The Weight of Immortality - CH - 94

The lower levels of Black hearth had been enchanted to perfection—untraceable, warded against any form of magical or technological surveillance, sealed tighter than Gringotts.

It was the only reason Bucky Barnes could sleep at night.

But even here, Harry Black could feel it—faint magical static that hadn’t been there before. A pulse. A whisper of something embedded.

He followed the signal to its source.

Bucky’s left arm.

The metal gleamed under the lamplight in Harry’s study, dull and scarred from battles, its joints engraved with faint Hydra symbols that had long since faded—but the magic pulsing beneath them was active. Hidden. Alive.

Harry stood behind Bucky, silent for a long while.

Then he said, “It’s not just a prosthetic. It’s a leash.”

Bucky looked down at his arm, flexing the fingers of cold metal.

“You found something.”

Harry nodded. “Trackers. Buried deep in the inner plating. Magical and technological hybrids. Old Hydra work. The moment you step outside these wards, they’ll know.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Even after all this time…”

“They never let go of their weapons,” Harry said. “But we’re going to change that.”

Bucky looked up. “What do you mean?”

Harry met his eyes.

“I mean we remove it.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. He stared at his arm—at what it had done, what it had become.

“It’s been part of me for so long,” he muttered. “I don’t even remember what it’s like without it.”

Harry stepped forward, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“You don’t need a weapon Hydra gave you. You deserve something better. Something that’s yours.”

Bucky looked at him.

“And you’ll build it?”

Harry nodded. “Something far more advanced. Not just tech. Magic-infused. Light, fast, strong—something that will never betray you.”

Bucky took a long breath, then rolled up his sleeve.

“Then do it.”

The process was not brutal.

Harry didn’t use tools or blades.

Instead, he drew runic glyphs in the air, each glowing gold and violet. The runes wrapped around the joint at Bucky’s shoulder, forming a floating sphere of pure magic.

Bucky sat still, sweat on his brow, muscles tense.

The arm pulsed once—red lines flashing across its surface as if it knew what was happening.

“It's resisting,” Harry muttered. “The Hydra tech has a defense protocol.”

“Then fight harder,” Bucky gritted out.

Harry pressed his wand forward. “Exsilio Mechanum.”

The joint clicked—a harsh, final sound—and the arm detached with a burst of dark smoke and dying electronics. Harry caught it midair with a levitation spell, sealing it in a stasis case.

Bucky collapsed back into the chair, breathing hard, left side now exposed—scarred and raw, but free.

Harry crouched in front of him.

“You’re no one’s weapon now.”

Bucky looked at the empty space where his arm had been.

Then at Harry.

“What happens now?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Now? I build you something worthy of who you are. Not who they tried to make you.”

He stood and summoned a sketchpad mid-air, beginning to draft with swirling sparks of enchanted ink.

“I’ve got some ideas,” Harry said. “Asgardian alloys. Dwarven joint-locks. Magic-lined channeling for direct chi absorption. Maybe some enchanted resistance runes for balance. Something you can punch a tank with—and still feel your knuckles.”

Bucky chuckled, tired but genuine. “Sounds heavy.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll make it feather-light.”


Walls of enchanted glass reflected streams of glowing runes. Alchemical circles pulsed across the floors, and floating diagrams shifted constantly, displaying models of alloys, enchantment flows, and mechanical articulation systems.

In the center, hunched over a long obsidian workbench, stood Harry Black—his wand in one hand, a quill in the other, moving between ancient scrolls, old journals, and a glowing basin of duplicated Vibranium.

He was deep in thought.

And it all started with a memory.

Harry remembered the night vividly.

The Graveyard.
The ritual.
The resurrection of Voldemort.

Peter Pettigrew given his flesh for the ritual. And in return, Voldemort had conjured him a metal hand, one that functioned like flesh, stronger than steel, controlled with a thought.

It had been dark magic—twisted, cruel, and unstable. But the underlying principle had been brilliant.

"That spell… was never written down," Harry muttered. "But I saw it. I felt it. I can rebuild it... without the corruption."

Harry conjured a new parchment and drew a detailed spell map: a ritual-based conjuration for crafting living metal connected directly to magical nerve pathways.

Then came the alchemy.

Harry stood before the shimmering basin of Vibranium, which he had duplicated using deep alchemical transmutation rituals, ones that could only be performed once the source metal had been “unlocked” to him.

“Enough to make ten arms,” he murmured. “But only one needs to be perfect.”

He poured the Vibranium into a floating mold—an open-frame construct shaped like a forearm and hand. As it filled, runes carved themselves along the internal lining: ancient Runes of Durability, Power Absorption, Spell Channeling.

“Still working?” came a familiar voice.

Hela walked into the lab, arms crossed, watching the construct take shape.

Harry glanced up briefly. “Inspired by a certain dark ritual.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “You’re using voldieshort's magic?”

“No,” Harry said smirkingly. “I’m using his inspiration. Stripped of its cruelty. Reforged with meaning.”

Hela approached the levitating arm mold, eyes gleaming.

“Vibranium,” she noted. “A good choice. Conducts magic better than most living cores.”

Harry nodded. “And with enough enchantments, Bucky will be able to block anything without flinching.”

“Will he be able to punch through walls?”

Harry grinned. “With enough force to make Thor jealous.”

Over the next few days, Harry refined the design.

He used enchanted threading from the heartstrings of magical beasts to bind the mechanics to Bucky’s nervous system.

He wove Elven sigils into the fingers for precision movement.

As a final touch, Harry carved one ancient rune—an Asgardian symbol of freedom—onto the shoulder joint.

“Because it’s not just an arm,” he murmured. “It’s a rebirth.”


The ritual chamber glowed with a quiet hum of power. Ancient runes pulsed softly on the floor in a perfect circle around the central platform. The walls were lined with magical torches and floating crystals that flickered with arcane light.

In the center of the room stood a steel pedestal, and on it—rested the arm.

Black Vibranium, forged with care and alchemy, enchanted with ancient runes. The craftsmanship was flawless. Its sleek, dark-metal design shimmered with runic inscriptions that glowed faintly along the forearm and wrist.

It was alive with magic, humming like it was waiting for its chosen bearer.

Bucky Barnes stood shirtless beside it, calm but wide-eyed. The old wound on his shoulder, long healed by Harry’s restoration magic, was no longer an open socket of pain. It was healthy, clean, and ready.

He stared at the arm with awe.

“It’s… beautiful,” he said quietly.

“It’s also yours,” Harry replied, stepping beside him. “It will be part of you in every sense. You’ll feel with it—heat, cold, pressure, wind. You’ll be able to grip with precision, feel textures, even tremble if your emotions run high. It’s not just a weapon. It’s a hand.”

Steve Rogers stood a few feet away, arms crossed and smiling proudly.
Natasha Romanoff, clad in a simple jacket, leaned on the wall, arms folded, watching silently but closely.

Hela, dressed in green and black, observed from Harry’s side, quiet and dignified, though her eyes gleamed with approval.

“This,” she murmured, “is what true craftsmanship looks like.”

Bucky sat slowly in the enchanted chair at the center of the circle, rolling his shoulder and looking once more at Harry.

“Is it going to hurt?”

Harry smiled gently. “You’ll feel a tingle through your body. But no pain. Just… change.”

Bucky nodded.

“I trust you.”

Harry stepped forward and began chanting softly in a language long forgotten—Elder Runes of Binding, Runes of Living Steel, Sigils of Sentience. His wand danced in the air, inscribing runes around the floating arm.

The arm began to glow, its runes igniting in brilliant silver light.

And then—
—it started to melt.

The Vibranium liquefied into a dark, mercury-like stream, gliding midair, twisting and curling like a ribbon of silk. The crowd held their breath as the metal flowed across the room—

—and reached Bucky’s shoulder.

The black liquid touched his skin—
—and instead of cold, it was warm. Gentle.
It spread slowly, forming connectors with the bone and muscle, fusing with the nerves through invisible thread-like enchantments. The metal built itself, segment by segment, across his shoulder, biceps, forearm, wrist, and fingers.

Bucky’s eyes widened. He gasped—but not in pain.

It felt like life. Like something missing had just returned.

The ritual took ten long minutes. Ten minutes of spellwork, weaving, and divine precision.

And then—silence.

The runes faded. The air stilled.

And the arm was complete.

Bucky stood slowly, flexing the new arm. It moved exactly like his old one—but better. More fluid. More human. He flexed his fingers, forming a fist, and then reaching out to touch the wall beside him.

He felt it.

The stone. The cool surface. The grainy texture.

His breath caught in his throat.

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “Like it’s real. I can actually feel again.”

He turned to Harry, then to Hela.

“I… I don’t know how to thank you.”

Harry smiled warmly. “Then don’t. Just use it well. Live freely.”

Hela added, “And if you ever feel like punching someone—make sure they deserve it.”

That earned a rare, genuine laugh from Bucky.

Steve stepped forward and clapped him on the back. “Looks good on you.”

Natasha gave a nod. “About time you got something that was yours.”

Bucky looked down at the shimmering black hand and made a fist once more.

“Then I’m done being their weapon,” he said. “From now on… I fight for me.”


The scent of freshly baked bread and enchanted basil stew filled the ground floor of Blackheart. The restaurant buzzed with life as it always did around midday. In the kitchen, enchanted ladles stirred soups while laughter echoed from booth to booth.

Tony Stark pushed through the front door with his usual flair—dark shades, half-buttoned blazer, a cup of coffee already in hand from one of the enchanted waiters.

“Still the best damn mushroom risotto in New York,” he muttered to himself with a grin, heading toward the back stairs. He’d lost count of how many times he’d dropped by unannounced to see Harry and Hela.

Upstairs, he had free access. He was a friend.

A regular.

Bucky Barnes stood in the hallway, holding a folded towel and walking toward the laundry alcove, newly clad in a loose black shirt that concealed most of his new arm.

But Tony recognized him instantly.

Everything else fell away.

The hallway dissolved into darkness.

And in Tony’s mind—it was 1991 again.

His mother's screaming.

The image of a car crash on a snowy road.

And then—his father’s still hand... limp.

Tony’s coffee cup dropped from his hand and shattered against the floor.

“You,” Tony growled.

Bucky froze.

Tony’s repulsor lit up in his palm without hesitation—
—a beam of energy firing straight toward Bucky’s chest.

Bucky leapt backward, reacting purely on instinct, raising his vibranium arm. The blast hit the enchanted metal and deflected off the runic surface, scorching the hallway wall behind him.

“Stark—stop!” Bucky shouted.

“Don’t you say my name!” Tony roared, firing another pulse.

This one Bucky caught mid-air and redirected into the ceiling.

Furniture exploded.

Steve Rogers charged into the room, shield already raised.

“Tony, that’s ENOUGH!”

“Get out of my way, Rogers!” Tony yelled, eyes blazing.

Steve stepped in front of Bucky, lowering the shield only slightly.

“It wasn’t his choice! You know that!”

“Doesn’t change what he DID!” Tony barked, trying to power up again.

And then—magic flared.

A violet light swallowed the room.

Harry Black stepped between them with a flick of his wand, freezing both men mid-motion. Not physically—but magically. Their movements slowed like they were wading through molasses.

“Everyone,” Harry said, voice dangerously calm, “stand. Down.”

Then came the sound of heels slamming against the wooden floor—sharp, measured, and terrifying.

Hela stood at the threshold, arms crossed, green eyes flashing with fury.

The entire living room was scorched, one wall cracked, two chairs smoking, and the enchanted fireplace trying to put itself out by throwing water.

“Do you two idiots have any idea what you’ve just done?” she snapped.

Harry slowly released the magical resistance from both men, and they straightened—angry, breathing hard, but no longer attacking.

“I can repair all this,” Harry added. “But I won’t fix the stupidity.”

Tony glared at Bucky, but said nothing.

Bucky stared at the floor, fists clenched.

Steve exhaled slowly, stepping between them again.

“This isn’t the way, Tony.”

Tony pointed. “He killed my parents.”

“And he was a slave when he did it,” Harry said firmly. “You want revenge, take it out on the people who made him. Not the man who’s been waking up every day with those memories burned into his soul.”

Silence.

Hela finally walked toward the fireplace, waved her hand, and muttered, “Reparo totalis.”

The damage reversed itself instantly—books flying back to shelves, chairs reassembling, the cracked wall mending with a glowing hum.

Then she turned and stared daggers at all three men.

“If anyone lifts a hand in this apartment again, I will remove it.”

Even Tony gave a tight nod of agreement.

Bucky looked toward Tony. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice low but firm. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. But I remember. And it’s killing me every day.”

Tony didn’t answer. He turned to Harry, jaw tight.

“I need some air.”

And with that, he turned and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him.