The Quinjet roared through the clouds like a caffeinated eagle on a mission to punch the sun. Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye, was at the controls, grinning like a kid playing Mario Kart on Rainbow Road. The man was pulling aerial stunts that would've made Maverick from Top Gun stand up and slow clap. Banking left, nose-diving through a thermal pocket, barrel-rolling for no reason other than to make Harry spill his coffee.
"Clint!" Steve barked, gripping the edge of his seat. "This is a military aircraft, not a carnival ride."
"Relax, Cap," Clint said, cool as ever. "I've got this bird singing opera."
"Yeah," Bucky muttered, holding onto the wall like it owed him money. "Singing its own death march."
Harry, sitting near the back and looking like the human embodiment of a smirk, didn't even spill his coffee. Of course not. Because that would require physics to actually apply to him. He gave a lazy glance over to Natasha, who had taken the seat across from him—long legs crossed, eyes locked on her tablet, pretending not to notice him.
"So," Harry said, stretching with the kind of nonchalance that made every vertebra sound like it was applauding him. "When do I get my pilot's license? I promise I'll only use it to buzz the safehouse."
"You buzz the safehouse," Clint warned, "and I swear on my lucky arrows, I'll plant a broomstick somewhere you won't enjoy."
"Kinky," Harry replied with a wink.
Peggy choked on her coffee. Bucky looked personally attacked. Steve sighed in that way that said I'm too old for this, but I'm also not legally allowed to kill my teammates.
"You planning on serenading Natasha next?" Bucky asked. "Because if you start quoting Shakespeare again, I'm jumping out."
"Only if it gets me another kiss," Harry said, eyes flicking to Natasha, who didn't look up—but her lips curled into that subtle smirk that meant you're not as clever as you think… but I'm still not looking away.
"A kiss?" Natasha finally said, her voice low and dangerous. "You're lucky you didn't get a concussion."
"What can I say? I like my women like I like my magic—dangerous, unpredictable, and preferably armed."
"So you have a death wish," Moody growled from his seat, his magical eye whirring. "Figures. You fly like a lunatic, flirt with Black Widow, and somehow still walk out of fights without a scratch. Constant vigilance doesn't mean constant idiocy, Potter."
"No, but it does mean I should probably stop using your hip flask as a coffee thermos," Harry said, holding it up with a cheeky grin. "Tastes like regret and whiskey."
"That's because it is regret and whiskey," Sirius added, lounging like a rockstar who accidentally time-traveled into a tactical strike team. He tossed a wink at Peggy. "Don't worry, Peg. I make bad decisions look good."
"You make prison tattoos look good," she replied dryly. "Doesn't mean I trust you with a wand OR a weapon."
"Guys," Clint interrupted. "Not to alarm anyone, but we're over Long Island, and I'm about to stick this landing like a gymnast with something to prove. Buckle up."
The city came into view—towering, sprawling, loud even from the sky. The sun had decided to dramatically backlight the skyline like a Michael Bay movie. Harry leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a mixture of mischief and fondness.
"Home sweet madhouse," he murmured.
"FRIDAY's clearing the pad," Clint said. "ETA: two minutes. Get ready to look cool for the tower cams."
Steve stood, ever the noble Boy Scout. "Alright, once we land, I want a full debrief in the conference room. No wandering off, no snacks until we deal with Fury."
"You sound like my third-grade teacher," Harry said. "Only she didn't have America's ass."
Peggy burst out laughing. Natasha shook her head and finally looked up. Their eyes met, and the tension that passed between them was thick enough to stop bullets. Her voice dropped an octave.
"You keep looking at me like that, and you're going to find out what happens when you flirt with an assassin in tight quarters."
Harry grinned. "Spoiler alert: I'm counting on it."
The Quinjet touched down with a satisfying thud, the engines powering down as Clint raised both fists like a victorious race car driver.
"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you stick a landing. Someone tell Stark I want my wings."
"Someone tell Stark to reinforce the landing pad before Clint breaks it," Bucky said.
As the team began gathering their gear and unbuckling, Natasha walked past Harry and leaned down close to his ear. Her voice was a whisper.
"Rooftop in Prague. Stolen whiskey. Bring the good stuff. And maybe… leave the armor."
She was gone before he could reply. Harry watched her walk off with the smile of a man who just found out his day was about to get very interesting.
And behind him, Sirius nudged him. "Atta boy. Don't forget the safe word."
Harry sipped the last of Moody's whiskey and grinned.
"What's the fun in that?"
—
The Quinjet touched down on a rooftop that screamed "secret government bunker" and whispered "we definitely stole this from Tony Stark." Hidden behind layers of encryption, decoys, and enough defensive tech to make SkyNet nervous, the Brooklyn safehouse wasn't exactly welcoming—unless you liked reinforced concrete and clinical paranoia.
Harry was the first to step off, his coat flaring out behind him like he was modeling for a superhero fashion line. Natasha followed, impossibly graceful and armed to the teeth, but also totally capable of murdering you with a glare. Clint strolled behind her, bow slung casually over his shoulder like he was out for groceries. Steve and Bucky were bringing up the rear—Captain America and the Winter Soldier, AKA America's Most Wanted Hug and his grumpy murder boyfriend. Peggy walked like she owned the roof. Because, honestly? She probably did.
Waiting for them were two people Harry had expected and two he definitely had not.
Nick Fury, looking like someone just told him brunch was canceled, stood with his arms crossed and his patented "I'm Not Mad, Just Disappointed and Also Probably Armed" glare locked onto Harry. Maria Hill flanked him, tablet in hand, already planning six backup evacuation routes and subtly judging everyone's fashion choices.
But behind them...
Lily Potter. James Potter.
Harry stopped like someone had hit the pause button on his life. His mother's red hair was tied back, her eyes suspiciously glassy but still sharp enough to cut steel. His father looked like he'd walked out of a memory—or a particularly attractive daydream. That crooked smile? Totally unfair.
Sirius, standing to the side like the world's most rugged backup dancer, gave Harry a wink. Moody grunted from the shadows, his magical eye whirring like it was trying to analyze everyone's criminal record. (Spoiler: it definitely was.)
Fury arched a brow. "You called us here, Potter. Said you had something worth our time. Unless your idea of classified intel is emotionally traumatizing your dead parents—"
"Oh, relax, Fury," Harry drawled, walking forward with that lazy, confident stride that screamed, I know I'm hot and dangerous and probably have a dragon on speed dial. "You'll thank me in about ten seconds. Hill, maybe fifteen. You like to play hard to impress."
Fury opened his mouth to retort, but Harry pulled out two StarkTech data-drives from his coat pocket, twirling them between his fingers like they were candy. "Mom," he said, and turned to Lily. "This one's for you. Everything Einhardt had. Research, files, alchemical diagrams, creepy journal entries about trying to transmute fear into obedience. It's... a lot. Thought you might want to burn it or build something morally righteous with it. Either works."
Lily blinked, then took the drive with a hand that was steadier than her expression. "You remembered what I used to say about transmutation circles on cereal boxes."
"Who else could turn breakfast into a lecture on alchemy and the ethics of toast?"
James barked a laugh. "Still can't believe this one's ours."
"Wait 'til he starts ranting about wand theory and quantum enchantment," Sirius muttered. "Then you'll really feel old."
Harry turned to Fury and handed him the second drive. His expression went from charming rogue to full-on war general in the blink of an eye. "This is the surprise. Full list of HYDRA sleeper agents, global scale. From government moles to grocery store managers who somehow have grenade launchers under the cash register. Took it from Einhardt's personal vault."
Fury accepted the drive like it might bite him. Which, given HYDRA, was actually a reasonable fear.
"Decrypted," Harry continued. "JARVIS checked it. No malware, no self-destruct sequence, no hidden TikToks. Just names, ranks, and really incriminating receipts."
Hill finally looked up. "This could end HYDRA in one week."
"Or one giant flaming panic attack in two days," Harry said. "Your call."
Fury narrowed his eye. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just wanted you to know I'm not some magical charity case. And... I wanted my parents to see I turned out okay. Thought this might tip the scale."
Fury glanced at Lily and James, then back to Harry. "...I'll be damned. You really are your mother's son."
"That's what I've been saying!" Lily piped up. "Except when he leaves his socks in magical pocket dimensions."
James grinned. "Guilty. Runs in the family."
"Now," Harry clapped his hands. "How about someone brews coffee before I summon JARVIS to do it for us? We're about to have the most awkward family-and-fury breakfast since Tony spiked the juice."
Clint raised a hand. "Just tell me there's bacon."
Peggy didn't even glance at him. "You're standing next to the man who just gave us the keys to dismantling a global conspiracy. Maybe start with thank you, then ask for meat."
"She's been like this since 1943," Steve murmured to Bucky.
"Yeah," Bucky replied. "Still terrifying."
"Still hot," Steve added, with a smile that made Natasha groan.
Natasha, meanwhile, sidled up next to Harry with a grin that could get her arrested in twelve countries. "Impressive drop-off, Potter. Saving the world and making Fury speechless in one go? You trying to seduce me?"
Harry arched a brow. "Is it working?"
"Maybe. Depends on the coffee."
He leaned in just enough for her to hear. "Then I better brew the kind that makes you consider treason."
She smirked. "You already do."
As they all filed into the safehouse, laughter and banter trailing behind them like smoke from a firecracker, Harry lingered for a second. Just one. Watching the people he fought for, bled with, saved and was saved by.
This wasn't the ending.
Not even close.
But it was one hell of a beginning.
—
The safehouse looked like IKEA had gone on a bender with Area 51. Sleek chrome surfaces, reinforced walls, enough blinking lights to make a spaceship jealous, and somewhere in the mix, the distinct aroma of espresso and ozone. If a Bond villain had a Pinterest board, this place would've been on it.
The war room was also the kitchen, because multitasking is sexy. And let's be real—who doesn't want to plan a global takedown while snacking on a pain au chocolat?
Harry sat on the counter, legs swinging like a bored teenager but posture more like a coiled panther. He nursed a steaming mug of SHIELD-grade coffee—read: bitter enough to wake the dead and possibly classified as a biological weapon. His emerald eyes scanned the chaos.
Steve and Peggy were in a full-blown debate over the tactical viability of croissants as rations. Steve (Captain Apple Pie himself) argued for oatmeal. Peggy, looking like a retro goddess in tactical gear, countered that carbs were morale boosters.
Clint was trying to swipe a danish without Bucky noticing. He failed. Bucky's stink eye could melt vibranium.
Natasha? She was casually leaning against the fridge, sipping coffee with a smirk playing on her lips, all cool menace wrapped in leather and legs. She threw Harry a wink. He raised an eyebrow, smirked, and blew on his coffee like it was scalding—but it wasn't. Burn-proof lips, baby.
Fury stood against the wall like a judgmental Batman with an eyepatch. Silent. Brooding. Possibly thinking about nuking something. Next to him, Hill scrolled through decrypted HYDRA files faster than a tween on TikTok.
Finally, Harry broke the silence.
"So," he said, taking a long sip like it held the secrets of the universe, "what's the next move, Cyclops? You gonna go full Purge on HYDRA, or are we still playing 'Where's the Nazi?' like a really depressing version of Where's Waldo?"
Fury didn't flinch. The man had stared down alien invasions and Tony Stark's sarcasm. Harry Potter wasn't gonna rattle him.
"You just handed me the sword to kill the hydra," Fury said, voice like gravel soaked in bourbon. "And I need to make damn sure I don't cut off one head just for three more to grow back."
"So that's a no, then?" Harry asked. Eyebrow: quirked. Sass: dialed to eleven.
Hill chimed in, all calm authority. "It's a plan—not a panic. We verify the intel. Confirm identities. Then we act."
"And while we play 'Trust But Verify,' they're out there planning TikTok mind control campaigns and god knows what else," Harry said. "Probably plotting to replace water with Mountain Dew."
Natasha chuckled. "They tried that. Ended in a meme war with Deadpool. We lost four agents to cringe alone."
"Brutal," Clint said solemnly. "One of them still does Fortnite dances when startled."
Fury ignored them. "This changes the war. But it doesn't end it. We hit them hard. But smart. That's why you're here, Potter."
Harry blinked. "Wait, what? You need me to run point?"
Fury stepped forward. "I need you to lead."
And just like that, the caffeine wasn't the strongest thing in the room anymore.
The room stilled. Even the coffee machine stopped its usual grumbling.
Harry looked around like someone had asked him to babysit a dragon with ADHD. "Come again?"
Fury didn't blink. "Rescuing you from HYDRA started this team. You saved Tony. You brought Peggy back from the brink of retirement. You talked Adler down without a body count—barely. This team? This ghost unit? It works because of you."
Hill stepped closer, nodding. "You're the bridge between the magical world and tech. Between the past and the future. You lead by accident, but it works."
Lily gave him a proud, slightly teary smile. James raised his mug in salute. Sirius clapped him on the back hard enough to dislodge a lung.
Natasha strolled over, leaned in close. Too close. Her voice was soft, dangerous. "Told you you were more than just a pretty face, Potter."
Harry looked her up and down, let his lips curl into a smirk. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Oh, I know," she purred.
Steve cleared his throat. Loudly.
Harry sighed and grabbed the datapad Fury handed him. "Fine. Let's say I take the gig. What's the game plan?"
Fury pointed at the screen. "Phase One: Coordinated takedowns. Geneva, Johannesburg, London, Madripoor. Small teams. Surgical strikes. Minimal mess. Maximum damage."
"Phase Two?"
Hill stepped in. "Exposure. Leak everything. Every cover-up. Every sleeper agent. Let the public rage do half the work."
"And Phase Three?"
Fury's smile was pure, cold vengeance. "Find the ones who replaced Einhardt. Drag them into the light. Make sure they never crawl back."
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. "So: global purge, PR war, and a magical game of hide and seek through the world's power elite. Cool. Perfect. Just the thing to distract me from all the unresolved parental trauma."
Natasha grinned. "Welcome to leadership, Potter."
The door hissed open.
Tony Stark strode in like he owned the air. His shirt read I Paused My Genius To Be Here. He held two lattes. He handed one to Harry.
"So, heard you finally took the promotion. Congrats, Mini-Me."
Harry took a sip. "Really? Mini-You?"
"Please. You're way more charming. Just less morally flexible. We'll work on that."
Behind him came Howard Stark, looking like Mad Men met Iron Man. Ted and Andromeda Tonks followed, Rhodey already pulling up holographic blueprints, Alexei mumbling Russian threats about breakfast, Surge crackling faintly with lightning, and Melinda May gliding in like she invented the word 'badass.'
The room was packed. Full of legends. Outcasts. Heroes. Reformed villains. Family.
Harry stood, raised his cup.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go kill a snake."
—
The mood shifted the second Harry stepped into the residential wing of the safehouse. It was like stepping from a war movie into a Saturday morning cartoon. Gone were the tactical holo-maps, encrypted coms, and the background hum of Very Serious People saying Very Serious Things. In their place? Finger-paint art, glitter explosions, and a winking pink unicorn poster that was either enchanted or deeply judging him.
From the kitchen wafted the unmistakable scent of chocolate and mild panic. Billy Koenig, dressed in a t-shirt that read "Don't Make Me Use My Dad Voice" and wearing an oven mitt that looked like it lost a fight with a flamethrower, peeked around the corner like a sitcom dad caught sneaking cookies.
"Harry!" he grinned, powdered sugar in his hair and a spatula clutched like a wand. "You're just in time for the post-tea cupcake incident. I'd call it a rampage, but that implies she leaves survivors."
Harry held up a small brown paper bag labeled Emergency Chocolate Units in Natasha's elegant handwriting. "I come bearing tribute for the Queen of Sprinkles."
Billy gave a low whistle. "Smart man. She's been going by 'Princess Commander Rose of the Cupcake Realm' since last week. You're gonna need to curtsy. Maybe offer up a marshmallow goat."
Harry smirked. "I'll kneel, but only if I get frosting first."
Billy waved him toward the playroom. "You've been warned. May your reflexes be swift, and your dignity optional."
The playroom looked like a wizarding toy store had exploded inside a glitter cannon. Plushies floated near the ceiling like helium balloons with attitude, the walls shimmered between lavender and aggressive pink, and at the epicenter of it all sat Rose Potter. Beanbag throne? Check. Paper crown worn at a jaunty angle? Check. Fierce expression of righteous six-year-old authority? Triple check.
Opposite her sat Phil Coulson. Yes, that Coulson. Black suit, tie still perfectly knotted, sipping tea from a dainty Hello Kitty cup like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because Coulson could face down rogue gods and still make plastic teacups look classy.
"And that's when Lord Snugglebear committed high treason by trying to eat the royal cookies without asking," Rose announced, gesturing dramatically to a floppy bear lying in disgrace beside a glittery cake.
Coulson gave a grave nod. "The court of marshmallow justice must act swiftly. The integrity of the snack treaty is at stake."
Harry leaned against the doorframe, letting the sight hit him right in the soft, squishy part of his soul.
"Permission to land in Princess Commander airspace?" he called out.
Rose's head whipped around. Her eyes went wide. The crown slipped.
"HARRYYYYYY!"
The yell cracked the air like a firework. Then she launched.
Harry barely had time to brace before she cannonballed into him. Arms around his neck, legs wrapped around his middle—six-year-old fury powered by magic, sugar, and maximum snuggle velocity.
"I MISSED YOU LIKE WHOA!" she squeaked into his shoulder.
Harry laughed, squeezing her tight. "I missed you like whoa plus tax."
She pulled back just enough to narrow her eyes at him. "Nope. I missed you infinity times a million."
Harry tapped her nose. "That's scientifically impossible. And also treason. That's like... triple treason today. Do we need to get the tickle guards involved?"
Coulson stood smoothly, like a gentleman stepping into a duel. "I'll allow it. In fact, I insist."
Rose squeaked and buried her face in Harry's chest. "BETRAYAL! COULSON, HOW COULD YOU?!"
"I serve the Cupcake Realm," Coulson said, straight-faced. "Justice must be done."
"Billy!" Rose hollered. "Bring cupcakes! Distract him!"
Billy strolled in with a tray of gloriously over-frosted cupcakes. "Delivery for one sugar-fueled dictator and her returning war hero."
What followed was part snack time, part wrestling match, and part frosting facial. Rose smashed a cupcake into Harry's mouth under the guise of "refueling him for battle." Harry retaliated by summoning a floating napkin army.
Eventually, Coulson gently steered Harry aside, leaving Rose to lecture her plushies about military chain-of-command and why the unicorns were not allowed to unionize.
"She's doing better," Coulson said, keeping his voice low. "A lot better. Since your parents woke up and she realized you weren't just a ghost story… she's calmer. More focused. She's still a miniature hurricane, but now she's a hurricane with a schedule."
Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "She still hates Dumbledore?"
"She's... figuring things out," Coulson said carefully. "He was her hero. Still is, in some ways. But she's smart. She's asking questions. Dangerous ones."
"Good," Harry muttered. "The truth's messy. But she deserves it."
Billy chimed in from the couch, cupcake crumbs in his hair. "Heads up: she's started teaching her plushies wandless dueling. Yesterday she made a floating bunny slap a stuffed basilisk. It was... kind of amazing."
Harry blinked. "She named her bunny yet?"
"Kaa."
"Like the snake?"
"Yep. But this one's cuddly. For now."
Harry groaned. "I'm gonna end up fighting a plush army, aren't I?"
"Statistically speaking," Coulson said dryly, "yes."
When Harry returned to the playroom, Rose was painting a glitter mustache on a stuffed giraffe while humming the Imperial March. Because of course she was.
"Hey, Rosie," Harry said, kneeling beside her. "Can we talk for a sec?"
She looked up at him with frosting on her nose and seriousness in her eyes. "Is it serious serious, or just adult serious?"
"More like... big-kid serious."
She plopped into his lap, cupcake forgotten. "Okay. I can be serious. I read Coulson's briefing reports. Sometimes."
Harry blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I have clearance," she said solemnly. "Koenig printed me a badge."
Harry made a mental note to have words with Koenig. Possibly with a flamethrower.
"So," he said gently, brushing some icing from her cheek, "we're not hiding anymore. The bad guys? HYDRA? We're going after them. Me and the team. Full offense."
Her eyes widened. "Will you be okay?"
"I'll be fine. I'm not the same scared kid they took. They built a weapon, but they forgot something."
"What?" she whispered.
"They made me me. And now I'm coming for them."
She stared at him for a long second, then dug into her pocket and pulled out a felt heart—sloppily sewn, slightly crooked, clearly made with love and at least one glitter explosion.
"It's enchanted," she whispered. "I don't know what it does, but I think it's important. Or cursed. Maybe both."
Harry took it like it was made of dragon gold. "This is better than any wand. Better than a sword. You know why?"
She blinked. "Why?"
"Because it's from you. That makes it a nuclear bomb of love."
She smiled, then her face turned serious again. "Promise me you'll come back."
He pressed the heart to his chest. "Promise."
And then, just as seriously:
"If you die," she said, "I will use forbidden dark magic to bring you back and then ground you forever."
Harry laughed. "That's my girl."
Billy peeked in again, holding up a spatula like a sword. "Supper in ten! Cupcake Realm willing!"
Rose stood up, raised her crown, and shouted: "TO BATTLE SNACKS!"
Harry just smiled and followed her lead, thinking that whatever came next—HYDRA, war, revenge—it was worth it.
Because he had something they didn't.
He had family.
—
Rose Potter sat crisscross on the floor of the S.H.I.E.L.D. lounge-slash-safehouse-slash-"don't touch that, it might explode" room. Her glittery tiara was slipping down one ear, her left sock had declared independence from her ankle, and her face was smeared in pink frosting like a warrior princess who had just won a pastry war. Which, to be fair, she had.
Her older brother, Revenant (aka Harry Potter, aka the "Stoic Broody One," aka "the guy with the 'please try to punch me so I can break your wrist' face"), was lying flat on a beanbag, dramatically pretending to be dead. Or unconscious. Or possibly just trying to get out of cleanup duty.
"I regret everything," he groaned. "My choices. My trust. Letting you near baked goods. Why is this frosting spicy?"
"Because I added a pinch of cayenne. For flair." Rose beamed like a war criminal with dimples. "Princess Glimmerhoof said it needed more kick."
Harry opened one eye. "Tell Glimmerhoof that the next time she plays sous-chef, she's getting demoted to Glitter Stable Mucker."
From a nearby doorway, Coulson leaned against the frame, coffee in hand, watching the chaos unfold with the calm of a man who'd seen alien invasions, Hydra coups, and Thor's hair up close. "I have to say," he murmured, "there's something deeply satisfying about seeing the great Revenant taken down by a six-year-old with frosting and weaponized unicorns."
Koenig popped his head in from behind Coulson, holding a clipboard and looking way too excited. "Do we need to log this as a code—uh—'Confectionary Containment Breach'? Because I have a form. And stickers."
Rose pointed a frosting-covered spoon at him. "Only if I get the glittery one that says 'I survived a sugar-fueled skirmish and all I got was this dumb sticker.'"
"Done," Koenig nodded solemnly. "You get two. And a juice box."
Harry sat up, brushing cupcake crumbs off his tactical hoodie. "Okay, listen, Terror Toddler—"
"I prefer Sparkle Commander," Rose interjected.
"Right. Sparkle Commander. You may have won the Battle of Cupcake Hill, but one day, I'm teaching you to teleport, and when I do, you're going to have so many chores."
"You threaten me with responsibility like it's a punishment," Rose said proudly. "But I've seen the training montages. I'm gonna grow up, wear glowing armor, and punch Hydra in the face while flipping my hair in slow motion."
Harry smirked. "You're going to flip your hair mid-punch?"
"I am almost seven," she said, as if that explained everything.
Coulson sipped his coffee. "Honestly, that's more tactical coordination than I've seen in some of our recruits."
Koenig leaned in. "She also beat the VR combat sim on 'Hard Mode: Voldemort Edition' last week."
Harry blinked. "You gave her access to Voldemort mode?"
Koenig looked guilty. "She told me you said it was fine."
Harry turned slowly to his sister.
Rose grinned innocently. "You did say I could practice with 'big bad guys'! And what's bigger and badder than a noseless pale bald guy?"
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're lucky you're cute. And that I'm emotionally compromised."
Rose plopped down beside him, scooping a bit of frosting from her cheek and licking it like it was a battle trophy.
Then, in a rare moment of quiet, she leaned against him. "One day," she said softly, "I'll fight beside you. For real. Not just in cupcake wars. I'll wear armor made of moonlight and phoenix feathers. I'll fly—even if I have to strap jet engines to my sneakers or charm my pigtails into propellers."
Harry turned his head to look at her. His expression softened, like someone who knew how unfair and terrifying the world could be—and still couldn't help hoping for something better.
"I know you will," he said. "But not too soon. I like knowing you're here. Safe. Slightly feral. Always sticky."
Rose nodded. "They'll call me Starlight. Or Silver Wisp. Or maybe Phoenixling. Because I've got your fire. Your weird dramatic speeches. And your magic."
He smirked. "You mean the ability to make people regret underestimating you?"
"And look awesome while doing it," she agreed.
They sat there for a moment—one a battle-hardened superhero who had faced death and worse, the other a frosting-smeared, tiara-wearing whirlwind of chaos—and for that moment, the world was okay.
Then Rose stood, struck a pose with her spoon, and declared: "Revenant and Phoenixling! Coming soon to a supervillain beatdown near you!"
Coulson clapped once, slowly. "I'd watch that movie."
Koenig held up his clipboard. "I already wrote the fanfiction."
Harry stared at them all.
"I hate this team."
He didn't.
But it was important to maintain the illusion.
—
As much as Harry loved his sister—and yeah, she was the best tiny chaos gremlin ever gifted frosting-based weaponry—he also knew when to cut his losses and flee the battlefield like a true war veteran. Which is why, after Rose launched her third cupcake missile (R.I.P. Mr. Fluffytail), he made a tactical retreat out of the S.H.I.E.L.D. daycare.
Like a ninja.
A very tired, frosting-splattered ninja with a serious glitter allergy.
He slipped into the hallway, carefully avoiding a minefield of legos, a decapitated Barbie with glowing red eyes (don't ask), and a suspiciously sticky tablet that might now double as a biohazard.
Outside, the corridor was quieter but no less judgmental.
Three things happened simultaneously.
First, James Potter leaned against the wall, the very image of Gryffindor swagger in a leather jacket and just enough scruff to make him look like a cool dad instead of someone who'd once hexed his eyebrows off trying to impress a redhead. His arms were folded, his smirk was knowing, and his eyes said, "You're definitely not sleeping, probably not eating, and definitely plotting something that'll give me more grey hair."
Second, Lily Potter raised one perfect auburn eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that could shut down a teenage rebellion or make an Avenger backpedal mid-snark. Her green eyes scanned him up and down like a lie detector set to Mom Mode. "You smell like frosting and firewhiskey. Again."
"It was a tactical cupcake incident," Harry offered. "And Glimmerhoof started it. I have video evidence."
Third, Sirius Black, looking every inch like a rogue biker warlock with charm issues and a leather jacket budget that could bankrupt Gucci, pointed at Harry's shirt. "You got wrecked by a six-year-old. Again. Tell me—why am I not her godfather?"
"Because the last time you babysat, she ended up in a bar brawl with a leprechaun. In Vegas," Harry deadpanned.
"She won, didn't she?" Sirius said proudly.
"She also got a tattoo that said 'Death Before Time-Out,'" Lily snapped.
Harry sighed. "To be fair, it was temporary. Probably. I didn't check under her robes."
And then—standing slightly apart like a panther watching idiots from a safe distance—was Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow. The former Red Room assassin. The love of his life and the woman who could kill him with her pinky.
She didn't say a word.
Just crossed her arms over her tactical suit, one boot tapping, eyebrow arched. That one look from her managed to say:
"You're late. You're covered in frosting. And if you don't clean that up before the mission, I swear on my Glock, Potter, I will end you."
Harry gave her his best crooked grin—the one that had been legally banned in seven countries for being a public hazard. "Miss me?"
Her gaze was flat. "I tracked you."
"Ooh, kinky."
Natasha's lips twitched. Just slightly. "You're lucky I like you."
"You say that like it's not obvious," he said, stepping closer. "You stare at my butt in stealth ops."
"I do not."
"You literally called it 'a national treasure' in Swiss airspace."
"I said it was shiny."
"Exactly."
James cleared his throat loudly. "As much fun as this is, can we not flirt next to the vending machines? It's weird."
"It's not weird," Sirius said. "It's how you met Lily."
"That's not true," Lily snapped.
"Eh. Close enough," Sirius muttered.
Harry, who had zero interest in debating parental PDA policies, reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a sad, crumpled handkerchief.
"Fury confirmed it?" he asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made enemies panic and Natasha... tilt her head just a little.
Lily nodded. "Hydra's moving. This is it."
Harry didn't blink. Just nodded once.
"Then it's showtime."
With a practiced flick, he snapped the cloth.
The hallway shimmered as the Cloak of Levitation unfurled—red as wildfire, gold-trimmed, and absolutely smug about it. It flared out behind him and settled across his shoulders with all the grace of a seasoned Broadway diva hitting the spotlight.
Immediately, the nanoweave armor activated. Thin lines of golden light raced down his limbs as the red-and-gold Vibranium mesh wrapped around his body—seamless, flexible, and just a little overdramatic.
On his chest, a golden phoenix burst to life, its wings spreading, flames licking around its silhouette as if daring Hydra to try something.
His cowl slipped on, phoenix-shaped and sharp, his jaw set, eyes blazing with so much purpose even Natasha stopped tapping her foot.
Sirius whistled. "Looking like a snack and a half, nephew. Remind me to send that photo to the Daily Prophet."
James grinned. "Tony would be proud."
"Tony would tell me to add repulsors in the boots and then insult my fashion sense," Harry replied.
"He would do both," Lily agreed fondly.
Natasha finally spoke, her voice low. "Try not to get killed. I don't do well with grief."
Harry turned to her, voice dropping to a rumble. "Then stay close, Romanoff. I burn hotter when you're watching."
Her smirk was razor-sharp. "You always burn when I'm around."
"I live for it."
Their eyes locked for a second too long.
Then James loudly cleared his throat again. "You two want a room or...?"
"No," Lily said, dryly. "They want a battlefield."
Harry turned toward the end of the hall, his cloak fluttering, boots echoing with that final boss energy. He glanced back at his family—his legacy—and the redhead who could both destroy and save him in a single breath.
"Let's go end Hydra," he said. "And maybe punch a few Nazis in the jaw. Twice. For symmetry."
And as he strode down the corridor like the Revenant reborn—cloak blazing, phoenix shining, and sarcasm fully armed—evil somewhere shuddered.
Because when Harry Potter walked into war, the universe paid attention.
And this time?
He wasn't coming back alone.
---
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