# **Earlier That Day – SHIELD Helicarrier, Secure Conference Room**
If someone had told Harry Potter five years ago that he'd be sitting in a flying aircraft carrier watching a magical goblet make life-altering decisions through the prosthetic eye of a paranoid old wizard, he probably would have suggested they lay off whatever Butterbeer they'd been drinking. Or maybe see a Healer about possible head trauma. You know, the usual responsible adult stuff.
Yet here he was, sprawled in a chair that probably cost more than most people's houses (seriously, who needs *that* much leather?), surrounded by enough firepower to level a small country, watching Albus Dumbledore orchestrate what was essentially the world's most dramatic reality TV show.
The conference room looked like someone had won the magical lottery, hired an interior designer who specialized in "intimidating people while keeping them comfortable," and then asked Tony Stark to add some upgrades. Because when you're planning to crash the most prestigious magical event in Europe, you might as well do it in style.
The massive screen dominating one wall currently displayed Mad-Eye Moody's view of the Hogwarts Great Hall—and let's be honest, having a live feed through a magical prosthetic eye was both incredibly useful and deeply disturbing. But hey, when you're working with SHIELD, "deeply disturbing but incredibly useful" basically describes half their equipment.
Harry wore civilian clothes that somehow managed to make him look both approachable and absolutely lethal. The kind of outfit that said "I could take you to dinner or take you down, your choice." Perfectly fitted black slacks, a dark green shirt that made his emerald eyes practically glow with their own light source, and an expression of amused anticipation that suggested he was looking forward to crashing Dumbledore's carefully orchestrated party like it was his birthday and Christmas rolled into one.
The Cloak of Levitation hung draped over the back of his chair like a loyal pet that had learned patience but was definitely ready to spring into action. Sometimes Harry swore the thing had opinions about dramatic timing.
"I have to admit," James Potter said, nursing what appeared to be coffee expensive enough to have its own security clearance and probably a small country's GDP in each cup, "the old man's got style. Look at that dramatic pause before announcing Viktor. Positively theatrical. I'm almost impressed."
James looked like someone had taken the concept of "distinguished former Auror" and decided to make it devastatingly handsome just to mess with people's ability to concentrate. His dark hair was only slightly less chaotic than Harry's—clearly, gravity-defying hair was a Potter family trait—and his green eyes held the same shade as his son's, sparkling with the kind of mischief that had probably gotten him in trouble since he was old enough to hold a wand.
"His technique is flawless," Lily Potter observed, gesturing at the screen where Dumbledore was milking the moment for all it was worth. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical style that somehow managed to make her look both professional and ready to hex someone into next week, and her emerald eyes held depths that suggested she was already three moves ahead of everyone else in the room. "Perfect balance of grandfatherly warmth and dramatic tension. Though that little smile when he caught the first parchment was a bit much. He's enjoying this way too obviously."
"Seven out of ten," Natasha Romanoff declared from her position lounging against the wall like a particularly lethal piece of modern art. She had that whole "dangerously beautiful spy" thing down to an art form that should probably be taught in universities. Her red hair was pulled back in what she called a "tactical ponytail" but what Harry privately thought of as "the hairstyle that makes me forget how to form complete sentences."
She was cleaning her nails with a knife that probably cost more than most people's education and definitely had a more interesting backstory than half the people in the room. "Good technique, excellent timing, but he's overselling the 'surprised by fourth champion' bit. Too much eye-twinkling. Dead giveaway."
She caught Harry's gaze and winked, the gesture loaded with enough promise to make his pulse quicken and his armor's internal temperature regulation kick into overdrive. "Though I suppose when you're manipulating reality on that scale, a little theatrical excess is forgivable. It's not like he's trying to be subtle."
"Subtle went out the window the moment he decided to rig a magical artifact," Tonks added cheerfully, her hair currently cycling through what Harry had learned to recognize as her "excited about potential chaos" color pattern. Today it was a vibrant pink that somehow made strategic analysis sound like party planning. "Besides, subtle is boring. Where's the fun in subtle?"
She bounced slightly in her seat, radiating the kind of infectious enthusiasm that made explosions seem like reasonable entertainment options. "I vote we make our entrance even less subtle. Really give him something to work with."
"I think he's doing brilliantly," Jean Grey said, floating approximately two inches off her chair because apparently walking was for people with less impressive telekinetic abilities. Her red hair moved in its own personal breeze that defied several laws of physics and probably a few international treaties, and when she looked at Harry, her green eyes held depths that made him think very inappropriate thoughts for mixed company.
Her mental voice whispered directly into his head, warm and intimate: *Looking forward to the big entrance, handsome. Try not to give Dumbledore a heart attack when you show up. We need him functional for the dramatic revelations.*
Harry's grin was sharp enough to cut diamond and probably a few other precious stones while it was at it. "I'll do my best to be gentle with the old man's cardiovascular system. No promises about his blood pressure, though."
*That's what I love about you,* Jean's mental voice purred with enough heat to make his armor feel suddenly restrictive. *Always so considerate of other people's medical conditions.*
From across the room, Rose Potter was practically vibrating in her seat like someone had given her a triple shot of espresso and told her Christmas was coming early and bringing presents for everyone. At fourteen, she was all sharp angles and Potter family attitude, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that somehow managed to look both practical and rebellious, and her eyes bright with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Quidditch matches or really spectacular explosions.
"Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD!" she squeaked as Viktor Krum's name was announced, her voice reaching frequencies that probably registered on seismic equipment. "It's him! It's actually him! He caught the Snitch in the World Cup Final while doing a Wronski Feint that should have been physically impossible according to at least three different branches of magical physics!"
She turned to the assembled adults with the expression of someone who'd just discovered the meaning of life and found it significantly more attractive than expected, and also really good at Quidditch. "Did you see him play? He was like poetry in motion! Poetry with very good muscle definition and the ability to defy several laws of physics while looking absolutely gorgeous doing it!"
Sirius Black snorted into his coffee, which appeared to be Irish and definitely not his first cup of the day. Or possibly the week. "Rosie, love, you're fourteen. Maybe dial back the appreciation for 'very good muscle definition' until you're at least sixteen? I'd like to maintain the illusion that my goddaughter isn't developing an eye for dangerously attractive Quidditch players."
"I'm appreciating his athletic prowess!" Rose protested, though her cheeks turned the kind of pink that suggested she was appreciating more than just his Quidditch skills. "It's completely professional! Scientific, even! I'm studying the biomechanics of advanced Quidditch maneuvers and how they relate to overall physical conditioning!"
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Sirius grinned, looking like trouble incarnate had learned to wear really good leather boots and decided to make it everyone else's problem. His dark hair was pulled back in a style that suggested he'd either just finished a photo shoot for *Dangerous Men Weekly* or was planning to rob something very expensive and look fantastic while doing it. "Because when I was your age, we just called it 'staring at attractive people and making up intellectual justifications.'"
"Besides," Rose continued, pointedly ignoring her godfather's very accurate assessment of teenage behavior, "Harry's got five girlfriends who could each individually level city blocks. I think I'm allowed to appreciate one internationally famous Quidditch star from a respectful distance without anyone questioning my priorities."
"Five girlfriends who could each individually level city blocks," Lily pointed out mildly, her tone suggesting she was making an important distinction, "and who are also all adults with government clearance and very impressive skillsets that extend well beyond property destruction."
"They're also all sitting right here," Ororo Monroe added with amusement, lightning dancing between her fingers like particularly deadly Christmas lights. Her white hair moved in wind that existed only for her—a neat trick that Harry had never gotten tired of watching—and her dark eyes held the kind of ancient wisdom that made mortals remember why their ancestors had built temples to weather goddesses. "And we can hear every word you're saying about us."
"Good," Harry said, his voice carrying undertones that made all five of his girlfriends shift slightly in their chairs and exchange looks that promised very interesting conversations later. "I'd hate for you to miss out on the compliments."
"Smooth," Laura Kinney observed from her position crouched in her chair like a particularly lethal cat who'd learned to appreciate comfortable furniture. She was small, compact, and radiated the kind of controlled violence that made smart people remember they had somewhere else to be. "Very smooth. Almost like you've had practice charming dangerously attractive women."
"Almost?" Harry raised an eyebrow that somehow managed to convey wounded dignity and amused challenge at the same time. "I'll have you know I'm a natural at charming dangerously attractive women. It's a gift."
"A gift that keeps on giving," Natasha purred, spinning her knife in a pattern that was either incredibly impressive or mildly hypnotic. Possibly both. "Some might even say it's your greatest talent."
"I have other talents," Harry protested with mock indignation.
"Yes," Jean's mental voice whispered directly into his thoughts, loaded with enough heat to make his pulse quicken, *we know. We've experienced them. Extensively.*
Harry's expression shifted slightly, and Laura grinned with the kind of predatory satisfaction that suggested she could smell the pheromones from across the room. "Well, well. What exactly is Jean saying to make you look like that?"
"Nothing appropriate for mixed company," Harry replied smoothly, though the slight flush on his cheeks suggested Jean's mental commentary was getting increasingly creative.
"Fine, fine," Rose waved them off, turning back to the screen where Fleur's name was being announced. "But you have to admit, Krum is very—WAIT. Wait, wait, wait."
Her voice dropped to a whisper as Fleur Delacour rose from her seat like liquid starlight had learned to walk and decided to make everyone else feel inadequate by comparison. "Harry. HARRY. That's her, isn't it? The girl from the forest. The one you saved at the World Cup."
Every head in the room turned toward the screen, where Fleur Delacour was making her way through the Great Hall like she owned it and was just now getting around to mentioning that fact to the current management.
Harry's expression shifted, casual amusement giving way to something deeper and considerably more interesting. Recognition sparked in his emerald eyes, followed by approval, appreciation, and what might have been the beginning of genuine attraction. "Well," he said quietly, his voice carrying undertones that made several of his girlfriends suddenly pay very close attention to his reaction. "She's certainly... changed since that night."
And she had. The frightened girl he'd rescued from monsters had transformed into something altogether more dangerous and infinitely more compelling. She moved like controlled violence wrapped in midnight silk, every step calculated, every gesture purposeful. This wasn't decoration—this was function, honed to a killing edge and disguised as art.
"Training," Ororo observed, lightning dancing between her fingers as she studied Fleur's progress across the screen with the clinical interest of someone who recognized a fellow predator. "Extensive training. Someone has spent considerable time and effort transforming herself into a weapon."
"A very beautiful weapon," Tonks added cheerfully, her hair shifting to an approving purple that somehow made deadly assessment sound like fashion commentary. "The kind that makes smart people do stupid things and stupid people do fatal things."
"She moves like someone who knows how to hurt people now," Laura said with obvious approval, extending her claws just enough to catch the light in a way that was probably unconscious but definitely intimidating. "Good. Decorative princesses don't survive Tournaments like this one's going to be."
"Speaking from experience?" Natasha asked with the kind of amusement that suggested she already knew the answer.
"Speaking from observation," Laura replied with a predatory smile that was all teeth and threat. "Harry collects functional women, not ornamental ones. We're not the type to sit around looking pretty while other people do the dangerous work."
"I do not collect—" Harry began with the tone of someone who'd had this conversation before and knew exactly how it was going to end.
"You absolutely collect us," Jean interrupted, her mental voice carrying enough heat to make his armor's temperature regulation systems work overtime. *Like very dangerous, very attractive trading cards. And we love it.*
"Guilty as charged," Harry admitted, his grin widening as he watched Fleur disappear into the champions' chamber with the kind of predatory grace that suggested she'd learned some very interesting skills in the last few months. "Though in my defense, you're all incredibly easy to collect. You keep following me around and looking gorgeous while doing impossibly dangerous things."
"Following you around?" Natasha's knife paused mid-spin, and her expression suggested Harry had just made a tactical error of epic proportions. "I'll have you know I'm a completely independent woman who chooses to associate with you for purely professional reasons."
"Professional reasons?" Harry's eyebrow climbed toward his hairline with the kind of skeptical amusement that suggested he'd heard this particular justification before. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Among other things," Natasha purred, and the way she said it made everyone suddenly very interested in the tactical briefing materials scattered across the table or the fascinating pattern of the ceiling tiles.
*Other things,* Jean's mental voice whispered with enough promise to make Harry's pulse quicken, *that we'll be happy to demonstrate later. In private.*
"Right then," Nick Fury interrupted before things could get more inappropriate than they already were, though his single eye held the kind of amusement that suggested he was filing this entire conversation away for future blackmail material. "Can we focus on the part where we're about to crash one of the most prestigious magical events in recent history? Because I'd like to know our entry strategy before Dumbledore pulls his dramatic fourth champion reveal."
Fury looked like someone had taken the concept of "intimidating authority figure" and decided to make it wear a really good leather coat while radiating the kind of competent menace that made smart people remember they had insurance policies for a reason.
"Entry strategy is simple," Harry said, pulling the Cloak of Levitation from where it had been draped over his chair like a loyal pet waiting for its cue. The artifact seemed to purr with satisfaction as it settled around his shoulders, immediately beginning its transformation sequence with the kind of theatrical flair that would make Broadway directors weep with envy.
"Dumbledore calls my name, I make a dramatic entrance that people will remember for the rest of their lives, everyone remembers why you don't manipulate the Potter family." He grinned with the kind of casual confidence that started revolutions and probably a few small wars. "Standard Tuesday evening activities, really."
"Dramatic entrance?" Gideon Adler asked from his position near the window, where he'd been watching the clouds roll by with the expression of someone who found meteorology fascinating. He looked like European sophistication had learned to walk and decided to wear really good suits while doing it, his platinum hair perfectly styled and his ice-blue eyes holding the kind of dangerous intelligence that could probably manipulate stock markets while reciting poetry in three languages.
"Portal, armor, general intimidation factor?" Harry confirmed, flexing his fingers as red and gold light began to flow across his body like liquid metal. The Revenant armor materialized from some space between dimensions where very expensive magical equipment waited patiently for their cue, each piece settling into place with mechanical precision that was both beautiful and slightly terrifying.
"I love Tuesdays," Tonks said happily, bouncing slightly in her seat as her hair shifted to an excited gold that matched Harry's armor. "They're so much more interesting when they involve interdimensional travel and public displays of supernatural power."
On the screen, Cedric Diggory was being announced to the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for the discovery of new forms of chocolate or the announcement that exams had been permanently cancelled due to a clerical error.
"Hufflepuff," Sirius observed with the tone of someone making an interesting discovery about the fundamental nature of the universe. "Wasn't expecting that. Thought for sure it'd be another Gryffindor. They do love their dramatic gestures and poorly thought-out heroics."
"Hey!" James protested with wounded dignity. "Some of our poorly thought-out heroics were very well executed poorly thought-out heroics. There's a difference."
"That sentence hurt my brain," Lily said mildly, though her expression suggested she was trying not to smile. "Also, it's probably accurate, which makes it worse."
"Diggory's a good choice," Harry said, watching the young man handle his sudden fame with easy grace and the kind of natural charm that made people want to buy him drinks. "From what the reports say, he's talented, level-headed, and actually a decent human being. The kind of person who'll make this interesting without making it unnecessarily complicated."
"Unlike some people we know," Rose said pointedly, giving Harry a look that suggested she'd been taking notes on family behavior patterns, "who specialize in making everything unnecessarily complicated and then looking gorgeous while doing it."
"That's not fair," Harry protested with the kind of wounded innocence that had never fooled anyone, ever. "Sometimes I make things unnecessarily complicated while looking ruggedly handsome. There's a difference."
"The difference," Jean observed, her mental voice adding private commentary that made Harry's pulse quicken and his armor feel suddenly restrictive, *is purely semantic. And incredibly attractive.*
"Both versions work for me," Ororo added with the kind of casual comment that made weather patterns shift sympathetically around the helicarrier. Lightning danced between her fingers as she smiled, and Harry was suddenly very grateful for his armor's insulation systems.
Tony Stark, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet up until now—which was like saying a volcano had been uncharacteristically not erupting—looked up from the tablet he'd been using to monitor seventeen different news feeds, three stock markets, and what appeared to be a live stream of his workshop where various robots were building something that probably violated several international treaties.
"Speaking of unnecessarily complicated," he said, his voice carrying that particular Tony Stark blend of genius and snark that made everything sound like he was conducting a very entertaining lecture on advanced physics while insulting everyone's intelligence, "anyone want to place bets on how long it takes Dumbledore to realize he's been outmaneuvered by people with better toys than his?"
He was dressed in what could charitably be called "business casual," if business casual involved clothes that probably cost more than most people's cars and were definitely bulletproof as a bonus feature. Because when you're Tony Stark, even your casual wear needed to be prepared for industrial espionage or impromptu explosions.
"I give him about thirty seconds after Harry walks through that portal," Steve Rogers said with the kind of quiet confidence that came from a lifetime of watching elaborate plans crumble in the face of reality and occasionally helping with the crumbling process. The super soldier looked like someone had taken the concept of "heroic leadership" and given it really good posture and the kind of smile that made people want to follow him into battle or at least into a really nice restaurant.
"Thirty seconds?" Bucky Barnes snorted from his position cleaning what appeared to be enough weapons to arm a small country or at least a particularly aggressive neighborhood watch program. The former Winter Soldier had that whole "dangerous but reformed" aesthetic down to an art form that somehow made cleaning assault rifles look like a meditative practice. "I give him ten. The old man's good, but Harry in full armor? That's the kind of entrance that makes people reconsider their life choices and possibly their insurance coverage."
"Five seconds," Peggy Carter said crisply, not looking up from the intelligence reports she'd been reviewing with the kind of systematic precision that had once made HYDRA agents wake up in cold sweats. "Dumbledore's many things, but he's not stupid. The moment he sees that armor, he'll know exactly who he's dealing with."
"And realize he's been outplayed by people who actually know what they're doing," Clint Barton added, not looking up from the bow he was methodically checking with the kind of professional attention that came from years of knowing that equipment failure usually meant very bad things happening to very good people. The archer had the kind of quiet competence that made him easy to overlook right up until he put three arrows through the same target at a thousand yards while blindfolded and probably humming something catchy.
On the screen, the Goblet of Fire began its spectacular malfunction—or, as everyone in the room knew, its carefully orchestrated theatrical performance designed to look like a malfunction to people who didn't know better.
"Here we go," Fury said with obvious satisfaction and the expression of someone whose elaborate plans were finally coming together. "Showtime."
The flames twisted, writhed, and finally spat out their fourth piece of parchment with the kind of dramatic flair that would make professional pyrotechnicians weep with envy and possibly take notes for future reference.
Dumbledore caught it with practiced ease, though those watching closely might have noticed the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth—the expression of a man who was working very hard not to look like he'd just won the magical equivalent of the lottery and several smaller prizes as well.
"Oscar-worthy performance," James observed with the critical eye of someone who'd spent years watching his son develop a flair for the dramatic. "Look at that confused concern. The man should have been on stage. West End would love him."
"Eight out of ten," Natasha corrected with professional assessment. "Still overselling it slightly, but the recovery technique is solid. He's committed to the performance."
Harry stood, the Cloak of Levitation billowing around him like it had strong opinions about dramatic timing and intended to make sure everyone knew about them. His armor gleamed red and gold in the conference room lighting, every line and curve designed to suggest both ultimate protection and lethal capability. The mask slid over his features with a soft hiss, transforming him from devastatingly handsome civilian into something that belonged on the cover of *Legendary Figures Weekly* or possibly *How to Look Incredibly Dangerous While Saving the World Monthly*.
"The fourth champion," Dumbledore's voice carried clearly through Mad-Eye's enhanced audio pickup, rich with theatrical confusion and just a hint of genuine anticipation, "representing... special circumstances..."
"Special circumstances?" Lily laughed, the sound bright and delighted with just a touch of the kind of anticipation that came from watching elaborate plans reach their climax. "Oh, that's perfect. Absolutely perfect. 'Special circumstances.' Like he's filing a bureaucratic form for supernatural intervention."
"Harry Potter," Dumbledore announced, and the silence that followed could have been measured with scientific instruments and probably registered on seismic equipment in three different countries.
"Right then," Harry said, his voice deeper now, mechanically enhanced by the armor's systems but still carrying that distinctly Harry Potter blend of confidence, amusement, and barely contained power that made smart people pay attention and stupid people make very bad decisions. "Time to remind everyone why you don't mess with the Potter family."
He gestured casually—because even interdimensional travel should look effortless when you're trying to make a point—and reality obligingly tore itself open like gift wrap on Christmas morning. Golden-red light spilled from the portal, revealing a view of the Great Hall where roughly a thousand students were currently experiencing the kind of collective cognitive dissonance usually reserved for really confusing mathematics lectures or the discovery that everything they thought they knew about physics was actually a polite suggestion.
The assembled SHIELD operatives, Potter family members, and assorted dangerous individuals stepped through the portal like they were walking through a particularly fancy door rather than crossing the barriers between space, time, and several fundamental laws of magical theory.
Harry went first, naturally. Because if you're going to make an entrance that people will remember for the rest of their lives, you might as well commit to the aesthetic and make it worth their traumatic memories.
He emerged from the portal like a legend stepping out of mythology, red and gold armor catching the light and throwing it back in patterns that made several students forget how to breathe properly and at least three teachers question their life choices. His cloak billowed behind him with its own personal wind effects—courtesy of very advanced magic and possibly some light physics violations—and when he moved, it was with the kind of predatory grace that made smart people check their insurance policies and insurance agents raise their rates.
The Great Hall fell silent with the speed of light, which was really saying something considering it had been full of excited teenagers approximately two seconds earlier. You could have heard a pin drop, if pins made any sound when they dropped, which they didn't, but the metaphor stood because the silence was just that complete.
Behind Harry came his entourage, and honestly, calling them an entourage was like calling a hurricane "breezy" or calling Tony Stark "occasionally talkative." Each one was a legend in their own right, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that spoke of extensive training, unlimited resources, and absolutely no patience for being underestimated by anyone, ever.
James and Lily Potter flanked their son like the world's most attractive honor guard, both of them radiating the kind of quiet authority that came from years of making hard choices and living with the consequences while somehow managing to look fantastic doing it.
Sirius sauntered through the portal with his hands in his pockets, looking like trouble incarnate had learned to dress up for fancy occasions and decided to make it everyone else's problem. His leather boots clicked against the stone floor with the kind of sound that suggested they'd seen some interesting places and done some questionable things while getting there.
The girlfriends—because let's be honest, that's what they were, regardless of whatever official titles they might hold in various government organizations or superhero teams—arranged themselves around Harry with unconscious precision that spoke of extensive experience working as a team.
Jean floating slightly off the ground because gravity was apparently optional when you had that much telekinetic power, her red hair moving in its own personal breeze and her green eyes practically glowing with barely contained energy.
Ororo crackling with barely contained lightning that made the air smell like ozone and possibility, her white hair whipping in wind that existed only for her and her dark eyes holding the kind of ancient power that made weather patterns sit up and pay attention.
Natasha spinning a knife that caught the light like a particularly deadly wind chime, her red hair pulled back in that tactical ponytail and her expression suggesting she was calculating exactly how many people in the room she could incapacitate before anyone noticed she'd moved.
Laura crouched and ready for violence, compact and dangerous with the kind of controlled menace that made smart people remember they had somewhere else to be and stupid people wonder why their survival instincts were suddenly screaming at them.
Tonks bouncing on her toes with excitement that was frankly infectious, her hair cycling through colors that somehow managed to make "prepared for combat" look like "ready for a really good party."
Nick Fury stepped through last, his leather coat billowing dramatically as he surveyed the Great Hall with the expression of someone who owned the place and was mildly disappointed by its current management but willing to make some improvements.
The silence stretched like premium silk, pulling every person in the room forward with anticipation so thick you could practically spread it on toast and serve it with jam.
Finally, mercifully, someone broke the quiet.
"Bloody hell," whispered a sixth-year Gryffindor, his voice carrying clearly in the hushed hall with the kind of perfect timing usually reserved for dramatic revelations in really good books. "Is that actually Harry Potter?"
Harry's mask retracted with mechanical precision, revealing a face that could have launched a thousand ships or at least caused significant diplomatic incidents between nations who suddenly found themselves competing for his attention. His emerald eyes swept the assembled students with obvious amusement, and when he smiled, it was with the kind of casual confidence that started revolutions and probably several small wars.
"Evening, everyone," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the hall despite not being raised above conversational level. Because when you had that much presence, you didn't need to shout to command attention. "Hope I'm not late for the party."
Dumbledore stood at the head table like a statue of someone who'd just realized they'd bitten off significantly more than they could chew and were beginning to suspect that "more" might actually be several courses of a meal they weren't prepared to finish. His usual twinkling composure had been replaced by what could charitably be called strategic reassessment of the situation and less charitably be called "oh dear, what have I gotten myself into?"
"Harry," he said finally, his voice carrying undertones that suggested this conversation was about to become very interesting indeed and possibly require some very creative explanations to the Ministry later. "How... unexpected."
Harry's grin was sharp enough to perform surgery and probably a few other medical procedures that required really precise cutting instruments. "Was it, though? Really? Because from where I'm standing, this looks suspiciously like exactly the kind of thing you'd expect when you start manipulating ancient magical artifacts to suit your personal agenda."
And in that moment, everyone in the Great Hall realized they were about to witness the kind of magical education that didn't come with textbooks or study guides.
The kind that came with consequences.
And probably really impressive special effects.
---
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