up in a crouch, already springing forward.

Steel clashed. The mimic deflected her next slash and answered with a brutal right hook that caught Natasha across the jaw, sending her skidding back across the wooden floorboards.

The intruder advanced with fists snapping out in a flurry of strikes. Natasha weaved through the barrage with impossible grace, ducking, flipping, and twisting away. Natasha backpedaled toward the cabin’s wall, letting the mimic press its attack. Then, at the perfect moment, she sidestepped. The intruder’s heavy kick smashed through the wooden paneling, its leg wedged deep into the wall with a loud crack.

Natasha spun and drove a roundhouse kick into its jaw. The mimic crashed to the ground, helmet glancing off the floor with a metallic thud.

She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as she switched her knife grip.

The mimic pushed itself up, unfazed. It lunged again. Natasha ducked the first punch, then slashed down across the right knee. The mimic staggered, tried to counter with a kick, but Natasha dodged it and another countered it with a cut across the left thigh.

The mimic growled through its modulator and charged with arms outstretched to grapple. Natasha flipped backward over its shoulders, landing behind it in perfect balance. Before it could turn, she buried her knife deep into the joint between its shoulder blades and followed with a dropkick that sent it stumbling forward.

The mimic spun — or tried to — but Natasha was already behind it again. Her arm snaked around its throat, pulling it into a tight chokehold. The mimic thrashed, clawing at her arm, but she held firm.

Harry waved his hand lazily, sensing the fight was over. “And… curtain.” A flash of red light enveloped the mimic. The intruder convulsed, stiffened, and collapsed hard onto the floor, paralyzed by the binding charm.

Natasha released her hold, letting the body slump to the ground with a dull thud. She exhaled, steadying her breathing as Harry approached. A soft shimmer of magic rippled over her skin as his healing charm sealed the bruises and cuts from the fight, leaving only faint traces of blood where fresh skin knit together.

Kneeling beside the fallen intruder, Natasha unclasped the skull-shaped helmet. The hiss of depressurization was faint, but eerie in the silence that followed. She lifted it off carefully, and froze. Beneath the mask was a woman, her face marred by deep burn scars that looked years old, yet still raw under the light.

Harry crouched beside her, frowning as he examined the still form. He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck to find a pulse but found none. “She’s dead” Harry declared.

 Natasha blinked. “What? But she was just—”

Before she could finish, the woman’s lips twitched. A thin, white froth began to bubble from her mouth, spilling past the scars and dripping down her chin. The stench of chemicals filled the air.

Harry leaned closer. “Cyanide… or something worse,” he said grimly, prying her mouth open. Inside, the shattered remains of a capsule were fused to her teeth. “My guess is that someone triggered a remote kill switch.”

Natasha’s expression darkened. She picked up the helmet and turned it over in her hands, inspecting the inside. “There’s a micro-camera built into the visor,” she said, pointing at a faint lens hidden near the temple. “They were watching. The moment she was about to be caught, they pulled the plug.”

 “You recognize her?” Harry asked quietly.

Natasha studied the scarred face for a moment, then shook her head. “No. But whoever trained her invested a lot on her. I don’t think they will be happy at the loss that they just suffered.”

Harry sighed, replacing the helmet over the woman’s head. He conjured a pen and slip of parchment with a wave of his hand, jotting down a brief note detailing the encounter and his suspicions. Then, with a soft twist of magic, the pen shimmered and transformed into a small silver key.

He tucked both into the intruder’s jacket pocket. “Hill will know what to do,” he murmured.

The body vanished in a swirl of blue light as whisked away to Avengers HQ via the portkey.

Natasha glanced toward the small cabin. “Let’s see what she was here for.”

Together, they stepped back inside. Harry rummaged through the box and unwrapped all the parcels until he came across a black case with no significant markings. With a flick of his fingers, he undid the lock. Inside, several test-tube-sized vials were neatly arranged — each filled with a pulsing, red liquid that glowed faintly through the glass. A rubber band held them together, as if hastily packed.

Among the vials, Harry noticed a slip of paper wedged between them. Carefully, he pulled it free, it was a small, worn photo strip from an old booth, its edges curled and faded from time.

In the picture, two young girls smiled back at him from the glossy print. The older one had a wild halo of red hair and mischievous blue eyes; the younger, a mop of platinum blonde and a grin that could light up a room. In the first frame, they were laughing at something off-camera. In the second, they had leaned together, foreheads touching.

Harry didn’t need to ask. He could feel the bond, the history, the love frozen in those captured seconds.

He handed the strip to Natasha silently.

For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Her eyes traced the faces on the paper, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushed the image of the blonde girl. The playful sparkle in her younger self’s eyes reflected in the faint light of the cabin. A single tear escaped down her cheek, glistening in the soft red light from the vials.

Harry didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder as she stood there staring at the ghost of a past she’d long thought dead that was now staring right back at her.

“Who are they?” Harry asked as he supported his wife.

Natasha didn’t look up. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Yelena… and me. Back when we were in Ohio.”

Harry’s eyes flicked from the photograph to the red vials, the pieces falling into place in his mind.

He reached out, brushing his thumb over her hand. “This came from her, didn’t it?”

Natasha’s lips parted, but no words came. She just nodded, her eyes never leaving the smiling faces in the photo strip.

Harry inhaled deeply as the faint red glow of the vials illuminated the cabin. “Then we shouldn’t waste time,” he said gently. “We should head to Budapest.”

For a long moment, Natasha didn’t answer. Then, slowly, she nodded again.

She clutched the photo strip close to her chest, eyes glimmering with a mixture of hope and pain. “Let’s go,” she whispered.