The Quinjet sliced through a patch of clouds like it had somewhere very important to be—and was late. It descended onto the SHIELD Helicarrier Tempest with all the subtlety of a mic drop, hissing, gleaming, and trailing magical residue that sparkled like it had something to prove.
Nick Fury waited at the edge of the landing strip, flanked by Maria Hill and Gideon Adler. Fury looked like he hadn't blinked since the Cold War. Hill was already scribbling something judgmental on a datapad. And Gideon? Gideon Adler was the kind of man who made a three-piece suit look like a combat uniform. Silver hair, a war criminal's resume, and the eyes of someone who had learned to flirt and kill in the same breath.
Then the gangway dropped—and so did everyone's expectations for anything normal.
Harry Potter walked down the ramp first, shirt tight enough to qualify as a war crime, emerald eyes glinting like sarcasm had evolved into a superpower. He had one hand wrapped around Lucius Malfoy's collar, dragging him like a particularly annoying suitcase. Malfoy was gagged with a magical neon-orange ball gag labeled "Whine-Cancellation Charm."
"Director Fury," Harry called casually. "Got you some gifts. One pureblood supremacist starter pack, extra pathetic."
James Potter followed behind, looking like a dad who'd woken up late for brunch but still managed to model for GQ. Sirius came next, tossing Goyle Sr. over his shoulder with all the care of someone moving furniture.
"This one sang the Imperial March the entire trip," Sirius said, deadpan. "We considered ejecting him."
"Still might," Tonks muttered, hair shifting from bubblegum pink to a dangerous neon red. She popped her gum, cracked her knuckles, and smiled like mischief had a body count.
Natasha Romanoff strolled down in skin-tight pajama pants and a crop hoodie that said "I Bite." She looked like sleep deprivation and murder had had a baby. She slinked up beside Harry, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing his cheek.
"Told you he'd make a scene," she whispered.
"He always does," Ororo said, descending like an actual goddess, white hair whipping in the wind. Her fingers sparked gently with electricity as she leaned into Harry, brushing her lips against his temple.
Jean trailed after them, yawning into her coffee mug, her red hair glowing like fire had decided to chill. She locked eyes with Harry and smirked. "Next time, let me throw the first hex. You always hog the fun."
"And the attention," Maria Hill added, already calculating how much therapy SHIELD agents would need after reading the incident report.
Fury raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—camping trip gone to hell?"
"Bingo," Harry replied. "And they tried to skewer a toddler in his sleep, which, I don't know, feels like a 'go directly to magical jail, do not pass Go' situation."
Lucius made a muffled sound that might have been a complaint or a particularly offended cough.
"Pretty sure he just called me a halfblood degenerate," Gideon Adler said mildly, stepping forward. "Which is bold, considering he's the one in enchanted shackles and a spit bib."
"He means it with love," James added, grinning. "The kind of love that usually ends with fire and screaming."
"Noted," Hill muttered.
Crabbe Sr. whimpered. Goyle Sr. muttered something about dark lords and bathroom breaks.
"Can we keep the gags?" Tonks asked. "They're adorable. I mean, look at Nott Sr. trying to glare like he didn't just wet himself."
"We'll file for permanent installation," Maria said, not even blinking.
Gideon waved the Death Eaters toward a reinforced magical containment pod. "I'll handle processing under ICW statutes. Magical terrorism, premeditated dark ritualism, illegal enchantments, and general idiocy."
Harry leaned against the Quinjet, arms crossed, surrounded by beautiful women and the echo of pure sarcasm. "You missed 'terrible taste in masks' and 'screaming the name of a known war criminal like it's a boy band.'"
Gideon smirked. "Consider it added."
Jean wrapped her arm around Harry's shoulders. "So, waffles and war crimes. Typical Saturday?"
"Don't forget near-death flirting," Natasha added.
Tonks fake-swooned. "Harry saved me. Again. I think it's only fair he gets to pick the movie tonight."
Ororo gave Harry a sideways glance, her smile slow and thunderous. "He already promised me first dibs on the hot chocolate and back rub."
"Ladies," Harry said, sipping his coffee with exaggerated smugness. "There's enough hero to go around."
James groaned. "Merlin, he's turning into Sirius."
Sirius grinned. "You're welcome."
Fury gave a half-smile, the kind that meant "I'm impressed but also slightly terrified." He turned to Hill. "Add 'weaponized charm' to Potter's file."
"Already did," Hill said. "Under 'hazardous magical flirtation.'"
"I am not crying!"
That was Ted, emerging from the Quinjet with his hair in disarray and a floating dictionary hovering above his head.
Rose, trailing behind him with a book under one arm and what looked like a homemade explosive in the other, rolled her eyes. "He was crying. The Latin for 'righteous fury' made him weep."
"It was poetic," Ted sniffed.
"Everything good back there?" Harry asked.
"Define 'good,'" Rose replied. "Because one of the prisoners tried to bite me. I turned his teeth into Dobby plushies."
"Good girl," Andromeda said, walking out with the grace of a woman who had once hexed a Death Eater with a ladle.
Lily appeared last, flanked by spells and dignity, dressed like war and high fashion had a lovechild. She nodded once to Fury.
"They're all yours. And if one of them so much as breathes too hard, let Rose detonate something."
Fury nodded. "We'll handle it. Debrief in an hour. Bring muffins."
"Way ahead of you," Harry said, lifting a basket of chocolate-chip chaos.
They walked into the Helicarrier like royalty, banter echoing, boots clicking, enemies behind them and waffles in their future.
The camera would've panned out right then, because somewhere in the Atlantic sky, justice was landing hard—and looking ridiculously good doing it.
—
The sound of coordinated boots on reinforced metal echoed like a war anthem with great lighting. The corridor of the Tempest wasn't ready for the parade of sass, sarcasm, and unholy hotness that stormed through like an Avengers-Meets-Marauders fashion show.
Jean floated her coffee. Ororo summoned a breeze to keep her curls halo-perfect. Tonks briefly turned her nose into a duck bill just to make Rose cackle—and it worked. Meanwhile, behind them, a collection of Death Eaters was being wheeled away like particularly cursed Amazon returns.
"Going to see Uncle Phil!" Rose called over her shoulder, peeling off with a wink. "He owes me gossip, chocolate, and possibly a favor I can abuse later."
"Don't bully Coulson!" Harry called.
"I never bully," Rose replied sweetly. "I just radiate very convincing suggestions."
Enter Gideon Adler—cloak swirling, silver hair dramatic, expression tightly composed like he'd just filed a war crimes report using calligraphy. He caught up, flanked by his usual aura of dry doom.
"We may have a problem," he said in his usual tone, which translated to: fire incoming, wear sarcasm as armor.
Tonks leaned sideways and whispered, "Only one? We must be slipping."
That earned a snort from Jean, a sigh from Fury, and a smirk from Natasha, who casually slinked up behind Harry and slid her hands around his waist.
"Tell us it's Voldemort with a TikTok," Natasha murmured. "We could use the laugh."
Gideon did not laugh. Gideon never laughed. Gideon looked like laughing had been surgically removed.
"Dumbledore's stirring things up at the ICW," he said.
Every bootstep stopped.
Ororo's eyes crackled. Lily muttered something in Latin that might've melted a brick wall. James stopped chewing his emergency gum.
"He's invoking his role as Supreme Mugwump," Gideon went on, clearly hating every syllable, "to demand the 'reunification of the Potter family with Wizarding Britain.' For the greater magical good."
Harry groaned. "Of course he is. Next, he'll release a concept album called Manipulation: The Musical."
"Wouldn't be his worst offense," Lily muttered.
"Still behind 'sending my infant son to live with sociopaths,' though," James added.
Gideon adjusted a button on his pristine vest, which probably meant he was trying not to hex a foreign diplomat. "Now that the world knows Harry's alive, he's pushing the idea that Harry is—"
"Built like Zeus's hotter younger cousin, trained by assassins, and dating four women who could kill him and make it look like an accident?" Sirius offered.
"The Chosen One," Gideon corrected with great restraint.
Jean floated closer to Harry, leaned against his shoulder like she owned it. "He wants to control Harry. Pretend he's guiding him."
"More like grooming him into a puppet," Natasha said, smile razor-sharp.
"Or weaponizing him," Ororo added, her voice quiet thunder.
"Which is ironic," Harry said, emerald eyes flashing. "Considering he handed me over to the Dursleys like a secondhand toaster."
James's jaw twitched. Lily looked ready to commit a murder with her heels. Sirius cracked his knuckles like they owed him money.
"Then Hydra got creative," Harry added. "Super Soldier Serum, Wolverine's DNA, Vibranium skeleton. They built a monster, and now Dumbledore wants to pretend he raised it."
"He's making a play," Gideon continued, more composed than any man should be around a woman shifting her hair color with her mood. "He's backing the return of the Triwizard Tournament."
Tonks blinked. "Wait—is that a band?"
"Ancient magical death competition disguised as school spirit," Gideon deadpanned.
"Sounds on brand," Natasha said, stretching like a cat who'd just decided violence was the plan.
"He's convinced the French Ministry to loan him the Goblet of Fire."
"That is definitely a band," Tonks whispered.
Gideon ignored her. "It's a magical artifact that creates a binding contract with anyone whose name it selects. You can't back out."
Harry blinked. "He's going to put my name in it. Force me into the tournament. Legally bind me to Hogwarts."
"And sideline SHIELD," Gideon said. "He gets his golden boy savior. You get shackled to a school with a body count."
"And no backup," Hill said. "It's a classic political snatch-and-grab."
"So... what's our next move?" James asked, crossing his arms.
Fury looked at Harry, who was suddenly the still point in the middle of all their motion. Emerald eyes, jaw set, muffin halfway to his mouth.
"We go to Hogwarts," Harry said.
Jean smiled. "I assume you don't mean... quietly."
"We don't do quiet," Natasha purred, pressing a kiss under Harry's jaw.
Ororo stepped closer. "We bring the storm."
"With accessories," Tonks added, morphing her nose into a lightning bolt.
"Let's make it unforgettable," Harry said, finally taking a bite of the muffin.
Fury turned to Hill. "Start prepping for diplomatic overkill."
Hill was already typing. "Filed under: Operation Flaming Goblet."
Natasha smirked. "Hope Hogwarts is ready. Because Harry just RSVP'd to their little party. And he's bringing a thundercloud in leather."
Jean leaned in and whispered, "And four very pissed-off girlfriends."
Ororo smiled lightning. Tonks blew a kiss. Natasha cracked her knuckles. Jean raised her mug.
And Harry? Harry just finished his muffin, looked straight ahead, and smiled like the storm had already started.
—
The sass storm had barely cleared when Harry turned to Gideon Adler, whose face suggested he'd just eaten a lemon and remembered every one of his exes at the same time.
"So," Harry said, finishing his muffin like a man who'd survived weirder breakfasts, "how exactly do you think Albus 'Drama-Club-President-for-Life' Dumbledore plans to use the Goblet of Fire? You're the only one here who's been his lover, his enemy, and the reason he can't make the Elder Wand his dinner date."
Adler, who could rock a waistcoat like it came with a license to brood, let out a slow sigh that screamed, This is why I drink Earl Grey with whiskey.
"At heart," Adler said, adjusting his cuffs with theatrical precision, "Albus is a diva."
"Oh, good," Jean muttered, arms folded and red hair flaming like a solar flare. "A diva with a death stick."
Adler nodded solemnly. "He won't submit your name under the existing three schools. Too predictable. Too... provincial."
Tonks, who now had a mini Hogwarts spinning atop her head like a mobile, twirled her wand. "Pedestrian is Dumbledore's personal hell. Right next to 'sensible footwear' and 'being out-dramatized.'"
"He'll Confund the Goblet," Adler continued, ignoring Tonks' cosplay. "Make it think there's a fourth school. With the Elder Wand, that's... distressingly doable."
"And since mine will be the only name under School #4: Magical Nonsense and Other Hijinks," Harry said, "I'll get picked. Like an idiot in a group project."
Adler inclined his head. "Exactly."
"And then," Harry said, voice syrupy with sarcasm, "as the hall's applauding, the Goblet'll hiccup and spit out one more name. Mine. Dumbledore'll drop his sherbet lemon. Possibly fake a fainting spell."
"He'll definitely pause for dramatic effect," Adler noted. "Maybe summon a phantom orchestra."
Natasha wrapped her arms around Harry's waist from behind, lips brushing his ear. "And we hijack the drama."
Harry smirked. "Exactly. We legitimize the Fourth School. With Gideon as the Headmaster."
Adler blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Tonks beamed, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Congrats, Professor Doom-n-Gloom. You get to give detentions and receive chocolate bribes."
"I hate all of you," Adler muttered, adjusting his collar.
"You'll fit right in," Sirius said. "That was our family motto."
Fury leaned against the wall, arms crossed like a particularly smug gargoyle. "More importantly, SHIELD gets boots on the ground. Diplomatic, magical, and deeply attractive boots."
Jean floated a few inches off the floor, sipping her coffee with the serenity of a telekinetic goddess. "And conveniently, one of Voldemort's Horcruxes is hiding there."
Hill raised an eyebrow. "You already found the rest?"
"Diary, check," Harry said. "Two years ago, Dobby popped into Rose's room mid-pajama meltdown and warned her not to go to Hogwarts."
"She wasn't going anyway," Lily added. "We enrolled her in Xavier's."
"Dobby couldn't say who his master was, but I told him to slip a moldy sock into his tea. Boom. Freed. Bound himself to me like an aggressively loyal backpack."
"He brought us the diary," Ted added. "Within minutes. It smelled like teenage angst and murder."
"The locket was next," Sirius said. "Found it in my late brother's Emo Drawer. Adler destroyed it. The House Elf died from joy."
"Heart attack," Andromeda clarified. "It was disturbingly poetic."
Sirius didn't even fake sadness. "He was a racist couch-goblin."
"The Cup?" Ororo asked, her voice like velvet thunder.
Sirius smirked. "Used my title to pull it out of Bellatrix's vault. She tried to hex me. I hexed her hair extensions."
James looked proud. "That paperwork was chef's kiss."
"The ring was in the Gaunt shack," Jean said. "Where horror stories go to have kids."
Adler nodded. "The Resurrection Stone was on it. I may have tried to kiss it."
James rolled his eyes. "We had to pry it off his face. He was whispering to thin air."
Adler didn't look sorry. "I'm a sentimental warlord."
"So now there's Nagini," Harry said, expression darkening. "The emotional support murder noodle."
"Newest Horcrux," Natasha said. "She sleeps curled around Voldemort's baby-body like a Disney villain's pet."
"And the last?" Lily asked, her eyes dangerously bright.
"Ravenclaw's Diadem," Adler said. "Lost. Hidden. Probably at Hogwarts."
Jean floated back down. "So we let Dumbledore walk us right into it."
Natasha's fingers slid under Harry's shirt like she was testing for concealed weapons—or maybe just flirting with a capital F. "We play the game. But on our terms."
"Uniforms?" Tonks asked brightly.
"Black leather and chaos," Jean said.
"Mascot?" Rose piped up from the background, leaning in like a budding war general.
"A phoenix riding a missile," Ororo offered.
"Name?" Fury asked, already pulling up SHIELD's forms.
"Operation Flaming Goblet," Hill deadpanned.
Harry looked to the sky, eyes glinting emerald and vengeance. "Let's go break a school."
—
Harry Potter stood like a man on the edge of both a magical academic meltdown and a supernatural military operation. His emerald eyes glinted with unspoken schemes, a half-eaten muffin in one hand and twenty-seven missions forming behind that dangerously charming smile.
"Right," he said, cracking his knuckles. "So. Where's the rest of the cavalry?"
Fury, standing nearby and oozing tactical exasperation, lifted one eyebrow like it personally offended him to be asked anything before coffee.
"You mean the patriot, the dame, and the winter war crime?"
Harry grinned. The kind of grin that usually came with explosions, sarcastic one-liners, and at least one broken international treaty. "Exactly. I want Captain America, Captain Carter, and Bucky 'how-many-knives-can-one-man-carry' Barnes on standby."
Lily Potter—immaculately red-haired and watching like a lioness in yoga pants—raised an eyebrow.
"You planning to start a Hogwarts PTA or just trigger the Second Wizarding War early?"
"Bit of both," Harry said. "Depends on how many speeches Dumbledore gives this year."
Fury sighed. It was the kind of sigh that said, "I should've stayed in bed."
"Cap's running recon in Madripoor. Barnes is with him, playing knife fairy. Carter's doing her UN charm offensive."
"Perfect," Harry said, already pulling up his phone. "Ping them. Tell them Hogwarts is back on the chessboard. And bring Surge."
Maria Hill, cool and perpetually six spreadsheets ahead, tapped her tablet.
"Erica Hayes is at the Wakandan consulate in Nairobi. Should I tell them she's being drafted for magical war crimes?"
"She'll love the field trip," Ororo said from behind Harry, her voice a blend of thunderclouds and silk. "Especially if we let her punch someone posh."
Harry smirked. "I'll have Gilderoy Lockhart give her a tour."
Tonks, currently rocking pink hair and Gryffindor Quidditch robes over yoga pants, let out a snort. "He's still at St. Mungo's, right?"
"Only mentally," Sirius said, completely unbothered.
"And Clint?" Harry turned back to Fury.
"Montana," Fury said flatly. "Retirement, version twenty-seven. This time it involves goats."
"Tell him Hogwarts has towers to perch from and things to shoot."
Jean, who was floating a few inches off the floor because gravity was more of a suggestion for her, floated her phone over. "He'll come for the view. Stay for the chaos."
"Talon?" Harry asked.
"Thailand," Hill replied. "Bodyguard gig with her dad."
Harry grinned like he'd just been handed a loaded wand and an alibi. "Tell Logan to bring her. And his grumpiest flannel."
"That is Logan's flannel," Jean muttered.
"Do they even have flannel in Thailand?" Tonks asked.
Natasha Romanoff, leaning against the wall like a Vogue ad with knives, didn't blink. "If not, he'll make one. From sarcasm and regret."
Harry turned to his mother. "Mum, call Tony. Tell him to get his billionaire ass over here."
Lily sighed like she'd expected this since childbirth. "Do I have to say it exactly like that?"
"No," Harry said, "but add, 'your godson needs a war budget and some shiny armor.' He responds faster to guilt and sass."
Lily was already dialing. "This is why I drink wine at 4 p.m."
"Andromeda," Harry said, turning to his other favorite redhead. "Tell Charles Xavier we're borrowing Jean for world domination. Temporary. Probably."
Jean rolled her eyes. "He won't even blink. I'm already listed as 'frequent flyer' on the danger scale."
Gideon Adler, who could brood in high definition, cleared his throat like he was about to narrate a gothic audiobook.
"We're not up against the clock. Dumbledore's going to wait for Halloween. It's his favorite time to be ominous."
Ted, who had been trying to look useful with a clipboard, frowned. "Wait, how do you know that?"
Adler smiled like a man who'd both kissed Dumbledore and hexed him. "Because it's Albus. He once challenged me to a duel on Valentine's Day. With roses. And music."
James muttered, "Please say there were fog machines."
"Three," Adler said. "And a choir."
Harry turned back to the room, voice smooth as enchanted silk. "We've got time. But we prep now. I want everyone briefed, geared, and clear of obligations by October. Hogwarts has rules. I'm about to color outside every single line."
Tonks squealed. "I'll start designing uniforms!"
"You mean shapeshifting into the prototypes?" Natasha asked, smirking.
Tonks winked. "Yes. But sexy."
Jean raised her coffee. "Approved."
Ororo raised a brow. "Just keep me out of tartan."
"No promises," Harry said, pulling her in by the waist, voice low and lazy. "You'd make it look illegal."
"You say that now," Ororo replied against his jaw, "but someday I will wear Crocs to battle."
"And I will propose," Harry whispered.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "If he starts writing sonnets, I'm defecting."
"Too late," Jean said. "He already wrote me a haiku."
"I was concussed," Harry said.
"He rhymed 'telepathy' with 'sexy,'" Jean added.
"Still counts," Sirius said. "Ten points to House Horny."
"You mean Slytherin," everyone said at once.
Fury massaged the bridge of his nose like the migraine was personal. "You lot are the most dangerous threat to world peace I've ever seen. And I've met the Kree."
Harry grinned. "We aim to misbehave. Let's go break a school."
—
MEANWHILE — HOGWARTS – HEADMASTER'S OFFICE – NIGHT
The room smelled like dusty parchment, overripe lemon drops, and a sprinkle of self-righteous destiny.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—yes, all of that fit neatly into his ego and his monogrammed bathrobe—sat behind his desk, gazing thoughtfully at the chaos that had once been "organized intelligence." Now it looked more like a wizard crime board if the conspiracy theorist was a sugar-high Ravenclaw with a flair for drama.
Across from him, perched on his ornate golden stand, Fawkes watched him with the deeply judgmental silence of someone who had witnessed this song-and-dance way too many times before. A soft rustle of flame-tipped feathers said: Here we go again.
Dumbledore, for the record, was not paying attention to the flaming side-eye.
He held a photograph in one hand—a magically enchanted one that kept glitching every few seconds as if it couldn't handle the sheer swagger oozing out of the subject.
Harry Potter.
Tall. Armored. Masked. Glowing.
He looked like someone had merged a comic book superhero with a medieval knight and dipped the whole thing in Gryffindor House pride.
"He was at the World Cup," Dumbledore muttered, mostly to himself. "Of course he was."
Fawkes let out a musical chirp that translated to: You knew he would be, but sure, act surprised.
"And he wasn't alone," Dumbledore continued, eyes scanning a report from the French Ministry that included frantic scribbles like storm elemental?!? and Phoenix cloak = ???
He laid it down and picked up another file. This one was a statement from an ICW observer who, based on the number of exclamation points, was still recovering from the sheer dramatic nonsense that had unfolded.
"Four women," Dumbledore read aloud. "Nymphadora Tonks, yes, I expected that. But the others—two redheads, likely Romanoff and Jean Grey—and one white-haired, dark-skinned elemental who answers to Storm." He rolled the name around like it was too spicy for his palate. "Storm of Kenya. Widow of the Red Room. Phoenix of New York."
He looked up at Fawkes.
"She literally named herself after you," he said. "That's either very flattering or mildly threatening. Thoughts?"
Fawkes blinked slowly. Translation: Try flattered. You need a win.
Dumbledore set down the reports and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in that trademark "plotting something that will traumatize twelve people and save the world simultaneously" pose.
"He doesn't look fourteen," he murmured.
Which was an understatement.
Harry—this Harry—looked like he'd eaten puberty, bench-pressed trauma, and then punched time in the face. Broad shoulders. Towering frame. Not a boy, not even close. Even under the armor and cowl, he looked like someone who'd walked through hell, made friends with the fire, and asked for seconds.
"And the magic," Dumbledore added, reaching for another enchanted replay. "Wandless. Symbol-based. Dimensional gates. Flame constructs. And what is that cloak doing?"
The image flickered to life: red and gold cloak fluttering in ways that clearly disrespected physics, yanking a Death Eater off the ground and yeeting him into a tree like a misbehaving bludger.
"Is it… growling?" he asked aloud.
Fawkes nodded once. Then tucked his beak under his wing, very much over all of this.
Dumbledore stood up now, pacing, his robe sweeping the floor with all the drama of a wizard who'd just been told someone else was cooler than him.
"No wand. No Hogwarts training. No supervision. He's improvising on the battlefield and conjuring spells that haven't even been invented yet! I didn't even see runes. Do you know how hard it is to bypass runes, Fawkes? I tried for sixteen months just to get the Astral Shield of Sumaria to cooperate and this boy—this child—is banishing Death Eaters into the void like it's a card trick!"
He stopped pacing. Picked up another image.
"And the claws. Of course he has claws."
The enchanted parchment replayed the moment in slow motion. Harry flicked his wrist, and out came three gleaming blades from each hand, like some kind of magical wolverine. He moved like a soldier, efficient and terrifying, slicing through two masked wizards before they could even raise their wands.
"I mean, really," Dumbledore muttered. "Who gave the Chosen One metal claws?"
Fawkes gave him the Mom, he's doing it again look.
"I'm not saying I'm jealous," Dumbledore said, which was absolutely the opening line of someone who was jealous. "But I did defeat Grindelwald and I don't remember anyone giving me a cloak that throws punches."
Fawkes sighed. Audibly.
Dumbledore dropped back into his chair and stared up at the ceiling like maybe the meaning of life was hiding behind the chandelier.
"They've turned him into a weapon," he said softly. "A beautiful, terrible weapon. SHIELD. The Potters. The Muggle world. They've molded him into something... dangerous."
Fawkes ruffled his feathers again. You could practically hear the Or maybe they made him into someone who survives behind that flick of wings.
"He could be so much more," Dumbledore said. "A symbol. A leader. My heir."
Now the phoenix went still. Watchful. Glowing faintly.
"I could teach him. Guide him. Help him reclaim his purpose." His tone had shifted now—calm, soothing, persuasive. Like he was trying to sell a basilisk a pair of glasses. "Imagine what I could do with his knowledge. His power. The Elder Wand would respond to that. It would obey me again."
Fawkes finally looked him dead in the eyes, and the silence that followed was the kind that made entire rooms rethink their life choices.
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"Prepare the school," he said, rising again with the slow, regal grace of someone who had already started setting traps three chess moves ago. "Harry Potter is coming."
A pause.
"And this time... he won't leave until I fix him."
The fire behind Fawkes flared high and hot, casting long shadows across the stone walls.
But Dumbledore didn't notice.
He was already thinking ahead.
And that was the problem.
—
SIMULTANEOUSLY — RIDDLE MANOR – THE PARLOR OF DARK INTENTIONS – NIGHT
Once upon a time, the Riddle Manor might've looked grand. Elegant. Gothic in that "we're-rich-and-haunted" kind of way. Now?
Now it looked like a haunted house got into a bar fight with a Depression-era opera set, and nobody won.
The chandelier above dangled from a single chain, swaying gently like it was just waiting to fall on someone dramatic. The wallpaper had given up centuries ago. The portraits on the walls all had that "I regret being painted into this storyline" expression.
In the center of the room sat Lord Voldemort.
Technically.
"Sat" suggested a certain dignity.
What he was actually doing was lounging in a high-backed chair that looked like it had been stolen from a Victorian funeral home. His current form—a weird, pale homunculus with too many bones and not enough nose—was nestled in a cocoon of silk robes and melodrama.
He looked like someone had tried to reassemble a baby out of leftover mannequin parts and then taught it necromancy.
Floating beside him was a goblet of dark, steaming potion that hissed softly, like it was mad about being alive. Voldemort took slow, deliberate sips, every swallow followed by a mild grimace, like he'd just drunk battery acid spiked with regret.
Across the room, Peter Pettigrew—alias Wormtail, alias walking cautionary tale—was trying to milk venom from Nagini without crying. Or bleeding. Or both.
"Careful," Voldemort murmured, voice all silk and razors. "You're angling the fang wrong again, Wormtail."
"I—I'm sorry, my Lord," Peter stammered. "It's just—her fangs are curved and I can't see the—"
"Sharp, Wormtail," Voldemort said, sighing like a Shakespearean actor who had just been cast in an infomercial. "Her fangs are sharp. That's rather the point of having a murder noodle the size of a London taxi, isn't it?"
Nagini flicked her tongue, tail coiling lazily around a cracked pillar.
::He's rather twitchy tonight,:: she said in Parseltongue, voice rich and amused. ::I like it.::
Wormtail winced.
"I—I can hear the hissing, my Lord. Is she saying something terrifying?"
Voldemort took another sip of his potion and gave a vague wave. "She's debating whether you're more useful as an assistant or as a protein source."
Nagini let out a slow, serpentine chuckle that sounded like silk being torn in half.
Wormtail squeaked.
"If it helps, I'm very high in fat, low in satisfaction!" he blurted, nearly dropping the vial. "Like treacle tart. But with more anxiety."
Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, Wormtail. You're milking a snake, not defusing a bomb made of feelings."
He stared into the fire. It didn't flicker so much as glare—probably out of shame for being stuck in this room.
"I spent decades forging myself into the most feared wizard in history," Voldemort murmured. "I broke every law. I split my soul like it was a cheap buffet. I conquered death."
"And then," he continued, tone souring like spoiled wine, "this boy—this child with a superhero complex and a wardrobe curated by Tony Stark—shows up and flambés my Death Eaters like it's amateur hour."
Wormtail, wisely, kept silent.
Voldemort summoned a glowing sphere from the air—a Pensieve memory, swirling with smoke and fire. Inside, the image of Harry Potter took shape.
Red and gold armor. Phoenix crest. That flaming cloak whipping around like it had opinions.
"He's taller now. Stronger. Trained. And that cloak—that cloak—it knocked Macnair into a tree. A tree, Wormtail."
"Yes, my Lord. I remember. His team was… quite effective."
"His team," Voldemort spat the words like they had mold. "What is he now, some kind of boy-band superhero ensemble? Gryffin-Five? The Heroes of Hogsmeade?"
Nagini arched her neck elegantly.
::He did have style,:: she offered. ::And good posture. That cloak really moved well in battle.::
"Thank you, Nagini," Voldemort said dryly. "Yes, let's all admire the aesthetic of our doom."
Wormtail cleared his throat nervously. "Is it… possible SHIELD enhanced him somehow?"
"Possible? Probable," Voldemort said. "Which is why I need his blood."
He ran a long, skeletal finger along the armrest of his chair, voice dropping into a hiss.
"Whatever they did to him—it's in him now. Magic. Muggle Technology. Power. Blended. If I can extract that… I can evolve. No more brittle rituals. No more snake milk lattes. A true body. A perfected form."
Nagini shifted, gaze cool.
::You said that the last three times.::
Voldemort didn't even flinch. "This time is different."
::You said that last time, too.::
"I had budget constraints," he snapped. "This time, I have a plan."
He turned to Wormtail.
"The Triwizard Tournament," he said. "It returns this year. Hogwarts will lower its defenses. Champions will be chosen by the Goblet of Fire… a powerful magical artifact. But susceptible. To the right enchantments."
Wormtail blinked. "You're going to rig the cup?"
"Not just rig it. Design it. We'll enter Harry's name. Ensure he is selected. He won't resist. It's a game. And Potter plays games."
"B-but what about his… friends?" Wormtail asked. "The godfather? The girl with the claws? The pretty one who shoots lightning? That boy who can fly without a broom?"
Voldemort's smile curled like burnt paper.
"They'll watch. They'll cheer. They'll think it's all just another heroic moment. And then…"
He clenched a fist.
"We take him. In the final task. And I return. Whole. Reforged. And powered by the very blood of their beloved Golden Boy."
He waved a hand. The memory in the orb zoomed in on Harry's face. Bright eyes. Determined. Dangerous. And completely unaware.
Voldemort leaned forward and whispered:
"Come, Harry Potter. Come play your little tournament. Come walk into the snake's lair with your shiny armor and your righteousness."
He drained the last of his potion and winced.
"Still tastes like burnt lizard dipped in despair."
Nagini smirked. ::You're lucky I like you.::
Wormtail toppled sideways with a thump.
Voldemort sighed. "And now he's fainted again."
He looked at Nagini. "Remind me again why I keep him alive?"
::Because he cries on command and makes your evil monologues look more dramatic by comparison.::
"Ah. Right." Voldemort smiled faintly. "Everyone needs a pathetic sidekick."
Outside, the wind howled like it had read the script and was very, very concerned.
Inside, Voldemort turned back to his orb.
"Soon," he murmured. "Very soon."
---
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