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"His expressions change faster than a Niffler chasing gold," Hermione mused inwardly, watching Sitwell's face transition from existential dread to fawning adoration. But she liked it. Honesty, even the self-serving variety, was refreshing.
"Since you are so… wise," she said, her voice dry, pulling a piece of folded metal from her pocket. It wasn't jewelry; it looked like a sleek, copper-and-silver wrist cuff, cold and utilitarian. She tossed it lightly to Sitwell.
He caught it awkwardly, his fingers closing around the cold, smooth metal. "What is this, Professor?"
"A little something I designed. Call it a magical field dressing," Hermione said, inspecting her nails. "It's charmed to monitor your vital signs. Should you sustain a critical, non-fatal injury—a ruptured organ, a major hemorrhage—it will rapidly mend the damage. Think of it as an absolute, one-time-use life insurance policy."
Sitwell's eyes widened, reflecting the dim light of the hallway. The sheer, terrifying practicality of the gift—a magical artifact designed for the brutal realities of espionage and assassination—shook him to his core. This wasn't a thank you. It was a guarantee of his continued value. This was better than a promotion. This was survival.
"This… this is too valuable," he stammered, holding the wrist guard as if it were spun glass. He knew S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't replicate such a thing in a thousand years.
"Take it," Hermione dismissed with a careless wave of her hand. "To me, it's a trifle. If you serve me well, there will be more trinkets to come."
Sitwell's denial evaporated. Trinkets? To this girl, a magical field medic was a trinket. Lick till the end, he thought, the phrase a mantra of profound, cynical faith. He fumbled with the clasp, fastening the cuff securely to his wrist, feeling the cool, firm presence of pure survival technology against his skin.
He bowed so low he was practically genuflecting. "Thank you, Miss Wizard. I will serve you faithfully."
The air in the S.H.I.E.L.D. sub-level detention facility was heavy, sterile, and smelled faintly of chlorine and stale concrete. The footsteps of Sitwell and Hermione echoed off the unyielding walls as they approached the high-security block.
In a cell reinforced with transparent, crystalline polymer, Talos, the captured Skrull, was restrained. He was strapped into a thick steel chair, his limbs immobilized, his green, pebbled skin glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. His large, dark eyes darted nervously, cursing Nick Fury internally. That damn one-eyed monster! He knows I'm in here. He knows I took the fall! When I get out of this, I will turn his eyepatch into a toad!
The footsteps stopped outside the glass. Talos looked up, his face a mask of weary resignation, then surprise. He saw the small girl in the strange clothing, and beside her, the HYDRA operative.
"Fury sent you?" Talos asked, his voice rough and scratchy from the damp air. He grasped at the flimsy hope that Fury, the only human he semi-trusted, had finally caved to pressure and sent his best asset to retrieve him.
"Pfft."
Sitwell, standing beside Hermione, couldn't hold it in. A single, choked-off burst of manic laughter escaped him. His shoulders shook as he struggled to contain his mirth.
"What is so funny, little bald man?!" Talos snarled, ignoring Hermione entirely. "You were just cringing at my feet twenty-four hours ago!"
Hermione ignored the outburst, stepping closer to the glass. "Fury? He's too busy trying to pretend he didn't just hire a full-time alien stand-in," she said, her voice flat and utterly devoid of sympathy. "He doesn't care about you."
Talos's hope died an ugly, sudden death. He slumped in his restraints. "Then why are you here? You don't have authorization for this level."
"Authorization is just a polite suggestion," Hermione said, tapping the cold glass with her wand, a sharp, clicking sound in the silent room. "I came to interrogate you, little goblin. About why your people are skulking about on my world."
Talos's expression tightened into a defensive mask. "I am one man. I came here alone. We are refugees, escaping the persecution of the Kree Empire. We want only survival."
Hermione's eyebrow arched. "Refugees. How touching." Her eyes narrowed, the blue light of Legilimency subtly shifting in their depths. "Is that why you're here, Beto? And Pagon? And dear little Carl? Are they also just 'surviving'?"
Talos froze. His large eyes snapped wide with pure, unadulterated shock. He leaned forward violently, straining against the restraints. "How do you know those names?!"
"I'm the one asking the questions," Hermione said, her voice dropping to a silken, deadly calm. She raised her wand, the wood glowing a faint, ominous red.
"Tell me your full purpose on Earth, Skrull."
Talos grit his ridged chin. "I will not betray my people! We are victims!"
"Then you'll find that being a victim is far more painful than being a soldier."
"Crucio!"
The curse was a silent, invisible whip. Talos didn't just scream; he shrieked, a sound that tore through the sterile atmosphere and seemed to scrape against the inside of Sitwell's skull. His body arched violently against the steel restraints, every muscle spasming in agonizing electrical shock. Sweat burst instantly from his green skin, pooling in the chair. The pain was not physical; it was soul-deep, a neurological nightmare.
Sitwell pressed his back against the cold concrete wall outside the cell, his breathing ragged. He closed his eyes, his new life-saving wrist guard feeling suddenly heavy and necessary. She's not a witch. She's a demon. I've made the right choice.
The red light vanished. Talos fell back into the chair, gasping, his chest heaving like a bellows, his clothes plastered to his skin. He looked up at Hermione, his eyes filled with a mixture of terror and unyielding hate.
"It's not up to you whether you talk or not," Hermione said, inspecting her wand tip. "It doesn't matter what you say. I'm going to tell you what's going to happen next. You are going to send out a beacon. A signal to every single Skrull, wherever they are hiding on this planet. You're going to call them all home."
Talos stared at her, the terror replacing the pain. "Impossible! You want to genocide us! The Kree are hunting us! I won't betray my people! I won't!"
"You will," Hermione stated simply, her voice cold and absolute.
She raised her wand one final time, her eyes fixed on his soul.
"Corpus anima ex!" (The soul is out of body!)
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