Breakfast at Hogwarts was usually a civilized chaos—like a potions class where someone forgot the safety goggles. But this morning? It was a full-on circus, and not the fun kind with clowns and cotton candy. More like the kind where the lions actually try to eat the audience.
The Great Hall buzzed with its usual soundtrack of clinking plates, whispered gossip, and the occasional "How do I un-toast my toast?" spell gone sideways. But the staff table? Yeah, that was a whole other reality show.
Sitting there, looking like they'd just walked off the set of a superhero movie, were Captain America, Hawkeye, Black Widow—and Wolverine, who looked like he was one bad day away from ripping the entire ceiling down with his claws.
Cap was polishing his shield with military-grade precision, probably convinced it was some kind of magical artifact that could clean itself. Hawkeye, ever the drama king, was pretending to aim an invisible arrow at some poor innocent fly. Black Widow scanned the room like she was hunting for a spy—or a decent espresso machine. Wolverine? He was poking at a stack of pancakes with a claw, muttering, "Where's the protein, bub? This is soft food crime."
At the student tables, jaws were hitting floors so hard you'd think gravity just invented a new rule.
"Is that…?" a Hufflepuff third-year whispered, eyes wide enough to cast a shadow.
"Are we sure Hogwarts hasn't lost its damn mind?" a Gryffindor fifth-year muttered, clutching his butterbeer like a life raft.
But then there were those students—Harry, Jean, Susan, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, Percy, Cedric, Neville, Luna, Daphne, Tracey, Hannah, Alicia, Katie, and Angelina—who looked at the Avengers and Wolverine like it was just Tuesday.
Because last night? They'd all fought off a pack of flaming werewolves together. So, yeah. Weird was now baseline.
Harry caught Jean's eye across the room. She smirked, that signature Abigail Cowen "I dare you" grin.
"Bet you ten Butterbeers Cap's shield gives better advice than the Sorting Hat," she whispered, voice dripping with challenge.
Harry leaned in, matching her grin. "At least Hawkeye can actually hit a target. Can't say the same for that time you tried to smack a Snitch with a frying pan."
Jean elbowed him sharply. "Hey! I was improvising, okay? And that Snitch had it coming."
Wolverine's growl cut through the banter. "If you two are done flirting like lovesick dementors, I'm trying to eat here."
Susan rolled her eyes. "Bub, you're stabbing pancakes, not a monster."
Fred snorted. "Maybe he thinks they're giant magical jellybeans."
George nodded sagely. "And we're all supposed to pretend that's normal."
Cap cleared his throat, standing with the kind of posture that screamed "Motivational speech incoming."
"Thanks for having us," he said, glancing up at the enchanted ceiling. "Hogwarts is… different from the usual battlefield."
Ron snorted. "Try surviving a half-dozen cursed werewolves while your best mate has an identity crisis."
Black Widow smirked. "Sounds like a Tuesday."
Hermione leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorial. "If Hogwarts is weird, wait until you hear about the Ministry's new regulations on magical creature breeding."
Jean laughed, voice bright and teasing. "Oh please. You guys just wait until Nargles start hiding in your shoes."
Luna, never one to miss a beat, nodded solemnly. "They really love shoes."
Laughter rippled through the hall, all except the poor Muggleborns still trying to process their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher casually having breakfast with a literal superhero team.
Harry slipped his hand under the table, catching Jean's fingers with a squeeze.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, voice low and warm.
Jean's grin was pure mischief. "Only if you promise not to trip over your own feet trying to look cool."
Harry's eyes twinkled with devilry. "No promises."
Between secret aunts, flaming werewolves, and breakfast with superheroes, Hogwarts had somehow become the only kind of weird that felt like home.
—
After breakfast, the Great Hall was emptying out like a Quidditch stadium after a last-second goal, students filing away with lingering looks at the Avengers, probably hoping for a spontaneous magic-vibranium frisbee showdown. Harry was finishing the last bite of his toast—slightly more charcoal than bread thanks to some ambitious first-year's Toastus Maximus spell gone sideways—when a familiar voice cut through the hum.
"Oi, kid. Got a sec?" Sirius Black appeared like he owned the place, cloak flaring dramatically enough to deserve its own theme music.
Harry glanced up, wiping crumbs off his fingers. "Depends. Is this about the time you tried to swap Snape's shampoo with doxy venom? Because last I checked, I was mostly an innocent bystander."
Sirius smirked like someone who definitely planned the whole thing. "Love that story, but no. This is serious—like Dumbledore-approved serious."
Harry raised a skeptical brow. "You don't do 'serious' unless it's about me nearly dying or you planning something that might get me nearly dying."
"Fair," Sirius said, with a shrug that screamed I'm trouble and I know it. "But Dumbledore's given us the green light to leave Hogwarts grounds. You, me, and Natasha."
Harry blinked. "Leave Hogwarts? With Natasha? You mean the Natasha?"
"The very one. Black Widow, spy extraordinaire, and maybe, just maybe, your actual aunt."
Cue the mental drumroll. Harry's heart did a triple loop-de-loop like he was on the Forbidden Forest roller coaster. Natasha Romanoff. Potentially family? This wasn't your average Tuesday.
He pushed himself up, trying to look calm when inside he felt like a Hungarian Horntail had taken a particular interest in his chest.
"Can Jean come?" he asked, voice a notch quieter, a little desperate.
Sirius cocked his head. "Jean? Your girlfriend? Tall, fire-eyed redhead who could probably torch a mountain troll with one glare?"
"Yeah. That Jean." Harry's eyes twinkled with that 'don't mess with her or I will' vibe.
Sirius chuckled. "The one you never shut up about?"
Harry threw him a look that said, You'd better believe it.
"The same one who took down three flaming werewolves and then embarrassed you at Wizard's Chess while drinking pumpkin juice like it was a potion of invincibility?"
"Exactly her," Harry said, pride creeping into his voice.
Sirius nodded with mock solemnity. "Relax, Casanova. Dumbledore's already given the thumbs-up for Jean, too. Moral support, he said. Said you'd need someone to keep you from crying or turning into a puddle of emotional goo."
Harry's lips twitched. "Yeah, well, if Natasha is my aunt… I might need more than moral support."
Sirius gave him a serious once-over. "Go find your girl."
Without another word, Harry spun on his heel, cloak billowing behind him like a Gryffindor Batman—if Batman was perpetually on the verge of a sarcastic meltdown.
He spotted Jean by the staircases, mid-laugh at whatever Luna was rambling about—probably something involving invisible blibbering fuzzbeasts and exploding mistletoe. Typical.
"Jean!" Harry called, his voice low and firm enough to slice through the chatter.
Jean turned, instantly alert. Her laughter faded into a knowing smile—the one that said something's up, and I'm here for it.
"What's wrong?" she asked, closing the distance between them with those three confident steps that always made Harry's heart do something dumb.
He took a deep breath. "Sirius got Dumbledore's okay. We're heading to Gringotts—me, him, and Natasha. There's a blood verification ritual the goblins can do. If she's really my aunt, we'll know by sunset."
Jean didn't hesitate. Her hand slid into his, fingers curling around his like a lifeline. "I'm coming."
Harry smiled—sharp, fond, and a little in love all at once. "Dumbledore said it was cool. So… you're officially the moral support squad."
Jean's eyes glinted with mischief and fire. "Moral support? Please. I'm the firepower. Let's go see if the universe's idea of a joke involves me roasting your family secrets."
Harry grinned, heart thrumming. "Spoiler: it always does."
Hand in hand, the boy with the lightning scar and the girl with fire in her blood stepped out of Hogwarts, heading straight into the kind of mess only they could handle.
—
Harry and Jean reached Hagrid's Hut, where Sirius was already leaning against the fence, looking like he owned not just the hut but the whole blasted Forbidden Forest. Which, given the chaos that seemed to follow him around, wasn't far from the truth.
Natasha stood nearby, calm as a bomb about to explode—in a very stylish way. Clint rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to convince himself this was a good idea. Steve, meanwhile, was scanning the scene with wide-eyed wonder, probably imagining where the snack stands would be if this were a theme park. Logan, well, Logan just looked ready to start a fight with a garden gnome if one showed up.
Sirius caught sight of them and smirked, the kind of smirk that means "I'm about to drop some news that'll mess with your head and you'll love it."
"Alright, you lot," Sirius said, voice smooth like whiskey and trouble. "Here's the plan. We're heading to Gringotts. Blood verification—goblin style."
Steve's eyes twinkled. "Diagon Alley, huh? Heard it's the Wizarding World's version of Times Square. Think we've got time for a quick tour?"
Logan just grunted. "I'm not here for sightseeing. Goblins and fights—that's my speed."
Clint gave Sirius a sidelong look. "Okay, how exactly are we getting there? Last time I tried a portkey, I spent three days smelling like a toaster caught in a fire. Not keen to repeat that."
Sirius's grin stretched wider, like he was about to drop the ultimate plot twist.
"We're taking the Knight Bus."
Cue the collective double take.
Harry and Jean exchanged a look that screamed Are you for real?
Jean raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, voice dripping with amused disbelief. "The Knight Bus? The purple triple-decker that swerves around like it's Bludger? Susan warned me about that nightmare."
Sirius shrugged, like he'd just mentioned grabbing a latte. "Yep. That one. Buckle up."
Clint groaned, half laughing, half resigned. "Seriously? You're out of your bloody mind."
Steve, ever the optimist, gave a small smile. "At least it's probably safer than a portkey?"
Sirius winked. "Safe is overrated. Fast is fun."
Logan cracked his knuckles and smirked, a glint in his eye. "If we crash, at least it'll be worth the story."
Harry squeezed Jean's hand, that mix of adrenaline and "I might die but at least I've got her" flashing through his mind. Jean squeezed back, eyes sparkling with excitement and that fierce fire Harry adored.
"Well," Harry said, voice low, eyes locked on Jean's, "looks like we're in for one hell of a ride."
Jean grinned, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You just keep holding my hand, Potter. I'll make sure Sirius doesn't drive us off a cliff."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Hey! I heard that."
Natasha, arms crossed, shot Sirius a look sharp enough to cut through dragonhide. "Try not to kill us all, okay?"
Sirius tossed his hands up. "No promises."
With that, the ragtag team headed toward the edge of the grounds, ready to hop on a mad, magical bus and face whatever chaos awaited in the streets of Diagon Alley.
—
Sirius stepped off the path, his wand hand shooting out like he was trying to hail a London cab on a Friday night. With a sharp flick, the quiet air exploded into chaos.
From down the lane came the Knight Bus, roaring like it was auditioning for a Fast & Furious sequel. The purple triple-decker screeched and skidded around a corner with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. It slammed to a halt right in front of them, wheels smoking, as if it had just finished a drag race against a Hungarian Horntail.
The door burst open and out popped a skinny kid in a threadbare conductor's uniform, clutching a clipboard like it was the Holy Grail. He looked like he'd downed one too many Butterbeers and still hadn't figured out the consequences.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus," he announced, reading from a well-worn piece of paper with the enthusiasm of someone stuck in a never-ending training video, "emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name's Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor this eve." His grin was somewhere between hopeful and desperately praying no one asked questions.
Harry caught Jean's eye. She was smirking like she'd just spotted the first sign of madness in a place that promised plenty more.
"Emergency transport, huh? Sounds more like the Hogwarts Express got smashed into a rollercoaster designed by a madman," Jean teased, voice dripping with that perfect Abigail Cowan mix of sass and charm.
Sirius, never one to miss an opportunity, shot her a grin that said, I'm planning this chaos, thank you very much. Then he turned to the group with the swagger of a guy who'd survived worse.
"Alright, team," Sirius said, voice smooth as aged whiskey and twice as dangerous, "hold on tight. This bus doesn't do smooth, it does spectacular. And by spectacular, I mean it'll feel like you're hanging off a broom in a hurricane."
Natasha slid past him first, cool and precise as ever, her eyes already calculating risks. Clint scratched the back of his neck like he was trying to convince himself he wasn't about to regret this, muttering, "If this bus tries any of that flipping nonsense, I'm outta here."
Steve, ever the optimist, scanned the bus like he was looking for the snack bar. "So… no hot dogs onboard, right? Because I can always negotiate."
Logan cracked his knuckles, eyes narrowing like he was already picturing a fight with the upholstery. "Just point me at the goblins and I'm good. This thing breaks down? I'll break something bigger."
Jean slipped her arm through Harry's, squeezing his hand like a secret promise. "You're not half bad at organizing chaos, Potter. Did you learn that from the Dark Arts or just natural talent?"
Harry leaned in close enough to brush his lips near her ear, voice low and teasing, "Let's just say I've got a PhD in 'How to Make Things Explode and Look Damn Good Doing It.' And you're my favorite co-conspirator."
Jean laughed softly, that spark of fire lighting up her eyes. "Well, then, Professor Potter, try not to let me fall off this mad ride."
Sirius, overhearing, threw his head back and laughed, "Oi! I heard that! I'm a responsible kind of chaos, thank you very much."
Natasha shot Sirius a look sharp enough to slice through dragon hide. "Try not to kill us all, please."
Sirius threw up his hands with mock innocence. "No promises, love."
The gang started boarding as the doors swung wide, the Knight Bus humming with restless energy.
Just before they stepped inside, Stan gave another awkward smile, clipboard held tight. "Right this way, folks. Just remember: hold on to your hats, your wands, and your lunch."
Harry glanced back at Jean, grinning. "Ready to fly the magical crazy train?"
She squeezed his hand tighter. "Only if you promise not to hog all the dramatic near-death moments."
With a collective breath and a shared grin, they climbed aboard, the doors whooshing shut behind them as the Knight Bus lurched forward, careening into the night like a purple comet of sheer, unadulterated madness.
—
Stan Shunpike shuffled forward, clipboard clutched like it was a sacred artifact—possibly the long-lost map to Narnia or the sacred scroll of overpriced wizarding fares. His conductor's cap sat crooked on his mop of messy hair, and he had the kind of energy that screamed, "I've had seven cups of tea and still need a nap."
Clearing his throat with a practiced cough, Stan looked up at Sirius with wide eyes. "Right, Mr. Black—Sirius, yeah? Where we off to tonight, mate?"
Sirius, looking like he walked off the cover of Bad Boys of the Wizarding World, gave a lazy smirk and rolled his wand between his fingers. "Diagon Alley. Got some goblins to charm and some bloodlines to verify. Standard bureaucratic nightmare."
Stan nodded seriously, as if Sirius had just announced a mission to rescue a kitten from Voldemort. "Right, right. Diagon Alley it is." He squinted at the group behind Sirius. "Lessee… one, two… five grown-ups, and two kids. Seven passengers total. Standard fare to Diagon Alley comes to—thirty-nine Sickles each."
He tapped the clipboard like it had just done long division on its own. "That'll be two hundred seventy-three Sickles total."
Sirius flipped open a worn leather wallet with a wand handle stitched to the spine. Without even blinking, he tossed a handful of gleaming silver coins into Stan's palm. "Round it up. Consider it hazard pay."
Stan's eyes lit up like he'd just won backstage passes to a Weird Sisters concert. "Much appreciated, sir!" He flipped through a set of magical punch cards and began handing out glowing purple tickets like candy at Halloween. "One ticket for you, and you, and—oh, this one's printed upside-down. Lucky!"
Then he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to the kind of whisper usually reserved for telling people their cat's been moonlighting as a goblin. "Just a heads up—we'll be droppin' off a couple witches before Diagon Alley. They're regulars. Bit odd. One of them hexed her own kneazle once. It was a whole thing."
At this, Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Define odd."
Stan chuckled nervously. "You know… potions, shouting at walls, makes jam that's sentient. Your usual."
"Great," Clint muttered, "as long as the jam doesn't bite."
Stan turned and headed toward the front, where Ern—who looked like the human version of a sleepy tortoise—was in a deep philosophical debate with a shrunken head dangling from a string. The head had wild dreadlocks and the voice of someone who'd lived their best beach life in Jamaica… three centuries ago.
"Alright, Ern," Stan called brightly, tapping the dashboard, "Take it away!"
The shrunken head swung forward, gave a toothy grin, and in its thick Jamaican accent shouted, "Take it away, mon!"
And just like that, the Knight Bus launched forward with a jolt that felt like getting drop-kicked by a troll in Crocs.
Jean stumbled slightly, only to be caught by Harry, who—because of course—didn't so much as flinch. He steadied her with a hand at her waist, smirking down at her like he'd planned the whole turbulence for this exact moment.
"You alright?" he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear.
Jean, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, arched a brow. "Is this your idea of a romantic getaway?"
Harry leaned in. "Please. If I planned it, there'd be fireworks, a dragon, and at least three unspeakable violations of international law."
Jean laughed, slipping her hand into his. "You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet."
He grinned. "I'm magic, Red. Literally."
Across the aisle, Logan was bracing himself with one hand on the seat and the other gripping a metal pole like it owed him money. "This ain't a bus. This is a fever dream on wheels."
"Welcome to wizarding public transport," Steve said, smiling tightly. "It's like a theme park ride. Without safety regulations."
Natasha calmly adjusted her balance like a spy queen riding a hoverboard through a blizzard. "Or brakes."
Clint peeked out the window as the scenery blurred past in a violent smear. "I'd complain, but I think I just saw a giraffe in a top hat riding a broomstick."
"Wizard London," Sirius said from the back, arms stretched out like he was surfing the chaos. "You never forget your first time. Or your first whiplash."
The Knight Bus thundered through the night, bouncing off curbs and reality alike. The floorboards rattled, the beds slid, and the chandelier above their heads swung like it was trying to quit.
And through it all, Harry stood rock-solid in the chaos, Jean at his side, grinning like the whole world was one big joke that only they got the punchline to.
He leaned a little closer, brushing her red hair away from her cheek. "I told you to buckle up."
Jean smiled, breath hitching ever so slightly. "I'm starting to think you are the ride."
—
The Knight Bus shrieked around a corner so sharp the universe itself probably felt a little insulted.
Jean let out a small gasp and latched onto Harry's arm like a redhead in distress—which, to be fair, she was neither of those things usually. But she was also wearing boots with actual heels (why?) and the Knight Bus had all the stability of a roller coaster built by raccoons on a sugar high.
Harry, meanwhile, didn't budge. Not so much as a flinch. He stood like a smug Gryffindor rock, perfectly balanced as if he'd married gravity in a past life and they were still on excellent terms.
"Don't mind the turnin', folks!" Stan Shunpike shouted cheerfully, surfing down the aisle like a caffeinated meerkat on a tightrope. "We're just takin' a scenic detour through Newtonian defiance!"
Clint blinked at him. "You always drive like this, or did we catch you on adrenaline hour?"
"Mate, this is the tame version," Stan replied, adjusting his conductor hat at an angle that could only be described as "intentionally rakish." "Tea? Cocoa? Emotional support mug of hot chocolate? Three Sickles. Extra if you want marshmallows. Or rum. Or emotional baggage removed."
Logan grunted from where he'd braced himself like a veteran in a war zone. Which, to be fair, he was.
"Got coffee?"
Stan frowned. "What is it with you people and your muggle bean juice? This ain't Starbucks, pal."
Clint sighed. "Then make it hot chocolate. With marshmallows. But if one of them hops, I swear to God—"
"No refunds!" Stan warned, whipping out a tray that hovered like magic and smelled like diabetes.
Logan slapped a few Sickles into the air like a man slapping a mosquito with rage issues. "Rum. Double. Don't water it down."
Stan paused. "You a werewolf, mate?"
Logan's stare was sharp enough to shave steel. "I'm Canadian."
Stan, apparently, accepted that as both a reason and a warning. "Right then. One high-octane mug of liquified survival. Try not to punch a hole through reality."
Steve, seated with perfect posture and that impossibly polite expression that made you feel like you had to say "thank you" to him, declined with a smile. "I'm fine. Thanks, though."
"You sure?" Stan offered, holding up a mug that literally shimmered. "Comes with a chocolate frog. Might jump into your mouth. Might attack your soul. Bit of a toss-up."
Jean gave it a suspicious look. "Pass. Last time I ate enchanted candy, it tried to escape my stomach."
"Story for later," Harry murmured to her, smirking. "Please tell me it involved candy canes and near-death."
"Not even remotely," Jean said, leaning in. "It involved a jelly bean, a Niffler, and one very confused Canadian goose."
"I take it back," he said. "Marry me immediately."
Jean blushed. That kind of warm, flustered flush that made her freckles pop. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet," Harry said smoothly, "here you are. Wrapped around my arm like I'm your favorite paperback."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't let go.
From the back, Sirius Black—who had way too much charm for someone legally considered a fugitive—caught a mug with one hand and slouched across a brass heater like a rockstar in exile. "Cheers, lad. Got any biscuits?"
Stan looked personally offended. "What d'you think I am? The Hogwarts Express trolley witch?"
"You do have the energy," Sirius muttered, sipping his cocoa like it owed him rent money.
Then the bus did that thing. You know. The folding, wheezing, jolting like a dying time machine thing.
With a sound like a rewinding VHS tape (ask your parents), the Knight Bus popped into a quaint village square. The bus screeched sideways, paused dramatically like it expected applause, and exhaled a puff of exhaust that smelled vaguely like mischief.
"First stop—Madam Springleaf and Miss Bonbon!" Stan announced. "Please watch your step and try not to hex the pigeons. Again."
Two witches stepped off. One wore a hat large enough to receive cable channels and winked directly at Harry.
Jean saw it. She also saw Harry smirk.
"Did she just wink at you?"
"Don't be jealous," Harry said, voice buttery smooth. "I'm internationally flirted with. It's exhausting, really."
Jean tilted her head, amused. "You saying you're irresistible?"
"I'm saying the last time I looked in a mirror, the mirror got flustered."
Jean laughed—an honest, delighted laugh that lit up her whole face. "You're lucky you're cute."
He leaned in, voice low and wicked. "I'm not lucky. I'm gifted."
Jean's blush returned in force.
"Next stop, Diagon Alley!" Stan called. "Ern, let 'er rip!"
"Yeah, mon," said the shrunken head dangling by the front window. "We ridin' dirty!"
With a scream of brakes and a groan of protest, the bus lurched forward again. Logan slammed into a wall. His cocoa, miraculously, didn't spill.
"I've seen trench warfare," he grunted, adjusting his coat. "This is worse."
Sirius raised his mug. "Floo powder gives you blacklung. Portkeys make you feel like your soul took the stairs. Apparition's like being yanked through a straw. But this? This is like being kidnapped by a carnival ride. It builds character."
"I'm not even wearing a seatbelt," Clint muttered.
"Exactly," Sirius said, nodding like that proved his point.
Somewhere mid-monsoon blur of enchanted scenery and dangerously sentient road signs, Natasha reached out—still eerily balanced, because of course she was—and caught the last cocoa mug from Stan.
"This one's probably cursed," he warned.
She sipped. "I've had worse."
Stan grinned. "That's the spirit. May your next explosion be optional."
Then came the phantom stop. A countryside manor surrounded by snow and ghosts of bad memories flickered into view—and just as fast, vanished.
Jean's head gently came to rest against Harry's shoulder. His warmth, his quiet, crackling magic—it was like leaning against a lightning rod that told jokes.
"Do all your magical adventures start with transportation that feels like a bad idea?"
Harry smirked. "Only the fun ones."
She smiled. "Then I think I'm gonna like this one."
Outside, Diagon Alley rose into view—leaning buildings, wonky chimneys, crooked signs, and enough magical energy to fry a smartphone from a block away.
Harry leaned down, brushing his lips near Jean's ear.
"Welcome to the deep end, babe."
And then the Knight Bus slammed to a stop like it was dropping the mic.
—
The Knight Bus screeched to a halt like it had a personal vendetta against inertia, and possibly a few unpaid speeding tickets in multiple dimensions.
"Wotcher! Diagon Alley, as promised," Stan Shunpike announced, beaming like he'd just parallel parked a dragon in downtown London.
Jean Grey blinked at the sight outside the bus. "Are we... inside the Alley?"
"Oh, we're deep in it, love," the Shrunken Head chimed in, its dreadlocks bouncing with enthusiasm. "Next stop: magical mayhem. Watch your ankles."
Ernie, the driver, gave a grunt that translated roughly to "Don't blame me, I just steer the insanity."
Stan leaned against the rail, smirking. "Mind the gap! Or don't. Just don't sue me. Ministry's picky about lawsuits these days."
Harry was already descending the steps like he owned them—which, to be fair, he sort of did. He was followed by Jean, still gripping the handrail with the calm determination of someone who had survived both Cerebro and Clint's cooking.
Logan stalked out next, eyes scanning every alley like he expected a mugger to leap from a butterbeer barrel. Steve offered a courteous nod to Stan—because of course he did—while Clint jumped down like he was escaping a bad Tinder date. Natasha? Still holding the cocoa like it was either laced with arsenic or ancient blood magic.
"Thanks for the ride," Jean said, ever the polite telepath. Her tone managed to be both sincere and amazed that they hadn't exploded.
Stan gave her a dramatic wink. "Anytime, miss. We cater, too—birthdays, breakups, dramatic rescues. Got a two-for-one on those."
Sirius sauntered off last, trench coat over his shoulder, looking like he was late for an audition for Wizarding Noir: Curse City Chronicles.
"Just don't show up at mine," he drawled. "I'm allergic to deathtraps."
Stan mock-saluted. "May your bones stay inside you!"
With a loud BANG and a puff of exhaust that smelled suspiciously like cinnamon glitter and bad life choices, the Knight Bus vanished, leaving behind a goblin who looked personally offended by its environmental impact.
Harry blinked at their surroundings. "Wait. This is Diagon Alley. Not the Leaky Cauldron."
Sirius was already halfway down the street. "Yup."
"But you don't simply drive into Diagon Alley. You walk in through the pub."
Sirius shrugged like someone who'd never heard of protocol. "They made a deal after the Erumpent Incident of '99. Stan wasn't technically at fault, but a unicorn lost its horn and—long story short—we get VIP treatment."
"VIPs?" Harry repeated, eyebrows raised.
"You're Harry freakin' Potter," Sirius said. "And I'm Sirius Black. Between the two of us, we've caused enough property damage to qualify for a punch card. Fifth explosion's free."
Natasha tilted her head. "What's the Leaky Cauldron?"
"A pub," Harry explained, eyeing the shops like one of them might rat him out. "It's the usual entry point from the Muggle world. This feels like… skipping foreplay."
Jean smirked. "You need foreplay to enter a market?"
Clint raised a hand. "Honestly? Checks out."
Natasha sipped her cocoa. "After that bus ride? We just skipped to third base."
Logan growled. "No one says 'base' around me again. Ever."
Jean casually looped her arm through Harry's as they strolled. "There's a shop right there that sells something called 'Wart-Be-Gone.' Smells like a dragon's sneeze."
"Charming," Clint muttered, pulling out his phone—which promptly short-circuited. "Aw, come on! This was a brand-new StarkPhone!"
"Yeah, magic and tech don't mix," Jean said with a shrug. "Diagon Alley is where Wi-Fi goes to die."
Steve blinked at a window full of floating cauldrons and disembodied gloves knitting scarves. "Do all your stores look like drunk elves designed them with glitter and ambition?"
"Yes," Harry said cheerfully. "Because most of them were."
They passed a window of self-stirring cauldrons next to a shelf of love potions glowing ominously pink.
"Don't touch those," Jean warned. "They made a Hufflepuff propose to a broomstick once."
Sirius perked up. "Did the broom say yes?"
"Three times," she replied.
Harry grinned. "Better track record than most wizard marriages."
At last, they arrived at the looming marble facade of Gringotts. The goblin guards gave Logan a look like they were debating whether he was a client or an incoming security breach.
"Try not to stab anyone," Harry muttered.
"No promises," Logan replied. "This place smells like greed and old bones."
Sirius grinned. "Welcome to banking."
A broom zipped overhead. A flock of enchanted canaries dive-bombed Clint. Natasha casually hexed one out of the air without breaking stride.
Jean turned to Harry. "Still think skipping the Leaky Cauldron was a bad idea?"
Harry gave her a look that was fond, exasperated, and hopelessly smitten. "Yes. Because I might've gotten a butterbeer instead of a concussion."
She brushed her fingers over his hand. "But then we wouldn't have had this conversation. Or that thrilling near-death bonding experience."
He smirked. "Okay, yeah. Trauma totally worth it."
Steve glanced at the massive bronze doors. "So... is this where we get things done?"
"No," Harry said, adjusting his jacket like he was walking into a boardroom full of trolls. "This is where we argue with goblins about ancient magical contracts and accidentally make them hate us."
Steve nodded sagely. "Ah. Diplomacy."
Sirius cracked his neck. "Relax. I brought bribes."
Harry sighed. "Of course you did."
And just like that, the gang walked into Gringotts like they belonged there—because whether the wizarding world liked it or not, they were here, and they weren't leaving quietly.
---
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