**November 1943 - Somewhere in Italy, where the night tastes of diesel and disappointment**
The applause had died. Applause always dies, in the end, Steve Rogers thought. It dies the way dreams die when you wake up, the way hope dies when you read the casualty lists. It dies the way three hundred soldiers' enthusiasm dies when they realize the hero they've been promised is just a man in a costume with a painted shield who's never fired a shot in anger.
He sat on a wooden crate that had once held canned peaches—the label was still visible, sun-faded and peeling—and he held his cowl in his hands like it was something dead. The shield leaned against his knee. Stage prop. That's all it was. All he was.
Behind him, the chorus girls laughed about something. Their laughter was bright and brittle, like glass about to break. One of them—Diane? Dorothy?—touched his shoulder as she passed, but didn't speak. What could she say? *Sorry they threw tomatoes? Better luck next time?*
The air backstage smelled of greasepaint and sweat and the particular kind of humiliation that comes from realizing you're a joke someone else is tired of laughing at.
"That bad, was it?"
Steve looked up.
Agent Margaret Carter stood in a pool of shadow that shouldn't have hidden her as well as it did, but did anyway. She had a way of appearing, Steve had noticed. Not walking up—*appearing*, as if the universe had simply rearranged itself to put her in the right place at the right time. She wore her uniform the way some women wore evening gowns—not because it made her beautiful (though it did), but because she made it into something more than it had been before she put it on.
Her arms were crossed. Her expression was the careful neutral of someone who knew exactly how bad it had been and was too professional to say so.
"I've had better days," Steve said. The words came out flat. He'd been aiming for humor, but humor required energy he didn't have. "Better years, actually."
"Yes, well." Peggy moved forward, her footsteps silent on the packed earth floor. "The Colonel mentioned you'd insisted on coming to the active theater. Said something about wanting to be useful." She paused. "He may have used other words. I'm paraphrasing."
"Let me guess," Steve said. "Foolish? Idiotic? A waste of everyone's time?"
"He used more colorful language. I'm a lady. I couldn't possibly repeat it."
This time, Steve's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Not quite. "Appreciate the discretion."
Peggy pulled a second crate over and sat. Not perched—sat. Like she planned to stay. Like she had time for this, even though Steve knew she didn't. Nobody had time for anything in a war. Time was the first casualty, and it kept dying over and over.
She had papers tucked under her arm. Official papers, the kind with stamps and signatures that meant someone somewhere had made a decision that would break someone else's heart. Steve recognized them the way you recognize clouds that mean rain. By shape. By the shadow they cast.
The silence stretched between them, comfortable despite everything. Or maybe because of everything. Sometimes silence was easier than words. Sometimes silence was the only honest thing left.
In the distance, the war rumbled. It was always rumbling, like indigestion in the belly of the world.
Steve's eyes drifted to the papers. He didn't mean to look. He looked anyway. The way you look at accidents. The way you look at things you know will hurt you.
Unit designations. Casualty reports. The alphabet soup of military bureaucracy that translated men into numbers, lives into lines on a page.
And there, near the top where his eyes landed like a bird coming home to roost: 107th Infantry Regiment.
The world stopped.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. It actually *stopped*, the way a clock stops when its spring breaks, and for a moment Steve existed in the space between seconds where nothing moved and everything mattered.
"That's—" His voice came from somewhere outside himself. "That's Bucky's unit."
Peggy's face changed. The professional mask cracked, just a little, and what showed through was something harder and sadder and infinitely more real.
"Steve—" she began.
"What happened?" He was standing. He didn't remember standing. The crate had fallen over behind him with a hollow sound like a drum in an empty room. "Peggy. What happened to the 107th?"
She stood too, meeting his eyes. She didn't look away. Steve appreciated that, later, when he could appreciate anything. She didn't look away, and she didn't soften it, and she didn't lie.
"They were tasked with a mission behind enemy lines. Intelligence—and I use the term loosely, given recent events—suggested a Hydra weapons facility. The unit engaged enemy forces near Azzano." She paused. Words had weight, and she chose them carefully. "They were lost in battle."
Lost.
Such a small word for something so large. Such a gentle word for something so brutal. Lost, like a set of keys. Lost, like a game of cards. Lost, like everything that mattered.
"Lost," Steve repeated. The word tasted wrong. "What does that mean? Exactly. Specifically. In actual goddamn English, Peggy, what does 'lost' mean?"
"It means most are confirmed dead. Others are missing. Some may have been captured, though with Hydra..." She didn't finish. Didn't need to. They both knew what Hydra did with prisoners. The rumors were bad enough. The truth was worse.
"Tell me Bucky's alive." Steve heard the desperation in his own voice and didn't care. "Tell me he's on the survivors list."
Peggy's silence was answer enough.
"No," Steve said. "No, that's not—he can't be—" He grabbed the papers from her, scanned them with hands that shook. Names. So many names. Faces he'd never see again, jokes he'd never hear, futures that had been burned away like morning fog.
But no Bucky. Not on the survivors list. Not on the confirmed dead list either, which meant—
"MIA," Steve said. "Missing in action. That means he could be alive."
"Steve—"
"It means he could be alive," Steve repeated, louder. Saying it again would make it true. That's how magic worked, wasn't it? Say a thing three times and it becomes real.
"How many?" he asked, quieter now.
"From the 107th? More than two hundred men."
Two hundred. The number sat in his stomach like a stone. Two hundred telegrams. Two hundred folded flags. Two hundred mothers who would never sleep soundly again.
And Bucky.
*Bucky*, who'd found him in the alley behind the movie theater when Steve was thirteen and getting his face reorganized by a kid twice his size. Who'd said, "You get him from behind, I'll get him from the front," like it was that simple. Who'd sat with him in hospitals and waiting rooms and made stupid jokes about nurses to make Steve forget how much he hurt.
Bucky, who was alive. Who had to be alive. Because the alternative was unthinkable.
"Where's Colonel Phillips?" Steve asked. His voice had gone flat and hard, like metal cooling.
"Steve, whatever you're planning—"
"I need to speak with him. Now."
Peggy studied him. She was good at that—studying people, seeing past what they showed to what they were hiding. It was probably why she was good at her job. It was definitely why Steve found her terrifying.
"They won't authorize a rescue mission," she said carefully. "Not behind enemy lines. Not for men presumed dead. The risk to additional personnel would be—"
"Then they don't have to authorize it."
"Steve Rogers." Her voice went sharp as a slap. "You cannot possibly be considering going yourself. Alone. Into the heart of Hydra territory."
"Watch me."
"This isn't one of your comic books!" The professional mask shattered completely. Beneath it, she was angry. Frightened. "This isn't a stage show where Captain America swoops in with his shield and everything works out because that's what heroes do. This is war. Real, actual, bloody war where people die—"
"I know people die!" Steve's voice cracked. "I'm holding a list of two hundred people who died, Peggy! And one of them is my—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He's not dead. I know Bucky. If there's even a chance he's alive in some Hydra prison, I have to—"
"You have to what? Get yourself killed?" Peggy stepped closer. She was smaller than him now—the serum had seen to that—but she seemed larger somehow. Presence, Steve thought. She had presence. "If you go charging in like some—some knight errant with no plan, no intelligence, no support, you'll die. And then you won't save anyone. You'll just be another name on another list, and I'll have to be the one to tell your girl back home that you threw your life away for nothing."
"I don't have a girl back home," Steve said automatically.
"That's hardly the point!"
They stared at each other. Around them, the camp continued its evening routine, oblivious. Soldiers laughed. Someone sang badly. The war rumbled its endless rumble.
"What am I supposed to do?" Steve asked finally. All the fight drained out of him, leaving something raw behind. "Keep dancing? Keep selling bonds while Bucky's out there? While all of them are out there?"
"No." Peggy's voice softened. "You're supposed to be smart about it. Strategic. The super-soldier serum enhanced your body, not your brain—don't prove me wrong about the latter." She paused, and something shifted in her expression. A decision being made. A line being crossed. "There might be someone who can help."
Steve frowned. "Who?"
"Someone with particular skills. Capabilities that could give you an actual fighting chance rather than a heroic death."
"Another SSR agent?"
"In a manner of speaking." Peggy's expression had gone strange. Careful. Like she was picking her way through a minefield. "Tell me, Captain. Have you heard of Agent Magus?"
The name rang a bell. A distant bell, the kind you hear in fog. Steve tried to remember where he'd heard it.
Soldiers talked. That was one thing the war hadn't killed—gossip, rumor, the endless human need to tell stories. And sometimes, late at night when the shelling had stopped and the fear had nowhere to go but into words, soldiers told ghost stories.
Agent Magus was a ghost story.
An operative who appeared in impossible places. Who turned battles without firing a shot. Who could make things happen—good things, miraculous things—when everything seemed lost. Some said he could walk through walls. Others said he could turn invisible, or move objects with his mind, or knew things before they happened.
Most people assumed it was propaganda. Fairy tales for frightened children playing soldier.
"The urban legend?" Steve said.
"He's quite real." Peggy's smile was small and private, like she was remembering something. "I assure you. He exists. I know this because—" She paused, seemed to brace herself. "Because Agent Magus is my twin brother."
Steve stared at her.
Peggy stared back, unblinking.
"Your twin brother," Steve repeated slowly, like he was learning a foreign language.
"Yes."
"Named Agent Magus."
"His real name is Harry. Harry Carter. Though he uses other names for other missions. Operational security and all that." She said it so matter-of-factly, like she was discussing the weather. "And before you ask—yes, the stories are essentially accurate. He has certain abilities. Capabilities that most people would find difficult to believe."
"What kind of abilities?" Steve asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The world had already gotten strange enough, what with the super-soldier serum and the glowing blue weapons Hydra used and the way nothing made sense anymore.
Peggy met his eyes steadily. "The kind that could get you into a heavily fortified Hydra facility and out again. With two hundred men. If anyone can help you mount this rescue, it's Harry."
Steve wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both. "You're telling me your brother is magic."
"I'm telling you my brother can do things that appear to be magic. Whether it's actual magic or simply science we don't understand yet is a philosophical debate for another time." She touched his arm. "What matters is that he can help. If you're truly committed to this suicide mission—"
"Rescue mission."
"—then you need someone who can tip the odds in your favor. Harry is that someone."
Steve looked at her. Really looked. Peggy Carter didn't lie, as far as he could tell. She might omit. She might deflect. But she didn't lie.
Which meant either her brother really could do impossible things, or she believed he could. Either way, it was the only lead he had.
"Where is he?" Steve asked.
"I can contact him. He's..." She gestured vaguely eastward. "Elsewhere. But he'll come if I ask." Her expression turned serious. "Before you agree to this, you need to understand something. Harry is different. What he can do, how he operates—it will challenge everything you think you know about reality. Your comic books don't prepare you for this, Steve. Your stage show certainly doesn't. If you involve Harry in this, there's no going back to simple answers."
"My world stopped being simple when Dr. Erskine died," Steve said quietly. "And if your brother can help me save Bucky and those men, then I need to meet him. I don't care if he's strange. I don't care if he's impossible. I care if he's effective."
Peggy studied his face for a long moment. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she nodded. "Very well. I'll send word now. He should be able to reach us within the hour."
"That fast?"
"He has his methods." She glanced toward where Colonel Phillips would be, probably shouting at someone about something. "In the meantime, you should speak with the Colonel. Get your refusal on the record. It'll make the court-martial more interesting later."
"He's going to tell me it's suicide."
"Of course he is. It probably is." Peggy's smile turned wry. "But you're going anyway, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I thought as much." She squeezed his arm once, warm and firm and real. "That's why I'm helping you. Not because it's a good idea—it's a terrible idea. But because sometimes terrible ideas are the only ideas we have. Just try not to get yourself killed before Harry arrives, yes? I'd hate to have wasted his time. He gets frightfully cranky when his time is wasted."
"He sounds delightful."
"Oh, he is. In small doses. Fair warning—he's been rather eager to meet the famous Captain America. Apparently, he has opinions about your tactics. Or as he put it, your alarming lack thereof."
Despite everything—the casualty lists, the fear, the impossible weight of what came next—Steve felt his mouth twitch into something almost like a smile. "Looking forward to it."
"Liar." Peggy's voice was fond. "One hour. Mess tent. Try to keep an open mind, Captain. Harry's methods are..." She paused, searching for the right word.
"Unorthodox?"
"That's one word for it. I prefer 'aggressively peculiar.'" She released his arm and stepped back, already becoming Agent Carter again, professional and composed. "Oh, and Steve? When you meet him, try not to stare. He finds it rude."
"Stare at what?"
But she was already walking away, disappearing into the shadows that welcomed her like an old friend.
Steve stood there alone, holding crumpled casualty reports, wearing a ridiculous costume, carrying a shield that had never tasted battle.
But for the first time since stepping off that stage—since hearing the jeers and feeling the weight of being useless—Steve Rogers felt something uncurl in his chest.
Not hope. Hope was too simple a word.
This was stranger than hope. Darker. More dangerous.
This was possibility.
And in the space between heartbeats, in the hour before midnight, possibility was sometimes all you needed.
He picked up his shield and went to find Colonel Phillips.
Behind him, in the shadows where Peggy had been, something moved.
Or maybe it was just the wind.
It's always hard to tell, in wartime, what's real and what's wish fulfillment.
Sometimes they're the same thing anyway.
—
**Nazi-Occupied France - The LaPadite Dairy Farm**
**November 1943, when darkness fell early and stayed late**
The farm existed in the way that places exist in fairy tales—not quite real, not quite unreal, but hovering in that liminal space where stories wait to be told. Or perhaps where they wait to be ended.
Twelve cows. One house. A barn that had seen both wars and kept their secrets the way old things keep secrets—buried deep in the grain of wood and the settling of foundations.
Perrier LaPadite was chopping wood. He had always been chopping wood. He would always be chopping wood. The axe rose and fell with the rhythm of something older than war, older than occupation, older than the names men gave to the reasons they hurt each other.
His daughter Julie—eldest of three, bearer of the particular wisdom that comes from being the first to translate parental silences into actionable fear—hung laundry with the focused precision of someone performing a spell. White sheets billowing like surrender flags. Like ghosts. Like all the metaphors for innocence that had worn thin since 1940.
She heard it before she saw it.
The sound that meant the fairy tale was ending. The sound that meant the wolves had arrived.
"Papa."
One word. Spoken like a stone dropped into deep water.
Her father turned. The axe paused mid-arc, frozen in that moment between potential and kinetic energy that most lives occupy most of the time. Except today. Today, potential was converting rapidly into the kinetic reality of a Nazi staff car cresting the hill.
Black. Elegant. Two red flags on the hood like the mark Cain wore after God stopped answering prayers directly. An officer in the back. A driver in front. Two motorcycles flanking because the Third Reich understood that evil should always arrive with an entourage.
From the farmhouse doorway, Charlotte emerged with daughters two and three. A triptych of feminine anxiety. A portrait of occupied France rendered in calico and terror.
"Go back inside," LaPadite said. His voice was calm. His eyes were a house on fire.
Then, to Julie: "Water from the pump. Then inside with your mother."
Julie moved with the economy of motion that children learn in war. Don't run. Don't hesitate. Don't be memorable. Be smoke. Be shadow. Be something that passes through the world without leaving a mark for men with guns and ledgers to record.
The pump handle complained. Water splashed. The universe continued its forward momentum toward whatever ending had been written for the LaPadites before they were born, before France fell, before anyone thought to build concentration camps or staff cars or any of the machinery that turns human beings into paperwork.
LaPadite sat on the stump he'd been splitting. Waited. Waiting was a skill he'd perfected. Waiting was what you did when monsters knocked on doors. You waited and hoped they'd knock on someone else's door tomorrow.
"Ready, Papa."
Julie set the basin on the windowsill. Her hands shook. Only a little. Only enough to spill water like tears onto wood.
"Thank you, darling. Inside now. Care for your mother. Don't run."
She didn't run.
LaPadite washed. Face. Chest. Arms. A ritual ablution. Preparing himself for... what? Confession? Damnation? The ordinary Monday afternoon visit from an SS Colonel that would determine whether his family lived or died?
The convoy arrived with German precision. Motorcycles first, announcing themselves like heralds in some twisted medieval pageant. Then the car. The driver emerged, opened the back door with the practiced genuflection of someone who served not men but the idea of men. The concept of authority made flesh.
The SS Colonel emerged the way villains emerge in dreams—fully formed, perfectly detailed, wearing his malevolence like a bespoke suit.
"This is the home of Perrier LaPadite?" he asked in German.
"Yes, Herr Colonel."
"Until I summon you, Herman, I am to be left alone."
The driver clicked his heels. Bowed. Participated in the ongoing human project of turning submission into theater.
Then, in French so flawless it could have been his mother tongue: "Is this the property of Perrier LaPadite?"
"I am Perrier LaPadite."
The officer smiled. It was not a comforting smile. It was the smile the wolf gives Red Riding Hood just before the grandmother's nightcap comes off and the teeth come out.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur LaPadite. I am Colonel Hans Landa of the SS."
He extended his hand. Gloved. Perfect. The kind of hand that signed documents and shook hands and pointed at people who would cease to exist by morning.
LaPadite took it. Because in fairy tales, you always accept what the monster offers. It's the accepting that makes the story interesting. The refusing comes later, if you're lucky. If you're brave. If you're still alive to refuse.
"How may I help you, Colonel?"
"I was hoping you might invite me inside your home, Monsieur LaPadite, so that we may have a discussion."
Not a request. Never a request. Requests are for equals. This was a notification. An inevitability. A story that had already been written and was simply waiting for the characters to say their lines.
---
The door opened. Landa entered, removing his cap with the fluid grace of someone who'd practiced entrances in mirrors. Who'd perfected the art of arrival.
Charlotte and the three daughters stood in the kitchen. Smiling. Or performing what passed for smiling in occupied territories. The kind of smile that hopes if you bare your teeth in the approximation of joy, perhaps the predator will mistake you for something not worth eating.
"Colonel Landa, this is my family."
Landa clicked his heels. Snapped to attention with theatrical precision. Took Charlotte's hand and kissed it like they were in a ballroom instead of a farmhouse, like this was a social call instead of a census of the damned.
"Colonel Hans Landa of the SS, madame. At your service. Please excuse my rude intrusion upon your day."
"You're not intruding, Herr Colonel."
*You're not intruding*, she said. As if you could invite a wolf into your home. As if wolves needed invitations. As if vampires couldn't cross thresholds simply because folklore said they couldn't.
"Monsieur LaPadite, I see the rumors I've heard in the village about your family are all true. Your wife is a beautiful woman." His eyes drifted to the daughters. Cataloguing. Appraising. "And each of your daughters is more lovely than the last."
"Thank you. Please, have a seat."
Landa accepted. Set his cap on the table. Placed his black attaché case beside it with the reverence one might show a holy relic. Or an unholy one. The distinction had become academic somewhere around 1939.
"Charlotte, would you bring the Colonel some wine?"
Landa raised a hand. "Merci beaucoup, Monsieur LaPadite, but no wine. This being a dairy farm, one would be safe in assuming you have milk?"
"We do."
"Then milk is what I prefer."
Charlotte retrieved it. Poured it. Presented it to the monster at her table who smiled and thanked her and was absolutely, undeniably, unquestionably going to destroy everything she loved if given the opportunity.
Landa drank deeply. Set the glass down with a sound like punctuation.
"Monsieur. To both your family and your cows, I say—bravo."
"Thank you."
"Please. Join me at the table."
LaPadite sat. The women remained standing. Silent. Watchful. Women have always been good at this—the art of being present while becoming invisible. Of taking up no space. Of breathing quietly enough that monsters forget you're there.
Landa leaned forward. Conspiratorial. Intimate. The way one conspirator leans toward another when secrets are about to be shared.
"Monsieur LaPadite, what we have to discuss would be better discussed in private. You'll notice I've left my men outside. If it would not offend your ladies, might I ask them to step out? This will only take a moment."
LaPadite hesitated. But hesitation is not refusal. Hesitation is simply the moment before you do what you were always going to do.
"Charlotte. Take the girls outside. The Colonel and I need to speak alone."
Charlotte gathered her daughters. Three girls. Three fates. Three threads that would be cut or spared based on how well their father could lie to a man who hunted lies for a living.
The door closed.
Two men. One table. One farmhouse. The whole weight of history pressing down like the sky had remembered it was made of lead.
Landa folded his hands. Precise. Deliberate. Every gesture a sentence in a story he was writing.
"Monsieur LaPadite, I regret to inform you I have exhausted the extent of my French. To continue speaking it so inadequately would only serve to embarrass me. However, I have been led to believe you speak English quite well?"
"I do."
"Well, it just so happens I do as well. This being your home, I ask your permission to switch to English for the remainder of the conversation."
"Of course."
The language changed. Everything changed with it. Because in fairy tales, names matter. Words matter. The language you speak determines the story you're in.
"Monsieur LaPadite, while I'm quite familiar with you and your family, I have no way of knowing if you know who I am. Tell me—what have you heard about my work?"
"I've heard the Führer has charged you with rounding up the Jews left in France who are either hiding or passing for Gentile."
Landa's smile widened. Pleased. The way teachers smile when students remember lessons.
"The Führer himself couldn't have put it more succinctly. But the purpose of my visit today, pleasant though it is, I'm sure is troubling to you. After all, the German Army searched your house for Jews hiding on your property nine months ago. Found nothing."
"That's correct."
"I read the report on this area. But like any business enterprise, when under new management, there's always a certain amount of duplication of effort. Most of it's an utter waste of time, but it needs to be done nevertheless. I just have a few questions, Monsieur LaPadite. If you can assist me with answers, my department can close the file on your family."
The attaché case opened. Papers emerged like white moths. A fountain pen—expensive, elegant, the kind of pen that signed execution orders before lunch and expense reports after.
"Now. Before the war there were four Jewish families in this area, all dairy farmers like yourself. The Lovitts. The Doleracs. The Rollins. And the Dreyfuses. Is that correct?"
"To my knowledge, those were the Jewish families in this area."
"Herr Colonel," LaPadite said, "would it disturb you if I smoked my pipe?"
"Please, Monsieur LaPadite, it's your house. Make yourself comfortable."
*Make yourself comfortable*. As if comfort were possible. As if you could be comfortable with a wolf at your table asking about the location of grandmothers.
LaPadite rose. Retrieved his pipe. Tobacco. Matches. The ritual tools of thinking. Of buying time. Of doing something with your hands besides wringing them or using them to strangle SS Colonels who drank your milk and smiled like reasonable men.
He packed the bowl. Struck a match. Flame caught. Tobacco glowed. Smoke rose like prayers to gods who'd stopped listening around the time the camps started operating.
Landa continued reviewing his papers. Eyes flicking between Perrier and documents like he was comparing inventory to manifest.
"According to these papers, all the Jewish families in your area have been accounted for—except one. The Dreyfuses. Somewhere in the last year it would seem they've just vanished. Which leads me to the conclusion that they've either made good their escape, or they're being hidden by someone in the village who's had the good fortune of evading discovery thus far. What have you heard about the Dreyfuses, Monsieur LaPadite?"
"Only rumors."
"I love rumors. Facts can be so misleading, but rumors, whether true or false, often reveal much. What rumors have you heard?"
Perrier drew on his pipe. Exhaled. Bought himself three seconds of thought.
"We heard they made their way into Spain."
"So the rumors you've heard have been of escape?"
"Yes."
"Having never met the Dreyfuses, would you confirm for me the exact members of the household and their names?"
LaPadite set his pipe down carefully. Too carefully. The way you set down something fragile when your hands want to shake.
"There were five Dreyfuses. Jacob, the father. Miriam, the mother. Her brother Bob—"
"And how old was Bob?"
"Thirty. Maybe thirty-one."
"Continue."
"The children. Amos and Shosanna."
"Ages?"
"Amos was six. Shosanna maybe fifteen, sixteen. I'm not certain."
Beneath the floorboards, five people existed in spaces not designed for existence. The Dreyfus family. Vertical coffins. Breathing spaces. Places where you learned to make yourself small enough that the monsters overhead forgot you were human.
Jacob. Miriam. Bob. Amos. Shosanna.
They couldn't understand the words above them. English was a language they'd learned from books, not fear. But they understood tone. They understood the rhythm of interrogation. They understood that their lives—all five of them—depended on a French farmer's ability to lie convincingly to a German who hunted lies professionally.
Shosanna pressed her hand over Amos's mouth. Not cruelly. Tenderly. The way you silence the thing you love most when silence is the price of continued love.
Back at the Table, Landa gathered his papers. Methodical. Unhurried. The way one tidies up after tea. The way one puts away files after a particularly satisfying audit.
"However, before I go, Monsieur LaPadite, could I trouble you for another glass of that delicious milk?"
"Of course."
LaPadite rose. Crossed to the icebox. Poured. Returned. Every movement measured. Every gesture performed as if God were watching and taking notes for the final judgment.
"Monsieur LaPadite." Landa's voice was casual now. Conversational. The voice of someone discussing weather instead of genocide. "Are you aware of the nickname the people of France have given me?"
"I have no interest in such things."
"But you are aware of what they call me?"
"I am aware."
"What are you aware of?"
A beat. The space between heartbeats where decisions are made.
"That they call you the Jew Hunter."
"*Precisely*." Landa's satisfaction bloomed like a poisonous flower. "Now, I understand your reluctance to repeat it. Heydrich, before he was assassinated, apparently he despised his nickname—The Hangman of Prague. Why he would hate such an apt title is beyond me. But I, on the other hand, *love* my unofficial title. Precisely because I've earned it."
He lifted the milk. Drank. The sound of swallowing filled the kitchen like a drum in a cathedral.
"The feature that makes me such an effective hunter of Jews is, as opposed to most German soldiers, I can think like a Jew. Where they can only think like a German. More precisely, a German soldier. Now, if one were to determine what attribute the German people share with a beast, it would be the cunning and predatory instinct of a hawk."
Pause.
"But if one were to determine what attributes the Jews share with a beast, it would be that of the rat."
Another pause. Longer. Landa was conducting a symphony and knew precisely when each instrument should enter.
"The Führer and Goebbels have said as much. But where I disagree with our leaders is I don't consider the comparison an insult. Consider for a moment the world a rat lives in. It's a hostile world indeed. If a rat were to walk in the front door right now, would you greet it with hostility?"
"I suppose I would."
"Has a rat ever done anything to you to create this animosity you feel toward them?"
"Rats spread disease, they bite—"
"Rats don't make it a practice to bite human beings unless cornered and reckless. They caused the bubonic plague, yes. But that was centuries ago. In all your born days, has a rat ever caused you to be sick a day in your life?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. Yet the diseases rats carry, a squirrel does equally. Yet I assume you don't share the same animosity with squirrels that you do with rats, do you?"
"No."
"Yet they're both rodents, are they not? And except for the tail, they even rather look alike, don't they?"
"I suppose."
"However—however—despite the fact they just keep being rats and you keep being you, you continue to feel an animosity toward them you can't quite explain. Am I correct?"
"Yes."
"So if a rat were to scamper through your door this instant, would you greet it with a saucer of your delicious milk?"
"Probably not."
"I didn't think so. You don't like them. You don't really know why you don't like them. All you know is you find them repulsive. What a tremendously hostile world a rat must endure. Yet not only does he survive, he thrives. Because our little foe has a instinct for survival and preservation second to none. And that, Monsieur, is what a Jew shares with a rat."
He leaned forward. The fable completed. Now came the moral.
"Consequently, a German soldier conducts a search of a house suspected of hiding Jews. Where does the hawk look? He looks in the barn, he looks in the attic, he looks in the cellar. He looks everywhere he would hide. But there are so many places it would never occur to a hawk to hide. However, the reason the Führer has brought me off my Alps in Austria and placed me in French cow country today is because it does occur to me. Because I'm aware what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Like the smell before rain. Like every terrible thing that announces itself before arriving.
"May I smoke my pipe as well?"
The crack in LaPadite's facade—maintained through terror and will—showed itself. Hairline. Spreading.
"Please, Colonel."
Landa rose. Retrieved his pipe from the mantel. Not a common pipe. A Calabash. Yellow with age. Curved like a question mark. The pipe of a man who'd given considerable thought to his props. To his performance. To the theater of evil.
He packed it with slow precision. Lit it with a wooden match that hissed like a snake. Settled back into his chair like a man settling into familiar horror.
"Now, another trait the German soldier has that does not serve him well in this endeavor is a certain... crudeness. When conducting a search, Germans soldiers are often tempted to abuse the citizens. Intimidate them. And I've observed that this approach produces the poorest results. These citizens are not enemies of the state, Monsieur. They are merely people confused by the insanity war creates. Trying to make sense of the nonsensical. They don't need to be punished. They need to be reminded of their duty."
He pointed the pipe stem at LaPadite like a conductor's baton.
"Let us use you as an example, Monsieur LaPadite. In this war, you find yourself in the middle of a conflict that has nothing to do with yourself, your lovely women, or your cows. Yet here you are. So I ask you: In this time of war, what is your primary duty? To fight the German soldier to your last breath? To harass the occupying army however you can? To shelter the innocent victims of warfare who cannot shelter themselves?"
A beat.
"Or is it to ensure that your very beautiful women can live out their lives in peace?"
The air in the farmhouse turned to stone.
"That was a question, Monsieur LaPadite. In this time of war, what is your primary duty?"
LaPadite's voice emerged steady. Too steady. The steadiness of something broken trying to remember what whole felt like.
"To protect my family."
"*Very* good, Monsieur." Satisfaction rolled off Landa like heat from sun-warmed stone. "That is your duty. And my men, I regret to inform you, must enter your home and conduct a search before I can cross your name off my list. And should any irregularities be found, rest assured, they *will* be found."
Pause.
"That is—unless you have something to tell me that makes such a search unnecessary."
Another pause. The universe holding its breath. All of creation waiting to see what a French farmer would do when asked to choose between strangers hiding under his floor and daughters standing in his yard.
"I might add also that any information that makes the performance of my duty easier will not be met with punishment. Quite the contrary—it will be met with reward. And that reward will be that your family will cease to be harassed in any way by the German military during the remainder of our occupation."
Perrier drew on his pipe. Stared at the Nazi at his table. Performed mathematics no human being should ever have to perform.
"You are sheltering enemies of the state, are you not?"
Beat.
"Yes."
Beneath the floor, five hearts stopped beating.
Then started again.
Then wished they'd stopped permanently.
"You're sheltering them under your floorboards, are you not?"
"Yes."
"Point out to me the areas where they're hiding."
LaPadite pointed. Precise. Mechanical. The motions of a man who'd already died and was simply waiting for his body to notice.
"Since I haven't heard any disturbance, I assume that while they're listening, they don't speak English?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to switch back to French now, Monsieur. I want you to follow my masquerade. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
Landa stood. Switched languages like a man changing coats. His French emerged warm, gracious, the French of dinner parties and social calls.
"Monsieur LaPadite, I thank you for your time, your hospitality, and for the delicious milk. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance. I do believe our business here is concluded. My men and I will be on our way, and I can give you my word that your family will not be bothered for the duration of the war."
He moved toward the door.
Opened it.
Stepped through.
And stopped.
Simply... stopped.
Because the world outside had been redecorated.
Six SS soldiers—each trained, each armed, each representative of the finest military tradition the Third Reich could manufacture—lay scattered across the farmyard like dice thrown by a particularly violent god.
Not wounded.
Not unconscious.
Comprehensively, definitively, *artistically* dead.
And standing among the bodies—framed by late afternoon light that turned gold to blood and shadow to prophecy—stood a figure.
Black armor that didn't reflect light. That absorbed it. That seemed to drink illumination and transform it into absence.
Gold trim that caught fire.
Red hood that suggested rituals best left unexamined.
A mask that revealed nothing and promised everything terrible.
Landa—and you had to admire this—didn't scream.
Instead: "Ah."
Then: "Agent Magus, I presume?"
The figure tilted its head. A gesture that managed to convey curiosity, contempt, and the absolute certainty that Hans Landa's story was about to reach its conclusion.
"I've read the reports," Landa continued. His voice remained steady. You had to admire that too. The man was many things—most of them monstrous—but coward wasn't on the list. "British operative. Impossible abilities. A ghost story to frighten good German soldiers in the dark. Though I confess I filed those reports under 'Allied Propaganda: Desperate Measures.' I shall have to revise my filing system."
A small smile.
"You've killed my men quite thoroughly. Professional work. I can appreciate craftsmanship even when it's employed against German interests. Though I note you came here specifically for me? Hans Landa. The Jew Hunter. Vulgar nickname, but earned."
"Tell me," the figure said—male voice, British accent, and beneath it something that sounded like old storms and older fury—"do your reports mention *how* you earned that nickname? The specifics? The families crushed into cattle cars? The children discovered in attics? The particular satisfaction you derive from the hunt?"
"I'm a detective. The Reich poses questions. I provide answers. That I provide them efficiently is hardly a crime."
"You're a monster who's convinced himself he's merely competent at his job."
"Semantics. We all serve something, Agent Magus. You serve your Crown. I serve my Führer. The uniforms differ, but the principle—"
"Is nothing alike whatsoever, and if you're about to suggest some moral equivalence between hunting innocent families and stopping *you*, I'm going to kill you extra."
"Extra?"
"Extra thoroughly. Extra slowly. Extra *instructively*."
A sound interrupted them. Not quite music. Not quite technology. Something between crystal bells and the noise distant stars make when they die.
The figure reached into his belt and withdrew something that caught light strangely—a mirror? Something pretending to be one? The surface rippled and a woman's face appeared. Urgent. Luminous. The kind of beautiful that makes men start wars and end them.
"Harry. I need you. It's urgent."
"Peggy." The name spoken softly. Tenderly. The way you speak the names of people who matter more than monsters. "I'm rather in the middle of explaining to Colonel Landa why hunting families makes one eligible for creative punishment. I had a whole educational component planned. There was going to be a practical examination."
"Captain Rogers is mounting a rescue operation. Sergeant Barnes and the 107th are behind enemy lines near Azzano. Hydra has them. He's going in alone if we don't assist him."
"Captain America? The man who punched Hitler in cinemas across North America? He's doing something foolish and brave?"
"Foolish, brave, and probably suicidal."
A pause. Calculations being made. Priorities weighed on cosmic scales.
"Bloody Americans. No sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Right. Give me five minutes."
"Five?"
"I did say I'd expedite matters." The mirror vanished back into whatever impossible place it lived when not reflecting urgent British women. Harry turned his attention back to Landa. Though the mask showed nothing, Landa could feel the smile behind it. The kind of smile wolves have in fairy tales just before they stop pretending to be grandmothers. "You're fortunate, Colonel. I have an appointment. So this will be *quick*."
"How merciful."
"Not mercy. Efficiency. There's a rather important distinction."
"I don't suppose you'd consider waiting? I could provide intelligence. Names, locations, operational details. I've always been quite accomplished at betrayal when properly motivated."
"I'm sure you have. You've betrayed everyone who ever trusted you to be human. Why not add the Reich to your list?"
"Pragmatism!"
"No."
"I could—"
"*No*."
Harry raised his hand. Not holding anything. Not reaching for anything. Just a hand. Gloved. Fingers straight. Pointing at something written on the air in a language only death could read.
"This is for every family whose names you collected in those files. For every child who heard your boots on their stairs. For every person who died because you were good at your job."
"I'm a soldier following—"
"You're a murderer with paperwork. There's a difference."
Beat.
"*Avada Kedavra*."
The words meant nothing to Landa. No language he knew. And he knew seven.
They were the last words that meant nothing to him.
Green light—not the green of growing things or precious stones, but the green of deep ocean places where light goes to die—erupted from Harry's palm. It crossed the distance between them not like something traveling but like something *arriving*. Like it had always been meant for Hans Landa's chest and was simply correcting a navigational error that had allowed him to live this long.
Landa's eyes widened.
Then emptied.
Then stopped being eyes at all.
He fell the way cut trees fall. The way stories end when there's no more story to tell. His pipe tumbled from his lips. Ash scattered across French soil like tiny cremations.
Dead before comprehension.
Dead before fear.
Just profoundly, absolutely, *conclusively* dead.
Harry stood over the body with the detached interest of someone who'd just finished an unpleasant but necessary chore.
"That," he said to no one in particular, "was for the Dreyfuses. And the Cohens. And the Steins. And all the others whose names you knew and I don't. But they mattered infinitely more than you ever did."
He turned to LaPadite, who had pressed himself against the doorframe like he was trying to become architecture.
"Monsieur LaPadite." Flawless French. The French of someone who'd learned it from native speakers or magic or both. "The family beneath your floor—get them out. There's a Resistance safe house two villages east toward Fontaine. Tell them Agent Magus sent you. They'll see you all safely to Switzerland." Pause. "And perhaps next time the SS comes calling, have a better plan than hoping monsters show mercy. Monsters never show mercy. That's what makes them monsters."
"I—yes. Thank you. How did you know about—"
"The Dreyfuses? Excellent hearing. Also, Colonel Landa was exactly as subtle as he believed himself clever, which is to say not at all." Harry moved toward the road. Cloak billowing like smoke. Like shadow. Like something that existed between stories. "When people ask what happened here—and they will—tell them Agent Magus says the Reich should be more careful about who they send hunting. Sometimes the hunters become the hunted. Very dramatic. Very mythic. The British love that sort of thing in their stories."
He paused at the edge of the property.
"Oh, and Monsieur LaPadite? Next time someone threatens your daughters, remember: you're not as helpless as they want you to believe. None of us are. We all have choices. Even in war. Even in occupation. Even when monsters sit at our tables and drink our milk."
Then he was gone.
Not walking away.
Not running.
Simply *gone*.
The way smoke is gone when you stop burning things.
The way stories end when the last page turns.
The way darkness disappears when you remember light exists.
LaPadite stood motionless for one heartbeat.
Two.
Then ran to the floorboards. To the hidden spaces. To the family he'd almost sold and somehow saved and definitely endangered.
They were alive.
They were sobbing.
They were still breathing.
He pulled them up into the light. Jacob. Miriam. Bob. Amos. Shosanna.
Five people emerging from death into life.
Five people who'd been saved by a monster killed by a different kind of monster.
Five people who'd survive this day.
And Hans Landa would hunt no one else.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
---
Outside, the sun set over occupied France. The sky painted itself in blood oranges and burning brass. In the colors of endings and beginnings. Of stories concluded and stories just starting.
The war continued its endless appetite for futures.
But in this one farmhouse, for this one family, the fairy tale had reached its conclusion.
The wolf was dead.
The grandmother was saved.
And somewhere—in London or Azzano or wherever Captain America was doing something brave and stupid—Agent Magus was already moving toward the next story.
The next monster.
The next ending that needed writing.
Because that's what he did.
That's what he'd always done.
That's what heroes do in fairy tales—they save people, kill monsters, and disappear before anyone can thank them properly.
And if you're very lucky, if you're very brave, if you remember to be human even when monsters make it difficult—
Sometimes, just sometimes, you get to be one of the people they save.
---
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