Harry Potter: The Revenant

The tension in the warehouse was palpable. Agents scrambled, some ducking behind crates, others hastily unloading weapons and securing evidence. It was a clean operation for S.H.I.E.L.D., for the most part. But Phil Coulson, ever the pragmatic leader, knew that things never stayed clean for long when you were dealing with the likes of Ulysses Klaue and his precious Vibranium.

Coulson shot a glance at Billy Koenig, his long-time S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and, for lack of a better word, partner in this madness. Billy was crouched behind a stack of crates, his weapon raised and eyes darting as he watched the mercenaries securing the last of Klaue's stash. The man had a knack for getting into trouble and a penchant for sarcasm, and Coulson was always there to enjoy the show.

"Are you sure you're not regretting taking a break from babysitting Rose?" Coulson asked with a dry smile, sliding his own gun into place.

Billy grinned, though it was more of a grimace. "Babysitting her was easy compared to this. At least she doesn't shoot at me… well, not as much, anyway."

Coulson chuckled but kept his gaze trained on the mercenaries milling around the warehouse. He knew they wouldn't stay distracted for long. "You know you're a really good shot, Billy, but I'm starting to feel like we could use some more firepower."

"Just say the word, boss," Billy said, shifting behind his crate, "I'm ready to turn this place into Swiss cheese."

Coulson's eyes flicked up, catching the flicker of motion through the skylight. He tapped his earpiece with a quiet click. "Clint, talk to me. I need you in position."

Up on the roof, Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, had already sighted his target. His bow was drawn, and the arrow was nocked. The sound of his voice crackled in Coulson's earpiece.

"I've got it, Phil. But you're gonna want to watch this." Clint's voice was laced with mischief, a tone Coulson had long learned to recognize.

"Clint, please tell me you're not pulling one of your stunts." Coulson couldn't help but sound exasperated.

"Oh, I'm not pulling a stunt," Clint responded with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm just… getting creative."

Clint's voice faded slightly as the string of the bow tightened. He wasn't saying much more, and Coulson could almost hear the smirk on his face. That was the thing about Clint; he was good at keeping things just vague enough to keep you on edge.

"Alright, Hank, Janet," Clint continued, his tone a little more serious. "Ready?"

In their shrunken forms, Hank Pym and Janet Van Dyne clung to the arrow, ready for the action that would unfold in the next few seconds.

"I don't like this, Clint," Hank muttered, his voice barely audible over the comms. "This whole thing's ridiculous."

Janet's voice was a soft, amused whisper. "Oh, come on, Hank. Where's your sense of adventure?"

Hank grunted, clearly agitated. "My sense of adventure is long gone. This is just a bad idea."

Clint let out a laugh, his fingers pulling the bowstring back. "Relax, Pym. Trust me, this'll be fun."

With a whoosh, the arrow zipped through the night air, heading directly for the SUV that was speeding toward the warehouse. The mercenaries had no idea what was coming.

The next moment, Hank and Janet began to grow in size, expanding rapidly just as the arrow hit the tire of the SUV. The force of their growth slammed into the vehicle, flipping it end over end, sending it crashing into the concrete with a violent screech. It was a spectacle no one could have predicted—least of all the mercenaries, who were still trying to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened.

The shock didn't last long. As the dust settled, Janet Van Dyne, now back to her full size, landed gracefully on the ground, her wings fluttering to steady herself. She was already on the move, launching herself toward the mercenaries in a blur of motion.

"Surprise!" she called out as she tore through their ranks, using her speed to disorient and disable the closest enemies. Her movements were fluid, precise, like a dancer in battle, and she was clearly enjoying every second of it.

Hank Pym, however, wasn't nearly as graceful. He landed heavily, his bulk creating a tremor through the warehouse as he straightened up, scanning the scene. "I swear, Clint, you owe me a bottle of bourbon for this." His voice was low and full of irritation, as if the absurdity of it all wasn't quite enough to distract him from his growing frustration. He was already starting to target the nearest mercenary with a quick strike, knocking them out cold.

Coulson glanced over at Billy as the sound of combat erupted around them. "It's not exactly subtle, but it works." He ducked as a stray bullet ricocheted off a nearby crate.

Billy just shook his head, though there was a grin on his face. "I'm just wondering how Clint talked them into this. This is so far beyond ridiculous."

"Knowing Clint? It probably started as a dare," Coulson replied, his voice dry as he gestured for the agents to continue securing the crates.

As they secured the final crates and loaded them onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. jet, Clint's voice crackled through the comms again. "Phil, the mercs are regrouping. They're not too happy with the surprise, but they're still packing heat. You might want to get your butts on the jet ASAP."

"Copy that," Coulson said, never breaking stride. "Alright, team, time's up. We're heading out in two minutes. Let's move!"

Billy quickly finished his work, tossing the last crate onto the jet. "You know, Phil, I'm getting the distinct impression that Clint only likes doing things that are borderline illegal."

"Borderline?" Coulson raised an eyebrow, smirking. "That's Clint Barton's idea of a good Tuesday."

With the crates secured, the team rushed to the jet, and Clint, Hank, and Janet did a quick once-over of their surroundings before making their way toward the exit. Hank's expression was gruff, though there was an underlying tension in his shoulders that Coulson couldn't ignore. He had seen that look before, and he had a pretty good idea of what it meant. The fact that Hank's response to everything—despite his clear skill—was more grumbled complaints than anything else… It wasn't new.

But it wasn't something Coulson was willing to dwell on now. Not with the mercenaries still out there and not when they were so close to securing the last of Klaue's stash. Besides, Clint's voice came through again, breaking Coulson's train of thought.

"Last call for the jet! You guys better hustle, because I don't think we're going to have a chance for a second round."

Coulson tapped his earpiece. "On our way, Barton. Just try not to break anything before we get out of here."

Billy shot Coulson a half-amused look as they sprinted for the jet. "He says that like Clint isn't the one we need to worry about."

"Oh, trust me, we're all worried about Clint," Coulson muttered, and with that, they were airborne, leaving the warehouse—and all its complications—behind them.

—

In the sleek, tech-heavy workshop tucked away in the heart of the Stark safehouse in New York, Tony Stark was hunched over, laser-focused on the last few adjustments to the leg braces designed for his best friend, James "Rhodey" Rhodes. The mechanical legs, which would soon replace the ones damaged during his last battle, lay on the workbench, their polished exteriors gleaming in the ambient light of the lab.

He had built the frame with his usual precision—after all, Rhodey was more than just a friend; he was family. But despite his deep attachment to the project, Tony couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing, something that only Rhodey's feedback could truly perfect.

As his hands worked with practiced ease, adjusting the components, Tony's mind was split between the task at hand and the holographic display of his father's latest project that hung before him.

Howard Stark—his father, the legendary inventor—was standing nearby, his own set of blueprints hovering before him in a flickering holographic projection. The image shifted as Howard casually adjusted his glasses, his brow furrowing as he ran his fingers through the air, making precise changes to the design.

"Tony," Howard's voice cut through the low hum of the lab, "take a look at this. This is the next step in repulsor technology. And let me tell you, it's going to be big."

Tony didn't bother looking up, his fingers still flying across the mechanical frame. "It's always 'big' with you, Dad. Can't you just once give me a prototype that's a little less explosive?"

Howard let out a soft, amused chuckle, clearly unfazed by his son's sarcasm. "Oh, come on, Tony. You know you love it. It's in your blood. You were practically born to make things go boom."

Tony smirked, raising an eyebrow but not pausing his work. "Boom's fine, but I prefer controlled explosions, Dad. You taught me that yourself." His tone was playful but laced with the undeniable edge of self-assurance that had always characterized his genius.

"Controlled," Howard repeated, voice tinged with approval. "Yes, that's the trick. But it's more than just a boom. This repulsor tech? It's not just for the usual Stark flair. It's designed for more—much more. It'll power the new Quinjet, give it an edge no one has seen before. You could use it in your suits. Flight capabilities, high-level defense, not to mention enough offensive power to take out half an army if necessary."

Tony finally looked up, quirking an eyebrow as he studied the schematics in front of him. "And you want me to just integrate this into my suits? Because I'm sensing the part where you've been holding back something fun, Dad. What's the catch?"

Howard's lips twitched into a sly smile, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. He tapped on the hologram, zooming in on specific components. "No catch. Just a little side note: The tech's capable of much more than just flight. The power output is... impressive." He let the words hang in the air as if daring Tony to fill in the blanks himself.

Tony leaned forward, running his fingers through his hair, clearly intrigued. "Wait, let me guess—weaponize the flight tech, yeah? Maybe give it a little... extra punch?" His voice oozed with mischief as his mind began to churn with possibilities. "Repulsor blast? Repulsor cannon? Oh, I see where you're going with this, old man. You really are thinking about turning the Quinjet into a flying weapon."

Howard chuckled darkly, a glint of something unspoken in his eyes. "Exactly. You've got the idea. But remember, Tony, it's not just about making it go boom. It's about precision and control. I've got the specs worked out for how the tech integrates into the suits, but with your modifications, we could turn it into something much more... adaptable. You could make it so that the tech doesn't just power the suits, but enhances them in ways we haven't even begun to explore."

Tony's lips twitched into a grin, the gears in his mind turning faster than his hands could work. "Power, precision, adaptability—oh, I'm already getting ideas. Trust me, I'll figure out how to weaponize this and make it look good at the same time. You know, style's just as important as function, right?"

Howard's eyebrows lifted, clearly impressed. "Of course. You've always had an eye for that. But let me tell you—this tech isn't just about style. It's about control. I've worked with Lily Potter and Gideon Adler on this. Their magical touch is what's going to give it the stability we need. I'm not a fan of magic myself, but in this case... it's the only way we'll make this work."

Tony raised an eyebrow at the mention of Lily Potter and Gideon Adler. He hadn't had much direct experience with them yet, but if Howard was working with them, it meant something serious was in the works. He could already feel the tension of excitement bubbling inside him. "Magic, huh? I was wondering when you'd get to the 'secret sauce' part of this equation. Alright, Dad, you're speaking my language now. I'm just curious how you plan on meshing magical stabilization with all this high-tech firepower."

Howard's smile softened, a rare, approving look crossing his face. "That's where you come in, Tony. You're the one who can make it all work. I'll handle the theory, but you—you'll be the one to put it together. You'll take this tech and make it yours."

Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, letting the words sink in. "Alright, alright. I'll get to work on it. But let me tell you, I'm not just gonna settle for flying suits and fancy tech. I've got ideas for weapons in there too. You said 'adaptable,' and I'll give you adaptable. How about a suit that can literally adapt to any combat situation?"

Howard shook his head, but there was a hint of admiration in his eyes. "You really never stop thinking about ways to break the rules, do you?"

Tony smirked, standing up and moving toward his workbench where the arc reactor glowed faintly in the corner. "Breaking rules? Please, Dad, I'm just making them better."

Howard didn't argue. He had seen it in Tony before, seen that same relentless drive to push boundaries. "Just remember, Tony," he said as he turned to leave, his tone shifting to something more serious, "this is about more than just tech. It's about responsibility. We can't let this power fall into the wrong hands. Trust me—I've made my mistakes."

Tony's smirk faltered for a second, his expression darkening just a touch. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm not you. I know what I'm doing."

But even as he said it, a small part of him wondered if that was really true.

—

As the S.H.I.E.L.D. jet hummed to a halt on the rooftop of the New York Safehouse, Clint Barton's voice crackled over the comms, dripping with sarcasm and smug satisfaction. "Nice landing, folks. No vehicles flipped this time, so I'm counting it as a win."

"I swear, Clint, you're the only guy I know who finds pride in avoiding complete disaster," Billy Koenig muttered as he unstrapped himself, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. His voice, usually jovial, carried a hint of annoyance, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he moved toward the exit.

Phil Coulson, ever the stoic, didn't share Billy's enthusiasm. With his tactical vest fitting neatly around his broad shoulders, he gave Clint a look that said everything without saying a word. "We'll all be counting wins when we're inside and not standing out here waiting for an ambush."

Clint gave him a mock salute. "You got it, Boss. Just trying to keep things interesting."

A few moments later, the team descended the jet's stairs, entering the dimly lit halls of the safehouse. The sound of quiet chatter and muted laughter drifted from the nearby briefing room, the usual post-mission debriefing in full swing. Natasha Romanoff was already there, sitting with Harry Potter, a rare break from the usual intensity of her missions.

Her sharp eyes glanced up from the table, quickly assessing the team as they entered. Her gaze softened just a fraction when it landed on Clint. "Mission success?" she asked in her usual cool, controlled tone, but there was a playful edge to it, like she already knew the answer.

Clint swaggered over, smirking. "If by 'mission success' you mean we obliterated a bunch of mercenaries with a surprise attack and no one died, then yeah, it was a resounding win." He spread his arms wide, as if waiting for a round of applause.

Janet Van Dyne rolled her eyes, stepping up beside him. "A surprise? I think the mercenaries were still trying to figure out what happened five minutes after the fact. But, sure, Clint. You keep telling yourself it was all part of your genius plan."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll thank me when they wake up," Clint quipped back, his grin unrepentant.

Billy Koenig shot a glance at Clint, raising an eyebrow. "You know, I've been meaning to ask, Clint. How many 'surprise' arrows do you have left? The 'biggest' one seems to be running on fumes."

"Well, there's always the last arrow," Clint replied with a wink. "The one I only use in an emergency."

Harry Potter, who had been watching the banter from the table with a smirk, looked up. "Clint's been Clint. What else is new?"

"And you're all still alive, which is a bonus," Natasha added, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she shot Clint a teasing look. "But next time, maybe try a little less of the arrow-with-giant-shrinking-people tactic?"

Clint's eyebrows shot up in mock horror. "What? No way. It's my signature move!"

Just as the conversation was about to spiral into more friendly jabs, the sound of fast, excited footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder with every second. The team turned to see Rose Potter, Harry's perpetually energetic six-year-old sister, barreling down the hall like a small tornado. Behind her were Tonks—lanky, perpetually grinning, and in the middle of some shapeshifting mischief—and Ororo Munroe, a 15-year-old who had mastered her weather-controlling powers with a precision that often left the team in awe.

"Uncle Phil! Uncle Billy!" Rose screamed, her voice high-pitched with glee. Her dark brown curls bounced as she sped toward them, completely unaware of the vase just inches from her path, which she narrowly avoided knocking over.

Coulson's usual calm expression wavered for a moment, but he caught himself quickly, forcing a smile as he bent down to meet her eye level. "Hey, Rose. Good to see you."

"Did you bring me a present?" Rose demanded immediately, her tiny arms crossed and her face set in an expression of serious interrogation.

Koenig snorted, shooting Coulson a look that seemed to say, Good luck with that.

"I didn't bring a present, Rose," Coulson said with a strained but polite smile. "But I've got some great stories about Clint to share."

Rose's eyes lit up at the mention of Clint. "Clint?" she repeated, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "Tell me everything about how he blew stuff up!"

Clint groaned, his face contorting with mock horror. "Oh, great. Now I'm going to be a legend in the eyes of a six-year-old." He rubbed his temples dramatically. "This is going to be a long night."

"You've already created a mini-Clint, haven't you?" Janet said with a wicked grin, raising an eyebrow at Harry, who was standing nearby with an amused expression. "Just look at her—complete with the sass."

Billy snickered. "Yeah, Clint, you've got competition now. You sure you're ready for that?"

Ororo Munroe, who had been quietly observing, smirked. "She's got the energy of a thunderstorm. I'm surprised you all haven't been struck down by now."

Rose, hearing her name mentioned, shot a smug look over her shoulder. "I don't think you're getting off that easy, Uncle Phil. Where's my real present?"

Coulson gave a mock sigh, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright. How about we make a deal? You let me finish my conversation, and next time, I'll bring you something really good."

Rose thought it over for a second, her arms still crossed. "Fine. But only if you don't forget." She nodded decisively. "Deal?"

Coulson smiled, relief flashing across his face as he extended his hand. "Deal."

Rose beamed and skipped off, bouncing over to join Tonks and Ororo. The three of them began talking animatedly, their voices barely a blur as they disappeared into the safehouse's deeper rooms.

Tonks leaned toward Clint with a grin. "Can you imagine the disaster she's going to be when she's older?"

Clint deadpanned, "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Oh, come on, Clint," Tonks teased, "you've already created a force of nature. Just wait till she learns how to use that magic properly."

"I've seen enough magic to last a lifetime." Clint smirked, tapping his arrow quiver. "But sure, it's totally not like I'm concerned about her. At all."

Natasha, looking over at Harry, her lips quirked in a soft smile. "You've got your hands full with that one."

Harry let out a long, affectionate sigh as he stood from his seat at the table, stretching his legs. "She's a handful, but she's family. I'd do anything for her." He glanced at Coulson and Billy, adding, "Though I think you two have learned that the hard way."

Billy raised both hands in mock surrender, a tired grin on his face. "I'm not saying I regret it. I'm just saying… I've aged five years in the last six months."

Coulson, always the pragmatic agent, just shook his head. "One of these days, we'll catch a break. But I'm not counting on it being anytime soon."

The team started to settle into the safehouse, with Harry giving Janet and Hank a quick nod. "It's been a while. Good to see you two made it out in one piece."

"Barely," Hank muttered, rubbing his neck. His voice was laced with a familiar edge of irritation, and the way his fingers clutched his shoulder suggested a growing discomfort. "Clint owes me a year's worth of back massages after that stunt."

Janet, always the optimist, nudged him with a playful wink. "Oh, come on. We've got the whole night ahead of us. Let's just hope Rose doesn't turn me into a cat again."

"Please, that's the least of your worries," Ororo interjected with a mischievous grin. "If she ever learns to turn us all into animals, we're all going to be in serious trouble."

Laughter rang out around the room, and for a fleeting moment, the team allowed themselves the luxury of calm—knowing that the chaos would return soon enough, but for now, they could savor this moment of peace amidst the constant whirl of missions and family antics.

But in the back of the room, Hank Pym stood a little too still. A small glass of scotch, barely touched, sat in his hand, and the weight of the conversation he wasn't having seemed to press down on him as the laughter continued around him. Janet noticed, but her gaze quickly shifted away, unwilling to address the shadow lurking between them.

—

The safehouse hummed with a mix of voices, clinking glasses, and the soft whir of distant machinery. The moment was almost too peaceful, like a quiet before a storm. The team was finally taking a break, a rarity given their ever-busy lives, and everyone was more than ready to let their guards down—at least for a little while.

Clint Barton lounged in one of the chairs with his feet up, a smirk dancing on his lips as he surveyed the room. He always seemed at ease in these moments, but his eyes never fully relaxed. After everything he'd been through, he was always watching, always calculating. Tonight, though, he was letting himself indulge in the camaraderie.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a little family reunion here," Clint remarked, raising his glass to the newcomers. "But you know what? The last thing I expected was to see Lily Potter gracing us with her presence after working on the Quinjet project."

Lily Potter, looking every bit the powerhouse witch she was, stepped into the room, her usual immaculate appearance slightly disheveled. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her forehead from the intense hours spent troubleshooting. But despite the fatigue, her eyes lit up when she saw the familiar faces.

"Finally wrapped up that damn Quinjet upgrade," Lily said, dropping her bag onto the floor with a thud. "Couldn't get the thing to fly straight if I tried. You'd think they'd build a better model by now."

"Yeah, well," Clint said with a lazy grin, "you know how it is. Tech and magic, they never quite play nice together."

Lily shot him a tired smile, but it was clear she wasn't in the mood for more tech talk. "I just want a drink and a chance to put my feet up. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the kitchen."

Behind her, James Potter followed, his usual carefree swagger now more weary than anything. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey, and it was clear he'd been at it for a while. The lines of exhaustion were etched into his face, but his trademark smirk was still there. He was wearing that expression that said, I've been working too long, and I don't really care what anyone thinks about it.

"Good to see you all," James greeted, lifting his glass to the crowd. "You'd think after a hundred years of wizarding and tech-ing, we'd have figured out a way to clone ourselves, so we don't have to actually work all the time."

Sirius Black, ever the troublemaker, sidled in next to James, whiskey already in hand and eyes bright with mischief. "We could certainly do with some clones for the good parts of our personalities. But I don't think I need another James Potter running around, especially with that glassy-eyed look you're rocking."

"Shut up, Black," James muttered with a grin. "I've earned this."

Clint chuckled, but his gaze flickered uneasily toward Hank Pym, who had just walked in, a slight limp in his step that no one had mentioned but everyone noticed. The man was older than most of the team, his posture stiff with tension, but it was more than that. He had that look of someone who had seen too many late nights, too many work sessions that blurred into one another.

Janet Van Dyne followed Hank into the room. She was tall, regal, and every inch the confident Avenger. But even as she flashed a polite smile at the group, there was something... off. Her eyes darted toward Hank, who had already poured himself another drink. She hesitated for a moment before taking her own glass, her fingers clenching around it just a little too tightly.

"Great to see everyone," Janet said, her voice smooth but with an underlying tension. She made a beeline for the couch, where she plopped down beside Tonks, who was currently trying to contain her excitement over a very important topic.

Tonks, ever the bratty wildcard, leaned over to Janet and whispered loudly enough for the group to hear, "Guess who got into Clint's arrow stash and accidentally shrank one of his best ones? Can you believe it? It was so awesome!"

Clint raised an eyebrow from his chair. "What did I tell you about that, Tonks? Don't mess with my arrows unless you want to be the target."

"Oh, come on, Barton," Tonks laughed, unbothered by his threat. "You know I was just... experimenting. Anyway, you don't need all those fancy things. You've got enough tricks up your sleeve already."

Clint shot her a side-eye, but his gaze flickered back to Hank, who had taken another long pull from his drink. The glass shook slightly in his hand, and Clint could tell it wasn't just fatigue. It was something else, something darker.

Natasha Romanoff, who had been quietly watching the exchange from the corner of the room, finally spoke up, her voice smooth and controlled, as always. "What's going on, Hank?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. "This isn't the first drink you've had tonight, is it?"

Hank didn't look up at her, his face locked in concentration as he fiddled with his glass, unwilling to meet her gaze. "I'm just... thinking," he muttered, his voice low and steady, but with a slight slur creeping in at the edges.

Janet shot him a glance from across the room, her fingers tight around her own glass. Her expression remained impassive, but there was something strained in the way she avoided eye contact.

Coulson, ever the observer, didn't miss the tension either. He cleared his throat and casually changed the subject, though his eyes flickered toward Hank and Janet. "I think someone needs a distraction, huh? What do you say we talk shop for a bit? I've got some intel on a mission that could use your expertise."

"Yeah, shop talk," Clint said, clearly not buying it but happy to follow Coulson's lead. "Because that's exactly what I need right now."

James raised his glass, though his eyes were still on Hank, and his voice was casual but heavy with unspoken meaning. "A little drink, a little chat, maybe a little less work, huh?"

Sirius, ever the wildcard, chimed in with a wry grin. "You know what? I think we've earned it. No more work for the night. Well, at least until tomorrow."

Lily rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips. "You know, I don't mind a good project, but I'm starting to think you lot work harder on avoiding work than actually doing it."

Rose, the six-year-old hellion who'd been quietly lurking in the background, suddenly piped up with a shrill voice that cut through the conversation. "I think Clint's arrows are dumb!" She stuck her tongue out, causing Clint to groan in exasperation.

"Hey, kid," Clint warned. "You want to start throwing arrows at me? I'm game."

James chuckled and ruffled Rose's hair affectionately. "Don't let him get to you, kiddo. Clint's arrows are probably the least dangerous thing around here."

The room laughed, but there was still that undercurrent—still that feeling that not everything was right. That some things, some relationships, were being held together with string, and it might snap any second. Hank's silent brooding, Janet's stiff composure, and the unspoken history between them was like a shadow in the room.

Ororo Munroe, who had been quietly watching all of this unfold, caught Clint's eye from across the room. She gave him a subtle nod, a quiet acknowledgment that they both knew something was wrong.

Clint returned the look, but the question remained: How long could they keep pretending that everything was okay?

---

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