Harry Potter: The Revenant

Clint Barton and Melinda May stood in the safehouse's main operations room, surrounded by a mixture of SHIELD agents, unfamiliar faces, and the hum of constant activity. Clint was adjusting to the oddity of being in a hidden, high-tech base that seemed to be a world unto itself, while Melinda May was as stoic as always, her eyes sharp, absorbing every detail of their environment.

Peggy Carter, still radiating an ageless authority, paced in front of them, her voice calm and measured as she began explaining the true purpose of the safehouse.

"This safehouse exists for one reason," Peggy began, casting a serious look at Clint and May. "To combat Hydra-allied wizards and raid their bases."

Clint blinked in surprise, his expression skeptical but intrigued. "Wizards? Are we talking magic, or are we still dealing with that weird science stuff SHIELD keeps under wraps?"

Peggy gave a soft, almost imperceptible smile. "Magic. The kind you don't find in the textbooks." She paused, then continued, her tone sharpening. "Hydra, as you probably know, has been attempting to use magic to control and enhance their operations. They've been working with dark wizards who have their own agenda. We've had... complications because of it."

Melinda May raised an eyebrow. "So you're telling us that Hydra's magic is just as dangerous, if not more, than their usual operations?"

Peggy nodded, her face hardening. "Exactly. And that's where Revenant comes in."

Clint looked confused for a moment. "Revenant? The guy who saved us earlier? He's the one behind all this?"

Peggy's expression softened just a touch. "Yes. But he's far more than you realize." She paused before continuing, choosing her words carefully.

"Revenant... or as most people know him, Harry Potter... was once just a six-year-old boy, kidnapped by Hydra." Her voice took on a grim note, as if the memory still haunted her. "Hydra injected him with the Super-Soldier Serum, but the process didn't go as they planned. It aged him rapidly into an adult body—giving him the physical peak of a soldier, but with the mind of a child."

Clint's eyes widened. "They did what?"

Peggy's jaw tightened. "That's just the beginning. They also spliced his DNA with someone called Weapon X—a dangerous operative who possessed unthinkable strength and healing capabilities. And on top of that, they grafted his skeleton with Vibranium. He became something... else entirely."

Melinda May's eyes narrowed. "That's why he's got claws. Vibranium claws."

Peggy nodded somberly. "Yes. Those claws—along with his enhanced abilities—make him a force to be reckoned with. But it's not just his physical prowess. Harry's a wizard. He was born with magical abilities, and over time, he's been training to control them. Now, he can combine wizarding magic with his new powers, making him one of the most dangerous people alive."

Clint blinked slowly. "So... this kid who was kidnapped and turned into a walking weapon is out there, saving us? That's... a lot to take in."

Peggy's face grew more serious. "He doesn't just save people. He fights Hydra head-on. And he's not alone. He's built a team—a team of highly skilled agents and operatives, all dedicated to hunting down Hydra and their magical allies."

The room fell silent for a moment, and Clint and May exchanged looks. This wasn't what they had expected. But it was a lot to digest in such a short time. The thought of magic and Hydra's twisted experiments were overwhelming, but they couldn't deny the seriousness of what Peggy had said.

Just as Clint was about to ask more, the door to the room opened, and none other than Nick Fury walked in, wearing an eye-patch over his left eye. His gait was steady, but there was no mistaking the pain in his expression.

"Fury," Peggy said, her tone neutral but concerned. "You should get some rest."

Fury waved her off. "I've had worse." He looked at Clint and May, then spoke directly to them. "You've just learned about Hydra and their magical allies, but there's a lot more going on. I'm offering you two a chance to be part of this team. You're good, but we need people who can handle more than just the usual SHIELD ops. We need everyone working together to stop Hydra before they gain even more power."

Clint, still a bit overwhelmed but never one to back down from a challenge, nodded. "What's the catch?"

"The catch?" Fury smirked. "The catch is we take down Hydra, no questions asked. They're not just a threat to the world—they're a threat to every single person who's ever lived. This isn't just about stopping terrorists. This is bigger than that. You want in?"

Clint exchanged a look with May, and for the first time, he saw something rare in her eyes—something like hope. May had always been practical, always a little more distant. But now, in the face of something this enormous, something greater than anything they'd ever dealt with before, she nodded.

"We're in," she said firmly.

Fury's gaze softened, just slightly. "Good. Because this is just the beginning."

Peggy, standing off to the side, spoke up once more. "I'll make sure you get briefed properly. But remember—this isn't just about magic and wizards. It's about stopping Hydra from getting their hands on everything. And Harry—Revenant—will be there every step of the way."

Clint let out a low whistle. "Well, guess we'd better get ready for the ride of our lives."

Fury turned to leave. "Welcome to the team," he said, his voice full of grim resolve. "Let's get to work."

As the doors closed behind him, Clint turned to May, a half-smile on his face. "Guess we're really diving into the deep end now."

May's expression remained unreadable, but there was a spark of determination in her eyes. "Yeah. But at least we're not alone."

And with that, they joined the team—ready to face the rising threat of Hydra and their magical allies head-on.

—

On the busy MIT campus, Tony Stark sat at a corner table in the campus coffee shop, his eyes locked onto the new transfer student across the room. He leaned back in his chair, hands casually folded behind his head, looking like he owned the place, even if he was just a teenager.

Tony watched as Cynthia, the new student, navigated the room with an effortless grace. She laughed with a group of students, and her charisma radiated as naturally as the sun. She had that thing—you know, the magnetic pull that made everyone stop and look. Tony's lips twitched into a grin, clearly intrigued.

"Hey, Tony, Earth to Stark," Rhodey's voice cut through Tony's thoughts, and he snapped out of his reverie. Rhodey, his best friend and roommate, had sat down across from him, looking more than a little concerned. "You've been staring at her for like, half an hour. Are you trying to catch flies or...?"

Tony didn't even look away from Cynthia. His smirk was already in full effect. "Relax, Rhodey. I'm just admiring... perfection. Can you blame me?"

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, leaning in, clearly not buying it. "You know, I think you've got a problem. You're not just admiring her, man. You've been giving her the 'I'm Tony Stark and I know you think I'm awesome' look for the last twenty minutes. That's gotta be making her feel real comfortable. Real comfortable," he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Tony waved his hand, dismissing Rhodey's warning like it was a fly buzzing around his head. "Please. She's probably used to it. I mean, look at me." He gestured vaguely at his impeccable style—custom-made suit, perfectly tousled hair, that sharp, confident aura that was just him. "It's not bragging if it's true. Plus, I know she's looking over here. Can't help but notice how good I look. Happens to the best of us."

Rhodey rolled his eyes, not impressed in the slightest. "Okay, but I gotta ask... Why her? The transfer student who shows up outta nowhere and starts acting like she's been here for years? Something's off about this whole thing. She's... too smooth, Tony. Too perfect."

Tony's smirk faltered for a brief moment as he considered Rhodey's words, but only for a second. Then he snapped back with that trademark Tony Stark swagger. "What are you talking about? She's got confidence—something you could use a little more of, by the way. She's not pretending to be something she's not. You could learn something from her."

Rhodey leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, studying Tony like he was solving a particularly annoying puzzle. "No, man. You could learn something from me. I'm not saying she's got a hidden agenda, but there's something about her that doesn't sit right. People don't just come in and instantly steal the spotlight. Not that easily. I've seen this before. Don't trust it."

Tony finally tore his eyes away from Cynthia, looking at Rhodey with that signature Stark expression—the one that said, I'm smarter than you, and I know it. "Rhodey, seriously. Let's just assume she's the best thing to happen to MIT since... me." He gave himself a little wink and continued, "You're watching too many spy thrillers. You do know not every woman is a secret agent sent to mess with my personal life, right? I get it. She's new. She's got some charm. I'm sure she's harmless."

But Rhodey was undeterred, his frown deepening. "You know, Tony, I'm usually the one who gives you the benefit of the doubt, but something about this doesn't sit right. People don't just show up and immediately become the center of attention, no questions asked. I'm telling you, we've got to keep our eyes on her."

Tony, always the optimist, just shrugged and smirked. "You're paranoid, man. I mean, it's cute, in a 'My best friend's the next big action movie star' kind of way. But seriously? I'll keep an eye on her. But not because you said so, alright?"

Rhodey gave Tony a long, skeptical look, then sighed. "Sure, Tony. Do whatever you want. But don't say I didn't warn you when she turns out to be a real secret agent—or worse, a supervillain with a really bad haircut."

Tony burst out laughing. "Rhodey, man, you've got to stop watching those spy movies. I mean, yeah, I'd make an awesome supervillain, but she? She's got too much class to be one. And anyway, if she's a spy, I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeve."

Just then, Cynthia glanced over at Tony and caught his gaze. A soft smile spread across her face, and she raised an eyebrow as if to say, I see you, Stark.

Tony's grin widened in response, and he raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Well, well, looks like someone's a fan. This is gonna be fun."

Rhodey watched the exchange and muttered under his breath, "This is gonna be a mess. I just know it."

But Tony, clearly on a roll, didn't hear him. He was already walking over to Cynthia, his usual cocky swagger returning in full force. "Alright, Rhodey, time to watch the master at work. I'll handle this. You go... I dunno, do something productive with your life."

Rhodey shook his head, but it was a good-natured shake. "You're gonna get yourself into trouble, Tony. You always do."

Tony paused, turning back with a grin. "Yeah, but I always get myself out of it, too. You might want to take notes."

As Tony made his way toward Cynthia, Rhodey remained where he was, his gaze following his best friend with a mix of concern and wariness. He had a gut feeling that this new student—this Cynthia—wasn't just the 'perfect' new girl she appeared to be. And knowing Tony, he'd probably walk straight into whatever mess she was tangled up in.

With a sigh, Rhodey picked up his coffee, muttering to himself. "Here we go again."

—

Natasha entered the main room of the safehouse, her footsteps quiet but purposeful. Peggy Carter and Nick Fury were deep in conversation near the desk, reviewing a set of dossiers. Steve Rogers sat nearby, flipping through a file of his own, still acclimating to this strange, modern world he'd been thrust into.

Natasha cleared her throat softly, drawing their attention. "I have a suggestion for the team," she began, her voice calm but laced with the seriousness that always commanded respect.

Fury raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"I want to bring in Alexei Shostakov," Natasha said bluntly.

Steve looked up, confusion written all over his face. "Who's Alexei Shostakov?"

Peggy, leaning on the desk with her arms crossed, glanced at Fury before answering. "The Red Guardian. He was the Soviet Union's answer to you, Steve. A Super-Soldier created during the Cold War."

Steve's brow furrowed as he processed the information. "Wait, even the Russians tried to recreate the serum? I thought it was only S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra." He gestured vaguely.

"They didn't just try," Fury interjected, "they succeeded—kind of. Shostakov was one of their few successes. The Soviets built him up as their own version of Captain America, a propaganda tool as much as a soldier."

Steve leaned back in his chair, the weight of this revelation sinking in. "So, what happened to him?"

Natasha stepped forward, her expression hardening. "After the Cold War ended, Alexei was recruited by the Red Room—the same organization that trained me. But he didn't agree with Dreykov's methods, especially how he treated the girls in the program. Alexei was vocal about it, criticizing the Russian government and the Red Room's leadership. For that, he was thrown into Seventh Circle Prison."

Steve tilted his head. "Seventh Circle Prison?"

"A maximum-security gulag," Peggy explained, her tone grim. "If you wanted someone to disappear off the face of the earth, that's where you sent them."

"And he's still there?" Fury asked, narrowing his good eye.

Natasha nodded. "Yes. He's been rotting away there for years, but Alexei isn't like most of the people in that prison. He's a good man—rough around the edges, sure, but he has a strong moral compass. He'd be an asset to the team."

Steve rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "If he's a Super-Soldier, why didn't the Red Room keep using him?"

Natasha's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Because Alexei doesn't fall in line. He questions authority, pushes back when he thinks something is wrong. Dreykov couldn't control him, so he locked him away."

Fury leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "A Soviet Super-Soldier who doesn't like authority? Sounds like he'd fit right in here."

"I trust him," Natasha said firmly. "And if we're going to take on Hydra and their wizard allies, we'll need someone like Alexei on our side."

Peggy exchanged a glance with Fury, her expression contemplative. "It's a risk. Breaking someone out of a Russian prison isn't exactly a low-profile operation."

Natasha met her gaze without flinching. "I'll handle the extraction myself. He's worth the risk."

Steve, still processing this new information, finally spoke up. "If he's anything like me, we could use his help. But are you sure he'll want to join us after everything he's been through?"

Natasha hesitated for the briefest of moments before nodding. "Yes. Alexei may be bitter about what happened to him, but he's not the kind of man to turn his back on a fight like this. He'll see the bigger picture."

Fury stood, pacing as he considered the proposal. "Alright. If you're willing to vouch for him, Romanoff, we'll move forward. But if this goes sideways, it's on you."

"It won't," Natasha said confidently.

Peggy tapped her fingers on the desk, her gaze sharp. "If we're doing this, we'll need to prepare. Extracting someone from Seventh Circle Prison won't be easy, even for you, Natasha."

Natasha smirked faintly. "I wouldn't expect it to be. But I'll get him out."

Steve looked at Natasha, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

Natasha turned to him, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. "I don't leave good people behind, Steve. Not if I can help it."

Fury clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, people, let's get to work. We've got a Red Guardian to break out."

—

The dimly lit tavern, nestled in the outskirts of London, was far from welcoming. Its patrons were a mix of shady characters and retirees from magical professions who preferred their peace with a side of anonymity. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody sat in a shadowed corner, nursing a tumbler of firewhisky, his magical eye swiveling erratically while his regular one remained fixed on the entrance. His paranoia wasn't just a habit—it had kept him alive for decades.

As the creaky wooden door opened, Moody's magical eye locked onto the man entering. Gideon Adler stepped in, his stride confident but not ostentatious. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his appearance clean and polished, but with an air of mystery that unsettled most wizards. Moody's lip curled slightly. Too refined for this place. Definitely trouble.

Adler scanned the room, his piercing gaze landing on Moody. Without hesitation, he made his way over, ignoring the eyes of a few nosy patrons. He reached the table, inclined his head politely, and said, "Alastor Moody. May I sit?"

Moody grunted, his real eye narrowing while his magical one zoomed in on Adler's face, studying every feature. "You can sit, but don't think for a second I'm not ready for whatever you're planning."

Adler chuckled softly, pulling out the chair across from Moody. "I would expect nothing less from the great Mad-Eye Moody."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, Adler," Moody snapped, his hand resting on the handle of his wand beneath the table. "Who are you really, and what do you want?"

Adler leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "I'm exactly who I claim to be—Gideon Adler, a descendant of the House of Grindelwald. And what I want... is your expertise."

Moody's magical eye spun again, his distrust palpable. "Grindelwald's descendant, eh? You've got a lot of nerve throwing that name around, lad. That kind of heritage doesn't make friends, especially not with me."

Adler smiled faintly, his composure unshaken. "I'm well aware of the stigma attached to my lineage, but I assure you, I'm not here to cause trouble. Quite the opposite, actually."

"Cut to the chase," Moody growled. "You're wasting my time, and I don't have much patience for pretty words."

Adler's expression turned serious. "I need your help, Alastor. There's a storm brewing—a faction of wizards aligned with Hydra, threatening not just our world, but the Muggle one as well. You've seen the signs, haven't you? The unusual disappearances, the dark artifacts resurfacing, the whispers of something... bigger."

Moody's grip on his wand tightened. "Go on."

Adler leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "You know as well as I do that few wizards have the skill, the experience, or the grit to handle this kind of threat. The Ministry is too slow, too bogged down by politics to act decisively. We need a team of the best—people who understand the stakes and aren't afraid to get their hands dirty."

Moody's regular eye narrowed. "And you think I'm one of them?"

"I know you are," Adler replied without hesitation. "You've dedicated your life to stopping dark wizards, to protecting those who can't protect themselves. Hydra's allies are dangerous, Alastor. They combine dark magic with Muggle technology, creating weapons and strategies the likes of which the wizarding world has never faced. You've fought enemies like this before. You're exactly the kind of man we need."

Moody leaned back, crossing his arms. "And why should I trust you? For all I know, you're one of them, trying to lure me into a trap."

Adler met Moody's gaze, his voice steady. "Because I've seen the destrucion men who walk the same path as Gellert Grindelwald can cause, the lives they can ruined. I've dedicated myself to undoing his legacy, to ensuring that no one else follows in his footsteps. You don't have to trust me, Alastor. But trust your instincts. You know the threat is real."

Moody studied Adler for a long moment, his magical eye scanning him again. Finally, he said, "If I even think you're lying, Adler, I'll bring you down myself."

Adler inclined his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Moody grunted and took a swig of his firewhisky. "Alright, Adler. You've got my attention. But if we're doing this, we do it my way."

"Agreed," Adler said, his tone resolute. "This is bigger than either of us, Alastor. Together, we can make a difference."

Moody didn't reply immediately, his mind already racing through strategies and contingencies. Finally, he said, "Let's see what you've got, Adler. But don't think for a second I'm not watching you."

Adler smirked faintly, raising his glass in a silent toast. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

—

In his sunlit office atop Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his intricately carved chair, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. The scent of lemon drops lingered in the air, mingling with the faint, dusty aroma of ancient parchment. His iconic half-moon spectacles perched on his crooked nose glinted as he gazed thoughtfully at the flamboyantly dressed figure of Mundungus Fletcher standing before him.

Fletcher looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward, his patched robes hanging loosely, and his perpetually shifty eyes darting around the room as though expecting Fawkes, Dumbledore's majestic phoenix, to peck him on the head at any moment.

"Let me get this straight," Dumbledore began, his voice a blend of indulgence and thinly veiled condescension. "You're telling me that Alastor Moody, our dear paranoid friend, has recently been seen... consorting with a man claiming to be a descendant of Grindelwald?"

Mundungus nodded vigorously. "Aye, Headmaster. Gideon Adler, he calls himself. Real smooth-talker, by the sounds of it. I overheard it at the Dog and Bone—er, purely by coincidence, mind you. I wasn't there fer... unsavory business."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching as though suppressing a knowing smile. "How fortunate, Mundungus, that your penchant for the less-than-reputable has provided us with this... fascinating tidbit."

"Don't mention it, Professor," Fletcher said quickly, though his unease suggested he would have much preferred not to be here at all.

The Headmaster's fingers drummed against the polished wood of his desk as he stared into the middle distance, his mind whirring. Gideon Adler... A descendant of Gellert Grindelwald? How deliciously ironic. The recent escape—or liberation, as the whispers called it—of Gellert Grindelwald from Nurmengard had been troubling enough. This new piece of the puzzle made the game all the more intriguing.

"It seems," Dumbledore mused aloud, his tone taking on the air of a man who believed himself the sole player on a chessboard no one else could see, "that fate enjoys presenting me with challenges befitting my... unique talents."

Fletcher shifted uncomfortably. "Er, right. So, wot d'you reckon, Professor? This Adler bloke, he's bad news, yeah?"

Dumbledore smiled benignly, a practiced expression that radiated warmth but concealed calculation. "The Grindelwald name, Mundungus, is indeed one that evokes... significant history. However, history does not always repeat itself. Sometimes, it rhymes. We must discern whether Mr. Adler is a verse worth reading or one to strike from the poem."

Fletcher blinked. "Uh... sure."

Rising gracefully, Dumbledore began to pace, his flowing robes shimmering in the sunlight like liquid starlight. "Alastor, dear Alastor, has always been an excellent judge of character, even if his methods are... robust. That he has entertained this Adler suggests there is more to the man than mere ancestry."

"Or maybe Moody's just gone soft in his old age?" Fletcher offered, earning a sharp look from Dumbledore.

"Highly unlikely," Dumbledore said firmly, his voice laced with the certainty of a man who rarely entertained dissent. "If this Gideon Adler truly seeks to recruit Alastor, it can only mean he is assembling forces. And if Grindelwald's blood flows in his veins, we must consider the possibility that his ambitions align with those of his... infamous ancestor."

Fawkes let out a soft trill, breaking the tension in the room. Dumbledore turned to the phoenix, his expression softening for a moment. "Ah, my dear Fawkes, even the brightest flames can cast shadows. Perhaps it is time to shed a little light on this matter."

He turned back to Fletcher, his gaze piercing. "Mundungus, you are to keep your ears open. Report back to me if you hear anything further about Adler—or Grindelwald, for that matter. Your... unique talents for navigating the less savory corners of our world may prove invaluable."

Fletcher nodded hastily. "Of course, Headmaster. Anything fer the cause, yeah?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, his smile faint but inscrutable. "The cause. You may go."

As Fletcher scurried from the office, Dumbledore resumed his seat, his fingers once again steepled beneath his chin. He stared at the empty air as though it held answers visible only to him.

"Gideon Adler," he murmured to himself. "A name that carries both promise and peril. And if Gellert has truly re-entered the stage... well, how fortunate that I remain the only one capable of directing this grand play."

With a wave of his wand, he summoned a parchment and quill. It was time to pen a few letters, to call on old contacts and set plans into motion. The spotlight, after all, was best reserved for those who knew how to wield it. And in his mind, no one wielded it better than Albus Dumbledore.

—

In the hallowed halls of Kamar-Taj's vast library, where the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint hum of mystical wards, Harry Potter was a blur of chaotic energy.

Seated cross-legged on the floor, he had one book balanced on his knee (Intermediate Dimensional Weaving), another floating in midair before him (Temporal Manipulation: Theory and Practice), and a third open on the floor (Magical Flora of the Multiverse). The books rotated in a seemingly random pattern, their pages turning with flicks of Harry's Vibranium-coated claws, which he was using as makeshift bookmarks.

Every so often, he muttered to himself, lines like, "Oh, that's why the sigil didn't stabilize!" or "This would make runic arrays so much easier."

Into this whirlwind of activity walked Wong, carrying a tray of tea like a man preparing to mediate peace talks between two hostile nations. His footsteps were deliberate, each one announcing his approach, though he suspected that even if he'd levitated in silently, Harry wouldn't have noticed.

Wong stopped just short of the cluttered workspace Harry had created, surveying the scene with a long-suffering sigh. "Tell me, do you intend to leave any books in this library for other people to read?"

Harry looked up, his face lighting up with the same mischievous grin that made him seem far too much like James Potter for anyone's peace of mind. "Oh, come on, Wong. You're just jealous you didn't think to do this when you were my age."

Wong arched a brow. "When I was your age, I wasn't turning a sacred repository of knowledge into a teenager's science fair project."

"Pfft," Harry scoffed, closing one book with a snap. "You say that now, but admit it—you wish you had my efficiency." He gestured dramatically at the books scattered around him. "I've been here for—what? Two hours? And I've already connected dimensional folding techniques to runic arrays and figured out how to stabilize a portal using music. Music, Wong. That's genius."

"Genius," Wong repeated flatly, setting the tray down with a deliberate clink. "Or reckless. You do realize that applying sound as a stabilizing factor could, under the wrong circumstances, turn your portal into a rather... colorful explosion."

Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Details. I'm still working out the kinks."

Wong sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man reconsidering every choice that had led him to this moment. "You've been here for all of two days, and already you've made me question my commitment to the Mystical Arts."

Harry grinned, unfazed. "Two days, and I've already beaten your record for the Ring Portal Exercise. Coincidence? I think not."

"That's because you cheated," Wong shot back, crossing his arms.

"Used my resources," Harry corrected, leaning back against the bench and propping his feet on a stack of books. "It's not my fault you didn't think to use Vibranium claws as a magical focal point."

Wong stared at him, unblinking. "You turned a sacred training exercise into a Superhero crossover."

Harry raised a finger. "Correction: an effective Superhero crossover."

Wong sat down across from him, rubbing his temples. "You're going to give me grey hairs."

"You've already got a few," Harry quipped, taking a sip of the tea Wong had brought. "But hey, think of it this way—when I'm done here, you'll be a legend. 'The man who taught the great Harry Potter.' It'll look great on your resume."

Wong gave him a flat look. "I was already a legend before you showed up. I just didn't have anyone around to remind me why I should consider early retirement."

"Come on, Wong," Harry said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "You love me. Admit it."

"I tolerate you," Wong corrected, standing and brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "And only because the Ancient One has insisted that I not throw you out of Kamar-Taj."

"See? That's love." Harry grinned, leaning back with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew he was insufferable and reveled in it.

Wong looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, "I blame your godfather."

Harry laughed, setting his tea aside. "Sirius would be so proud to hear that."

Shaking his head, Wong began walking away, muttering under his breath, "Demonic children. Every generation brings me a new one."

Harry watched him go, still grinning. Then, with a flourish, he summoned another book from the shelves, flipping it open with an eager glint in his eyes. Wong's exasperation only fueled his determination. If the Mystical Arts had secrets to uncover, Harry Potter was going to find every last one of them—and probably drive Wong to the brink of madness in the process.

---

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