Fickleness of Fate | Loki Laufeyson

Chapter Seven

Whilst Harry awaited for the aircraft to land, she debated the merits of the information that President Quahog had presented earlier that day. She might agree in the overall assessment that magical assistance may be required to help capture Loki, throwing her to the wolves was not a course of action she had seen coming. If anyone from the magical world were to see her performing magic in the presence of muggles, she would be an outcast to society.

More than she already was, that is.

Which, she surmised bitterly, was another reason they had chosen her for this task: she was already a social pariah. What could the chosen one possibly do to be prosecuted, when she had already saved thousands from tyrants?

She knew that thought process to be flawed. Harry knew that they would turn against her faster than she was able to blink, their knives aimed at the exposed flesh of her metaphorical back.

But what was she to do? Deny her assistance in the face of adversary? No, she thought not.

If there was a threat, she would flush them out, and if the President stated that her magic was permitted, she was sure to exploit the advantage - even if she was limited to her basic wandless magic. It wasn't as if she went about her daily business throwing lethal curses at others, but in battle she liked to have all her tools to hand. And it was near impossible to cultivate those types of spells without a wand; a fact that she was certain both Quahog and Kingsley knew.

All thoughts were blown from her mind as the wind picked up. Her braided hair protested against the restraints, whilst her green eyes attempted to remain open. The ramp slowly lowered once the aircraft had securely landed. The sun glistened brightly around her as she strolled carefully onto the landing pad.

Harry was able to make out her surroundings in quick succession; other aircraft, a clearly marked runway, cargo containers and the great vastness of never-ending ocean.

"I've never been a fan of sailing," Harry muttered, not loud enough for any passing personnel to hear.

"Agent Potter," a feminine voice called, pulling her from her thoughts. She was of a taller stature, though her face remained impassive. She nodded her head shortly in greeting. "I'm Agent Hill. Director Fury would like you to report to him immediately."

Harry accented her agreement, following the agent that continued to escort the witch through the ships narrow hallways. Most individuals present wore uniforms with the shield logo clear for all to see, only enforcing that capturing Loki was solely their responsibility with no other governmental departments involved.

She was brought before a closed door, the room not containing any windows that she could currently see that would allow her to view inside. The woman that had escorted her carefully knocked on the door, not daring to open without permission.

"Enter," a loud booming voice all but demanded.

The woman stepped aside quickly, positioning herself besides the door. An invite, though the agent made clear that she would not stray far from them - that Harry was not yet trusted.

Harry continued to stalk forwards. She had been briefed about the man she was about to meet, Fury earning a reputation that could rival her own. But after so many years of facing down dark wizards, she found it hard to find a sense of apprehension within herself.

The handle creaked slightly as she opened the door. The room was within the cover of darkness, the only light filtering through from the window that overlooked the bridge on the opposite side of the room. Even then, Harry had the distinct the impression it was one way glass.

A man stood overlooking the bridge that was in clear view -- the command centre. His straightened back was turned from her, but she could see that the man wore a black leather trench coat. A strap could be seen that wrapped about his bare head, which no doubt connected to the infamous eye patch.