Harry Pendragon was neck-deep in bubbly water, soaking like the world's most dangerous bath bomb. His abs glistened like they'd been Photoshopped by a thirsty Instagram model, and his expression was the smug lovechild of a Bond villain and a GQ cover model.
The hot tub was enormous—because of course it was—and Natasha was draped across him like she'd just walked off the set of a spy movie and into the middle of a steamy romance novel. Her red bikini broke at least three Geneva Conventions and had the UN considering emergency sanctions.
"Darling," Harry said in a British accent so posh it practically ordered scones for tea, "I must say, renaming the suite The Duke and Duchess of Beverly Hills Deluxe Package was inspired."
"You mean it wasn't already called that?" Natasha gasped in fake horror, flipping her blonde wig like she was auditioning for a reality show titled Real Housewives of European Heists. "Ugh, Har-bear, that's just… tragic."
Harry sipped from a champagne flute like he'd personally invented grapes. "I was torn between that and The Earl and Countess of Bougie-on-Thames. But honestly, I think the gold-plated bidet really sealed the theme."
She giggled—high-pitched, nasal, and straight out of the Valley Girl school of fake flirtation. "So tell me," she said loudly, snuggling closer and trailing a finger down his chest, "are all your family jewels this... aristocratic?"
Harry threw his head back with a theatrical moan. "Tiffany, please. Not in front of the help. They're unionizing."
Security, of course, was enthralled. They couldn't see anything—privacy laws, plus the suite's rich-person-friendly no-camera policy—but they could hear everything. And thanks to Natasha's expertly deployed vocals and Harry's top-tier dramatics, they were fully locked in.
Down the hall, in the suite's private study (which was currently doubling as the quietest bomb-planting op this side of MI6), Peggy Carter was being very, very British about the entire thing—which meant she was silently judging everyone while moving with tactical precision.
"Security's rerouted all patrols," Peggy muttered through her earpiece. "Apparently, Natasha's vocal range has them convinced a murder is happening. Of the sexy variety."
Back in the hot tub, Natasha arched her back and let out a moan that could've won an Emmy. "OH, HARRY! Is that your portfolio, or are you just happy to see me?"
"Careful, love," Harry purred. "You'll have the SEC investigating my assets again."
Peggy Carter, meanwhile, was rolling her eyes so hard she probably saw her own brain. She knelt by the reinforced window and pulled out a small, glittering device—roughly the size of a tic-tac and ten times as deadly.
And it sparkled. Because of course it did.
Cue Flashback: Marauders Workshop, Manhattan, the Day Before
"James," Peggy said, holding up a glitter-bomb between her fingers like it was a used tissue, "explain to me why your 'subtle' explosive smells like cinnamon and shame."
"Because," James said, goggles slipping off his nose, "it's deliciously discreet. Barely enough to bruise a bruise. Think of it as... the glitter of chaos."
Lily Potter did not think of it that way. "He wanted to use the Blackhole Bombs."
"Absolutely not!" shouted Sirius, diving behind the counter like the memory alone was traumatic. "Last time, we lost a taco truck to another dimension. I miss that truck."
"It came back," James said weakly.
"IN MONTANA," Lily barked. "Still serving tacos. Still causing storms."
Peggy just sighed. "Give me the sparkles. And none of that banana-scented nonsense this time."
Back to the Present
Now, with her last glitter-bomb set behind a marble end table, Peggy stood and tapped her belt. A faint purple shimmer ran through the room—charges armed, ready for their 'oh-crap-we-need-a-window' moment.
"You're all set," Peggy said coolly. "Exit window prepped. All we need now is for Natasha to climax just loud enough to distract the remaining guards."
"Oh, Harold!" Natasha shouted from the tub, splashing more water than a Disney log flume ride. "Is that a Dom Perignon, or are you just loaded?"
"Careful, darling," Harry groaned. "I've had less dramatic tax audits."
"I hate this job," a guard's voice echoed over the comms.
"I can't turn it off," another whined. "It's the Duke's full sensory package. Do not mess with VIP auditory privileges!"
Amid the chaos, Harry slipped a waterproof scanner from under the tub's seat and casually sent a pulse through the floor. The hidden vault beneath them lit up in his visor.
"Bingo," he muttered.
"Vault confirmed," Peggy said.
Harry turned to Natasha, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "Act Two, Duchess?"
She dropped the Valley Girl voice and leaned in close. "Only if you bring back the monocle, Lord Pendragon."
"I'll consider it," he said, brushing a wet strand of her wig behind her ear. "Right after you call me Daddy Warbucks again."
Natasha's grin was the kind that should've been illegal in six countries. "Oh, Daddy... punish my credit score."
From the comms: "I swear to God, I'm going to staple my ears shut."
Peggy smirked, slinking through the suite like a cat in heels. She paused at the minibar, grabbed a bottle of scotch, then whispered into her mic: "You two are giving the word 'overkill' an identity crisis."
Harry's reply was immediate. "Overkill is just foreplay with more glitter."
—
Clint Barton adjusted the stiff collar of his bellhop uniform for the fifth time in thirty seconds, silently cursing whoever invented starch. Or formalwear. Or buttons. Probably all three.
"Okay," he muttered, wheeling a laundry cart down the marble corridor of rich-people-smell and judgment. "Bellhop. Normal. Not suspicious. Just delivering towels. Definitely not carrying a magical timed charge disguised as a lint roller."
Next to him stomped a man who looked like he'd been built from old war crimes, back alley secrets, and the haunted dreams of overworked baristas.
Mad-Eye Moody—currently pretending to be a member of the hotel staff, in the loosest interpretation of the word "pretending"—was technically wearing the uniform. Technically. But when your face looked like a chainsaw's resume and your magical eyeball whirred like a possessed Roomba, even the best dry-cleaned clothes couldn't help.
"This place hires elves with better skincare routines," Clint muttered under his breath as they passed two real bellhops. "And even they flinched when they saw you."
Moody's magical eye did a full 360-degree spin before locking onto Clint like a sniper scope. "Confunded the manager," he growled. "Told him I was from the Swiss Association for Complimentary Hot Towel Regulation."
Clint blinked. "That's not a thing."
"Didn't need to be. He failed the eye contact test."
"…Of course he did." Clint sighed. "Why do I even ask?"
The laundry cart bumped along behind them, totally normal. Unless you counted the fact it carried two Marauder-engineered satchel bombs designed to disintegrate elevator cables on a delay, thus turning Mont Edelweiss's pride and joy—the "glass elevators with built-in champagne bar"—into glorified panic tubes.
"Less boom, more poof," Clint muttered, patting the side of the cart. "You sure these things are safe?"
"They're Marauder-made," Moody said. "Meaning they'll either work perfectly or send the entire building into an alternate timeline where tax fraud is legal and everyone's name is Chad."
"Comforting."
Moody pulled out a vial the color of radioactive pumpkin juice. It hissed like it had opinions.
"What's that?" Clint asked, eyeing the swirling mist inside.
"Swamp Gas. Marauder Collection. Limited edition. Simulates a level-three biohazard panic within thirty seconds of exposure to steam."
Clint stared. "You're gonna hotbox the sauna?"
"Hotbox and traumatize." Moody grinned—an expression that looked like it needed a license. "Every security goon in that spa is gonna think they're in a fever dream sponsored by Salvador Dalí."
—
Moody crouched—not well, not gracefully, but with the grim determination of a man who could win a staring contest with a Dementor.
He attached the first device—sleek, brass, and shaped like an angry snitch—to the elevator cable. It clicked into place with a smug little hum.
"Three-minute delay from activation," Moody muttered. "Elevator cables go poof. Elevators freeze. Anyone above floor 50 is gonna need to rappel down with their gym towel."
Clint, fiddling with a toaster-sized override box, nodded. "And this beauty reroutes all elevator calls to the boiler room. So when they try to call security…"
"They're calling a steam room full of hallucinating muscle bros," Moody finished. "James and Sirius called this a Tuesday."
—
The sauna was peak Bond villain chic. Cedar panels. Mood lighting. Essential oils that probably cost more than an orphanage. Inside: four hotel security goons in robes, sweating like Wall Street interns during an IRS audit.
Moody entered, silver tray in hand, with the calm menace of someone who'd once interrogated a Death Eater using only tea and sarcasm.
"Complimentary aromatherapy vial," he rasped. "Enhances muscle recovery. Corporate's looking for feedback."
The guards barely glanced up. One of them muttered something about needing to exfoliate his chakra.
Moody placed the vial on the heated stones, gave a slight bow that somehow looked aggressive, and limped back out.
The moment the door clicked shut, he whispered: "Mischief managed."
The sauna hissed.
Then sparkled.
Then screamed.
Inside, glitter erupted like a unicorn sneeze. One man saw his reflection and thought he was being haunted by his past self. Another declared war on a towel. A third began giving a TED Talk on the socioeconomic impact of dragon toenail tariffs.
—
Clint tapped his comm. "Package delivered. Sauna's now a glittery war zone. Elevator sabotage ready. All systems very go."
Static crackled. Then:
"What kind of fever dream?" Natasha's voice, low and amused.
Moody answered before Clint could. "There's a hippo in a bikini threatening to unionize. One guy thinks he's a ficus."
"…You always throw the best parties, Moody," came Harry's voice. Smooth, lazy, and full of that I-have-a-plan-and-you're-gonna-love-how-insane-it-is energy.
He continued: "Phase two begins in four minutes. Time to rob the vault full of billionaire regrets, hidden bribes, and at least one tiara stolen from an exiled French duchess."
Clint snorted. "This is for what, exactly?"
Harry's voice went full movie-trailer mode. "This is for every orphan who got kicked out of the gift shop for not having billionaire blood."
"And every kid who thought the glass elevator was just for them," Natasha added, voice soft with amusement.
"You know," she said, switching channels to Harry-only for just a moment, "I'm starting to think I like this version of you."
Harry's grin was audible through the comms. "Dangerous thought, Romanoff. Next thing you know, you'll be stealing tiaras with me in Monaco."
There was a beat. "You say that like I haven't already."
—
The moment Natasha stepped out of the Presidential Suite, Harry felt a part of his soul die and another part spark back to life. There she was—his Black Widow, clad in that iconic catsuit of hers that had him thinking of things he really shouldn't be thinking about while on a heist. But hey, the heist wasn't exactly a family-friendly event, was it?
He'd gotten a good look at her earlier when she'd peeled off that skimpy red bikini, much to his absolute delight. Yeah, he might have stared a little too long, but who wouldn't? That was pure art. But now, of course, his beautiful partner was putting clothes back on, and even though he had a very real appreciation for her getting suited up in Black Widow gear, his brain was still stuck on the red bikini. You win some, you lose some.
"You know," Harry muttered under his breath as he checked his earpiece, "this whole work clothes thing just doesn't have the same effect on me as when you're in a bikini."
From the corner of the room, Natasha rolled her eyes, giving him a smirk. "You'll live." She was in full Black Widow mode, all business now, but there was a glint in her eyes that said she wasn't entirely off the clock.
"Just saying," Harry sighed dramatically. "The view's better when you're—" He gave her an exaggerated look that had Natasha chuckling despite herself. The woman had no shame, and honestly, neither did he. "Well, the point is," Harry said, clearing his throat, "I'm going to need some serious distraction once this heist is over."
She winked. "I'm sure I can think of something."
"Careful," Harry warned, his voice dropping low. "You might end up on my list of 'Top Ten Kinky Moments' if you're not careful."
Behind them, Peggy stood waiting, arms folded, an eyebrow arched. "Am I interrupting something? Or are we just taking a scenic detour on the way to the vault?"
Harry had to suppress a laugh. "Oh, don't worry, Peggy. We're definitely on track."
"Good," Peggy said dryly, her smile barely hidden beneath her professional mask. "Because I've just confirmed that the entire floor's surveillance is off, and the elevator traps are set."
Harry could practically hear Peggy's internal eye-roll, and that only made him grin more. But before he could respond, the rest of the crew showed up. Steve Rogers, looking dapper as ever—well, as dapper as one could look in a bodyguard disguise, at least—was practically drooling over Peggy's outfit. He was trying to hide it, but the way his eyes lingered on her made it obvious.
"Steve," Bucky Stan said with a roll of his eyes. "Focus, man. You're supposed to be guarding her, not checking her out like it's prom night."
Steve blinked, snapping back to reality. "Right. Right. Sorry." But Harry could see the goofy grin on his face. "I'm good, I'm good. Just... Peggy's looking extra lethal today."
"That's the plan," Peggy said with a smirk, looking absolutely deadly in a black tactical ensemble. Gone was the Captain Carter look. In its place was something far more suited to covert operations—tight, sleek, and with just enough "I'm gonna kick your ass" attitude to make anyone think twice.
Meanwhile, Sirius—who somehow always managed to look too good in everything, even a butler outfit—was off to the side, setting up the Dumbwaiter. Harry had to admit, the guy looked way too comfortable in that suit. Probably something to do with the whole "I used to be a wizard royal" vibe he had going on.
"Hey, Sirius," Harry called. "How's the butler life treating you?"
Sirius shot him a grin. "It's all very Downton Abbey around here. I've got the 'servant' part down to a science." He gave his suit an exaggerated tug. "You'll get your martinis, but only after we pull off this little stunt. Priorities, mate."
"Of course," Harry quipped. "But when we're rich, I expect you to have a full suit of armor for when I need you to open the door dramatically."
Sirius smirked. "I'm always ready for drama."
"Guys!" Natasha cut in, holding up a bodycam. "We're good to go." She tossed a glance at Peggy. "You sure everything's set for the vault?"
Peggy gave a firm nod. "Yep, bodycam's all ready. We'll get the footage you need. But—" She looked over at the Dumbwaiter, eyes narrowing. "Let's just make sure nothing goes wrong."
"Nothing's going to go wrong," Harry assured, his voice confident, though part of him—like always—was bracing for the worst. "Now, remember: the vault's tricky, but with the footage, I'll be able to open a portal straight to it. Just make sure to move fast."
Clint and Mad-Eye were on the move too, taking care of the distractions they'd set up on the elevators and the sauna. Harry could practically hear Clint's smirk through the comms. "Moody and I are making sure no one notices anything out of the ordinary. All set here. Just do your thing, and I'll keep them busy for you."
"Good," Harry said, a grin stretching across his face. "Nothing's going to stop us. Not today. Not ever."
He glanced at the team gathered in front of him—Natasha, Peggy, Steve, Bucky, Sirius, Clint, and Moody—each one of them experts in their own right, each one playing their role perfectly.
With that, the crew moved toward the Dumbwaiter. Natasha and Peggy were already in position, ready to slip down to the vault floor below. Bucky and Steve made sure the perimeter was secure, keeping an eye on the hallway while Sirius prepped the final details.
And Harry? Well, he was busy picturing the vault, ready to open the portal at a moment's notice.
If anyone could pull this off, it was them.
And if anyone could banter their way through almost getting caught while simultaneously cracking jokes about sex toys and bank heists—well, that was definitely Harry.
Let the heist begin.
—
Peggy adjusted her grip on the edge of the dumbwaiter shaft, her knuckles pale against the metal. "Ready when you are," she said, her voice so cool and collected you'd think she was ordering a scone rather than preparing to drop into a vault with more magical death traps than a Gringotts VIP room.
"Ladies first," Natasha quipped with a wink that could probably short-circuit a lesser mortal. Then she slipped inside the shaft with all the grace of a ballerina trained by ninjas. Because, y'know, she basically was.
Peggy arched a brow. "I believe the phrase is 'after you.'"
"How very British of you," Natasha murmured with a smirk. "Let's hope your lockpicking skills are as sharp as your cheekbones."
"They're sharper," Peggy replied dryly as she followed Natasha in, the two of them gliding down the shaft like couture-clad shadows.
Back in the penthouse suite, Harry watched it all unfold on his HUD, his grin fading into that dangerously focused look that meant things were about to get serious. Or spectacular. Usually both.
"Showtime," he whispered, and his voice was pure electricity.
He stood, stretching like a lion before a hunt, and pulled a crimson silk handkerchief from his blazer. It looked absurdly fancy—gold phoenix feathers embroidered on it, faint shimmer, and it smelled like spice, power, and expensive bad decisions. With a flick, it snapped into the air and twisted like it had a mind of its own (spoiler: it did). The Cloak of Levitation wrapped itself around Harry's shoulders like it was greeting an old friend it missed setting on fire.
The armor responded like a lover awakened.
Vibranium-weave plating shimmered into view over his clothes, unfolding into sleek red and gold panels that hugged his frame in a way that would make fashion designers weep. A golden phoenix spread across the breastplate, glowing faintly, matching the spark in his eyes. The cowl slid into place, his hair slightly tousled in that intentional way that made him look both heroic and annoyingly hot.
"Looking hot, boss," Clint's voice crackled over the comms. "Like, dangerously so. I might be questioning things."
"Don't flatter yourself, Barton," Harry replied smoothly, adjusting a gauntlet. "You couldn't handle me even in your dreams. Maybe if you asked really nicely... and wore less beige."
"Hey," Clint protested. "Beige is practical!"
"Beige is surrender in fabric form," Harry shot back.
Sirius chimed in, voice as gravelly and sarcastic as ever. "He's not wrong. Beige is what you wear when you've given up on life. Or interior design."
"Focus, people," Moody growled, every word sounding like it had been rolled in gravel and then smoked for twenty years. "We've got security charms tighter than a goblin's coin purse and a limited window. Quit flirting and move."
"I wasn't flirting," Harry said.
"You absolutely were," Natasha purred from below, her voice all velvet and fire. "But don't stop on my account."
"You like it when I'm distracting, don't you?" Harry replied with a grin.
"Only when I'm not working," she said.
"Then let's finish this job quickly, Romanoff. I owe you dinner and several hours of poor life choices."
Peggy coughed. "Still on comms, children."
"Sorry, Aunt Peg," Harry said with zero sincerity. "We'll be quiet."
"No, you won't," Steve muttered. "You never are."
"You say that like it's a bad thing, Cap," Bucky added, voice dry. "Personally, I find the chaos charming."
Harry raised his hand. A golden circle of spiraling runes ignited at his fingertips. The portal bloomed into existence—a ring of fire and light that shimmered like starlight, revealing the dimly lit base of the shaft where Natasha and Peggy stood ready.
"Ladies," he said, stepping through the portal like he owned time, space, and probably a decent portion of the universe. "Your ride has arrived."
Natasha arched an eyebrow, eyes lingering on the armor. "Is it weird that I find you even hotter with glowing chest art?"
"Only if you make it weird," Harry said, offering his hand with a crooked grin. "Shall we steal something shiny?"
Peggy shook her head, exasperated but amused. "Merlin help us all."
And with that, they stepped into the vault's corridor—booby-trapped, enchanted, and ready to throw a tantrum the size of a minor god.
Harry cracked his neck, eyes glowing. "Let's dance."
—
The vault at the end of the corridor wasn't just a door—it was an insult. A smug, unblinking, magically armoured middle finger to everyone who had ever thought they were clever. Reinforced titanium alloy, check. Enchanted steel, double check. And just for fun? Enough magical tripwires to give Dumbledore a migraine and make Voldemort reconsider his career choices.
Glowing runes slithered across its surface like snakes doing synchronized swimming. Ancient Norse sigils tangled with Egyptian death curses, while a few glowing red symbols screamed "You touch, you die" in at least three dead languages. Probably four if you counted the one that sounded like it gave Voldemort dental problems.
Harry Potter—armor gleaming, hair heroically tousled by either magic or a very considerate breeze—stared it down like it had personally insulted his Patronus. "So," he said, voice pure British sarcasm, "what do you think? Overcompensating for something, or just really, really hates visitors?"
Natasha Romanoff stepped up beside him, and the casual brush of her hip against his made Harry's mental processes momentarily short-circuit. Not that he'd ever admit it. She eyed the vault like it owed her money. "Looks like a Tinder date between a paranoid warlock and a cursed sarcophagus. What do you think it's hiding? Treasure? Forbidden knowledge? Jeff Bezos's horcrux?"
Harry didn't answer right away. He was busy pretending he wasn't mentally writing an entire ballad about the way her voice dipped on "forbidden knowledge." Eventually, he cleared his throat. "If this ends with another Tesseract, I'm flipping this timeline and trying again in 1980."
"Can we not do another reboot?" Clint's voice came through the comms. "I just started getting decent abs. Took me like, four timelines."
"Pretty sure this thing is hiding trauma," Bucky added from his sniper perch. "Possibly a cursed painting. Definitely trauma."
Steve Rogers, leaning against the wall like America's hottest moral compass, crossed his arms. "Focus, people. That door's not opening itself. What's the play?"
Natasha, grinning with the kind of mischief that usually preceded either sex or explosions, produced a sleek glass vial from her belt. Inside floated a severed finger, preserved like some cursed cocktail garnish. "Well, funny story. A billionaire once tried to ghost me after promising me access codes. I said 'no.' He said 'lawyer.' I said 'synthetically grown and ethically harvested.'"
Steve blinked. "Nat…please tell me that's not—"
"—the real deal? Relax. He's still alive. Probably. This one's cloned. Organic, yes. Legally questionable? Also yes. But it works."
Harry held out his hand without looking. "Gimme the finger."
Natasha passed it over like she was handing him a glass of wine. "You know how to sweet-talk a girl."
Harry didn't smile, but his eyes definitely sparkled. "You haven't heard me whisper ancient Egyptian poetry in bed yet."
"Oh? Planning to impress me with dead languages now?"
"Only if they lead to you screaming Oh, Ra later."
Peggy Carter, ever the British buzzkill with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, cleared her throat over comms. "As arousing as this banter is, we've got six minutes before the outer ring sensors cycle. That's four and a half to crack the door, one to flirt, and thirty seconds for Clint to panic."
"Hey!" Clint protested. "I haven't panicked since Budapest!"
"You screamed like a goat," Natasha muttered.
"Majestic mountain beast," Clint shot back.
Harry ignored the goat commentary and slotted the finger into a glowing indent on the vault door. It pulsed, beeped, and hissed as the first set of runes collapsed inward.
"Layer one: Biometric seal bypassed," he said coolly. "Time for the big guns."
With a flick of his fingers, a glowing dagger appeared in his hand—a blade etched with phoenix feathers and rune sigils that shimmered like fire trapped in crystal. This was no ordinary lockpick. This was magical open-heart surgery with a side of sass.
Steve stepped closer, brow furrowed. "You sure you can handle this?"
Harry didn't even glance at him. "Steve, I once beat the Ancient One at strip chess while dimension-hopping and drunk on unicorn blood. I invented the phrase 'magical regret.'"
"Unicorn blood?" Steve repeated.
"Tastes like sparkly beef jerky and existential crisis," Harry said, placing the tip of the blade against the central soul-lock rune.
The vault didn't so much scream as it vibrated existence. The runes flared to life, howling with angry light. The ground trembled. Somewhere, a squirrel had a heart attack.
Harry's grin sharpened. "Yeah. That's the good stuff."
And then he cut.
Runes shattered like icicles under a flamethrower. The vault wailed in ancient tongues. The magic surged forward like a tidal wave—and broke against Harry like water hitting a rock. A smug, ridiculously handsome rock with great hair.
One by one, the soul-locks collapsed. The titanium alloy hissed. The enchanted steel groaned. The entire corridor reeked of burnt magic and testosterone.
Finally, with the kind of sound you never want a bank vault to make unless you're the one robbing it, the door began to open.
Smoke hissed out like dry ice on Broadway. Harry turned around, phoenix sigil glowing like he'd just won the magical Super Bowl.
"Ladies," he said smoothly, "your murder-vault is now open for business."
Natasha gave him a smile that could melt diamonds. "About time, pretty boy."
She walked past him, fingers grazing his gauntlet, just long enough to send shivers up some part of his anatomy.
Harry grinned. "Showtime, Agent Romanoff."
"Try not to get cursed."
"No promises," he whispered, and followed her in.
—
The vault at the end of the corridor was not just a vault—it was a whole personality. Specifically, the kind of personality that wore sunglasses indoors, drank espresso out of wine glasses, and thought booby-trapping your 401k with soul-eating runes was the height of subtlety.
Harry Potter—armor gleaming like Tony Stark had commissioned a line for Gryffindor alumni—stood in front of it, arms folded, eyebrow raised, the universal look of "seriously?" carved onto his face.
"Subtle," he deadpanned. "Just your average blend of titanium alloy, dragonsteel, and enough ancient death magic to make Voldemort rethink his career path."
Natasha Romanoff stepped up beside him, hair pulled back, black suit tighter than security at Stark Tower on Taco Tuesday. Her hip brushed against his armor—definitely not an accident. "It's overcompensating," she murmured. "I bet it's guarding a Fabergé egg stuffed with Elon Musk's therapy bills."
Harry didn't respond immediately. He was too busy pretending he hadn't just imagined Natasha whispering forbidden knowledge in his ear with a Russian accent. He cleared his throat. "If there's another Tesseract in there, I'm starting this timeline over from scratch. Preferably in a universe where I didn't drink unicorn blood on a dare."
Clint's voice crackled through the comms. "Can we not? I just got abs. Like, real ones. Took me five years and a smoothie addiction."
From above, Bucky scoffed. "It's not treasure. It's trauma. That vault's radiating repressed emotions harder than Stark at a group therapy session."
Steve—Captain America himself, currently leaning against the wall like he'd been carved from apple pie and justice—sighed. "Focus, people. What's the plan? And please tell me it doesn't involve Harry getting drunk on mythical fluids again."
"I'm so glad you asked," Natasha said sweetly. She reached into her belt and pulled out a vial like it was a lipstick. Except it wasn't. It was a floating finger. Yep. Just a casual severed finger bobbing in blue goo like some kind of cursed Jell-O shot.
Steve blinked. "Tell me that's synthetic."
"Of course," Natasha purred. "Grown in a lab. Fully ethical. We even got a sustainability certificate. I only threatened to shove the original owner's servers into a very uncomfortable orifice."
Harry whistled low. "You continue to be the hottest war crime I've ever had a crush on."
She tilted her head. "Only one?"
He leaned closer. "The rest didn't survive foreplay."
She smirked. "Their loss."
Before the flirting could reach full thermonuclear levels, Peggy Carter's clipped British voice slid in over the comms like an exasperated schoolmistress. "As riveting as this courtship is, we have five and a half minutes before the vault's outer ring cycles again. That gives us four minutes to break in, one minute to flirt, and thirty seconds to scream in horror when it explodes."
"Or explodes us," Sirius added cheerfully. His voice, gravelly and half-laughing, oozed big sexy chaos energy. "Let's not forget how every Potter plan ends—with a bang, and then Harry walking out of the fire like a smug demigod who's technically not to blame."
Harry conjured a rune-scanner with a flick of his hand and pointedly ignored Sirius. "Love you too, Siri," he called. Then, to the vault: "Alright, you arrogant magical coffin. Let's dance."
The scanning rune floated over the surface like a curious firefly on a caffeine bender. Glowing sigils pulsed in layers—Norse wards braided into Egyptian soul-locks, all interlaced with blood cipher script that practically screamed don't touch unless you have a death wish or a really good insurance plan.
Harry squinted. "Yup. This is ancient sacrificial enchantment at its finest. Because nothing screams 'secure savings' like magic that eats your face."
"Constant vigilance, Potter," Moody growled over the comms. "Vaults like that don't just kill ya. They flay your soul, rearrange your bones into a rude gesture, and then write a critique of your security flaws in infernal script."
"Charming," Clint said. "Can we put that on a poster?"
Harry held out his hand. "Nat. Finger me."
She blinked, then snorted. "Wow. That was almost smooth."
"Hey, you knew what you were signing up for," he said, as she handed him the vial.
Without ceremony, he slotted the synthetic digit into a scanner that looked like it had opinions about his bloodline. The runes pulsed, shimmered, and unlocked with a hiss that sounded almost...disappointed.
"One layer down," Peggy noted briskly. "Try not to wake up anything that slumbers beneath reality, yes?"
Harry's hand lit up with gold as he summoned an enchant-breaker blade. It shimmered with phoenix feather filament and anti-curse runes, like something a Jedi would dual-wield with Excalibur.
"Right," he said. "Time to poke the angry soul-lock and hope it doesn't scream in ancient Sumerian."
Steve raised a hand. "Wait. Are you sure—"
"Steve," Harry said, turning with a calm so intense it could have its own Netflix special. "I once swapped bodies with the Ancient One mid-chess match against a pocket dimension that had abandonment issues. I was drunk. On unicorn blood. And I won."
Steve blinked. "...Cool."
"He used the pawn to threaten the king's emotional vulnerabilities," Natasha whispered. "It was disturbingly effective."
Harry pressed the tip of the blade to the center rune.
And the vault screamed.
Not like "alarm going off" screamed—this was existential shrieking. The kind of metaphysical howl that rattled your spleen and reminded your ancestors why they moved to a dimension with less soul-flaying.
The air shimmered. Runes exploded like fireworks. Space-time hiccupped in protest.
Harry didn't blink. His grin said bring it on, his eyes burned gold, and he cut.
With every slice, ancient magic shattered. The soul-lock buckled, fought, shrieked—and failed. The vault door groaned, hissed, shuddered...
And opened.
Smoke spilled out like it had been waiting for a dramatic entrance. Harry turned, phoenix sigil pulsing on his chest, silver cloak flaring behind him like he had choreographed it with the wind.
"Ladies," he said, voice low and smug and way too attractive for someone who just cracked open a magical death box. "Your murder-vault is ready."
Natasha gave him a slow smile that could've melted the hinges off the door. "Took you long enough, pretty boy."
She stepped past him, but not before trailing her fingers along his gauntlet—casually, like she wasn't one minor apocalypse away from dragging him into the nearest utility closet.
Harry's grin widened. "Showtime, Agent Romanoff."
And just like that, the world didn't stand a chance.
---
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