They were halfway back to the tent—which, let's be honest, was less a tent and more a flying tech palace with boundary issues—when the group's casual recap of the Quidditch World Cup match exploded into full-blown chaos. Imagine a swarm of caffeinated sportscasters fighting over the last microphone at Comic-Con, and you'd get the idea.
"And did you see that second Wronski Feint?" Rose gushed, practically vibrating with energy. Her red-gold curls bounced with every step, and her Irish tricolor charm kept blinking like a leprechaun disco. "Krum dropped thirty meters like he had a pact with gravity and bad decisions!"
"Oh, it was a death wish," Jean replied dryly, swiping imaginary soot off her jacket like the crash-landing had personally offended her. "And he nearly turned Lynch into a lawn dart. Again."
"Lynch's nose looked like someone tried to sculpt it using a rubber chicken and a blindfold," Tonks added, snorting. "He'll be inhaling pumpkin juice through a straw till October."
"Still managed to cheer when they won," Natasha said, with her usual smirking calm. "You have to respect that level of reckless optimism. Or brain damage."
James tossed an arm around Lily's shoulders, laughing. "Lynch was probably seeing three Snitches and just hoped Krum went for the middle one."
"Krum still caught it," Ororo noted with a thoughtful tilt of her head. Her silver-white braid swayed with the motion like she had the wind on speed dial.
"Because he's smart," Harry said, his voice a blend of velvet and razor blades. "He knew they weren't catching up. Ireland was scoring like the hoops owed them money, and Ryan was guarding the goals like his dignity depended on it."
"Keeper played like someone had insulted his mum and bet his Firebolt," Sirius growled approvingly. "That bloke was a bloody wall."
"More like an angry troll with gloves," Ted added, his dry wit slicing through like a verbal scalpel.
"So Krum ended it on his terms," Harry continued, eyes gleaming behind tinted lenses. "Didn't want to drag it out and let the Irish humiliate them with another thirty points. That's what made it a power move."
"Bold, brooding, tragic," Jean teased, her fingers brushing Harry's as they walked. "Sound familiar?"
Harry tilted his head, mock-offended. "Are you comparing me to Viktor Krum? I bathe. And I don't grunt in seven languages."
"No, you smirk in seven," Ororo said, giving him a look that could melt glaciers. "And you make it hot."
Tonks sighed dramatically. "Ugh, someone's definitely getting laid tonight."
"Someone better be," Natasha murmured, brushing her fingers along the back of Harry's hand with all the subtlety of a panther staking claim.
Lily clapped a hand over Rose's ears. "Language!"
"Mum, I'm fourteen, not four," Rose said, ducking out from under her. "I've got a Viktor Krum fan-art folder and half of it's shirtless. You think that's PG?"
Sirius looked personally betrayed. "Please never say 'fan art' around your godfather again. I will disown you, child."
They reached the "tent," which looked like a sad patch of beige canvas if you squinted. But the moment they stepped inside, the illusion peeled away with a shimmery whoosh to reveal: chrome-and-leather everything, Stark-tech lighting that adapted to moods, a floating holo-replay of the match, and enough enchanted cushions to make a Potions Master cry.
"Home sweet murderjet," Sirius muttered, flopping onto the couch like a bear surrendering to nap time.
James collapsed beside him with the drama of a Victorian noblewoman. "That second Bludger? Poetry. In. Violence."
Harry followed with all the confidence of someone who owned the airspace. (He did. The deed said Potter-Stark.) He conjured a bowl of popcorn with a flick, kicked his feet up, and smirked. "When I was five, I didn't think my future would involve dodging death rays and shower ambushes."
"You dodge me in the shower, do you?" Tonks asked, eyebrows raised.
"I don't dodge," Harry replied smoothly. "I dive. Strategically. For cover."
Jean grabbed a handful of popcorn. "He's got great... reflexes."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Natasha stretched along his side, like a jungle cat deciding where to nap. "Reflexes?"
Sirius stood abruptly. "Nope. Out. I'm meditating in the cargo bay. Or jumping into the lake."
"Coward," Lily called.
"Sane," Sirius shot back.
"Debatable," Ted muttered.
"Painfully accurate," Andromeda added.
Rose had flung herself onto a beanbag throne and was narrating the replay like she'd snorted a commentator's soul. "AND MULLET WITH THE FAKEOUT—PASSES TO MORAN—BACK TO TROY—BAM! THROUGH THE RINGS! RYAN WITH THE SAVE! AND—OH! THE WRONSKI FEINT! THE CROWD GOES WILD!—No, wait, they go MILDLY TERRIFIED!"
"Someone get her a mic and a contract," James said.
"Done," Harry said casually, flicking a golden Galleon onto the table. "She's interning with the Wimbourne Wasps next summer."
Rose blinked. "Wait. For real?"
"Do I look like I joke?" Harry asked.
"You literally just joked about diving in the shower."
"He wasn't joking," Jean purred.
Rose shrieked and threw a pillow at her. "Oh my GOD, I'm related to all of you and I want a memory wipe."
Harry grinned, devil-may-care and entirely too satisfied. His girls curled around him like satellites around a star—Ororo on the armrest, Jean on his lap, Natasha tracing lazy patterns into his chest, and Tonks halfway upside down with her legs over the couch back and her head in Harry's lap.
Outside, fireworks still lit up the sky with green, gold, and red.
Inside, chaos reigned supreme.
The World Cup was over.
And somewhere between the commentary, the popcorn, and the makeout threats—real magic was just getting started.
—
A few hours later…
Their room aboard the Quinjet looked like the aftermath of a Category 5 hurricane that had been both passionate and deeply satisfying. Clothes were strewn across the floor like confetti at a very adult Hogwarts house party. The faint scent of sandalwood incense hung in the air, doing its best to battle the overwhelming musk of victory (read: sex), and failing miserably.
Jean Grey lay sprawled across Harry's chest, her hair a tangle of crimson curls and her telepathy currently on airplane mode. Tonks was facedown, one leg twitching like her body still hadn't gotten the memo that playtime was over. Ororo had somehow ended up with one leg draped over Natasha, both of them glowing faintly with the kind of radiance you only got from being loved like a goddess. Harry, in contrast, looked like he'd just walked out of a shampoo commercial—refreshed, glistening, and smug enough to qualify as a war crime.
"I hate you," Natasha muttered without heat, poking Harry's chest with a single finger. "Why aren't you even sweating?"
Harry grinned. "Magic stamina, healing factor, and Super Soldier Serum. I'm basically a sentient power-up."
Tonks groaned into the pillow. "Pretty sure I dislocated a hip. Might need a Mediwizard or a priest."
Jean, voice hoarse and utterly unbothered, added, "I can't feel my everything. That includes body, soul, and mortgage."
Ororo mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "And I was the one controlling the thunder. Who's the storm now?"
Before anyone could groan in agreement, the intercom buzzed with a sharp bzzzt.
James Potter's voice—dashing, vaguely smug, and with the unmistakable charisma of a man who knew he looked like a Calvin Klein ad—crackled through the speakers. "Uh, Harry? Sorry to interrupt your… group meditation, but we've got a situation. Couple of Death Eater wannabes are playing Quidditch with the campground director and his family. Mid-air. Screaming. Fire. Classic chaos. Thought you might want to ruin someone's day."
Harry groaned, but sat up, gently shifting Jean off him with the kind of care you reserve for priceless paintings and post-orgasmic redheads.
"Didn't even get my post-coital nap," he muttered, reaching for the Cloak of Levitation hanging like an expensive robe on a chair.
"Can't these idiots wait until after brunch?" Ororo complained, lightning sparking in her eyes.
"They're Death Eaters," Natasha deadpanned, stretching like a sleepy assassin. "They have no etiquette. Probably never even used a salad fork."
Tonks rolled onto her back and whimpered, "I can't duel evil with jelly legs. Someone get me a Pepper-Up before I become one with the mattress."
Harry pointed toward the dresser. "Pre-brewed. Left them out three hours ago. Because I know my girls."
Jean lifted her head just long enough to shoot him a look that was equal parts amused and aroused. "You're a menace."
"Correction," Harry said, already suiting up. "I'm your menace."
Tonks scrambled upright and passed out potions like shots at a Vegas bachelorette party. "Alright, bottoms up! And if I die, I want to be buried in glitter."
With a chorus of exaggerated groans, the girls downed the potions. Almost instantly, color returned to their cheeks, eyes brightened, and bones collectively stopped protesting.
Jean wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Whew. Okay. I'm back. Let's go melt some bigots."
Ororo hovered a few inches above the ground. "I want to put a lightning bolt in someone's trousers."
Natasha cracked her neck. "I'm going to punch a fascist so hard, it'll echo in their family tree."
Tonks adjusted her hair to a neon pink Mohawk. "Dibs on the guy levitating the Muggles. He's mine. I want to see what his spine sounds like."
With practiced ease, they activated their nano-suits—magic-tech marvels designed by Lily Potter and Tony Stark, combining sleek Vibranium mesh with enchantments worthy of Merlin's diary.
Jean's suit was crimson-gold with faint telekinetic glow lines. Ororo's was silver and rippled with streaks of electric blue. Tonks shimmered like a walking aurora borealis. Natasha's was matte black with subtle Widow's Bite runes. Together, they looked like a magazine spread for "Superpowered & Slaying."
Harry, ever the minimalist, just tugged on the Cloak of Levitation. The rest of his armor—red-and-gold, Phoenix-emblazoned, Gryffindor wet-dream couture—formed around him like magic (because it literally was). The cowl sealed over his face, eyes glowing gold.
He looked like if a god cosplayed Iron Man.
Tonks whistled. "You look like the final boss in a JRPG."
Natasha smirked. "Correction. We're the final boss fight."
Ororo, now floating, added, "Let's go rain on their little hate parade."
Jean used her telekinesis to open the hatch. "Try not to blow up the forest, Harry."
Harry shrugged. "No promises. But I will aim for maximum poetic justice."
The five of them launched into the night like comets—fire, lightning, psychic energy, and sass streaking through the dark sky.
Below, the campgrounds were chaos incarnate. Screaming campers. Floating Muggles. A bunch of wand-waving hooded morons who clearly thought Voldemort cosplay was still trendy.
Unfortunately for them, they were about to learn two very important lessons:
One: Hate crimes in Harry's presence earned you a one-way trip to getting your teeth magically alphabetized.
And two: You never, ever interrupt a Potter mid-orgy.
"Time to crash the party," Harry muttered.
And then they descended like divine judgment.
(With sparkles. And probably a thunderclap shaped like a middle finger.)
—
Campgrounds – Moments Later
Lucius Malfoy, poster child for "rich people who look like they drink unicorn tears with breakfast," was wobbling atop a levitating picnic table. He twirled his wand like it was a baton in the world's least coordinated marching band and announced in his best sloshed-snob voice:
"To the glorious days! When fear meant respect, and the Ministry was just a glorified suggestion box!"
His audience? Crabbe and Goyle Sr., who looked like someone had jammed two trolls into tuxedos and called it fashion. They whooped like frat boys at a cursed kegger, their goblets sloshing with some glowing purple liquid that smelled like a hangover mixed with regret.
Above them, a half-dozen Muggles spun slowly in mid-air, suspended by a Levitation Charm set to "nightmare mode." Their occasional shrieks added a creepy rhythm to the madness below.
A young Pureblood girl — clearly auditioning for the role of "Budget Bellatrix" — skipped around a bonfire with a manic grin and zero blinking. She flung sparks like a toddler hopped up on sugar and Dark magic.
"Crucio conga!" she sang, aiming hexes at the Muggles in time to the beat. "Come on, you filthy little tap dancers!"
Then the world broke.
BOOM.
A thunderclap cracked the air like a cosmic mic drop. The bonfire scattered in a swirl of sparks, the levitating table went full Michael Bay, and Lucius Malfoy faceplanted into a patch of unfortunate hedgehogs. The Muggles, now gently descending to the ground, blinked in dazed confusion.
Above the chaos, lit by flickering remnants of wild magic and the kind of righteous fury usually reserved for deities and women who've had their evening plans ruined, floated five figures.
Harry descended first, because of course he did. His golden armor shimmered like molten sunlight, the Phoenix emblazoned across his chest flaring with magic. The cowl peeled back, revealing tousled black hair, cheekbones sculpted by divine mischief, and an expression that screamed: "Someone is about to have a very bad day."
Jean hovered beside him, red hair blazing like a comet and eyes lit with telekinetic fire. Ororo drifted in on storm clouds that crackled with electricity, looking like she was about to judge the entire world. Tonks landed with a somersault, her hair flaming (literally) and her grin sharper than her knives. And Natasha? Natasha cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, and looked like she was deciding which bones she wanted to break for cardio.
Lucius, now covered in soot and hedgehog quills, blinked up at them.
"Wh-who invited the bloody costume brigade?"
"We're the after-party," Harry said, voice smooth as melted chocolate and just as dangerous. "You missed the orgy."
Wannabe Bellatrix shrieked something unintelligible and hurled a curse.
Jean raised a hand. The spell bounced off her shield, ricocheted, and set Goyle Sr.'s robes ablaze.
"Honestly," she said, brushing ash off her shoulder. "Amateur hour."
"Sweetheart, do you want me to vaporize her or give her a wedgie from space?" Harry asked, eyes not leaving Lucius.
"Let's go with space wedgie. Make a statement," Jean said sweetly.
Ororo raised a hand, and the sky answered with a lightning bolt that scorched a rune-shaped crater inches from Lucius's feet. He screamed like someone had hexed his hairline.
"That," Ororo said in her best goddess voice, "was a warning shot."
Crabbe Sr. tried to Apparate.
Harry snapped his fingers. The anti-Apparition field crackled into place with a sound like magic giving someone the middle finger.
"Welcome to Screw-You County," he said. "Population: you idiots."
Tonks landed in front of a Death Eater mid-sprint. Her flaming hair flickered as she grinned.
"Hiya. Tag. You're unconscious."
POW. One punch later, the guy was on the ground, rethinking every life choice.
Natasha flipped over another Death Eater, caught his wand mid-air, and jabbed it into his pressure point.
"Interrupting our afterglow? Really? I had candles. There was chocolate."
Lucius scrambled backward.
"You can't attack us! W-we have rights!"
Harry landed in front of him with a soft thud, eyes glowing gold.
"Sure," he said. "You have the right to shut up before I decorate the forest with your face."
"Harry," Jean said, floating down beside him.
He sighed. "Fine. PG-13. Lucius, you look like a racist bottle of cologne. That wig isn't fooling anyone."
Lucius opened his mouth.
Magic ropes shot out, wrapped around him like sarcastic tinsel, and tied him into a full-body straightjacket. The ropes sparkled with glitter and pulsed with sass.
"That's better," Harry said, dusting off his hands.
Jean leaned close, lips brushing Harry's ear. "That explosion back there? Very hot."
"You saying my boom gets you going?"
She smirked. "You have no idea."
Ororo floated past, smirking. "Less flirting. More rounding up idiots."
"Loser buys brunch?" Natasha asked.
Tonks whooped. "Dibs on the ones with stupid haircuts!"
"I'll take the ones trying to crawl back to their moms," Natasha offered.
Ororo rose into the air. "Anyone else in skull masks gets turned into modern art."
Jean lifted off with a mock salute. "Therapy coupons for the survivors."
Harry watched them go, a warm smile tugging at his lips. These were his girls. His fury. His fire.
He looked down at Lucius, who was now whimpering into the dirt.
"You could've just stayed home and been irrelevant, Lucius. But no, you had to cosplay as fascism."
Lucius whimpered louder.
Harry turned toward the woods, scanning for movement.
"Alright, lovebirds," he called. "Hide-and-seek time. Winner gets brunch. Loser explains to Logan why we're late."
A collective groan answered him.
"Not Logan-Logan," Tonks moaned. "He makes us do push-ups while he yells in Canadian."
Harry chuckled, his boots crunching over charred grass as he moved. The stars twinkled above, pretending none of this happened.
He glanced skyward, rolled his eyes, and muttered:
"You had to interrupt the orgy, didn't you?"
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled like a laughing god with perfect comedic timing.
—
Deep in the Forest Adjoining the Campgrounds
The night air smelled like someone had tried to barbecue a corpse with bad cologne. Smoke, sweat, and sheer panic twisted through the trees. Somewhere behind them, campers were still screaming, which, frankly, was not helping the ambiance.
Fleur Delacour ran like the hounds of hell were at her heels—and maybe they were. Her little sister, Gabrielle, was clutched tight against her chest, shivering like a leaf caught in a thunderstorm. Fleur's silvery hair stuck to her forehead, her robes were torn, and she was seconds away from setting the entire forest on fire just for the aesthetic.
They'd gotten separated from their father during the chaos. He'd told them to run, shoved them toward the trees, then turned to duel a masked attacker without so much as a goodbye. Fleur hadn't looked back. Now she was starting to regret that decision.
Because, of course, they weren't alone.
Three Death Eaters stepped out from the underbrush like the world's worst surprise party. One of them was dragging a long chain like he'd mistaken himself for a horror movie villain. The second had a mask that looked like a melting goblin. The third just looked... sleazy.
"Well, well," the goblin-face guy purred. "A pair of Veela. What a gift."
The sleazy one grinned under his mask. "Crucio the tall one. Make the little one sing. Or maybe we Imperius them both, see who dances better."
"No, no," said Chain Guy, licking his lips. "Make her strip first. Then we kill the brat."
Fleur planted her feet and shoved Gabrielle behind her like she was shielding a national treasure. Her wand was already out, but her hand shook. Not out of fear. Out of fury.
"You touch her," she growled, her voice thick with her French accent and righteous Veela rage, "and I will burn you so hard even your ghosts will need aloe."
They laughed.
Wrong move.
A crack of thunder boomed overhead. Not natural thunder. This was theatrical, overly dramatic, and completely badass. Wind swept through the forest, sending leaves flying like confetti. And then, just to top off the whole 'hero entrance' vibe, a figure floated down from the sky.
He wasn't flying. He was descending, which is a very different, very spooky thing. His red cloak fluttered behind him like it had a mind of its own. When he touched the ground, it didn't fall—it hovered, floating midair like a ghost refusing to be left out.
His armor gleamed crimson and gold, not like a polished knight, but like war made stylish. A golden phoenix was emblazoned across his chest, glowing faintly. His helmet resembled a bird of prey—sharp, angular, and about as comforting as a shark in a ball pit.
The Death Eaters hesitated. Even they knew a Main Character Moment when they saw one.
"Who the hell is—?"
SNIKT.
Twin sets of claws extended from his hands with a sound that made every spinal column in a five-mile radius twitch. Three claws per hand. Gleaming. Wicked. Absolutely not decorative.
One of the Death Eaters panicked and fired the Killing Curse. "Avada Kedavra!"
Green light lanced forward. It hit the Revenant—because let's be honest, that's who this had to be—dead in the chest.
The spell vanished.
Not reflected. Not deflected. Just absorbed. The claws hummed with green energy for a second, then it was gone, like he'd drunk it for breakfast.
"Right," the sleazy one said. "So, maybe not the Crucio as well then."
The Revenant moved.
Fleur would later describe it as watching someone teleport with a vengeance. One second he was there, the next he was a red and gold blur.
He split Goblin-Face open from shoulder to hip with one fluid swipe. The man crumpled, leaking all the wrong colors.
Sleazy tried to run.
Claw to the knee. Screams. Blood. Dragged backward. Another claw—this one straight through the groin. Fleur winced. She wasn't even a man, and she felt that.
Chain Guy tried to put up a shield.
It shattered like a wine glass in a rock concert.
Then a claw through the throat. Gurgle. Silence.
The clearing went dead quiet.
Blood soaked the dirt. Leaves fell slowly, as if too scared to land near him. The Revenant stood amidst the wreckage like a walking nightmare, his claws dripping and humming with leftover energy. His cloak drifted lazily behind him, as if still enjoying the fight.
Fleur clutched Gabrielle, heart still hammering.
He turned.
Just… looked at them. No words. No sound. But Fleur felt it. Recognition. Concern. Sadness. Like seeing someone through a one-way mirror.
She stepped forward.
"Attendez!" she called. "Please, wait!"
He paused. The cloak slowly floated back down and reattached itself with a click that felt final.
"Who are you?" she asked, voice soft but steady. "You saved us. At least tell us your name."
The helmet turned slightly. Then he spoke.
Low. Gravelly. Ancient. And just a little tired.
"They call me many things," he said.
A pause.
"But tonight… I'm the Revenant."
Then he launched skyward, vanishing into the smoky night like Batman with better color coordination.
Fleur stared after him.
"Le Revenant…" she whispered.
Gabrielle peeked out from her robes. "Zat was better than any movie."
Fleur could only nod, still shaken.
Behind them, three corpses bled into the soil. And the forest whispered with the kind of reverence usually reserved for gods and monsters.
Turns out, sometimes they're the same thing.
—
Moments Later — The Same Forest
Crunch.
A twig snapped behind them—normally a harmless noise, but right now, it might as well have been an explosion. Fleur spun around, wand at the ready, Gabrielle still clinging to her waist like a koala to a eucalyptus tree.
But this time, it wasn't another horror show.
Out of the shadows strode Sebastian Delacour, his wand blazing like a lighthouse, a squad of French Aurors behind him dressed like a couture SWAT team. His coat swirled as he walked, and despite the blood, sweat, and forest grime, he looked like a man who could file paperwork and kill a dragon before breakfast.
"Fleur! Gabrielle!" he shouted, voice cracking in a way it hadn't since Fleur was nine and set the curtains on fire because they clashed with her mood.
Appoline Delacour swept in right after him, veil disheveled, earrings lost somewhere in the undergrowth, but eyes fierce as a mama wolf. She dropped to her knees, grabbing Gabrielle in one hand and Fleur in the other, pulling both into the kind of hug that said I almost lost you, and I will never let that happen again, not even if I have to hex Death itself.
"Maman," Gabrielle whispered, and promptly started crying, because that's what you do when the terror's over and your people are there.
Sebastian reached them next. "Are you injured?" he demanded, inspecting both daughters like a field medic with a PhD in parental panic.
"No," Fleur said, her voice calm. Too calm. That was the giveaway.
He squinted. "Fleur... what happened here?"
Fleur opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again, because her brain was still playing the Greatest Hits of what she'd just seen: claws, blood, floating cloaks, and a murder ballet that would give Tarantino chills.
"There were Death Eaters," she began, her tone mechanical, like she wasn't entirely sure this wasn't a dream. "Three. One with chains. One with a goblin-face mask. One who made me wish I'd learned more explosive spells."
The Aurors fanned out around the clearing. Someone vomited behind a tree. Someone else muttered, "Mon Dieu…"
Appoline gently touched her daughter's cheek. "And... how did you escape, chérie?"
Fleur looked down at her own hands, still trembling. "We didn't."
Appoline blinked. "...What?"
"Someone saved us."
Now Sebastian's brow furrowed like a man who hated mysteries and loved arresting them. "Someone? Who? Another Auror?"
Fleur shook her head. "No. Not an Auror. Not a man. A legend."
That earned some looks. Sebastian's nostrils flared.
"He flew," Fleur said. "Not on a broom. Just… descended. His cloak floated. His armor was red and gold and glowing and terrifying. He didn't talk much. Just... killed them. Efficiently. Brutally."
She gestured toward the bodies—what was left of them.
Gabrielle piped up, still sniffling. "He had claws. Like a tiger. But cooler."
Fleur turned back to her parents, eyes wide and filled with something new—something warm. "He called himself the Revenant."
The name hit like a dropped chandelier. The Aurors stilled. Sebastian muttered a curse under his breath.
"He's a ghost story," one of them said. "An asset of the non-magique organisation SHIELD. There are rumors about him from all over the world. Some say he eats curses. Others say he was cursed into that armor."
Another added, "I heard he walked into a vampire nest and walked out without a scratch."
Fleur smiled faintly. "He walked into three monsters tonight… and left them in pieces."
Sebastian looked like he wanted to argue—but he didn't. He just looked down at the carnage and exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this night had officially jumped the shark.
Appoline gently guided the girls toward the medics, but Fleur glanced back once more.
She couldn't stop thinking about him. The Revenant.
He hadn't spoken more than two sentences. Hadn't shown his face. Might've been a cursed soul in armor forged in hell.
But he had saved them. Gabrielle was alive because of him. And the way he moved—the power, the grace, the sorrow buried in those glowing eyes—it stirred something deep in her chest.
Something foolish. Something romantic. Something dangerous.
Fleur had always been a sucker for fairy tales.
And she was starting to wonder if she'd just met her very own bête.
—
Meanwhile — Deeper in the Woods
The forest smelled like victory, scorched magic, and burnt egos.
Harry—ahem, the Revenant, because apparently nicknames that sound like metal albums help when you're slaying genocidal fascists—walked out of the trees with the casual swagger of someone who had absolutely just made a crater out of a Death Eater with his bare hands.
His armor melted away, folding neatly back into the sleek black bodysuit beneath. He looked like a futuristic assassin and a Greek demigod had a baby. If the baby grew up, trained with Batman, and flirted like a rockstar.
Tonks was the first to spot him. She twirled her wand and grinned, hair shifting from a soft pink to electric purple in that way that made Harry's inner chaos goblin sigh contentedly.
"There he is!" she called, resting her boot on a hogtied Death Eater. "Thought you'd gotten lost in the woods. Or found another damsel in distress. Maybe a distressed damsel with great legs?"
"Only one with great legs I've got time for right now is you, Nymphadora," Harry shot back with a smirk.
Tonks rolled her eyes, but she was blushing. "Merlin's left buttcheek, you are so annoying when you flirt."
"Yeah," Natasha said dryly, flipping a knife between her fingers while lounging on a stunned dark wizard like it was a chaise lounge. "But he flirts like a Bond villain and kisses like a Greek tragedy, so I let it slide."
"Greek tragedy?" Jean asked, floating a foot above the ground with literal psychic fire glowing in her hair. "That's weirdly poetic for you, Nat."
Natasha gave a slow shrug, that casual cool oozing out of her pores. "What can I say? The man haunts. You try kissing someone who smells like lightning and phoenix fire. It's like making out with the apocalypse. In a good way."
Harry raised an eyebrow, walking into their circle like the star of a movie trailer. "You all done gossiping about me or should I step out and come back in?"
"You could try coming back shirtless," Jean said, gliding closer. "For research purposes."
"Scientific reasons," Ororo added smoothly, striding over with the regal grace of a queen and the quiet danger of a storm cloud. "We believe your abs might be responsible for increased morale among the team."
Harry reached for her hand and kissed it—old-fashioned, suave, and absolutely lethal to everyone's self-control. "Your Highness, if it pleases the court, I'd be happy to provide a full-body demonstration. Several times."
Ororo arched a brow. "Such dedication to your duty."
"Comes with the title," Harry said. "Revenant, Slayer of Death Eaters, Breaker of Bed Frames—"
"—Breaker of Bed Frames?" Tonks wheezed, laughing. "Did you seriously just give yourself that nickname?"
"I don't choose the titles," Harry said solemnly. "The titles choose me."
Jean leaned into him, lips grazing his ear. "You're lucky you're hot."
"And you're lucky I haven't turned this whole forest into a sauna yet," he muttered, slipping an arm around her waist. "Because the way you're looking at me? That's a fire hazard."
Jean blushed. The trees probably did, too.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "If you're done pretending you're the protagonist of every fantasy novel ever written, we've got one Death Eater left conscious and mildly whimpering. I vote we let him crawl back to Voldy and report that Hell officially has air support."
Harry grinned. "Make sure he sees me shirtless on the way out."
Ororo took his hand again, her voice low. "So. Now that the trash is taken out…"
"Shall we resume the… exercise regimen?" Jean asked, mischief in her voice.
"You mean the one where I nearly pulled a hamstring?" Tonks chirped, casually adjusting her shirt so it revealed a suspicious amount of collarbone. "Because someone doesn't know his own strength."
Harry tilted his head, mock thoughtful. "That's not what you said when I had you pinned to the wall—"
"Sir!" Tonks barked, pretending to faint.
"You do know we're still in a public forest," Ororo said mildly. "Technically."
Harry jerked his thumb toward the 'tent'—a Quinjet cloaked under several layers of glamours and enough privacy spells to make even the most nosy centaur explode from curiosity. "Five-star accommodations. Climate control. And reinforced everything. You're welcome."
Natasha sauntered over and pulled his zipper halfway down with one finger. "You know, most guys would be tired after a full battle."
Harry leaned close, his voice low and just the right amount of cocky. "I'm not most guys."
Jean grabbed his hand. "Prove it."
Tonks grabbed the other. "Race you inside."
Ororo simply disappeared in a streak of lightning. Because of course she did.
The tent flap closed behind them with all the subtlety of a promise.
Outside, the forest was quiet again—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the faint thud-thud-thud of reinforced walls being pushed to their limit.
If tents could talk, this one would probably scream.
If it could blush, it'd be scarlet.
And Harry?
Well, somewhere between the second makeout session and the third suspicious noise complaint from the onboard AI, he decided life was pretty damn good.
---
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