Toothgnasher rapped a claw against the nearest rune like a grumpy professor tapping a chalkboard. "Before we proceed to the Sword of Aetherion—and the possibility of Mr. Potter being turned into a magical firework—we must first examine the two existing marriage contracts. Guardians must be present."
Jean gave an exaggerated groan. "You mean we're still not done with the royal soap opera?"
"Correct," said the goblin with way too much glee. He turned toward the two girls. "Lady Greengrass, kindly fetch your parents. Lady Bones, your aunt is already waiting outside."
Harry blinked. "Did he just call Susan 'Lady Bones'?"
"Technically, it's gender-neutral under goblin law," Susan replied with a shrug, already halfway to the door.
Clint whispered to Steve, "This place makes Asgard look like a quiet retirement village."
As the girls exited with matching sighs of doom, Toothgnasher turned to Jean, summoning a scroll that shimmered gold and radiated enough magical red tape to make the IRS blush. It hovered ominously between them.
"This is a standard Betrothal Contract," he said. "Purely optional."
Jean squinted at it like it was about to bite her. "Optional?"
"It outlines formal engagement terms should you wish to secure your position as Mr. Potter's primary consort," Toothgnasher explained with the kind of gravity one usually reserved for funeral rites or Game of Thrones finales. "Fidelity clauses, title equivalency, conjugal immunity—"
"Okay!" Jean held up a hand like a traffic cop. "This sounds like wizard prenup meets mutant soap opera."
Toothgnasher nodded serenely. "Accurate."
Harry peeked over her shoulder. "Clause 7: Magical Consort's rights during public dueling and gala events."
"That one actually makes sense," Jean muttered, scanning the rest.
"Clause 12: Groom agrees to notify the Bride before entering mortal peril, except in cases of time travel, magical duress, or amnesia."
"Write that one in bold," Jean said.
Toothgnasher clicked his claws. "Miss Grey, do you have a guardian available to negotiate your interests?"
Jean didn't miss a beat. "Only one person I trust for this level of crazy."
She handed the scroll to Logan, who had been leaning against a pillar, chewing on a toothpick like he was sizing up the building for demolition.
"Take it to Professor Xavier," she said. "Tell him it's either this or I cram every legal clause into his frontal lobe."
Logan gave a low chuckle. "Sounds like a Tuesday."
Harry grinned at her. "You know, for someone who just found out her boyfriend's accidentally engaged twice, you're surprisingly composed."
Jean's smile was sweet. Too sweet. "You're under emotional review."
Sirius winced and muttered to Natasha, "That's at least a seven on the Girlfriend Richter scale."
"You haven't seen her at full ten," Natasha said dryly, arms crossed. "That's when she starts melting furniture."
Steve gave Harry a supportive thumbs-up. "Hang in there, kid."
The doors swung open again, and in walked the Parents. Capital P.
Cyrus Greengrass entered first, all angles and cheekbones and the kind of presence that suggested he'd fought at least three wars before breakfast. Soleil Greengrass followed, draped in enough silk to clothe a nation, eyes cool and calculating.
Behind them came Amelia Bones. She looked like she could slap the truth out of a Dementor. Her coat flared like a cape, her wand was casually holstered at her hip, and she gave Sirius a look that could curdle milk.
Sirius straightened up, grinning like a Gryffindor caught halfway through a prank. "Nice of you to show up, Amelia."
She raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me arrest you again."
"Only if it's a private cell. With room service."
Harry leaned over to Jean. "I think our emotional disaster just turned into a double date."
Jean elbowed him, but the smile betrayed her.
Toothgnasher clapped his hands. "Lovely. With all guardians and heirs present, we may proceed with contract readings—"
A rune flared behind him. Then sparked. Then exploded in a shower of magical static.
"Oh dear," Toothgnasher muttered.
Harry sighed. "'Oh dear' never means 'free puppies.'"
"The Sword of Aetherion has sensed bloodline proximity," the goblin said, eyes flickering.
A pedestal rose from the ground like something out of Indiana Jones, mist curling around it. On top, the sword gleamed. Long. Sleek. Humming like it was part dragon, part star.
Clint took a subtle step behind Steve. "Yup. Cue ancient weapon waking up. Definitely someone losing a finger today."
Toothgnasher gestured. "Shall we see if the heir lives?"
Harry took a deep breath. "If I explode, tell Jean she's right about everything, Sirius owes me ten galleons, and Logan can't keep my sword."
Jean folded her arms. "You better not explode. You're still on probation."
He grinned. "Aye aye, Captain Redhead."
Then he stepped forward, reached out—and the sword leapt into his hand.
For a long, terrifying second, everyone held their breath.
Then—nothing. No explosions. No dark marks. No turning into a flaming phoenix demon.
Toothgnasher beamed. "Excellent! No vaporization."
Clint nodded solemnly. "Put it in the win column."
Harry raised the sword, testing the weight. It pulsed once, resonating with something deep in his chest.
Jean looked up at him, eyes wide. "You really are the storm."
Harry smirked. "Then let's bring the thunder."
—
The sword pulsed in Harry's hand—like it had a heartbeat. Not a normal one, either. This wasn't the thump-thump of a cardio workout. This was ancient, cosmic, possibly-judging-you energy. The kind of heartbeat that probably remembered the Big Bang and had notes about it.
A faint hum vibrated up his arm. Not painful. Not uncomfortable. Just... electric. Like every cell in his body had switched radio stations and was now tuned to Blade FM: All Chaos, All the Time.
Jean squinted at him, head tilted. "Harry… you're glowing."
"I'm what now?" He didn't look down. Looking down never helped. That's how you walked into man-eating plants.
Clint leaned sideways to get a better angle, because of course he did. "Yup. You've got a magical aura. Kinda blue. Kinda sparkly. Pretty sure you're not dying."
Steve raised a brow. "Pretty sure?"
Clint shrugged. "It's a vibe."
Harry blinked. Something inside him was shifting. Not painfully, but... deeply. Like his magic had just discovered gourmet seasoning and was now seasoning itself with something called "primordial sword sauce."
"Toothgnasher," Harry said slowly, trying not to sound like someone casually becoming a magical reactor core, "what exactly does this sword do?"
Toothgnasher—grinning like a goblin who'd just watched a noble house fall into bankruptcy—gave a courtly little bow. "The Sword of Aetherion is one of the Seven Relics of the First Flame. Forged by the Archmage of Avalon in the Age of Starlight. It channels primordial magic—stormlight, starfire, and deathsong. It amplifies elemental power, slices through metaphysical barriers, and resists time-altering effects."
Everyone stared.
Harry eyed the sword in his hand. "Right. So I'm holding Excalibur's radioactive, overachieving cousin."
"Accurate," Toothgnasher said brightly. "And since you appear to be absorbing echoes of its essence, allow me to be the first to say: congratulations! You're now functionally immune to most curses, and your spells might trigger reality feedback."
Jean frowned. "Reality what-now?"
"Reality feedback," Toothgnasher repeated. "Your spells now have... flair. Intent matters more. Magic adapts to you. Sometimes it overreacts."
"He's a walking magical mood swing," Clint whispered. "Awesome."
Jean sighed. "Great. Like he wasn't already chaos with a wand."
"Hey," Harry said, mock-offended. "Still under review, remember."
"Still glowing like a mood ring in a rave," Jean countered.
Toothgnasher tapped a glowing rune. Two golden scrolls appeared, floating in the air with the kind of bureaucratic menace normally reserved for Ministry audits and amusement park waivers.
"Now," the goblin said with glee, "let us review the existing betrothal contracts: The Potter-Greengrass Accord and the Black-Bones Accord."
Harry made a noise halfway between a groan and a dying owl. "Oh great. My love life's being managed by ancient scrolls and a goblin with a clipboard."
"You're welcome," Toothgnasher said cheerfully.
"To clarify," he continued, holding up the first scroll like a prop in a very niche soap opera, "both contracts were signed magically by the previous heads of house. They betroth Lord Harry James Potter—now proven heir of House Potter, House Black, and, as of five minutes ago, Head of House Peverell—to Lady Daphne Greengrass and Lady Susan Bones."
Cyrus Greengrass stepped forward, all sharp cheekbones and colder-than-you eyes. "Peverell? That's the Deathly Hallows family, isn't it? Thought they were extinct."
"Common misconception," Toothgnasher said, clearly enjoying himself. "Turns out, Mr. Potter here is the last of the line. Confirmed by the Sword of Aetherion itself."
"I swear," Harry muttered, "I'm going to need a family tree, a map, and possibly a magical therapist."
"You are the map," Sirius said proudly.
Jean crossed her arms. "And what exactly do these contracts mean?"
Toothgnasher held up one scroll. "The Potter-Greengrass Accord cements alliance between houses. Traditional. Political. Romantic. Magical."
Daphne raised her hand. "We were told this might happen. But I didn't think it'd be... Harry."
"Honestly," Susan said, hands in her coat pockets, "if it had been some crusty pureblood from a family tree shaped like a noose, I'd have burned the contract."
Jean gave both girls a look that could char parchment.
Susan held up her hands. "Relax. You're his girlfriend. It's obvious. Even the sword likes you."
Daphne nodded. "Which makes you Prime Consort."
Jean blinked. "I'm sorry. The what now?"
"First wife," Susan explained, then quickly amended, "but magical and more egalitarian. Prime Consort has precedence in political decisions, defense protocol, and basically gets to call dibs."
Harry glanced at Jean, suddenly serious. "Only if you want to. No pressure."
Jean stared at him for a long moment. Then exhaled through her nose, eyes softening. "Fine. But you're still being audited."
He grinned. "Audited by the prettiest IRS agent ever."
"Flattery won't save you, Potter."
"Didn't say it would. Just hoping it earns me a payment extension."
Toothgnasher beamed. "The magical marriages will not be enacted until Lord Potter reaches magical majority. Age seventeen."
"So," Natasha said, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like it was a very slow train wreck, "he's got four years to survive being a magical demigod, mutant puberty, and accidental polygamy."
Logan snorted. "Kid's living the weirdest X-Men arc I've ever seen."
Toothgnasher turned toward the adults. "Do the guardians wish to suggest any amendments?"
Cyrus stepped forward again, smooth and precise. "We request that the second-born child of each union take the mother's surname. The firstborn may be Potter and Black. But our family lines must continue."
Amelia Bones nodded once, firm as iron. "Susan is the last Bones. The name must live on."
Harry looked at both girls, then nodded. "Works for me. As long as we don't name anyone Severus."
Daphne smirked. "Agreed."
Susan gave a thumbs-up. "Hard pass on tragic baby names."
Toothgnasher tapped the scrolls. "Amendments accepted. Contracts will update magically and formalize upon magical adulthood."
Harry let out a long breath. "Okay. So to recap: I've got a magical sword that might be older than the moon, three ancient bloodlines, two betrothals, one girlfriend with laser eyes, and a countdown to magical adulthood that sounds like either a party or an apocalypse."
"Sounds like puberty to me," Logan said, arms crossed.
"Welcome to the wizarding world," Sirius added, clapping him on the back.
Jean laced her fingers through Harry's and looked up at him, eyes fierce. "Don't explode before you're seventeen."
Harry squeezed her hand. "I'll put it on my to-do list."
Just then, one of the runes flared again.
Toothgnasher turned, his grin spreading like wildfire. "Now then... shall we discuss the conditions for activation of the Peverell Vault?"
Clint raised a hand. "Wait. There's another vault?"
Steve sighed. "Of course there is."
And somewhere far below their feet, behind stone and magic older than language, a new vault door stirred.
Waiting.
—
Harry raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to Toothgnasher. "Wait, hold up. Didn't you say the Peverell Vault was sealed until I hit seventeen? You know, magical maturity? Legal wand-wielding? Maybe a parade?"
Toothgnasher looked mildly offended, like Harry had suggested using goblin gold to buy bubblegum. "Indeed. That would be the Primary Vault, Lord Potter."
Harry squinted. "And this one?"
The goblin tapped the rune again. A new holographic vault schematic flared into existence above the floor—clearly enchanted by someone who thought spikes were decorative. It was smaller than the first, but still very much a magical Fort Knox. Glowing runes danced around it like very nerdy fireflies.
"This," Toothgnasher said, his voice practically purring, "is the Secondary Vault. The Primary Vault, sealed until your magical majority, holds heirlooms and relics that require a stable magical core. This one, however, was designed to activate upon resonance with the Sword of Aetherion."
Harry blinked. "So... sword equals key?"
"In layman's terms," Toothgnasher said.
Clint leaned sideways, chewing a piece of gum that absolutely no one remembered him having. "So it's like unlocking bonus content with a DLC weapon."
"Except the DLC is sentient," Natasha added, arms crossed and eyebrow arched.
"And possibly judging us," Steve muttered.
Jean's hand tightened in Harry's. Her eyes glowed faintly, because of course they did, but her voice was all dry sarcasm. "Harry doesn't need another vault. He barely makes it through breakfast."
"Excuse you," Harry said, indignant. "I dominate breakfast. It's lunch where the explosions start."
"You blew up a toaster," Jean said.
"It looked at me funny."
Sirius clapped him on the back, grinning like someone who'd set fire to a few toasters himself. "What's in this second vault, Toothy? More blades? Sentient furniture? Maybe a cursed love poem?"
Toothgnasher snapped his fingers. A flurry of icons appeared: books, scrolls, something that looked suspiciously like a floating skull in sunglasses, and a levitating hourglass filled with what appeared to be starlight.
"Unknown," the goblin said cheerfully. "Even goblin records are vague. But the magical signature matches one Antioch Peverell. The original wielder of the Elder Wand."
Steve tilted his head. "Isn't that the guy from the Deathly Hallows story?"
"Yup," Harry said. "Apparently he's my great-great-granduncle. Or something. The Potter family tree is less a tree and more a magical spaghetti monster."
Jean raised a hand. "Can confirm. It's a hedge maze with bloodlines, ghosts, and drama."
"Like Hogwarts," Clint said. "But in tree form."
Toothgnasher raised a goblin finger. "The Secondary Vault is reactive. It doesn't just open. It evaluates the wielder's soul, intentions, and magical resonance. Or, as Antioch put it—"
He cleared his throat and intoned dramatically: "'For the child who holds the blade and bears the name, the second vault shall open—not for power, but for need. When the blood burns and fate bends, there shall he find what only chaos can unlock.'"
Everyone just kind of... stared.
"So," Susan said slowly, "that's not ominous at all."
"Very on-brand, though," Daphne murmured, eyeing Harry like he was a particularly chaotic dessert tray.
Jean tilted her head at him. "You good?"
"Define good," Harry said, lips twitching. "Because I'm holding a sword that might be older than the moon, glowing like a magical rave, and apparently unlocking chaos vaults with my vibes."
"Sounds like a Tuesday," Logan muttered.
Sirius gave Harry a fond look. "I've got a good feeling about this."
Steve groaned. "Don't say that."
"It's basically a jinx," Clint agreed. "Next thing you know, cursed armor and tragic flashbacks."
"That was last week," Natasha muttered.
Beneath their feet, the floor vibrated. A low hum, like ancient stone stretching after a nap. Magical light traced ancient patterns around the edge of the vault platform.
Jean looked at Harry. "You really want to do this?"
He squeezed her hand, eyes sharp and voice steady. "With you next to me? Always."
She rolled her eyes but didn't let go. "If we die, I'm haunting you."
"First in line," he promised.
Toothgnasher gave a little hop of excitement. "Shall we descend, then?"
Logan cracked his neck. "Just don't touch anything that glows red. Red means bad."
"Or cursed," Sirius added helpfully. "Or haunted."
"Or pregnant," Clint threw in.
Everyone turned.
He shrugged. "What? Red can mean lots of things."
Toothgnasher, looking like a goblin professor about to unveil his final exam, activated the platform. It shimmered beneath their feet, symbols glowing as they began to descend into the depths of Gringotts.
Harry exhaled. "Okay. Time to open the magical loot box of doom."
"No pressure," Jean muttered, pressing close.
"If there's a prophecy in there that says I have to defeat the moon with a spork," she added, "I'm out."
Harry grinned. "Then I'll only ask you to be backup. I'll lead with the spoon."
And with that, the elevator disappeared into the ancient stone, carrying them toward the Secondary Vault—and whatever madness waited below.
—
Descending into the Secondary Vault felt less like stepping into a bank and more like prepping to raid the final boss's lair—with extra sparkle. The elevator gave a dramatic hiss as it settled, magic fizzing in the air like an overexcited soda can. The landing platform pulsed with flickering runes in gold, silver, and a very aggressive shade of red that screamed "Definitely Cursed."
Jean leaned against Harry's side, her eyes faintly glowing with a very Phoenix-y intensity. "You're glowing again," she whispered, voice somewhere between concerned girlfriend and someone about to vaporize an artifact with her mind.
Harry looked down. Yup. Wisps of golden light curled around him like he'd bathed in literal sunlight and decided to keep the glow for aesthetic.
"I've become a magical lava lamp," he muttered. "Fabulous."
Susan Bones, ever the supportive smart-mouth, offered from behind, "At least if you die, you'll be the prettiest corpse."
Harry stepped off the platform, his cloak fluttering dramatically like it had stage directions. "That's the dream."
The vault stretched ahead, all obsidian grandeur and glowing crystalline columns. If Gothic met Sci-fi at a wizard rave, this would be their lovechild. At the center, a spiraling staircase hovered above a pulsating starlight circle like a floating Pinterest board labeled Eldritch But Make It Vogue.
Daphne narrowed her eyes. "This place looks like it's about to demand we answer a riddle in Latin and duel a sentient sofa."
Sirius grinned, clearly in his element. "I hope it does."
"Where's the tripwire?" Natasha asked, stepping forward like an assassin-turned-Indiana-Jones.
Steve adjusted his shield. "Toothgnasher said it was reactive. So… Harry, it's probably waiting for you."
Harry shrugged, then strolled toward the circle like someone who hadn't just been warned about ancient magical booby traps. Predictably, the vault reacted like a drama queen craving attention.
WHOOM.
The runes blazed to life, light exploding outward. The crystals pivoted to face Harry. Jean muttered, "Of course the lamps are judging us."
Above the circle, a vault sphere descended—runed, dragon-scaled, spinning like a prop from Doctor Strange: Cursed Edition. It hovered, dramatic and humming with millennia of bad ideas.
Clint leaned in to Steve. "I kind of want one."
"Don't touch it," came the synchronized chorus of Jean, Steve, Natasha, Sirius, and Logan.
The sphere unfolded like an eldritch lotus flower unveiling its trauma collection. On the altar at its heart lay four items:
—A dagger, thin and wicked, glowing with shadow and moonlight. —A ring, its gems shifting between sun, moon, and eclipse. —A scroll case, ancient and unbroken. —And a mirror. Small. Whispering. Definitely plotting.
Harry approached slowly.
Jean caught his arm. "You don't have to take anything. We can just go. Vaults are optional."
He looked at her, the chaos around them blurring into soft warmth. "I know. But maybe what's here helps me protect you."
She glared. "Not a good enough reason to die."
Harry kissed her lightly. "I've got a decent insurance plan. Comes with sarcasm."
He turned to the vault.
"I am Harry James Potter," he announced, voice ringing. "Son of Lily and James. Heir of Peverell. Wielder of Aetherion. Slayer of Toaster Rebellions. And I claim what was meant for me."
The dagger floated up with a whisper of reality being rewritten. It landed neatly in Harry's palm. Cold. Ancient. Just a little too pleased with itself.
Runes along its edge lit up. Harry's magic flared in response, like it had just done a line of magical espresso.
The ring followed, slipping onto his finger like a lover reuniting with its soulmate.
The scroll case unsealed, releasing a puff of dust that might've been older than Toothgnasher's credit rating.
And the mirror—oh, the mirror shimmered. Harry leaned in.
His reflection winked.
Jean narrowed her eyes. "No. That's cursed. That is the face of a cursed object."
Harry sighed. "If it starts monologuing about my destiny, I'm cracking it and blaming Dumbledore."
Toothgnasher coughed politely. "That mirror belonged to Antioch. He claimed it 'reflected possibility.'"
Logan lit a cigar. "Kid's gonna be a magical WMD before his next birthday."
The vault dimmed. Test complete. Portal open. Because of course a glittering golden arch had appeared.
Sirius whistled. "Well. That happened."
Clint raised a hand. "Can we be 'Team Magical Shenanigans'? Or maybe 'The Vault Hunters'?"
Jean walked over, took Harry's hand. "So. Dinner? Or are you planning to flirt with another cursed object first?"
Harry grinned. "Does the dagger count if it doesn't talk back?"
Jean bumped his shoulder. "Only if it cooks."
They turned toward the portal, chaos locked behind them.
Harry tossed a final glance over his shoulder. "Note to self: next time someone offers inherited magical trauma wrapped in ancient poetry, politely decline."
"Two weeks," Logan muttered. "Tops."
And with that, Team Definitely Cursed walked into the unknown.
Because dinner waits for no chosen one.
—
The vault door shut behind them with a low hum and a sparkle, like it was trying to get nominated for Most Dramatic Exit in a magical Broadway show. One second they were standing in a star-lit hall of ancient wonders and eldritch Ikea catalogues, and the next, they were back in the polished, cold, and wildly underwhelming main corridor of Gringotts Bank.
Honestly? It felt like stepping out of an epic fantasy novel and into a tax accountant's waiting room.
Toothgnasher stomped up after them, looking every bit like someone who regretted their life choices, particularly the ones involving magical teenagers. The ancient goblin crossed his arms and fixed Harry with the expression of a man who'd just witnessed a teenager joyride a nuclear submarine.
"Well," he grunted. "Congratulations. You didn't destroy the world. Yet."
Harry offered a sunny grin. "We like to leave the apocalypse for dessert."
Toothgnasher mumbled something about "chaos-born brats and flaming vaults" before nodding curtly to Sirius. "Get him out before something down there remembers how to hold a grudge."
Sirius Black—looking like someone who bench-pressed motorcycles for breakfast and delivered snark for lunch—clapped a hand on Toothgnasher's shoulder. "Thanks, Tuskface. You've been a peach."
"Still not my name," the goblin muttered, vanishing in a swirl of glowing contract dust and professional disapproval.
They stepped into Diagon Alley like a rock band leaving backstage—minus the pyrotechnics, but still radiating enough magic to make half the bystanders drop their cauldron ice creams. For about five seconds, there was peace.
Then Jean turned.
The Phoenix spark in her eyes practically crackled. Her red hair gleamed like it had a personal lighting crew, and she planted her fists on her hips with the confidence of someone about to run a small country—or a complicated magical harem.
"Okay," she said, loud enough for nearby pigeons to question their life decisions. "Let's talk about the magical elephant in the relationship."
Susan, all fire-haired calm and snark, raised an eyebrow. "You mean the blood-bound magical betrothal contracts that sound like they were written by a deranged soap opera writer with a grudge against monogamy?"
"Exactly that," Jean said, spinning to face Harry like a prosecutor with cheekbones.
Daphne sucked on a sugar quill, somehow making it look elegant. "Oh, good. I was wondering when we'd address the polyamorous Hippogriff in the room."
Harry blinked. "Sooo… we're doing this here? Right outside the bank?"
Jean nodded. "Yep."
Clint Barton leaned in from the side, adjusting his quiver like it had opinions. "We talking relationship drama? Should I grab popcorn?"
Steve Rogers groaned and ran a hand through his perfect blonde hair. "Why is this always how our missions end?"
"Because," Natasha Romanoff said without looking up from cleaning her knife, "Harry's life is powered by chaos, trauma, and hormones."
"Rude," Harry said. "Accurate. But rude."
Jean turned back to Susan and Daphne. "So, contracts. How much magical binding are we talking? Like 'heir-producing dynasty pact' or 'surprise eternal soul bond'?"
Susan shrugged. "Bit of both, with a dash of magical destiny and a light sprinkling of bloodline paranoia."
"Great," Jean said, deadpan. "Nothing screams romance like magical eugenics."
Daphne smiled sweetly. "We did already agree that you're the Prime. Queen of the Chaos Court. The Flame-Wielding First Wife."
Jean blinked. "...Did you rehearse that?"
"A little," Susan admitted. "We had time while you were stabbing dimension knives and flirting with cosmic portals."
Harry raised a hand. "Hi. Still here. The guy you're all betrothed to."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "Oh, we didn't forget you. You just get to sit there and look pretty while we sort your magical mess."
Harry grinned. "I do look pretty. It's the cheekbones."
Daphne pointed at him. "Don't let him distract you with the smolder."
Susan sighed. "Too late. He smoldered. I am once again compromised."
Logan—shirt slightly singed, cigar clenched between his teeth—finally spoke up. "Can we wrap this up? My cigar's burning down and so is my patience."
"Ignore him," Jean said. "He's just mad Harry out-bantered him in the vault."
"I am not mad," Logan growled.
"You're furious," Sirius chuckled. "He's mad you got the dagger. He wanted it."
Harry gave Logan a faux-sympathetic look. "Sorry, bub. Only one chaos-blade per emotionally unstable protagonist."
Logan grunted and turned away, muttering something about "glowy drama queens."
Clint raised a hand. "So, can we be 'Team Magical Shenanigans' or is that taken?"
"I vote for 'Vault Hunters Anonymous,'" Daphne said.
"Can we eat?" Steve asked, exasperated. "We haven't had food since the werewolf fight."
"Right," Jean said, taking Harry's hand and immediately looking five percent less murderous. "Dinner. But first—ground rules."
Susan and Daphne straightened. Harry wisely shut his mouth.
Jean looked at them all. "This isn't going to be easy. Ancient magic never is. But we're doing this together. No lies. No dramatic self-sacrifice speeches. No running off to face evil overlords alone."
Susan smiled. "Agreed."
Daphne smirked. "Unless it's sexy."
Harry blinked. "Wait. Are magical battles a kink now?"
Jean squeezed his hand. "Only if you wear your Marauder armor again."
"Done," he said without hesitation.
Natasha finally put her knife away. "Teenagers," she muttered. "Too much flirting, not enough stabbing."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Sirius quipped.
Jean bumped her shoulder against Harry's. "So. Ready for your next Prime Consort briefing?"
He leaned in, smirking. "Only if there's kissing."
She kissed him. Right there in the middle of Diagon Alley. Just long enough for Steve to avert his eyes, Clint to make gagging noises, and Logan to groan something about "sentimental nonsense."
When they finally pulled apart, Jean whispered, "Rule number one: we protect each other."
"Always," Harry said.
The group headed down the cobbled street, like a slightly dysfunctional superhero squad dressed for a fantasy crossover. Ahead was kebab, chaos, and probably some minor political fallout.
But for now?
Love, magical daggers, and teamwork would do just fine.
Because surviving cursed vaults is one thing.
Navigating love, destiny, and magical polyamory?
That's the real quest.
—
The group strolled through Diagon Alley like they owned the cobbled path—and in Harry's case, he probably did own a chunk of it by now, courtesy of family vaults with more zeroes than emotional stability.
Daphne and Susan were arguing about whether cursed kebabs counted as "adventurous cuisine" or "attempted homicide with seasoning." Clint was enthusiastically trying to convince Steve to eat a chili-flavored Horklump skewer, Logan was muttering about how everything smelled like "wizard nonsense," and Sirius had stopped in front of a pastry stall to loudly negotiate for six exploding éclairs and a flirtatious wink.
Jean walked beside Harry, fingers still laced with his, practically radiating satisfied-girlfriend energy. She looked like she was ready to conquer a magical kingdom, host brunch with reality-bending sorcerers, and then make out with her boyfriend on a rooftop. Possibly all at once.
But Harry's attention slid sideways—toward the woman in black leather trailing just behind them. Natasha Romanoff. Ex–Red Room assassin. Former Avenger. And apparently… his aunt.
Yeah. Plot twist of the decade. Eat your heart out, M. Night.
"Hey, Aunt Nat," he said casually, slowing his pace until she fell in beside him.
Her expression didn't change. "That's going to take some getting used to."
"Same," Harry admitted. "I've had like… an hour to process that my mom had a twin sister who was kidnapped by war criminals and trained to murder dictators in heels."
Natasha smirked. "Technically flats. Easier to snap necks in."
"Noted. Next time I need to dress for homicide, I'll consult you."
She glanced sideways at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her sea-glass green eyes—defense mechanisms welded into her soul over a lifetime. But beneath it, Harry saw the same glint he remembered from Lily's old photos: the sharp intelligence, the wry amusement, the stubborn strength.
It hit him like a Bludger to the ribs.
"Hey," he said gently. "Want to hang out later? Just you and me. No vaults, no contracts, no enchanted daggers threatening our lives."
Natasha blinked. "You're asking your assassin aunt on a playdate?"
"I'm asking my mum's twin sister if she wants to grab a butterbeer and maybe talk about, y'know… life, loss, and our mutual taste in weaponry."
A beat. Then—so faint it might've been imagined—her lips twitched.
"I'm free after the kebabs."
Harry beamed. "Excellent. You, me, three flaming sausages, and a therapy session disguised as casual bonding."
"Therapy?" she repeated.
"Okay, emotionally stunted confessions and possibly an awkward hug."
"I don't hug."
"You'll change your mind. I'm very huggable."
Natasha gave him a long look. "You are dangerously confident for someone who still hasn't learned how to dodge Logan's punches."
"That was a tactical choice," Harry replied. "I was building empathy with his inner rage goblin."
She shook her head, but this time—this time—she smiled. Just a little.
Behind them, Jean was giving Harry a fond smirk. Susan and Daphne exchanged glances like proud matchmakers. Logan just muttered something about "family reunions and emotional baggage," while Clint offered Steve a Galleon to try the "Spicy Krakatoa Kebabs of Mild Doom."
As they rounded the corner toward the food stalls, the sun dipped low over the alley, casting golden light across the chaos crew.
Harry bumped Natasha lightly with his shoulder. "Seriously though. I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," she said softly. "Even if this family reunion comes with blood curses and magical girlfriends."
"I mean… that's kind of par for the course," Harry said. "You should've seen last year."
"Why? What happened then?"
"I jumped through a pipe in the girls toilet and forced to fight a sixty-foot snake that can kill you with a single look, with sword, an old hat, and a fiery bird."
Natasha blinked. "...We're going to circle back to that."
"Oh, absolutely."
And as the smells of sizzling meat and enchanted spices filled the air, Harry Potter—the chaos-born heir with a cosmic dagger, a Prime Consort, and an assassin aunt—stepped into the next chapter of his life with his found family, his harem of magical badasses, and a heart slightly heavier… but far less alone.
Because saving the world?
That was easy.
Learning to live in it?
That was the real mission.
---
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