Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I own Marvel - any recognizable characters are not mine.


There was a constant ticking of a clock that permeated the room. The office was stuffy, the air smelled of stale cologne, and the computer monitor and typewriter on the Headmaster's desk was still some of the clunkiest things Harry had ever seen.

"Mr. Potter, I am disappointed," Headmaster Grayson said with a sigh. Harry didn't see his face, too busy keeping his head tilt back as he stared at the ceiling, but he could imagine the look of utter disappointment on the Headmaster's face.

"We are in the fourth week of the semester and yet this is the third time you have been sent to my office because of your behavior," Grayson continued, his voice oozing with disapproval.

Harry contained a grimace; he was averaging six school days between visits to the Headmaster's office – it was not a statistic he particularly enjoyed knowing.

"Now, I already heard what Mr. Hooper and the others had to say; I want to hear your side of the story," he continued, and Harry could feel him staring right at his face.

Harry knew he must have looked terrible: a swelling black eye, a bloody nose that was just now starting to clot, a bit cheek that had gushed enough blood to make Harry think he had lost a tooth though not enough to require stitches, and more bruises on his body and face from kicks and punches than he had gotten when he had wiped out on his godfather's motorcycle.

But at least Harry had the sick satisfaction of knowing that he gave as good as he got.

"Hooper insulted my family," Harry replied, shrugging his shoulders as he looked away from the ceiling and at the Headmaster.

Harry could feel the blood clot in his nose, and he crinkled his nose a few times to try to get rid of the sensation of knowing the clot was there.

"So that gave you the right to punch Mr. Hooper in the face?" Headmaster Grayson asked, his voice stern yet calm.

"It does when he brings five blokes as back up," Harry replied, running a hand through his messy black hair.

It had been morning passing period, and Harry had been getting some books from his locker when Hooper and his five friends had surrounded Harry; words had been exchanged, Hooper had insulted Harry's mother, Harry had punched Hooper right in the jaw.

Everything else had escalated from there.

It had taken the teachers five minutes to notice that there was a fight going on in the halls, and by the time they stopped the altercation Harry had already been pummeled into a pulp, the other boys sporting bloody noses and bruised faces.

Harry hadn't beaten the other boys so badly that they all looked worse than he did. Harry did, however, deal out more damage than any of the other boys had – after all, it took six of Harry's peers to make him as injured as he was, and it only took Harry to physically injure each of the six in retaliation.

Percentage-wise, Harry had won the fight.

"So just because someone insults your family you decide to start a fight? Why not just ignore them? It seems obvious to me that they just wanted to get a rise out of you," the Headmaster said, his tone earnest, as if he was willing Harry to understand where he went wrong.

Harry ignored the Headmaster's questions – they were idiotic and did not deserve an answer.

Grayson sighed at Harry's lack of response; it ushered in a moment of silence, interrupted only by the ticking clock.

"Is everything okay in your life? At your home?" he asked looking pointedly at Harry.

Harry didn't answer, but he did run his hand through his hair once more.

His home life had nothing to do with the fight. Sure his godfather, Sirius Black, was drinking again and hadn't stopped smoking like a chimney despite Harry trying to get him to stop. And sure, his Uncle Peter was still coming around to his house despite the fact that Sirius had explicitly said he never wanted to see 'that fucking rat' ever again – and yeah, Harry let Peter in when Sirius wasn't home, but that was mainly because Peter couldn't shut up about his gambling addiction, and Harry needed Peter to talk about his vice for reasons Harry was keeping strictly to himself.

So no, nothing was okay with his home life, but that doesn't mean it was the reason for the fight.

Headmaster Grayson frowned at Harry's silence; he sat back in his chair and sighed.

"Mr. Potter, we cannot tolerate your behavior at this school," he started to lecture. Harry rolled his eyes.

"As such –"

A knock on the door interrupted Grayson's chastisement. Frowning out of confusion, Grayson turned his attention to the door.

"Come in," he called out, watching as Ms. Atwood, one of the office assistants, poked her head into the room.

"Sorry Headmaster," she said, not sorry at all, "but we have a couple Americans here who are asking to talk to you. They say they're conducting an investigation but I can't get anything else out of them."

Grayson looked taken aback by the news; Harry, on the other hand, perked up.

"Have you asked them to come back later?" Grayson asked, perplexed by the turn of events.

"I have, but they're being persistent," Ms. Atwood replied, unamused.

The Headmaster pursed his lips as he came to a decision.

"Tell them I'll be with them shortly, I just need to finish my conversation with Mr. Potter here," he said, pointing his hand towards Harry as if to illustrate his plan.

Ms. Atwood nodded in understanding and left, shutting the door behind her.

"Now, where were we?" Headmaster Grayson asked, looking flustered.

"You were saying that my behavior can't be tolerated at this school," Harry replied, no longer interested in the conversation.

He wanted to know what a couple of Americans were doing at his school.

"Right, yes, of course," Grayson recalled. "Mr. Potter, if your record was cleaner then I would have just given you detention for a month and been done with it. However, your record is not clean. Even without the three office visits this semester alone, you still have the countless other times I have had the pleasure of lecturing you during your tenure here, or the innumerable detentions you have served.

"It has become apparent to me that if detentions and lectures are not getting through to you then maybe suspension will," he finished, staring sternly at Harry.

Harry didn't react. He had had an inkling that he would be suspended for the fight – hell, maybe even expelled – but he hadn't cared.

He hated school with a passion; being suspended would almost be like a vacation.

"You'll be suspended for a week; when you get back you will have a guardian-student-teacher conference with each of your teachers along with me so we can all discuss your behavior. After that, you'll be in detention for the rest of the semester. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Harry replied, his irritation coming through in his voice.

He was not looking forward to any of that – except maybe the suspension.

"We'll call your guardian and tell him what has happened. In the mean time, you sit in the office – no going back to class, no talking to any of the other students – and you wait until you are picked up by your guardian," Grayson ordered.

"Sir, my godfather didn't drop me off this morning – I rode my moped to school," Harry said, praying that he could just go home without having to wait for his godfather to pick him up.

"Then you will wait in the office until your godfather comes to sign you out – how you get home from there is up to you and your guardian to decide," Grayson countered, glaring at Harry.

He wanted to argue, he wanted to say that Sirius wouldn't pick him up while he was at work, but he held his tongue.

Arguing now would be pointless.

"Dismissed."

Harry sighed as he got up to leave – whether it was from the pain or Grayson's attitude, Harry wasn't entirely sure.

He left the Headmaster's office and entered the main office, making his way over to where his backpack was located on one of the vacated seats in the waiting area.

As he made his way over to his spot, he spotted the Americans.

One of them, a man in his mid-thirties, was standing next to the front desk. The man wore a dark brown suit and tie, and he looked like he was meant to be working in an office somewhere. He had brown hair, a high hair-line, large forehead, and had sunglasses hanging out from his suit pocket.

The other one was a man in his mid-twenties who was sitting down in the seat next to Harry's backpack. He, unlike his partner, was wearing his sunglasses as he lounged comfortably in his seat. He had dark blond hair – almost reddish in the light – and wore a shirt that showed off his well-toned arms.

Harry stared between the two men as he walked to his seat. For some reason Harry felt like he had just stepped into one of those cheesy Hollywood 'buddy-cop' films where the more experienced cop was paired with the younger one who hated to follow the rules.

Harry tossed his backpack to the ground before he collapsed onto his chair with a thump. He reclined as best as he could in the uncomfortable seat, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling once more.

He felt the two Americans give him cursory glances before they went back to whatever it was they were doing before he had shown up.

Standing around doing nothing, mainly.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Grayson announced as he came out of his office a minute later.

"No need to apologize Mr. Grayson, we didn't wait for long. Besides, you seemed to be busy," the man in the suit replied; he glanced at Harry, taking in the state of his face, before looking back at the headmaster.

"Simple disciplinary action, nothing more," Grayson replied lightly. He blanched, though, under the look the man in the suit gave him.

"Mr. Potter had gotten into a fight with a few of his classmates – we don't beat our students here," Grayson explained, his voice borderline hysterical as he did so.

The man besides Harry snorted in amusement.

"Of course you don't beat students; that's not we're here for," Suits replied, mildly amused.

"Oh, right," Grayson said, embarrassed.

"Mr. Grayson, I am Agent Phil Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division – my partner and I wish to ask you a few questions regarding your teaching staff," Agent Coulson said, flashing his ID badge as he talked.

Grayson looked at it, confused over what the agency was.

"I've never heard of the –" Grayson started, his eyebrows narrowing as he tried to read the agency's name from the ID badge.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," Agent Coulson replied, putting away his badge. "Don't worry, we get that a lot. Just think of us as a branch of the CIA."

"Oh, alright," Grayson responded, surprised.

"Can we actually talk in your office? It will be easier to talk in there," Agent Coulson said.

Harry looked around the nearly deserted office; besides the two administrators sitting around doing paper work and listening to the radio, there wasn't anything that could make talking all that difficult.

"Of course," Grayson replied anyway, holding out his arm to signal that Agent Coulson should go first.

Agent Coulson looked over at his partner, and Harry could have sworn that the two had a silent conversation based solely on the faces Coulson was pulling and the subtle head nods that the man next to him was making.

They must have agreed on something because Agent Coulson went into the Headmaster's office, leaving his partner alone with Harry.

Harry didn't know whether to be intrigued or annoyed.

A few moments passed in relative silence: Harry and the man sat next to each other as the administrators worked, the radio blaring an ad for all to hear.

Suddenly, a Spice Girls song started to play on the radio, and the two faculty members became excited once the first verse came on. The man next to Harry seemed to be less than impressed with the song choice, judging by the long breath he let out from between his lips.

"So, you had a fight?" the man asked, looking at Harry, who in turned looked at the man.

"That explains your face," the man continued, the chorus of the up-beat pop song playing in the background.

Harry knew his face didn't look great – his left eye was swollen to the point that he could barely see out of it, he felt sore all over, and he could feel the dried blood on his face that had outlined the flow of his bloody nose earlier that day.

Harry didn't reply. He wasn't sure what the man was trying to do but so far he was failing at it.

"How did the other guy turn out?" he asked, still trying to make conversation with Harry.

"They were fine – they're back in class by now, no doubt," Harry replied, anger in his voice.

He decided to humor the man: at best he'd be entertained, at worst, he'd be further annoyed. Either way it would pass the time.

"They? How many did you beat up?" he asked. The man sounded interested, and Harry was surprised that the man asked how many he had beaten up, rather than the other way around.

"Six," Harry replied, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Six?" the man asked, amazed. "That certainly explains your face."

Harry snorted in response.

The man didn't ask any further questions after that, which caused Harry to become very bored rather quickly.

A few moments passed, the two men just sitting there in silence, when Harry finally broke.

"What are you lot doing here?" Harry asked, turning to look at the man.

He glanced at Harry briefly, his eyebrows quirked in question.

"You know, you lot – the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division – what are you lot doing at my school?" Harry asked when the man wouldn't answer.

Harry knew of the agency through his extra-curricular research into World War II: it had replaced the Strategic Scientific Reserve after World War II had ended – the SSR being the agency that helped create Captain America.

"We're here investigating something top secret," the man said, his voice a weird mixture of serious and sarcasm.

"Well, obviously," Harry replied, rolling his eyes as he did. "But what are you investigating?"

The man gave Harry a look.

"What part of top secret do you not understand, kid?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, I know that it has to do with one of the teachers here. Your partner said as much when talking to Grayson," Harry explained, nodding his head towards the Headmaster's office.

The man stared at Harry, his face blank of all emotion. Harry felt himself frown – if only the man wasn't wearing sunglasses, then maybe he'd know what he was thinking.

"Have you ever had a class with a Mr. Quirinus Quirrell?" the man asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Yeah, a few times. Quirrell teaches English, and he has a really nasty stutter – learning poetry with him was a nightmare," Harry answered, recalling the weeks of lessons when Quirrell tried to read poetry out loud to the class – absolute torture.

"Anything off about him?" the man asked, taking an interest in Harry's answers.

"Eh, there're rumors that go around – kids say he's a pedophile, though that's only because he sucks at teaching and they're trying to get him fired. There's nothing that backs up the rumors that he's a pedophile yet everyone still says he is," Harry explained, his voice conveying his annoyance at his peer's stupidity.

"Is that all?" the man asked disappointed.

"That depends – why do you want to know?" Harry replied, staring inquisitively at the man.

"You know, if you know something about Mr. Quirrell you should tell me now, otherwise you'll be obstructing our investigation," the man stated. Harry wasn't sure if he was being serious or not, though that might have been because the man seemed new to his job.

"Well, how do I know that the information I have is relevant to your case if I don't know what you're investigating? Furthermore, maybe the information I have would obstruct your investigation by being unnecessary," Harry commented, watching the man closely for any sign of reaction.

Judging by the slight twitch to the man's lips, he at least found Harry's response amusing.

"At this point, anything will help," the man said, trying to prompt Harry into revealing what he knew.

Harry ran his hand through his hair before sitting up straight in his chair.

"Quirrell is an avid gambler," Harry told the man, keeping his voice low enough so that the two workers couldn't hear him over the radio.

"Just a few weeks ago, he lost over twenty thousand pounds on a single game – word is that since then he's had to do a few unsavory favors for the person who loaned him the money to pay off his loss," Harry explained.

The man's eyebrows narrowed at Harry's information, his lips pursed in thought.

"How do you know this?" the man asked.

"I have an uncle who gambles with Quirrell sometimes – he's told me all about it," Harry explained, silently thanking his Uncle Peter for being terrible at keeping secrets.

The man nodded his head in understanding.

"Do you know who loaned Quirrell the money?" he asked.

"I don't know who the exact person was, but I do know the group he went to for help," Harry replied.

The man sat back in his chair; he stared at the opposite wall – or at least, that's what Harry assumed he was doing.

He could be going to sleep for all Harry knew – bloody sunglasses.

"Did he go to the Death Eaters for help?" the man asked, his voice so quiet that Harry had to strain to hear the question.

He nodded his head in response to the man's inquiry.

The Death Eaters were a hate group akin to the Ku Klux Klan – the members were bigots, racists, sexists, nationalists, and highly political and influential. They hated immigrants, homosexuals, minorities, and felt like the best time in England's long history was during the period of colonialism.

The people within the group would normally be written off as die-hard conservatives, yet they were considered a domestic terrorist group due in part to their leader, Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort felt like the only way to get his point across was through killing innocent people – over a hundred deaths were attributed to Voldemort alone, the number increasing once his Death Eaters' killings were included in the total.

Among Voldemort's victims were Harry's parents, James and Lily Potter.

Harry himself had almost been a victim.

Almost.

"My uncle didn't tell me much outside of the fact that he had seen Quirrell talk to Barty Crouch Jr. after he lost the twenty grand," Harry explained further.

Barty Crouch Jr. was a known Death Eater for those who knew what to look for – no Death Eater had ever confirmed their true identity, but Harry was confident that he knew of at least a few of them by name.

In the case of Barty Crouch Jr., Crouch's father, Barty the Senior, had a very well respected position in the Home Office – Harry had read up on several cases where Crouch Jr. had been arrested for hate crimes only to be pardoned not even a day later.

Harry didn't believe that Crouch Sr. was a Death Eater, but he did think that the nepotism had to stop.

"So how do you know that this Barty Crouch Jr. is connected with the Death Eaters?" the man asked, looking back over to Harry.

"Because Crouch is a Death Eater," Harry answered simply.

The man looked at Harry with his eyebrows quirked in question. Harry rolled his eyes.

"He's gone on record that he thinks immigrants shouldn't be allowed into the country; he's makes blatantly sexist and racist remarks practically every time he opens his mouth; and he's been arrested in 1981, 1989, and 1993 on three separate counts of battery and assault to several different families – all of whom were minorities or immigrants. The three times he had been arrested he was quickly pardoned of his crimes and these cases are the only on-record accounts we have of his actions – he's done a lot more than what's on his record. Based on that I'd have to say the bloke is a Death Eater – he's definitely following their MO."

The man was full-on smiling by the end of Harry's explanation, which scared Harry more than he wanted to admit.

"Where did you get your information?" he asked, more because he was impressed than because he was interrogating Harry.

"My godfather works for Scotland Yard and I may go through his old case files when I'm bored," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders as if to say what he'd done wasn't the kind of problem that could potentially get his godfather fired from his job.

If anything, Harry's answer made the man's smile grow even more. Now, instead of it being creepy it was down-right diabolical.

Silence fell between them for a few moments, a radio ad playing as the two workers continued to fill-out their paperwork, completely unaware of the conversation Harry and the man had just had.

"The name's Clint, by the way – Agent Clint Barton," the man said, holding out his hand for Harry to shake.

Harry took the man's hand and they shook hands briefly.

"I'm Harry – Harry Potter," he replied as they shook.

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Harry Potter," Barton said, still grinning like he had finally won a game only he knew the rules to.

Harry wanted to respond, but before he could Headmaster Grayson and Agent Coulson exited from the Headmaster's office.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Grayson," Harry heard Agent Coulson say as he made his way over to his partner.

Barton, watching as his colleague makes his way over to him, launched himself out of his chair and waited for Coulson to finish his pleasantries.

"If you have any information you would like to tell us, you can reach us at this number," Coulson continued, handing Grayson a business card.

The Headmaster took the card, trying to stammer out his assurance that he would do just that but failing spectacularly at it. Coulson gave the man a tight smile before walking passed Barton and out the door.

As Coulson passed Barton, Harry watched as Barton subtly took another business card from his fellow agent, which he then handed to Harry.

"See you around, Harry," Barton said, looking at Harry over the top of his sunglasses.

Barton had piercing, bluish-grey eyes; he gave Harry a smile and a wink before he went to follow Coulson out of the office.

Harry looked down at the card and saw that it was a generic enough business card: it was Phil Coulson's card, had the agency's full name along the top – a most impressive feat considering the length of the name – and had listed his contact information, both by phone and by fax.

He stared at the card for a few more seconds, long enough that when he looked up Headmaster Grayson was no longer present. Harry put the card away in his backpack, his mind trying to process what he had just gone through.

Harry didn't know if something wonderful or terrible had just happened – all he knew was that his momentary excitement was now replaced with a hell-like boredom.

He reclined in his seat, tilted his head back so he could stare at the ceiling once more, and let out a deep sigh.

It wasn't even lunch yet.

Today was going to be a long day.


Author's Note:

This story came to me out of a random place and I decided to write it because I haven't seen a similar story on the site as of yet (I might just not be looking hard enough). As it is, I already have this story mapped out: it is going to be 12 chapters long plus an epilogue, so 13 posts in total. I won't be updating as regularly as I am my other story, however I don't plan on letting this sit for months at a time.

In regard to timeline: Harry is still born on July 31, 1980 and this story takes place in late 1997, so Harry is 17. This story will not include the other Avengers, since it is way before their time, however it will include SHIELD.

Hope everyone has a happy Saturday!