THE HELICARRIER - SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM DELTA-9
Look, if there's one thing Harry Potter had learned from his increasingly ridiculous life, it's that the universe apparently had a really twisted sense of humor. And possibly a subscription to *Chaos Weekly*. Case in point: he was currently sitting in what was basically the world's most expensive group therapy session, except instead of discussing feelings and childhood trauma, they were planning international incidents over coffee that probably cost more per cup than most people's rent.
Which, honestly, was pretty much par for the course at this point.
The SHIELD conference room looked like someone had won the cosmic lottery, then hired an interior decorator who exclusively worked with materials that didn't technically exist in this dimension. The leather chairs were so expensive they probably had their own insurance policies. The conference table was made from wood that definitely wasn't from Earth—Harry was pretty sure it glowed faintly when nobody was looking, like it was trying to show off. And the lighting somehow managed to make everyone look like they'd stepped off magazine covers while also suggesting they could probably end civilizations before their morning coffee got cold.
Which, considering the people currently occupying said chairs, wasn't exactly an exaggeration.
Harry lounged in his seat with the kind of casual confidence that came from recently having destroyed a twenty-foot magical snake and feeling pretty good about his life choices. He'd traded his battle gear for civilian clothes—perfectly fitted black slacks that probably cost more than most people's cars, and a dark green shirt that made his emerald eyes look like they'd been personally crafted by someone with way too much time and an unhealthy obsession with perfection.
His dark hair was doing that thing again—you know, that impossibly perfect "I just rolled out of bed but somehow look like I should be on the cover of *Dangerous People Weekly*" thing that genetics had apparently decided was standard Potter family equipment. Some guys got participation trophies. Harry Potter got to exist and make everyone else question their life choices.
To his right sat Jean Grey, who looked like someone had taken the concept of "powerful telepath" and decided it needed significantly more cheekbones and the ability to make grown men forget how basic motor functions worked. Her vibrant red hair caught the conference room lighting like liquid fire, and she kept shooting glances at Harry that suggested she was still processing some very interesting mental images from their earlier psychic field trip through Voldemort's consciousness.
"Okay, so I'm going to need about seventeen hot showers and possibly some kind of industrial-strength brain bleach," she announced, running her fingers through her hair in a way that made Harry's pulse do interesting gymnastics and made several other people in the room suddenly discover that their coffee cups were absolutely fascinating.
Her voice had that smoky quality that made even complaints about psychic contamination sound like invitations to do things that would probably violate several international treaties and possibly the laws of physics.
"Tom Riddle's mind is like..." She paused, searching for the right comparison. "Imagine if someone took the Library of Alexandria, set it on fire, flooded it with sewage, then tried to reorganize it using a filing system based entirely on paranoid delusions and really, really bad teenage poetry about how nobody understands him."
When she looked at Harry, her green eyes held depths that suggested she could see right through his soul and found the view quite entertaining.
Harry reached over and took her hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture that looked casual but sent little sparks of electricity up both their arms. The contact was gentle, intimate, and made everyone else at the table suddenly very interested in literally anything that wasn't the obvious chemistry crackling between them like a live wire.
"That bad?" he asked, his voice dropping to that register that made smart women do stupid things and made Jean's telekinetic abilities start rearranging nearby objects without her conscious input. A pen holder across the room began rotating slowly.
"Worse," Jean replied, squeezing his hand back like it was anchoring her to sanity and possibly reality itself. "It's like he took everything that makes someone human—empathy, love, basic emotional development—and systematically replaced it with concentrated evil and daddy issues. So many daddy issues, Harry. Like, enough daddy issues to power a small therapy practice for several decades."
*Also,* her mental voice whispered directly into his head, carrying enough heat to make his shirt feel suddenly restrictive, *remind me later to show you some of the more interesting thoughts I've been having about victory celebrations. They involve considerably less clothing and significantly more creative uses of telekinesis.*
Harry's smile turned sharp enough to cut diamond, and the way he looked at her made the temperature in the room rise by several degrees and made at least three people reconsider their career choices.
"I'll hold you to that," he murmured, his voice carrying promises that made Jean's cheeks flush a very attractive shade of pink and made her lose concentration enough that everyone's coffee cups started floating approximately two inches off the table.
"Jean," Ororo said mildly, floating exactly one inch off her chair because apparently even sitting was for people with less impressive magical abilities, "you're doing the thing again."
"Sorry," Jean said, not sounding sorry at all as the cups gently settled back down.
Across from them, Natasha Romanoff—who looked like someone had taken the concept of "deadly assassin" and decided to make it ridiculously attractive while they were at it—was cleaning her nails with a knife that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries and was definitely sharper than most people's wit.
She had that effortless kind of beauty that suggested Russian genetics and professional makeup artists, combined with the predatory grace of someone who could kill you seventeen different ways before you finished saying "please don't." Her red hair was pulled back in a style that looked casual but probably took an hour to achieve and required advanced engineering principles.
"Oh please," she said, her voice carrying that slight accent that made everything sound like either seduction or a death threat, depending on your perspective and life insurance policy, "get a room, you two. Some of us are trying to plan international incidents over here."
She flipped the knife between her fingers with the kind of casual skill that made it look like performance art, the blade catching the light as it spun in patterns too complex to follow and too dangerous to appreciate from this close.
When she caught Harry's eye and winked, the gesture was loaded with enough promise to make his mouth go dry and his brain temporarily forget how words worked.
"Though I have to say," she purred, her smile promising either the best night of his life or the most creative death in SHIELD history, "watching you work earlier was... educational. Very thorough. Very... hands-on in your approach to problem-solving."
The way she said "hands-on" could have melted steel. It definitely made Laura snort from her position sprawled across two chairs like a particularly lethal cat who'd decided furniture was more of a suggestion than a rule.
"Educational?" Harry replied, raising an eyebrow with the kind of amusement that had probably started international incidents. "That's one way to put it."
"I aim to please," he continued, his grin widening in a way that made Natasha's knife-twirling falter for just a second—which, considering her level of manual dexterity, was probably equivalent to most people dropping entire trays of glassware.
"Oh, you definitely do that," Natasha murmured back, her voice dropping to that register that made strong men weak and weak men nonexistent. "Very... complete in your technique. Very committed to seeing things through to their natural conclusion."
She leaned forward slightly, and her smile could have powered half of Manhattan. "Very... thorough in your attention to detail."
"I do try to be comprehensive," Harry said, and somehow made it sound like both a professional assessment and a personal invitation.
Laura Kinney, who had the kind of compact strength that suggested she could probably bench press a small car while looking adorable doing it, extended her claws just enough to catch the light as she gestured at the assembled group.
"Could you all try to keep the sexual tension below 'fire hazard' levels?" she observed with the kind of blunt honesty that made strategic planning sessions significantly more efficient and possibly more entertaining. "Some of us are trying to focus on the part where we still have a baby Dark Lord to deal with."
She paused, tilting her head in that way that meant she was about to say something that would make everyone either laugh or reconsider their life choices.
"Also, Natasha, if you keep twirling that knife like that, I'm going to start thinking you're compensating for something. And we all know that's not necessary in your case."
Natasha's laugh was like silver bells wrapped in razor wire and dipped in honey. "Oh sweetheart, I never compensate. I overcompensate. It's much more fun that way." She paused, her smile turning absolutely wicked. "Ask anyone."
"I can confirm this," Harry said solemnly, which earned him several looks that ranged from amused to predatory to 'we need to have a private conversation later and it's going to be very educational.'
"Very thorough in all her... professional endeavors. Extremely dedicated to excellence in her field."
"Which field would that be?" Laura asked with innocence that fooled absolutely no one in the room and probably wouldn't have fooled anyone in the next three zip codes.
"All of them," Natasha replied with a smile that could have powered a small city and probably had its own gravitational pull. "I'm very... versatile in my skill set."
"Multitalented," Harry agreed, and the way he said it made everyone suddenly very interested in their paperwork.
"Adaptable," Jean added, her mental voice carrying commentary that made Harry's pulse quicken.
"Comprehensive," Ororo contributed, lightning dancing between her fingers like it was applauding.
Tonks, who had been unusually quiet up until now (which was roughly equivalent to a small nuclear explosion being unusually subdued), suddenly bounced in her seat like someone had given her a triple shot of espresso and told her Christmas was coming early. Her hair cycled through about six different colors before settling on an excited shade of electric blue that matched her grin and made her look like a punk rock fairy who'd decided to dabble in international espionage.
"Okay, okay, can we please focus on the part where we're about to crash the most dramatic magical ceremony in recent history and make it significantly more entertaining?" she said, practically vibrating with enthusiasm that could probably be measured on seismic equipment.
"Because I've been planning my outfit for this mission for weeks, and it's going to be absolutely spectacular."
Her hair shifted to a pleased purple as she continued, bouncing slightly in her chair with excitement that was frankly infectious, "I'm thinking elegant-but-dangerous, with just a hint of 'I could hex you into next week if you look at my boyfriend wrong.' Very sophisticated revenge aesthetic. Very 'I'm here to look gorgeous and destroy your plans, and I'm all out of plans to not destroy.'"
She was adorable in that chaotic, energetic way that suggested someone had given caffeine sentience, taught it magic, and then set it loose on an unsuspecting world with unlimited resources and questionable judgment.
"Your boyfriend?" Harry repeated, his eyebrow climbing toward his hairline in amusement that suggested he found this particular development both entertaining and endearing.
"One of your girlfriends," Tonks corrected cheerfully, completely unashamed and clearly delighted by the technicality like she'd just won a particularly challenging debate. "We've discussed this. There's a rotation schedule. Very organized. Color-coded and everything. I made charts."
She paused, grinning with obvious pride in her organizational skills that would have impressed military logistics officers, "Lily helped with the tactical planning. Turns out your mum is terrifyingly good at strategic coordination when it comes to her son's love life."
"There's a schedule?" Ororo asked, her voice carrying that distant rumble of thunder that made smart people check their insurance policies and consider updating their wills.
She was still floating slightly above her chair, because apparently even sitting was for mortals with less impressive magical abilities. Her white hair moved in its own personal breeze that somehow made the conference room smell like ozone and possibility, and lightning danced between her fingers like tame pets that were eager to be helpful.
She had the kind of regal beauty that suggested ancient goddesses and storm systems, combined with the casual power of someone who could rearrange weather patterns as easily as most people rearranged furniture.
"How wonderfully efficient," she continued, her dark eyes holding depths that suggested she'd seen empires rise and fall and found them all mildly entertaining. "Though I have to say, watching you destroy that serpent earlier was quite... inspiring. Very primal. Very... thorough in your approach to problem elimination."
The way she said "thorough" made Harry's mouth go dry and made everyone else suddenly very interested in the tactical briefing materials scattered across the table like they contained the secrets of the universe.
When she looked at Harry, there was something decidedly more immediate and personal in her gaze than her usual ancient goddess routine.
"I do try to be complete in my work," Harry managed, his voice coming out rougher than intended and carrying implications that made several people at the table shift in their chairs and reconsider their afternoon schedules.
"Oh, you're very complete," Ororo murmured, her smile promising storms and lightning and things that would make weather reports significantly more interesting and possibly require parental guidance warnings. "Very... dedicated to seeing things through to their natural conclusion. I found it quite... atmospheric."
Lightning flickered between her fingers with what looked suspiciously like anticipation.
"Atmospheric," Natasha repeated with obvious amusement. "That's one way to put it."
"I was going for 'electrifying,'" Ororo replied smoothly.
"Both work," Jean said, her mental voice adding private commentary that made Harry's temperature rise.
"I'm just impressed by the organizational skills," Laura observed. "Color-coded schedules? That's some next-level coordination."
"Lily's idea," Tonks said proudly. "She said if we're going to do this, we might as well do it properly. Very Potter family approach to logistics."
Lily Potter, who had been watching this entire exchange with the kind of maternal amusement that suggested she found her son's love life both entertaining and mildly concerning (but mostly entertaining), finally cleared her throat with the authority of someone who'd spent years managing the chaos that was the Potter family.
She was sitting perfectly poised, red hair pulled back in a style that made her look both professional and absolutely terrifying, emerald eyes—the exact same shade as Harry's—blazing with the kind of maternal intelligence that had once made Dark Lords reconsider their career choices and still made smart people extremely polite.
"As much as I'm enjoying watching you all flirt like teenagers who've just discovered hormones and decided to make it everyone's problem," she said, her voice carrying that particular combination of affection and exasperation that only mothers could master, along with the subtle threat that suggested she could probably ground all of them if she put her mind to it, "perhaps we could discuss the part where we still have a psychotic magical infant to deal with? Just a thought."
Her smile was the kind that made even hardened SHIELD operatives suddenly remember they had somewhere else to be.
James Potter, who looked like someone had taken the concept of "roguish charm" and given it excellent bone structure, a really expensive education, and the kind of smile that had probably caused international incidents and definitely caused relationship drama, grinned at his wife with obvious affection and the satisfaction of someone who was thoroughly enjoying the show.
"Let them have their fun, love," he said, his voice carrying that smooth confidence that had apparently been genetic in the Potter family for generations and had been causing problems for authority figures since approximately the dawn of time. "They've earned it after the evening they've had."
He turned to Harry with obvious paternal pride and what appeared to be professional appreciation for elaborate revenge schemes and complex tactical operations.
"Though I have to say, son, your taste in women continues to be both impressive and slightly terrifying from a diplomatic standpoint," he continued with the kind of grin that suggested the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree and had possibly learned to make explosives. "Very diverse skill sets. Very... comprehensive coverage of potential threat scenarios."
"I prefer 'challenging,'" Harry replied, his grin sharp enough to cut glass and probably twice as dangerous as most of the weapons in SHIELD's arsenal. "Keeps life interesting. Plus, they all look absolutely incredible while being terrifying, which is really the best of both worlds."
"Challenging is one word for it," Sirius Black observed from his position lounging in his chair like someone who'd stepped off a motorcycle magazine cover and decided to stick around for the entertainment and possibly the catering.
His dark hair was pulled back in a style that suggested he'd either just finished a photo shoot or was planning to rob something very expensive, and when he moved, it was with the fluid grace of someone who'd turned rebellion into an art form and made it look effortless.
"Though I have to admit," he continued, raising his glass of what appeared to be whiskey expensive enough to have its own insurance policy and possibly its own security detail, "watching you work tonight was like watching poetry in motion. Very violent poetry. With significantly more property damage than most sonnets and considerably better special effects."
He grinned with obvious satisfaction and what appeared to be nostalgic pride in a job well done and chaos well distributed.
"To my godson," he said, raising his glass higher, "who continues to make family reunions significantly more educational than anyone expects and proves that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Or in this case, the apple learned to make explosives and decided to redecorate the entire orchard."
"Educational is certainly one way to put it," Mad-Eye Moody growled from his corner, where he'd been sitting like a particularly paranoid gargoyle with trust issues and a comprehensive collection of justified fears about basically everything.
His magical eye spun lazily as it tracked threats that probably existed only in his imagination but were definitely more real than most people's actual problems and infinitely more dangerous than most people's worst nightmares.
His scarred face held the expression of someone who'd spent decades being right about worst-case scenarios and had developed a healthy appreciation for preparation, paranoia, and the importance of always expecting things to go sideways at the worst possible moment.
"Though I notice," he continued, his voice carrying that gravelly tone of someone who'd spent years shouting over battlefield conditions and had never quite readjusted the volume or the assumption that everyone was probably trying to kill him, "that we're all sitting here congratulating ourselves on a job well done while we've still got a baby Dark Lord having a psychological breakdown in our basement and one more piece of his soul jewelry collection to track down and destroy."
His normal eye fixed on Harry with the kind of intensity usually reserved for interrogations and really uncomfortable medical examinations.
"Constant vigilance, Potter. The moment you start celebrating is the moment someone tries to stick a knife in your back. Or hex your coffee. Or both."
"Always the optimist, Mad-Eye," Sirius said cheerfully.
"I prefer 'realistic,'" Moody replied grimly. "Optimists don't live long in this business."
"Pessimists don't have as much fun," James pointed out.
"Fun doesn't keep you alive," Moody countered.
"Neither does constant paranoia," Lily observed. "At some point, you have to actually live your life."
"I am living my life," Moody said defensively. "Very carefully."
Nick Fury, who had been sitting at the head of the table like someone who owned the place and was personally offended by its current management and possibly its interior decorating choices, set down his coffee cup with the kind of precise authority that made even superpowered individuals sit up straighter without realizing they were doing it.
His single eye surveyed the assembled group with the expression of someone who'd spent years managing people who could level city blocks and had developed very effective techniques for keeping them focused on productive activities rather than destructive ones.
"Which brings us to current operational parameters," he said, his voice carrying that particular SHIELD efficiency that made complex international incidents sound like routine paperwork and made even the most chaotic situations seem manageable with proper planning and sufficient explosives.
His smile was sharp enough to perform surgery and probably twice as dangerous as anything they'd face in the upcoming operation.
"We know where the final Horcrux is located. We know when we'll have legitimate access to Hogwarts. And we know certain parties are going to be very interested in manipulating the situation for their own purposes."
He leaned forward slightly, and his expression suggested someone was about to learn some very important lessons about why you don't mess with people who have government backing and unlimited resources.
"Time to discuss how we're going to turn this entire clusterfuck into a teaching moment about why you don't play games with the Potter family. And by teaching moment, I mean the kind that gets remembered for generations and possibly written up in textbooks under 'What Not to Do When Dealing with Enhanced Individuals.'"
Gideon Adler, who looked like someone had taken European sophistication and given it platinum hair, ice-blue eyes, and the kind of dangerous intelligence that could probably manipulate stock markets while reciting poetry and making it sound like a threat, opened a file folder thick enough to declare war on a small country and organized enough to win.
"The bureaucratic preparations are complete," he announced, his German accent making even administrative details sound vaguely threatening and somehow sophisticated, like he was planning to conquer a small nation through proper filing procedures.
"Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Durmstrang Institute, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry... and the SHIELD Supernatural Education Initiative, representing the International Confederation of Enhanced Individuals."
He looked up from his paperwork with obvious satisfaction, like someone who'd just solved a particularly challenging puzzle involving international law, creative paperwork interpretation, and what was probably several forms of legal bribery disguised as diplomatic courtesy.
"All properly documented, officially recognized, and completely legitimate under international magical law," he continued with the smooth confidence of someone who'd probably rewritten several international treaties during his lunch break and made it look easy. "Director Fury will serve as the official SHIELD representative, I'll be on the judging panel as our expert in magical education and enhanced individual integration, and our entire team will have diplomatic immunity and full access to Hogwarts grounds."
His smile was the kind that made smart people check their legal documentation and possibly update their life insurance.
"With complete authority to investigate any threats to student safety," Natasha added, her knife continuing its deadly dance between her fingers like a metallic butterfly with homicidal tendencies and excellent timing, "including mysterious objects that might be influencing Tournament selection processes, unauthorized magical artifacts, and any suspicious activities involving elderly headmasters with boundary issues and questionable decision-making skills."
Her smile suggested someone was about to have a very educational conversation about proper magical sporting event procedures and why cheating was generally considered poor form in civilized society.
"Suspicious activities," Laura repeated with obvious amusement. "That covers a lot of ground."
"It's supposed to," Natasha replied smoothly. "Very comprehensive mandate."
"I like comprehensive," Harry said, and the way he said it made several people shift in their chairs.
"We've noticed," Jean observed, her mental voice adding commentary that made Harry grin.
Madelyn Pryor, who had been quietly observing the proceedings from her position near the door with the kind of sharp intelligence that made clever people feel suddenly inadequate and possibly unnecessary, stepped forward with a smile that suggested she was about to make an excellent point that everyone had somehow overlooked.
She looked like someone had taken Jean's genetic template and decided to make some very interesting modifications involving confidence, attitude, and what appeared to be a significantly more predatory approach to telepathy and life in general.
"One question," she said, her voice carrying that particular combination of curiosity and barely contained mischief that suggested she was about to throw a very interesting wrench into everyone's carefully laid plans and probably make it look effortless, "what happens if Dumbledore doesn't put Harry's name in the Goblet himself? What if he's actually planning something completely different, and we're preparing for the wrong manipulation entirely?"
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either brilliant strategic insights or the collective realization that everyone had made some very unfortunate assumptions about their opponent's psychological profile and possibly their understanding of basic tactical planning.
"That's..." Fury started, then stopped, his single eye narrowing as he processed the implications.
"A very good point," Lily finished, her expression shifting to the kind of maternal concern that had once made Dark Lords reconsider their life choices and was currently making everyone at the table reconsider their assumptions.
"So we prepare for multiple scenarios," James said practically. "Cover all the bases."
"All the bases?" Sirius asked. "Do you know how many bases that is? Dumbledore's got more schemes than a particularly ambitious chess player with delusions of grandeur."
Harry's grin turned absolutely wicked, the kind of expression that made smart people update their wills and made his girlfriends look at him with obvious appreciation and what appeared to be immediate interest in post-mission activities that would probably require privacy and possibly noise-dampening charms.
"Then we improvise," he said simply, his voice carrying the kind of casual confidence that had started revolutions and ended empires and made it look like a hobby rather than a profession.
"And trust me, I'm very good at improvisation. Some might even say it's one of my better skills."
The way he said it—combined with the look he shared with each of his girlfriends in turn—made it abundantly clear that improvisation was definitely one of his better skills, and that said skills had applications well beyond tactical situations and probably involved significantly less clothing.
"Oh, we know," Jean said, her mental voice adding private commentary that made Harry's pulse quicken and made her cheeks flush that attractive shade of pink that meant she was thinking about things that would definitely require privacy.
"Very creative," Ororo agreed, lightning crackling between her fingers with what appeared to be anticipation for testing his creative abilities in multiple contexts.
"Extremely adaptable," Natasha added, her knife twirling in patterns that suggested she was already planning her own improvisational activities and they were going to be spectacular.
"Surprisingly thorough," Laura concluded with the kind of grin that suggested she was looking forward to comprehensive testing of his improvisational skills across a wide variety of scenarios.
"And absolutely devastating when properly motivated," Tonks finished, her hair cycling through colors that matched her obvious enthusiasm for whatever chaos was about to unfold and the entertaining aftermath.
It was, as Fury would later note in his report, exactly the kind of response that made him simultaneously proud of and terrified by the assets under his command. But that was a problem for Future Fury, who would have to deal with the paperwork and probably the insurance claims.
Present Fury was just looking forward to watching Dumbledore's face when he realized exactly how thoroughly his latest scheme had been anticipated, countered, and turned into a teaching moment about the consequences of manipulating people who had government backing, unlimited resources, and absolutely no patience for being played like pieces on someone else's chessboard.
"So let me get this straight," Harry said, leaning forward with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for people about to unwrap very expensive presents or watch their enemies realize exactly how thoroughly they'd been outmaneuvered and possibly outclassed, "in fifteen days, we officially establish SHIELD presence at Hogwarts under the cover of international magical education cooperation, locate and destroy the final Horcrux, expose whatever manipulation Dumbledore's actually planning, and make sure everyone involved understands exactly why messing with my family is a spectacularly bad idea that should come with warning labels and possibly legal disclaimers?"
"That's the general outline," Fury confirmed with obvious satisfaction and what appeared to be anticipation for the bureaucratic chaos that was about to ensue and possibly the entertainment value of watching centuries-old institutions try to adapt to modern management techniques.
"With appropriate documentation, media coverage, and enough official witnesses to make sure this becomes a teaching moment that gets remembered for generations and possibly ends up in textbooks under 'Case Studies in Why You Don't Mess with Enhanced Individuals.'"
"With style," Tonks added cheerfully, her hair now a satisfied gold that somehow made strategic planning look like party preparation and made everyone want to see exactly what she had planned for this mission outfit and possibly the post-mission celebration.
"And definitely some property damage," Sirius said hopefully, because apparently some things never changed, including Marauder attitudes toward authority and architecture and the therapeutic value of well-placed explosions.
"Educational property damage," James confirmed with paternal pride and what appeared to be nostalgic appreciation for well-executed mayhem and the kind of chaos that made people remember why you don't mess with the Potter family.
"Therapeutic property damage," Lily corrected with the precision of someone already planning how to explain this to the insurance adjusters and possibly the International Criminal Court, assuming anyone was left to file complaints.
Harry stood, his movements fluid and predatory in a way that made everyone present remember exactly why he'd become one of the most feared names in recent magical history and why even seasoned SHIELD agents treated him with the kind of respect usually reserved for natural disasters and nuclear weapons with attitude problems.
"Right then," he announced, his voice carrying that natural authority that made people salute without thinking about it and made even hardened operatives reconsider their life choices and possibly their insurance coverage, "Halloween at Hogwarts it is. Time to show the wizarding world exactly what happens when you mess with the Potter family."
His smile was sharp enough to cut reality and probably twice as dangerous as anything they'd face in the upcoming operation.
"And if anyone wants to improvise along the way," he added, his gaze moving across his assembled girlfriends with obvious appreciation and promises that made the air in the room heat up by several degrees and made everyone suddenly very interested in post-mission planning, "I'm very open to creative collaboration."
Thunder rumbled outside with what sounded suspiciously like applause from the universe itself, and somewhere in the depths of the Helicarrier, Tom Marvolo Riddle continued to stare at nothing in particular while contemplating the spectacular collapse of fifty years of careful planning and psychological manipulation.
It was, everyone agreed, going to be a very educational Halloween indeed.
The kind that people would remember for all the right reasons.
Well, all the right reasons if you were on the winning side, had government backing, and happened to be dating the most dangerous man in the magical world who also looked like he'd stepped off the cover of *Dangerous People Weekly* and decided to make defeating Dark Lords look effortless.
If you weren't... well, that's what made it educational.
And honestly, Harry thought as he looked around the table at his family, his team, and his girlfriends who were all looking at him like he was their favorite kind of trouble, educational was exactly what some people needed.
Time to go back to school.
---
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