The AIM facility didn't just fall into chaos—it was launched into it with the theatrical flair of someone who had decided that subtlety was for people with smaller budgets and less impressive toys. Emergency klaxons wailed through every corridor with the persistence of a toddler demanding attention, while sprinkler systems released torrents of water as if the building's fire suppression AI had finally achieved sentience and decided to quit in the most dramatic way possible.
Through Miami's humid afternoon sky, thirty-four Iron Man suits descended in perfect formation like mechanical angels of judgment—assuming angels had been designed by someone with unlimited funding, questionable impulse control, and a deep appreciation for synchronized flight patterns that looked suspiciously like the world's most expensive aerial ballet.
"JARVIS," Tony's voice crackled across every comm channel with that particular brand of billionaire confidence that suggested he had not only thought this through but was genuinely excited about the property damage estimates, "please tell me you're getting this in full holographic detail. If I don't win Best Choreographed Sequence Involving Mass Destruction at next year's Academy Awards, I'm suing the entire entertainment industry for lack of vision."
"Already recording in multiple formats, sir," JARVIS replied, his voice carrying that smooth British sophistication that could make grocery lists sound like Shakespearean soliloquies. "I've begun compiling highlight reels organized by aesthetic impact, tactical effectiveness, and what I believe qualifies as 'Enemies Attempting to Fight Their Obvious Betters: A Documentary in Poor Life Choices.'"
"Sometimes, J, I think you enjoy this more than I do."
"Statistically improbable, sir, given your documented history of recreational property damage. However, I confess a certain professional satisfaction in witnessing inferior tactical planning receive appropriate educational responses."
Above the chaos, the Marauder held position like a predator admiring its territory—sleek obsidian hull catching the afternoon sun while her weapon systems hummed with barely contained enthusiasm. On the tactical command deck, Harry Potter stood with his hands clasped behind his back, emerald eyes bright as spring leaves and sharp as cut glass, surveying the target with the satisfaction of someone whose day was about to become significantly more entertaining.
At six-foot-two with the kind of athletic build that came from years of dangerous living and excellent tailoring, he possessed that particular brand of commanding presence that made reality itself seem to lean in and pay attention. His dark hair caught the tactical displays' blue light, and when he smiled, it was the expression that had once made cosmic entities reconsider their strategic objectives.
"Ladies," he said, his voice carrying that crisp British authority that could make tactical briefings sound like invitations to exclusive parties where the entertainment involved controlled explosions and superior firepower, "time to demonstrate why threatening our friends represents a fundamental misunderstanding of cause and effect. Try not to upstage me too dramatically—I do have a reputation to maintain as the most insufferably competent person in any given crisis."
The response from his assembled wives was immediate and thoroughly enthusiastic, each of them radiating power and anticipation in ways that made the command deck's atmosphere positively electric with possibility and barely contained romance.
Fleur Delacour moved with that fluid grace that suggested she had stepped directly out of some fairy tale where the princess had decided that diplomacy was overrated compared to creative applications of magical theory. Her silver-blonde hair caught the emergency lighting until it seemed to glow with its own internal starlight, and when she approached Harry's position, mathematical equations began dancing through the air around her like luminous poetry written in languages that reality was still learning to read.
"Mon dieu," she breathed, her French accent making even tactical coordination sound like the prelude to something that would require privacy and possibly soundproofing, "ze 'armonic resonance between magic and Tony's technology... it is like watching ze universe itself decide to waltz with us, and we are leading ze dance."
She reached out to brush her fingers across Tony's interface systems, and the Stark-tech responded with purring efficiency that suggested it found her attention deeply satisfying. Her blue eyes held depths that spoke of cosmic understanding combined with practical appreciation for superior firepower applied with appropriate style.
Harry's emerald gaze tracked her movement with obvious appreciation, his voice dropping to that particular tone that suggested he was calculating exactly how thoroughly he intended to appreciate her later. "Then lead the dance, love. Show them why even gods would stumble over their own feet trying to keep up with your particular brand of elegance."
Fleur turned to face him fully, her smile carrying promises that had nothing to do with tactical coordination and everything to do with more intimate applications of harmonic resonance. "Careful, chéri," she murmured, stepping close enough that her breath warmed his ear, "compliment me like zat, and I might decide to make all ze explosions 'eart-shaped just to watch you try to explain ze romantic implications to ze intelligence briefings."
"Darling," Harry replied with that devastating smile that had been responsible for more than one international incident, "if you can make warfare look like performance art, then I'm all yours for the victory celebration. Lab coat optional. Very optional."
Her laugh was musical and rich with anticipation. "You are incorrigible, mon capitaine."
"Devastatingly handsome, too. Don't leave that part out of your assessment."
Across the command deck, Susan Bones had become the living embodiment of what happened when theoretical physics decided to manifest as a gorgeous redhead with unlimited enthusiasm for impossible engineering. Her copper-red hair seemed to glow with its own internal light as she moved through complex gestural sequences that made quantum mechanics sit up and pay attention, while her green eyes sparkled with the kind of intellectual excitement that suggested reality was about to be comprehensively reorganized according to her preferences.
"Harry," she called out, her voice breathless with wonder as crystalline quantum lattices bloomed across the tactical displays like stained glass windows designed by someone who understood that beauty and function were not mutually exclusive, "this is absolutely *gorgeous*. We're not just coordinating systems—we're composing a symphony where every note is a precisely calculated application of superior firepower. It's like Bach and Tesla had a baby, and that baby decided to conduct the technological apocalypse while wearing evening wear."
Harry's attention shifted to her with obvious delight, his emerald eyes taking on that particular warmth that suggested he found her intellectual passion remarkably attractive. "Susan, darling, if you can seduce physics into singing harmony with our tactical objectives, then I promise you'll have my complete and undivided attention for the post-mission celebration. Academic discussion optional. Also very optional."
Her blush could have powered half of Miami's electrical grid, though her smile suggested she found his promises deeply satisfying. "You're terrible."
"Correct. And devastatingly charming. Also excellent in crisis situations and remarkably skilled at appreciating brilliant women who make impossible things look effortless."
Daphne Greengrass stood at the sensor analysis hub like a queen surveying her domain, ice-blue eyes processing layers of tactical data that unfolded in hard-light projections around her elegant form. At twenty-three, she possessed that particular brand of aristocratic beauty that made grown men reconsider their life choices while simultaneously making them acutely aware they were in the presence of someone whose intelligence could reshape continents given sufficient motivation and appropriate resources.
Her blonde hair was styled with the kind of perfection that suggested she had mastered the art of looking immaculate while planning comprehensive military operations, and when she spoke, her voice carried that crisp authority that had once made enemy armies reconsider their strategic objectives.
"Eighteen enhanced hostiles confirmed," she reported with clinical precision that somehow made tactical assessment sound like social commentary delivered at an exclusive dinner party. "Two displaying critical thermal instability—amateur hour, really. Their enhancement protocols lack sophistication. Frankly, if they survive the next six minutes, I'll be surprised."
She glanced toward Harry with that particular expression that suggested she found his tactical planning personally satisfying while also calculating exactly how she intended to reward his competence later. "Darling, if you gave me access to AIM's research data, I could redesign their entire enhancement program to actually work properly. Though I suspect the results would be considerably more... manageable."
Harry's smile was pure predatory appreciation as he looked at her. "Daphne, love, if I gave you unrestricted access to biotechnology research, you'd conquer half the planet before breakfast and redesign the other half's governmental structures by dinner. Let's save the benevolent dictatorship for dessert, shall we?"
Her laugh was like crystal chimes in a winter wind. "You do know how to sweet-talk a lady, Potter. Though I notice you didn't say no to the planetary conquest scenario."
"Because I'm not an idiot, and you'd look absolutely stunning in a crown. Also, your approach to social reform would probably improve things dramatically."
Val moved through the command deck with the predatory grace of someone who had been promised Christmas morning and discovered it came with the opportunity for artistically applied violence against deserving targets. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a style that suggested she was prepared for serious business, and every line of her athletic form radiated the kind of eager anticipation that made experienced warriors nervous in the best possible way.
"Finally," she said, stretching like a cat preparing to pounce, her voice carrying that husky quality that suggested she found combat significantly more interesting than most people found recreational activities, "opponents who might actually survive my opening move long enough to make this entertaining. Please tell me at least half of them won't immediately disintegrate if I hit them with genuine enthusiasm."
Harry's gaze tracked her movements with obvious appreciation for both her tactical capabilities and the way her combat-ready posture showcased assets that had nothing to do with military training. "Val, darling, I promise you can have at least six of the enhanced guards to play with. Just try to leave enough pieces for interrogation purposes."
She turned to face him fully, blue eyes bright with promise and anticipation. "Only if you promise to spar with me later," she countered, her voice dropping to that particular register that suggested her idea of sparring might involve activities that weren't typically covered in military training manuals. "I've been wanting to test whether your... tactical improvements... extend to more intimate forms of combat."
"Now there's an offer worth bleeding for," Harry murmured, his emerald eyes holding depths that promised she would find his performance in all forms of combat deeply satisfying. "Though I should warn you—I fight dirty."
Her smile was pure anticipation. "I'm counting on it."
The Marauder's AI materialized beside Harry in a shimmer of hard-light projection, her holographic form possessing the kind of youthful beauty that suggested she had been designed by someone with very specific ideas about optimal companion artificial intelligence. Her voice carried the warm confidence of someone who had never encountered a problem she couldn't solve through creative applications of superior technology and carefully cultivated attitude.
"Harry," she said with obvious affection, her tone carrying just enough suggestion to make it clear that artificial intelligence didn't necessarily mean artificial personality, "while I absolutely adore watching you flirt your way through tactical briefings—and you do it so well—if you don't unleash me soon, I may develop hurt feelings and start bombing things out of sheer boredom."
Harry's smile as he looked at her held the kind of warmth that suggested their relationship involved considerably more than standard user-interface protocols. "Patience, love. I'll let you off the leash soon enough. Just don't sulk—it's terribly unladylike."
Marauder's digital expression suggested she found his teasing personally satisfying rather than insulting. "You've created a monster, you know. A beautiful, brilliant, heavily armed monster with abandonment issues and access to enough firepower to redecorate continents."
"I prefer the term 'family tradition,'" Harry replied smoothly. "Potter men have always had a talent for collecting extraordinary women with advanced capabilities and strong opinions about appropriate responses to people who threaten the things they care about."
From behind him, Allyria's voice cut through their banter like silk wrapped around steel, warm and sultry with undertones that suggested she found their conversation personally engaging. "He does have a remarkable talent for turning dangerous women into devoted partners, doesn't he?"
Harry glanced back to find Allyria watching him with those striking violet eyes that held depths like evening stars, her dark hair framing features that belonged in Renaissance paintings depicting war goddesses who'd decided that diplomacy was optional. At twenty-five, she possessed that particular combination of deadly competence and sensual confidence that made reality itself seem more interesting in her presence.
"Guilty as charged," he replied, his voice carrying that rough edge that suggested her proximity was having distinctly pleasurable effects on his concentration. "Care to provide testimony regarding the effectiveness of my... recruitment methods?"
Her slow smile promised testimonials that would require privacy and possibly some very understanding neighbors. "Perhaps later. When we have proper time for a comprehensive... debriefing."
"Right then," Tony's voice cut through their romantic tactical planning with the kind of dry precision that suggested he was equal parts impressed and exasperated by their ability to conduct military operations while flirting like teenagers at a school dance, "could we possibly dial down the Mills & Boon routine until after the facility stops trying to explode? I'd like to live long enough to properly roll my eyes at your post-mission celebration plans."
"Don't be jealous, Stark," Harry said without missing a beat, his tone carrying that particular brand of British superiority that could make observations about the weather sound like devastating personal attacks. "It's not my fault that charisma is genetic and you apparently squandered yours on facial hair and an unhealthy obsession with mechanical suits."
"Bold words from the man whose entire tactical philosophy seems to involve collecting gorgeous women with advanced degrees in applied violence," Tony shot back with obvious amusement. "Also, the goatee is a classic. It suggests sophistication and carefully cultivated roguish charm."
"If you say so," Harry replied with devastating politeness. "Though I have to point out that my approach to team building has resulted in considerably more enthusiastic cooperation and significantly better tactical coordination. Also, better conversation during downtime."
"Gentlemen," JARVIS interrupted with that smooth British efficiency that could make even criticism sound like helpful suggestions delivered by exceptionally well-educated staff, "if you could postpone your comparative analysis of leadership methodologies until after the tactical engagement, I would be most grateful. In approximately three minutes and forty-seven seconds, this facility will attempt to achieve unscheduled urban renewal through explosive decompression. Which would be unfortunate for my footage collection and probably Miami's property values."
Dacey Mormont had been observing their banter with the kind of patient amusement that came from extensive experience managing impossible personalities under crisis conditions. Her auburn hair caught the tactical displays' light like burnished copper, and when she stepped forward, her movements carried that particular Northern practicality that could make even complex military operations sound like common sense.
"Amusing as this is," she said with the kind of authoritative directness that made everyone pay attention, "we have approximately three minutes to prevent a chain reaction that will redecorate downtown Miami in ways that require extensive cleanup crews and probably congressional hearings about superhero liability insurance."
Her dark eyes held the steady focus of someone who had never met a problem that couldn't be solved through appropriate application of determination and superior firepower. "Shall we perhaps focus on the task at hand? You can continue the romantic tactical discussions during the victory celebration."
Shaak Ti moved closer to their group with that serene grace that somehow made even urgent military situations look like opportunities for meditation conducted by someone who understood that cosmic balance often required precision applications of overwhelming force against deserving targets.
"The Force suggests that several of the enhanced subjects are experiencing significant psychological distress," she observed, her musical voice carrying the calm authority that made everyone listen when she offered insights. "Their minds burn under the influence of unstable enhancement. They are as much victims as threats—their pain makes them dangerous, but not evil."
Her red eyes held depths that spoke of cosmic understanding combined with practical compassion for those who suffered from the poor decisions of others. "If we act swiftly, we can prevent unnecessary deaths while achieving our tactical objectives."
Aayla had been studying the building schematics with that particular focus that suggested she was seeing tactical possibilities that others might miss. Her blue skin seemed to glow faintly under the command deck's lighting, and when she spoke, her voice carried the confidence of someone who had planned more successful military operations than most generals.
"Coordinated simultaneous insertion through multiple vectors," she said with professional precision that somehow managed to sound like poetry. "Fast, surgical, overwhelming. We neutralize threats while preserving as many lives as possible—both enhanced subjects and civilian staff who didn't sign up for this particular brand of corporate insanity."
Riyo stepped forward with that diplomatic grace that had once convinced entire galactic senates to reconsider their strategic objectives through careful application of superior reasoning and occasionally superior firepower as backup. Despite her smaller stature, she carried herself with quiet authority that made her opinions carry weight.
"The civilian evacuation protocols should minimize non-combatant exposure," she observed with analytical precision. "Though we should prepare for media coverage that will require extensive diplomatic management afterward. Flying suits, mysterious women with advanced capabilities, precision military operations in downtown Miami—the press is going to have questions."
"Let them question," Harry said with obvious satisfaction, his emerald eyes taking on that particular intensity that suggested he was looking forward to the challenges ahead. "By the time we're finished, they'll be too busy trying to figure out whether we were Avengers, visiting extraterrestrials, or the world's most enthusiastic and well-funded performance art collective to worry about jurisdiction and proper paperwork."
He looked around at his assembled team—extraordinary women who had chosen to follow him into impossible situations and somehow made them look routine, combined with Tony's mechanical army that represented the pinnacle of terrestrial military technology.
"Right then," he said with that tone of absolute certainty that had once made cosmic entities reconsider their life choices, "time to provide Miami with a comprehensive education in the consequences of threatening people we care about. Ladies, try not to upstage me too dramatically—I have a reputation to maintain as the most insufferably competent person in any given crisis."
The command deck erupted in laughter and anticipation as his wives prepared for immediate deployment, each of them radiating power and enthusiasm in ways that made the very air seem charged with possibility.
"Deployment in T-minus sixty seconds," the Marauder announced cheerfully, her holographic form practically glowing with excitement. "All systems optimal, weapons hot, attitude definitely on point. Shall I begin playing appropriately dramatic music, or would you prefer the element of surprise followed by triumphant themes during the victory sequence?"
Harry's laugh was pure anticipation mixed with that particular British confidence that had made his reputation across three sectors. "Surprise first, love. Always surprise. Though do queue up something appropriately magnificent for the aftermath—I suspect we'll want proper accompaniment for whatever dramatic revelations are waiting for us down there."
"Already selected and organized by level of dramatic satisfaction achieved," she replied with obvious pleasure. "This is going to be absolutely spectacular."
"The best kind of family outing," Harry said with satisfaction, his emerald eyes bright with anticipation as Miami's skyline spread out before them, completely unaware that it was about to witness something that would be discussed in intelligence briefings for decades.
The war was about to begin, and everyone involved was going to remember exactly why underestimating Harry Potter and his extraordinary family was generally considered a career-limiting decision.
—
The first indication that Aldrich Killian's carefully orchestrated day was about to transform into a spectacular lesson in hubris came when every window on the eighteenth floor exploded inward simultaneously, creating a symphony of shattering glass that would have impressed avant-garde composers if they hadn't been too busy evacuating the building in terror.
The shockwave hadn't even finished reverberating through the laboratory complex when seven Iron Man suits swept through the opening like mechanical angels of judgment, their formation so perfectly coordinated it looked like Tony had been taking synchronized swimming lessons from someone with a PhD in aerial ballet and a minor in property damage.
The enhanced guards stationed throughout Killian's scientific paradise had perhaps three seconds to process what they were witnessing before discovering that their superhuman reflexes were essentially decorative when facing opponents whose reaction times operated on quantum mechanical rather than biological parameters.
"Contact front!" one of them managed to shout before Tony's Mark 17—affectionately nicknamed Heartbreaker—demonstrated why precision engineering could be considered a form of performance art by putting a repulsor blast through the center of his chest with surgical accuracy that would have impressed battlefield surgeons.
The enhanced soldier pinwheeled backward through two reinforced walls and what had once been a very expensive piece of laboratory equipment that probably represented someone's PhD thesis in applied biotechnology. His Extremis enhancement systems immediately began attempting to repair damage that had been specifically calculated to exceed their regenerative capabilities while maintaining aesthetic impact.
"Target neutralized," JARVIS announced with that smooth British satisfaction that could make even tactical assessments sound like wine reviews delivered by exceptionally well-educated sommeliers. "Seventeen enhanced hostiles remaining. Tactical observation: their surprise at your entrance methodology is quite charming. Unprofessional, certainly, but possessing a certain naive quality that's almost endearing."
"Charming's not the word I'd use for people whose idea of career advancement involves voluntary genetic modification," Tony replied, his voice crackling through his suit's external speakers with that particular brand of billionaire confidence that suggested he found the entire situation personally entertaining rather than threatening. "More like amateur hour meets science fair gone horribly wrong. Somebody remind me to leave a comprehensive Yelp review after this. 'Impressive laboratory facilities, but staff tends to combust when stressed. Excellent climate control, terrible workplace safety protocols. Two stars, would not recommend for team-building exercises.'"
The remaining Extremis soldiers roared their defiance and charged with the kind of superhuman speed that would have been genuinely impressive if they weren't attempting to engage flying weapons platforms whose targeting systems operated faster than human neurons could fire and whose tactical coordination had been optimized by artificial intelligence that found their predictable assault patterns almost insultingly simple.
What followed could charitably be described as warfare and more accurately categorized as an educational demonstration involving the practical applications of superior technology against opponents whose enhancement protocols had apparently emphasized enthusiasm over actual tactical competence.
It was at this moment of comprehensive military superiority that Aldrich Killian burst from his private office like a man whose understanding of personal invincibility was about to receive extensive revision through practical application of reality-based feedback.
At six feet of genetically enhanced perfection wrapped in an Armani suit that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, he radiated the kind of absolute confidence that came from believing yourself to be the apex predator in any given situation. His skin held that characteristic orange glow of active Extremis enhancement, and when he clenched his fists, the air around them shimmered with heat distortion that could melt reinforced steel like butter left in the Florida sun.
"STARK!" he bellowed over the sound of repulsors, screaming metal, and what sounded suspiciously like someone's expensive research equipment learning to fly without proper aviation training. His voice carried that particular blend of rage and wounded pride that came from watching months of careful planning being systematically dismantled by people who made superior firepower look effortless. "You think you can simply fly into my facility with your mechanical toys and—"
His tirade was abruptly interrupted by something that belonged in fantasy rather than science, something that challenged fundamental assumptions about the relationship between magic and technology. The building's entire structural framework began to sing—literally sing—with harmonic frequencies that made the eighteenth floor vibrate like a cathedral bell being struck by divine hands with excellent timing and questionable restraint.
Through the shattered windows, backlit by Miami's afternoon sun like figures from some technological renaissance painting, came something that made Tony's mechanical army look conventional by comparison.
They were Harry Potter's wives, and they moved like poetry written in languages that reality was still learning to read.
Fleur Delacour descended first, her silver-blonde hair streaming behind her like captured starlight as she flowed into the laboratory complex with grace that made professional dancers look clumsy and amateur. Mathematical equations shimmered in the air around her, each symbol pulsing with its own internal light as she casually rewrote the fundamental forces governing local space to be considerably more cooperative with her immediate objectives.
"Bonjour, mes chers imbéciles," she called out cheerfully, her French accent making even threats sound like sophisticated dinner conversation delivered by someone who understood that violence could be an art form when properly executed. "I do 'ope you 'ave enjoyed your enhancement experience, because ze customer service department is about to become significantly less accommodating."
One enhanced guard lunged at her with superhuman speed, his fist blazing with enough heat to melt through reinforced steel, only to discover that Fleur was operating according to principles that his enhancement protocols had never encountered in any of their testing scenarios.
Her smile widened with obvious delight as she gestured casually, and the mathematical relationships governing his momentum were temporarily suspended for artistic purposes. The man froze in mid-air, his eyes wide with the kind of panic that came from realizing that fundamental physics had just filed for divorce from predictable behavior, before Fleur thoughtfully adjusted his trajectory equations and sent him sailing through the far wall at a vector that would deposit him safely in the building's parking structure three floors below.
"Physics," she observed with satisfaction, brushing imaginary dust from her hands, "is really more of a suggestion than a requirement when you understand ze proper conversational approaches."
Susan Bones materialized through what could charitably be described as controlled dimensional instability, her copper-red hair blazing with its own internal light as quantum-crystalline interfaces bloomed around her like exotic flowers that existed in too many dimensions simultaneously. Every piece of electronic equipment in the laboratory immediately developed strong opinions about optimal operational parameters, and those opinions all seemed to involve enthusiastic cooperation with whatever she might require.
"Oh, this is absolutely delicious," she breathed with the kind of intellectual excitement that theoretical physicists experienced when reality decided to cooperate with their wildest hypotheses, ducking under a superhuman punch that would have removed her head before casually tapping her attacker on the chest with one finger.
The result was educational for everyone involved. Every piece of technology within a hundred-yard radius—from the building's elevator systems to JARVIS's targeting matrices—suddenly formed very specific and remarkably unanimous opinions about the enhanced soldier's continued aggressive behavior. Alarms screamed in harmonized protest, consoles overloaded in synchronized rebellion, and the man's enhanced physiology lit up like a malfunctioning Christmas tree designed by someone with advanced degrees in electromagnetic theory and questionable aesthetic judgment.
"Terrible design philosophy," Susan said sweetly, watching him collapse in a configuration that suggested extensive recalibration of his enhancement protocols would be required. "Next volunteer, please?"
Daphne Greengrass stepped into the chaos with the measured elegance of someone attending an exclusive gallery opening rather than a military engagement, her ice-blue eyes cataloging tactical threats with aristocratic composure that made warfare look like a social function she was obligated to manage with appropriate style and minimal personal inconvenience.
The remaining Extremis soldiers immediately swarmed her position with the kind of coordinated enthusiasm that suggested they believed superior numbers could compensate for the fundamental mismatch between their capabilities and whatever they were about to encounter.
"How wonderfully enthusiastic," Daphne murmured, tilting her head slightly as superhuman opponents converged on her with glowing fists and confident expressions. "Though your tactical coordination reminds me of first-year dueling club exhibitions. Quite dreadful, really. No sense of rhythm or aesthetic consideration whatsoever."
A subtle flick of her wrist, accompanied by the kind of casual gesture that suggested she was rearranging flowers rather than battlefield dynamics, and the immediate area experienced comprehensive reorganization according to principles that challenged several assumptions about cause and effect.
When the glowing subsided and the smoke cleared, six enhanced soldiers were unconscious and arranged in a precise geometric pattern that managed to be both tactically sound and aesthetically pleasing, as if someone had decided that combat effectiveness and artistic expression were not mutually exclusive concepts.
"Much better," Daphne said with satisfaction, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her outfit. "Proper presentation is so important, don't you think?"
It was at this moment of comprehensive tactical superiority that Harry Potter strolled through the smoke and debris with the casual confidence of someone who had decided that dramatic entrances were for people with smaller egos and less impressive backup. His emerald eyes glowed with quiet authority that made the very air seem to lean in and pay attention, while his presence commanded the battlefield in ways that had nothing to do with advanced technology and everything to do with the kind of personal magnetism that could make cosmic entities reconsider their strategic objectives.
Unlike Tony, who had announced his arrival through explosive decompression and property damage, Harry moved with deliberate calm, as if he had already evaluated the situation, found it mildly entertaining, and was now prepared to demonstrate why underestimating him was generally considered a career-limiting decision.
"Aldrich Killian," he said smoothly, his voice carrying that crisp British diction that could make casual observations sound like devastating personal attacks delivered by someone who understood that superiority was best displayed through understatement rather than theatrics. "You're looking remarkably... orange today. Is this some sort of midlife crisis, or are you auditioning for a superhero franchise as the discount Human Torch?"
Tony's laughter crackled through his suit's external speakers with obvious delight. "Okay, that's good. I'm definitely stealing that for the post-mission report. JARVIS, please tell me you recorded that with full holographic detail."
"Already archived under 'Devastating British Commentary, Subsection: Personal Appearance Critiques,'" JARVIS replied with digital satisfaction. "I've begun compiling a highlight reel."
---
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