Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office, More Than Seven Years Later
Albus Dumbledore was sulking.
It wasn't the noble, brooding kind of sulk that heroes in stained glass windows were known for. No, this was more of the "grumpy grandpa didn't get his way and is now monologuing to his pet" kind of sulk.
"Fawkes," he sighed, folding his hands beneath his beard like a disappointed Santa Claus, "I do believe we have lost the plot."
Fawkes, his phoenix companion and professional emotional support bird, responded by tilting his head and blinking slowly. Either that meant "I agree completely" or "Please stop talking to me, I'm a literal flaming chicken." Hard to tell with birds.
"Don't look at me like that," Dumbledore muttered. "It wasn't my fault the Potters woke up."
Actually… it kind of was. Maybe.
Okay, maybe definitely. But that was beside the point.
Dumbledore got up, swished over to the fireplace (because if you're a wizard and don't swish while walking, are you even trying?), and stared into the flames like they were going to offer him a redo button.
"They just took her, Fawkes. My Rose. My precious, prophecy-picked, specially-raised Chosen One. After all that effort. After years of bedtime stories about heroic sacrifice and not touching cursed objects!"
He waved his arms dramatically, nearly knocking over a stack of ancient tomes titled How To Raise a Savior Without Losing Your Mind, Volumes I through VIII.
"I told them," he continued, pacing now, "Sirius Black is unstable. And the Tonkses? Lovely people. Absolutely terrible at grand magical conspiracies. Too honest. And don't get me started on Andromeda's cooking—bland as a centaur's sense of humor."
Fawkes let out a low, mournful chirp.
"Yes, yes," Dumbledore muttered, "I'm stalling."
He returned to his desk like a man preparing to dissect his own obituary. In front of him was The Prophecy—a crumpled, tea-stained piece of parchment he had long ago triple-underlined and diagrammed like it was a Quidditch play.
"Born as the seventh month dies…" he read aloud for the hundredth time. "Honestly, Sybill, would it have killed you to be more specific? Maybe a full name, a social security number, a Hogwarts House?"
He threw himself into his chair and glared at the parchment like it owed him money.
Then came the real betrayal: Augusta Longbottom.
"Neville," Dumbledore hissed, like the name was a swear word. "Could've been the One. Had the hair for it. Could've worked with that. But nooooo. Augusta had to 'protect her grandson from being turned into a tool of the state.'"
He mimicked her voice in a high-pitched squeal. "'I've seen what happened to Rose! You'll not turn my Neville into another one of your little chess pieces, Albus!'"
Fawkes ruffled his feathers.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Dumbledore muttered. "The girl liked being a chess piece. She was good at it. Dramatic flair, aptitude for magic, that natural Potter flair for rule-breaking. Just needed a bit of humility. And therapy. And fewer Howlers from her mother."
He stood again, because sitting still was for people whose entire war plan hadn't collapsed in on itself like a flan in a cupboard.
"Even the Philosopher's Stone plan was a bust," he huffed. "Left breadcrumbs like I was Hansel and Neville walked right past them. Devil's Snare, flying keys, troll in the dungeon—nothing. He spent the whole year talking to ferns and throwing Dungbombs with Ron Weasley!"
Fawkes let out a sharp trill that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
"I had to face Voldemort that year. Me! A hundred and ten years old, with one good hip and a wand arm that cramps when it rains."
Dumbledore dropped dramatically into his armchair and stared up at the enchanted ceiling, which today was showing fake blue skies and fluffy white clouds—a total lie, much like his career at this point.
"The world used to believe 'Dumbledore knows best,'" he said wistfully. "Now they say, 'Dumbledore messed up.' I miss the old slogan."
Fawkes gave him the kind of look that said Maybe stop monologuing and actually do something then?
And as if the universe had been waiting for that cue, a report slid itself across the desk with a whisper of magic.
A rumor.
Harry Potter lives.
Dumbledore froze.
Not "Harry Potter was sighted," or "Harry Potter was remembered fondly in this year's memorial," or "some lunatic wearing round glasses claims to be him." No. The report said: Harry Potter lives.
With power. With allies. With plans.
Dumbledore's face shifted through at least four emotions: disbelief, hope, dread, and finally, full-on Hogwarts Drama Club determination.
He turned to Fawkes.
"Don't say it," he warned. "Don't say I told you so."
Fawkes wisely remained silent.
Albus Dumbledore rose once more, his robes swirling behind him like a wizard cape caught in a magical wind machine.
"If the boy lives, he must be guided."
He paused. "Well. Re-guided."
Another pause. "Kidnapped? No. Bad phrasing."
Fawkes chirped.
"I know how it sounds, Fawkes! But it's for the Greater Good."
He stared into the Pensieve. Swirling memories of mistakes, regrets, and grand speeches flickered below the surface.
"If he's back… I must find him. Before he does."
And deep in the shadows of the office, the "he" he spoke of was not just Voldemort.
No… what truly scared Albus Dumbledore now was the idea that Harry—survivor, mystery, wildcard—might not choose either side.
And for the first time in a century, Dumbledore wasn't sure he knew best.
—
Albus Dumbledore was having an argument with his teaspoon.
It was losing.
"Stir clockwise," he muttered. The spoon obeyed, swirling through his tea with the sort of nervous energy one might expect from a student about to fail Potions. "No, my clockwise. Honestly, you've been enchanted since the Yule Ball of '57—you'd think you'd have learned by now."
Fawkes, perched majestically beside a stack of charmed parchment, let out a trilling note that could only be translated as: You're talking to cutlery again, aren't you?
Dumbledore gave the phoenix an exasperated look. "Better than talking to myself."
Fawkes blinked.
"…Fine. Better than admitting I'm talking to myself."
The fireplace was still cold. The flames had not flared green with dramatic authority, nor had they produced the rotund, sweaty image of Cornelius Fudge, or the dour, moustache-bristling form of Barty Crouch Sr. Ten minutes late.
"Fashionably late," Dumbledore muttered, checking an invisible watch on his wrist. "Must be all those leprechauns. You throw a hundred magical mascots and a dozen diplomats into a forest, and suddenly everyone forgets time exists."
Fawkes gave him a sidelong look. He had mastered the art of sarcastic silence.
"Oh, don't give me that. You've never been to a Quidditch World Cup. I was there when the Appleby Arrows tried to hex the referee into thinking their Keeper was a Bludger. Took three Healers to fix his sense of direction."
Another chirp. Short. Judgmental.
"Alright, alright. Yes, I suppose I could've held this meeting somewhere a bit more convenient. But honestly, if they can't handle a simple school treaty negotiation between Beauxbatons and Durmstrang without setting their robes on fire, what hope is there for international cooperation?"
The portraits on the wall rustled uneasily. Phineas Nigellus snorted. "There's no hope, obviously."
Dumbledore ignored him.
With a long sigh and a dramatic sweep of his robe, he eased into his armchair—the kind of ancient, velvet-lined throne that looked like it could whisper secrets if you sat still long enough.
"Well," he said aloud, staring into the unlit hearth, "since we're all gathered—except for the people who are actually supposed to be here—shall we talk about second year?"
Fawkes ruffled his feathers and gave an unimpressed warble.
"Oh yes," Dumbledore nodded. "The Chamber of Secrets. That little adventure. Now that was a year that could've used a laugh track."
He sipped his tea. "You know, from the very first whisper of Parseltongue echoing through the pipes, I knew who was behind it. Tom Riddle's diary—cursed object, obvious Horcrux in hindsight, reeked of adolescent angst and dark magic. It practically screamed 'I will possess you and monologue about it.'"
Fawkes tilted his head.
"Yes, I knew. Of course I knew. The portraits told me. The elves reported it. The plumbing practically sang about it. Hogwarts is more wired than the Department of Mysteries—only with more attitude."
He put his teacup down, leaned forward, and steepled his fingers like he was about to drop the plot twist of a murder mystery.
"But did I rush in? No. Because I was waiting."
Fawkes chirped.
"Yes, yes, waiting is a theme with me, I know. But I had a plan. You see, I thought—perhaps—that young Neville Longbottom, our sweet, bumbling, plant-loving boy, might rise to the challenge."
A pause. A sigh. A wince.
"He did not."
Dumbledore stood, arms folded behind his back as he began to pace the room like a wizard-shaped metronome.
"Oh, he tried. He tried, bless him. But instead of slaying monsters and unearthing secrets, he and Ronald Weasley spent most of their year trying to train a Fanged Geranium to do the Cha-Cha during Herbology. Brave lads. Visionaries. Utterly useless."
Fawkes gave a low, musical trill that might've been interpreted as: You let a possessed first year run amok because you wanted to test your herbology student?
Dumbledore raised a finger. "Now, in my defense, I had placed… safeguards. Watched closely. It's not as though I let the basilisk loose in the corridors like a party balloon. I simply… monitored. Encouraged character growth. Besides," he said with a shrug, "I was mostly sure no one would die."
Fawkes squawked.
"Alright! I'll admit, it got out of hand. Especially once Lucius 'My Hair is Whiter Than My Morals' Malfoy convinced the Board of Governors to toss me out of my own school."
Dumbledore paused mid-pace, one eyebrow raised toward the heavens. "Can you believe that? Accused me—me—of letting the school become unsafe. Just because a centuries-old murder snake was roaming the plumbing. Really, some people are so fragile."
Fawkes turned and deliberately stared at the wall.
"I was gone for what, a week? Maybe two? And then they realize—oh dear! The Headmaster might have been important after all!" He threw his arms up. "Cue panic. Cue Gilderoy Lockhart trying to duel the basilisk with a broken wand and a head full of hairspray."
He dropped back into the chair.
"In the end, of course, I returned. Solved the problem. Destroyed the diary, saved Miss Weasley, and heroically posed next to the corpse of a very large snake. Just another Tuesday, really."
A pause.
"Ginny was a mess, of course. Possessed by a teenage dark wizard with a god complex and worse social skills than Peeves. But I figured—bit of rest, some warm cocoa, and a few vague assurances that 'everything is fine now, dear'—and she'd be right as rain."
Fawkes trilled, unimpressed.
"Oh, come on! It's not like we send traumatized students to therapy. We don't even have a school counselor. Closest thing we've got is Madam Pomfrey and some particularly judgmental chocolate."
He sighed and looked into his tea.
"I suppose I had hoped Neville would do more. That he would grow into something… greater. But alas. The boy is all heart, and no prophecy."
For a long moment, silence. Even the portraits seemed reluctant to interrupt.
Then—finally—the Floo flared to life.
Green fire erupted in the hearth, and out of the flames emerged Cornelius Fudge's round, sweaty, slightly panicked face. His bowler hat was tilted, his cheeks were pink, and his expression said he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Ah! Dumbledore!" Fudge barked, in that charming way he had of making everything sound like a minor emergency. "Terribly sorry for the delay—absolute chaos at the Cup! Bulgarian team mascot lit the referee's tent on fire. Unintentional, of course. We think."
Dumbledore smiled brightly. "Cornelius! How delightful. Do come in. Bring Crouch, if he hasn't dissolved into a puddle of bureaucratic fury."
"Yes, yes, right behind me! Just needs a moment—international law, you know, tricky thing."
The face vanished.
Dumbledore leaned back and patted the armrest.
"Well, old friend," he murmured to Fawkes, "looks like the circus is back in town."
Fawkes trilled in agreement. Or possibly despair.
Either way, Dumbledore sipped his tea and smiled.
"At least this year won't be boring."
—
The green flames roared again in the fireplace like a dragon with acid reflux, and Barty Crouch Sr. stepped out, looking like someone had ironed a bureaucrat and stuffed him into pinstripes. His robes were so crisp they could've doubled as weaponized parchment. His mustache, sleek and judgmental, twitched slightly at the sight of Dumbledore leaning comfortably against his desk, cradling a teacup like it contained the elixir of sarcasm.
"Dumbledore," Crouch said, in the exact tone someone might use for moldy cheese or a tax audit.
"Barty!" Dumbledore beamed like he'd just been visited by Father Christmas. "How deliciously punctual of you. Do help yourself to a sherbet lemon. They taste like nostalgia and emotional repression."
Crouch looked at the bowl of candies like it had personally offended his ancestry. He took a seat instead—far from Fudge, close to a bookshelf labeled 'Things the Ministry Pretends Don't Exist.'
Fudge, meanwhile, was mid-handkerchief dab, his face pink and shiny like a roast ham left too long in the sun. "Ah—yes! Now that we're all gathered—Albus, Barty—thank you for coming. This matter with the Triwizard Tournament—it's, er, become a bit… delicate."
"Like a Hungarian Horntail in a tutu," Dumbledore offered, stirring his tea with what appeared to be a quill.
"Exactly!" Fudge exclaimed, clearly not getting the joke but grateful for the comparison anyway. "Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are ready to pull out faster than a Quidditch Seeker spotting a Snitch, and I'd rather not be the Minister remembered for another international disaster."
"Besides the Goblin Interest Rate Scandal?" Dumbledore asked innocently.
Fudge turned purple. "That was a temporary liquidity issue!"
Crouch cleared his throat with all the enthusiasm of a man about to read aloud the nutritional value of dirt.
"The delegations have agreed, conditionally, to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament," he said, producing a scroll with the same ceremony one might use to unveil a will. "Shall I?"
"Only if you promise to sound as dramatic as a prophecy," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.
Crouch ignored him and began to read.
"One: All champions must be seventeen years of age or older by the time of the selection. Beauxbatons was insistent. I believe Madame Maxime threatened to feed the committee to a particularly moody manticore if we allowed underage participants."
"Understandable," Dumbledore mused. "Nothing sours a festive event like spontaneous combustion of third-years."
Fudge blanched. "You're joking."
Dumbledore sipped. "Only slightly."
Crouch rolled on, undeterred. "Two: The tasks must not be lethal. No dragons, no cursed artifacts, no acid-breathing kelpies, no drowning pools, and definitely no hedge mazes filled with things that make grown men scream like mandrakes."
"The French wording was 'Non aux morts inutiles,'" he added. "Literally: 'No to pointless death.'"
Fudge coughed. "Pointless is a bit harsh."
"They're French," Dumbledore said. "They invented harsh."
"And Bulgaria?" Fudge asked, half-hopeful, half-ready to dive back into the Floo.
"They want magical contracts ensuring absolute fairness," Crouch replied, tugging his robes like they were the only thing anchoring him to sanity. "And have insisted on ICW oversight. Karkaroff, in particular, demanded veto power over any 'blatantly British' biases in the tasks."
"He did offer to duel me over it," Dumbledore added casually. "I said only if we used baguettes."
"Not helping," Crouch muttered.
Fudge was starting to hyperventilate. "So we've agreed on all this? Age limits, safety protocols, foreign auditors? No last-minute explosions or… murder mazes?"
"Unless someone accidentally adds a Cerberus to the planning committee, yes," Crouch deadpanned.
"Excellent!" Fudge clapped, far too loudly. "Wonderful! A symbol of international unity! Of camaraderie! Of peace!"
"Or thinly veiled passive-aggression in formalwear," Dumbledore said. "But yes, unity."
Crouch produced another scroll. "Also—prize money remains at one thousand Galleons. Bulgaria lobbied for legendary relics, France threatened a cultural boycott if any 'cursed jewelry' was introduced, and in the end, we settled for cold, hard gold."
"Ah," Dumbledore sighed. "Nothing inspires heroism like the promise of post-traumatic bank deposits."
"And the ceremonial dueling finale?" Fudge asked hopefully.
"Vetoed," Crouch said, with something resembling satisfaction. "Madame Maxime said, and I quote: 'I am not running a wand-waving sausage contest.'"
Dumbledore let out a long, delighted laugh. "Oh, Olympe. She always did have a way with diplomacy."
Fudge stood, straightened his robes, and tried very hard to look Ministerial and not like a man who desperately wanted a stiff drink.
"Well then! Hogwarts shall host. Everything by the book. No unexpected developments."
There was a long pause.
Dumbledore looked at the fire, at the sky beyond the enchanted windows, at something unseen and unsettling. "No," he said softly. "Nothing ever unexpected at Hogwarts."
A faint trill echoed from the perch by the door—Fawkes, the phoenix, watching with eyes that had seen too many tragedies begin this way.
And far beneath the castle, deeper than any charm or curse could reach, something stirred.
It stretched in the darkness, awakened not by the rules being agreed upon, but by the game being played at all.
The tournament was returning.
And with it, destiny was sharpening its teeth.
—
The green flames in the fireplace coughed, hissed, and vanished with a theatrical pop—like even the Floo Network wanted nothing to do with Cornelius Fudge's exit. The room exhaled in relief. Magical instruments whirred, burbled, and one even let out a discreet hiccup. The portraits did their best impressions of "nothing to see here," which mostly involved exaggerated whistling and side-eyes.
Dumbledore sat back in his armchair, fingers steepled like he was mid-chess match with Death. Not the dramatic Grim Reaper type, but more like the bureaucratic version who forgot to bring the right paperwork.
"Well," he said to no one in particular, "that went about as smoothly as asking a troll to the Yule Ball."
Fawkes, who had seen worse, gave a trill that somehow conveyed "I told you so", "You're the one who invited them," and "Please stop talking to me like I'm a therapist" all in one musical note.
Dumbledore gave him a wounded look. "I'll have you know, dear Fawkes, that my diplomatic skills are widely regarded as... eccentric." He twirled a lemon drop between his fingers before popping it in his mouth. "Which is better than Fudge's skills, which are mostly duck, deny, and declare victory."
He stood and walked to the window, looking out over the lake where the sunset was doing its best impression of a melting rainbow.
"The Triwizard Tournament," he said, voice soft. "Now there's a charming disaster waiting to happen. Dragons, mermaids, and enough red tape to strangle a centaur. Still... the perfect lure."
He turned, robes swishing dramatically—because of course they did. Dumbledore didn't just walk; he theatrically existed.
"The Goblet of Fire, Fawkes. Old magic. Binding magic. The kind of artifact that practically radiates plot development."
Fawkes blinked slowly, clearly not impressed.
"Oh, don't be like that," Dumbledore huffed. "You and I both know the boy's alive. I can feel it. The wards at Privet Drive shattered far too cleanly. And the so-called 'gas explosion'—really, who came up with that? Petunia Dursley's tupperware collection may have been explosive, but I doubt even it could level half a street."
He tapped his wand lightly against the side of the Pensieve, and a silvery strand of memory swirled inside like a forgotten dream. Or a really weird soda flavor.
"I left him with love," Dumbledore muttered, his usual cheer dimming for half a second. "With protection. I made a choice. But if the boy didn't die… if Harry Potter survived whatever that blast was, then he's out there somewhere."
He turned to Fawkes again, who was clearly questioning every life choice that had led him to this point.
"Yes, yes. I know what you're going to say. 'Dumbledore, perhaps coercing a possibly traumatized teenager into a deadly magical tournament isn't the height of ethical mentorship.'" He waved a hand. "And you'd be right. Morally questionable. Manipulative, even. But effective."
The portraits around the office muttered among themselves, though they weren't sure if they were judging Dumbledore or just deeply invested in the drama.
Dumbledore plopped back into his chair with a sigh, the sort of sigh that said I'm doing the right thing, even if it makes me look like a slightly unhinged chess grandmaster with a beard that could double as a duvet.
"I need him back, Fawkes," he said, tone growing serious. "The Ministry's so deep in denial they've opened a branch office in Egypt. Voldemort is stirring. I can feel the shadows moving. And when he returns—and he will—we'll need Harry."
He leaned forward, voice dropping into that ominous wizard-who-knows-too-much register.
"Not just a boy. A symbol. A rallying point. The one who lived must become the one who leads. And if he won't come willingly…" He paused. "Well, the Goblet doesn't take no for an answer."
Fawkes flared his wings just slightly, as if preparing for takeoff—or maybe a dramatic exit.
"I won't hurt him," Dumbledore added quickly. "Just nudge. Gently. With the force of a magically binding ancient contract and a few dragons. You know. The usual Hogwarts experience."
Outside, the wind began to howl like it knew something big was coming. Something old. Something with its own theme music.
Dumbledore leaned back again, popping another lemon drop into his mouth and nodding sagely, as if the whole world was a stage and he was simultaneously the playwright, director, and stagehand trying to keep the lights from exploding.
"Soon, Fawkes," he said, eyes gleaming. "Soon, Harry Potter will walk through these doors. Or possibly crash through the roof, knowing his luck. Either way… the Goblet will call to him."
He paused.
"And he'll answer."
Another beat.
"Hopefully not by setting something on fire. Again."
Fawkes trilled once more—this time sounding suspiciously like "You're absolutely going to jinx it."
Deep below the castle, where stone met ancient runes and secrets slept beneath layers of time, the Goblet of Fire flared quietly to life.
Its flame danced higher.
Waiting.
And oh yes—it was very hungry.
—
If you've ever wondered what it would look like if you mashed up a magical castle, a SHIELD armory, and the sassiest wizarding family in the world into one flying Quinjet… well, congrats, welcome aboard.
Docked in the hangar of the New York Safehouse (codenamed: "Are You Kidding Me, This Thing Has a Pool?"), the Potter Family's ultra-modified Quinjet wasn't just some glorified air taxi—it was practically a fortress with attitude. We're talking about enchanted corridors that changed layouts just to mess with people, magical defense systems that could turn a Death Eater into a smoldering pile of regret, and a hot chocolate dispenser that had a weird vendetta against anyone under 5 feet tall (Aunt Andromeda's idea—don't ask). Oh, and did I mention the time-turner storage closet that could fit an entire army if they needed to? Yeah. That's normal.
At the moment, inside the main lounge—decorated like a mix of an IKEA showroom and a battle zone—Rose Potter, almost fourteen (but let's be real, when you're a magical prodigy, age is just a number), was pacing like a caged lion who'd just lost her Firebolt.
"I swear, if they're late again, I'm hexing the next person who asks me to do the dishes," Rose grumbled under her breath, dramatically flopping onto the couch like someone who had just single-handedly fought off a herd of Niffler-infested dragons.
James Potter, who looked like someone who'd spent his whole life charming the socks off people (and possibly taking bets on how many times he could talk about his Quidditch days before someone got sick of hearing it), shrugged from his armchair, his wand tucked casually behind his ear, a Muggle comic book in hand. "Still on that SHIELD mission. Pretty sure it's aliens this time. Or maybe robot jellyfish. You know how it is. Never a dull moment when you're saving the world."
Lily Potter, genius-level witch and all-around superhero mom, looked up from the magical schematics she was doodling on her tablet (you know, casual Tuesday stuff). "They'll be back in time for the Cup. Harry promised."
Rose's eye twitched. "He promised last time. And came back with a mutant lizard tail, a concussion, and bullet holes. I'm starting to think 'promises' might be his second favorite pastime after 'getting himself into trouble.'"
Sirius Black—also known as the family's official chaos magnet and resident troublemaker—was lounging on the back of the couch with all the grace of a smug housecat who just knocked something off the table for fun. "That's our boy. You can take the kid out of the mess, but you can't take the mess out of the kid."
"That's my godson, you ungrateful heathen," Andromeda snapped from the corner, not looking up from her crossword. "And he got the tail saving your hide from that Skrull shapeshifter. Don't pretend like you didn't owe him."
Ted Tonks, who was busy levitating an Exploding Snap deck like it was his personal magic trick, chimed in, "Hey, give Sirius a break. It wasn't technically his fault the Skrull had a thing for leather jackets and bad flirting."
Sirius gasped dramatically, hands over his heart. "Bad? My flirting is legendary."
"Infamous," Tonks corrected, completely unbothered by the verbal sparring.
Nymphadora Tonks—pink-haired, older, cooler, and 100% trying not to look like she was actively playing footsie with one of Harry's other girlfriends—blew a bubble with a casual pop. "You know, we wouldn't be waiting if someone hadn't gotten themselves caught in a Hydra lab like it was 'Bring Your Genetic Experiment to Work Day.'"
Rose smirked, shaking her head. "He was five! Five! He should've been drawing pictures and eating crayons, not getting injected with Super-Soldier serum, Weapon X genes, and a full-on Vibranium skeleton upgrade. Dude skipped puberty, built a house there, and stayed. It's not normal, Auntie."
Jean Grey, who had inherited her fair share of sarcasm and the ability to take nothing seriously (when she wasn't wielding raw telekinetic power), chuckled. "To be fair, it worked out. I mean, have you seen him?"
"Yes, Jean," Ororo Munroe said dryly, arms folded across her chest. "We've all seen him. In robes. In combat gear. In the showers at Kamar-Taj—"
"Ororo!" Lily's voice was a lethal mix of motherly protection and sheer embarrassment. "Boundaries!"
"I'm just saying," Ororo said innocently, "the man meditates shirtless. That's a war crime."
Rose facepalmed. "Please. I don't need to hear about my brother's abs. Not. Again."
Tonks, never one to pass up an opportunity to tease, grinned. "Yeah, we tried to resist. But then Harry went all stoic warrior monk who thinks he's unlovable on us, and well, we're not that strong." She glanced at Jean with a grin. "We tried, though."
"Besides," Jean added softly, "he didn't say yes until Natasha told him to. That woman could convince a Dementor to take up yoga."
"Don't forget," Tonks added, "Natasha was the one who convinced him he needed to love us. Said the world didn't need another lonely hero—it needed a future." She smiled wistfully. "And kids. Lots of magical, terrifying kids."
James raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure whether to be thrilled or horrified. "We're still trying to get over the first batch of terrifying Potters, thanks."
"Aw, thanks, Dad," Rose smirked, not even flinching.
Just then, the holo-table lit up with a ping, the familiar message flashing across the screen:
INCOMING TRANSMISSION <<
AGENTS ROMANOFF AND POTTER RETURNING INBOUND <<
ETA: 3 MINUTES <<
Lily straightened up, her magic-wielding reflexes kicking in. "Positions, everyone! Pretend we weren't just gossiping about our son's love life and/or designing baby names."
"I was doing the crossword," Andromeda said primly, still not looking up from her paper.
Sirius grinned, ruffling Rose's hair. "Showtime, kiddo. Ready to watch your overpowered twin make an entrance?"
Rose rolled her eyes, a grin tugging at her lips. "Always."
The Quinjet's engines rumbled to life, shaking the hangar like it was about to take off into the stratosphere. The ramp descended with a hiss of steam, and through it stepped the two figures everyone had been waiting for.
First, Natasha Romanoff, her red hair tousled and that smirk of hers still looking like she was ready to take on the world with just a shrug and a snarky comment.
And next to her, towering like a Greek god who'd spent the past few hours bench-pressing mountains as a casual workout, was Harry Potter. He looked a bit worse for wear—tired, scorched, and covered in the kind of hero's grime that only came from battling alien jellyfish or mutant lizard people—but alive.
When his eyes scanned the room and landed on his family, his girls, his sister, a smile flickered across his face—just a little, but enough to make Rose's heart do a happy flip.
Without thinking, Rose shot off the couch like a blur of fury and affection, tackling Harry in a hug so strong it might have left a dent in the Quinjet's metal.
"Show-off," she muttered against his chest, grinning.
"Good to see you too, sis," Harry said, voice muffled, though he still wrapped his arms around her like she was the most important thing in the world.
And honestly? To him, she was.
—
The family slowly started to unravel themselves from the kind of group hug-slash-glomp that only Rose could pull off without turning it into a full-contact sport. The scene was a mess of limbs, chatter, and way too much hugging for anyone who wasn't used to it. Harry couldn't help but grin, leaning against the ramp as the rest of the Potter-Black-Tonks-Grey-Munroe disaster brigade slowly migrated toward him like a pride of lions pretending they hadn't just been gossiping, sparring, and — of course — not-so-subtly flirting in the lounge of their flying fortress.
Andromeda looked up from her crossword, not bothering to hide her amused smirk. "Twelve across was 'delusional.' Just like you thinking we were going to behave while you were gone."
Harry raised an eyebrow, cocking his head. "What? I thought you'd at least pretend to behave for, like, a whole hour."
Ted, standing next to Andromeda, gave Harry a quick once-over, whistling low. "You're either fresh off a mission or you got into a fistfight with a barbecue pit."
Harry, deadpan: "Both."
Natasha, brushing soot off her black suit with a scowl, shook her head. "The Skrull pretending to be a mutant barista turned out to be working with the Kree. Long story. Harry may or may not have insulted their queen's fashion sense."
"She looked like a disco ball," Harry muttered, crossing his arms. "With feathers."
"And you threw a fireball at her throne," Natasha added, her lips curving upward like she was holding back a grin. "Can't say I blame you, though."
Rose beamed from beside Harry, nudging him with her shoulder. "You're such a drama queen. I love it."
James, who had just stepped out of the kitchen with a suspiciously large mug of something steaming, smirked. "Speaking of queens and fireballs, shouldn't we be wheels up by now? The match starts in like, ten minutes."
Lily, perched behind her glowing magical tablet, flicked a few holographic buttons and raised an eyebrow as the map projected over the lounge. "Already plotted. England. Portkey's locked in for final approach over Dartmoor. We're not missing the Quidditch World Cup—this time."
"Ah, Bulgaria versus Ireland," Jean chimed in, stretching with the kind of lazy grace only someone like her could manage. "Let's go see if Viktor Krum still flies like he's got a dragon up his—"
"Language!" Lily called from the cockpit, her voice sharp as a whip.
"—backside," Jean finished innocently, her halo practically glowing as she flashed a mock-innocent smile.
Natasha cracked her neck and stalked toward the pilot's seat with the sort of confidence that screamed 'I've got this.' "I'm flying."
"I'm copiloting," Lily countered, narrowing her eyes in the way that said 'I'm in charge here.' "Last time you almost broke the altitude ceiling for stealth-mode and tried to land upside down because 'it looked cool.'"
"I stand by that maneuver," Natasha said with a completely straight face.
James, who had already buckled into one of the shock-resistant seats like he was on a rollercoaster, snorted. "Literally no one asked you to do a barrel roll, Nat. And Sirius barfed on my robes."
"You're just jealous I made the clouds swoon," Natasha shot back with a wink.
Sirius, who was currently rifling through a cooler like he'd found buried treasure, looked up with mock indignation. "For the record, I did not throw up on your robes. I threw up on your shoes."
"Same difference," James muttered.
Rose, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him toward the back of the ship like she was on a mission, shot Sirius a look that could only be described as 'sibling-level disapproval.' "I saved your spot," she said as she plopped onto one of the cushioned seats in the back. "And also made sure Uncle Sirius didn't leave any exploding whoopee cushions this time."
Harry blinked, still in the process of catching up. "There were whoopee cushions?"
"There were," Tonks called from the galley, still managing to juggle three cupcakes and a protein bar like she was born to multitask. "And they exploded. One of them even sang showtunes."
"We don't talk about the Broadway Butt Incident," Sirius said solemnly, his hand over his heart like it was a moment of pure tragedy.
As the Quinjet rumbled into lift-off, the faint hum of the engines mingling with the ever-present hum of magic, Lily and Natasha worked in perfect unison, guiding the ship through the air like they were born to do it. The synergy between them was palpable, a deadly dance of technology and magic that only came from hundreds of hours spent dodging disaster zones, enemy skies, and a literal time storm.
Harry, who had settled into the back with Rose, leaned against the window, watching the clouds streak past the magically enhanced viewport. For a second, there was peace. Silence. The kind of quiet you only got when you were surrounded by chaos so frequent it felt like home.
And then—
"Are we gonna tailgate before the match?" Sirius asked, already pulling a cooler out from under his seat like it was just another day.
Andromeda, who had apparently been minding her own business with a crossword, sighed heavily. "You're not bringing American beer to a British sporting event, Sirius."
"I brought Butterbeer, too!" Sirius countered, grinning like a cat who had just found the cream.
"You're not bringing mead either!" Lily shouted from the cockpit.
"You're not my real mom!" Sirius yelled back.
"She's my real mom!" Rose chimed in, her grin practically glowing.
Harry chuckled, his eyes flicking over to his found family. The chaos. The laughter. The strange smell of magical exhaust mixed with treacle tarts. It was all perfect. In its own, absolutely insane way.
"I missed this," he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.
Jean leaned in from the seat behind, her voice a low whisper. "We missed you more."
And somewhere, way up over the Atlantic, wrapped in magic, metal, and a whole lot of sass, the most dangerous, dysfunctional, and yet deeply loving family in the multiverse soared off toward another adventure. This one promised broomsticks, bludgers, and—just maybe—a peaceful day off.
(Ha. As if.)
---
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