Chapter Text
May 2nd 2012
The moment the phone call ended, Hermione was already moving. Phil’s voice had been quiet, carefully measured—too careful. Compromised, he’d said. That one word had drained the blood from her face.
Clint.
She didn’t bother with luggage or explanations. A quick scrawl of a note for her supervisor at St Mungo’s, a flick of her wand, and the portkey was humming in her hand. Seconds later, she was stumbling into a dimly lit flat in New York she and Clint kept warded for emergencies.
Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone, immediately redialing Phil’s number. It only rang once before it picked up—though it wasn’t Phil’s voice.
“This Fury.” The low, gruff tone rolled down the line like gravel.
Hermione blinked. “Where is Phil?”
“Unavailable.”
“Then put him on.”
“Not happening.”
Her spine snapped straight. “Then you can tell me where my brother is.”
Silence. Then: “Barton’s sister.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, each syllable sharp enough to cut. “And unless you want me in your office in the next thirty seconds with a wand you will regret underestimating, I suggest you stop playing games and tell me where Clint is.”
There was the faintest sigh, the sound of someone pinching the bridge of their nose. “Lady, you have no idea what you’re walking into.”
Hermione’s grip tightened on the phone. Her voice dropped to something cold, fierce, and undeniably dangerous. “Director Fury, I’ve spent half my life walking into situations I had no business surviving. I’m still here. So unless you want me proving it at SHIELD HQ, where is. My. Brother?”
“Look, stay put and Coulson will call you soon.” The line went dead, and she stood staring at the silent phone as if it had betrayed her.
Phil had said compromised.
And now Nick Fury—self righteous prick—had told her to stay put.
Her wand hand twitched. Every instinct screamed at her to ignore him, to tear reality apart until she reached Clint. But… Phil had once asked her to trust him, and Fury, infuriatingly calm, had promised she’d be contacted soon.
So she waited. A day and a half of pacing, pacing, pacing—of a sleepless night, St Mungo’s messages ignored, tea left cold on the counter. Her phone never left her pocket.
When it rang at last, she nearly dropped it, scrambling to answer.
“Phil?”
“No,” came the familiar gravel. Fury again.
Her stomach plunged. “Where is Phil?”
A beat too long before Fury replied, maddeningly even: “Unavailable.”
Something inside her cracked. Her voice sharpened into steel. “You listen to me, Director. You will give me exact coordinates this instant, or I swear I’ll make your life very unpleasant.”
“Lady, this isn’t—”
“Coordinates. Now.” She practically snarled.
A grunt of frustration, the scrape of papers, then a string of numbers barked down the line. Hermione didn’t even bother to thank him. She dropped the phone, twisted on her heel—
—and the world folded.
When she landed, the first thing she saw was Fury’s one good eye widening as she materialized out of nothing in the middle of his office.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Hermione brushed a crease from her sleeve. “You gave me the coordinates. I assumed you meant them to be used.”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other—two storms colliding. Then Fury growled, “Fine. He’s below in the infirmary, secured. Don’t make me regret this.”
She was already halfway to the door, pulse hammering, breath short. Clint was here. Alive.
Hermione had never seen anything like it—alarms shrieking, agents sprinting past with weapons drawn, the air itself vibrating with urgency. The Helicarrier was a beehive cracked open, and she forced her way through it with wand clenched tight in her fist, refusing to be slowed.
It was a maze of chaos—alarms, shouting, boots hammering against steel decks. Hermione ignored all of it, shouldering past agents who barely noticed her as he followed the directions Fury had barked out.
When she finally pushed into the dimmed infirmary, her breath caught.
Clint was there, seated on the edge of a bed, pulling his vest into place with unsteady hands. His bow leaned against the wall like a sentinel. But his face—Merlin, his face. Pale, hollow-eyed, streaked with sweat and guilt.
“Hermione?” His voice cracked. He surged to his feet, pacing. “No, no, no—you are not here. You can’t be here.”
“Clint—”
He rounded on her, eyes blazing. “Do you have any idea what you just walked into? This isn’t St. Mungo’s, it’s a bloody flying war zone! Loki was on this ship. Loki, Hermione. And you—” His voice broke. “You shouldn’t have come.”
She stayed calm, even as her heart thudded. “I came because you were hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“You’re not,” she shot back. “I can see it. Let me help you.”
“No.” He cut the word like a blade. “What you’re going to do is leave. Apparate back to the apartment, right now. Lock the doors, don’t move, don’t answer to anyone but Phil or me.”
Hermione frowned. “Clint—”
“I mean it.” His hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what it’s like, having him in your head. I don’t even trust myself yet, and you think I’m gonna risk you being anywhere near me? Not happening.”
She softened, stepping closer. “You’re not him. You fought your way back.”
“Because Tasha”—he jerked his chin toward the door—“knocked me unconscious. That’s the only reason I’m me again. And I’ve got things to make up for.” His gaze locked onto hers, raw and desperate. “Please. Go home. Let me not worry about you being safe for once.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to refuse, but his voice was fraying on the edges. He needed her to listen—just this once.
She swallowed hard. “Fine. But I’m healing you before I leave.”
Clint groaned, exasperated, but sat back down on the cot anyway, glaring at her like it was punishment. “Stubborn brat.”
She smiled faintly through her tears. “Takes one to know one.”
Her wand was steady, even if her hands weren’t, as she worked her spells. His breathing eased, the tightness in his side loosening. By the time she finished, his shoulders had dropped, some of the pain gone.
When she lowered her wand, he caught her hand in his, squeezing hard. “Promise me you’ll go back. Promise me, Hermione.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I promise.”