AN: So this is a bit late, but in my defense, my dad is the pastor of my church, which means I get dragged around all vacation for visits to people's homes.

I GOT A BRAND-SPANKING NEW LAPTOP! It's a touch-screen, and- and it has backlit keys!- and I'm sorry if it seems like I'm bragging but I'm so happy I got it!

THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS AND COMMUNITIES AND FAVORITES AND FOLLOWS! I cannot thank all of you enough!

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Chapter warnings: I boosted Loki's power and abilities, just a reminder in case you haven't caught that in the past few chapters... (Cough cough I so did not base him upon Ultimate Spider-man's interpretation... heh heh... sexy British voices will be the death of me...)

Harry blinks his eyes, and suddenly, the walls around him have fallen away. The soft blue glow of the Tesseract is gone, the metal paneling on the ceiling is absent, and the quiet bustle of focused workers has vanished.

There are rough slabs of stone under his feet, flecked with hundreds of different little specks (sidewalk) and a tall metal pole, curved at the top, only a short distance away (streetlight) and there is warmth spilling softly on his face and the sensation of air rolling across his skin.

After the cramped quarters of the cell he woke in, and then the larger, but still closed area of the lab, and then… this…. outside… the shock is nearly unbearable. Harry thinks he is trembling.

Sounds-the hasty, methodic tap of molded, running soles, a faint, monotonous roar, honks and beeps. Raised voices. The panicked noises are abrasive against his newly unsealed eardrums.

His newfound muscle memory abandons him in the face of the enormous influx of sensations. His knees give out, and he collapses.

Something catches him by the shoulder before he can hit the ground, lifting him back to unsteady feet effortlessly.

"My, my, you must have been rotting in that diary for quite some time," an aristocratic, silky voice scolds teasingly. Harry, as if in a dream, tips his head to the side, uncomprehending eyes settling on the long, pale fingers spread over his shoulder blade.

Speaking is still too much of an effort. He chooses to lift his head and absorb his surroundings, taking deep, calming breaths. (He can hear his oxygen rushing in and out of his lungs, can sense the rise and fall of his chest-)

A woman is running towards him, movements jerky and panicked, glancing every few seconds at a slender watch on her wrist. To a regular person, her face would have been mundane, but as she bolts past him like a frightened deer, Harry cannot help but think she is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Then he sees another fleeing citizen, and another, and his opinion changes with each sight.

An obese man has nice, thick auburn hair. A haggard lady has beautiful eyes. A little child, clinging to his mother's hand, possesses an adorable upturned nose.

The sheer marvel of gazing upon other human beings is euphoric, and Harry understands in a flash the peace experienced by artists.

He widens his gaze to include every aspect, not just the solid, real flesh-and-blood people trickling by him on either sides like he is a boulder planted in a river.

Chaos everywhere. A sharp crack as a car slams into the bumper of another, loud screaming sirens. The rush of wind. It's disorderly, disorganized, and it's life.

It's all so… beautiful.

Harry has to shut his eyes for a few moments. The splash of bright, vivid colors and presence of loud, demanding noises has induced a strange ache behind his temples.

"Walk," a command, and now the hand is tugging him forward. He stumbles with his footing momentarily, messing up the rhythm of left foot right foot left foot right foot, "or must I carry you?"

Somehow, the hurried crowd flashing past him does not seem to notice his presence. Their eyes slide right past him, as if he isn't even there. Harry sticks his tongue out, slithers it along his lower lip. If he tries, he can sense swirly, oily magic clinging to him. An illusion spell. He hadn't been able to detect magic so acutely before the diary, he thinks. He's not sure. The before time is distant and fuzzy.

Maybe his time in the diary affected him more than he anticipated.

At last, he cranes his neck upwards. Warm light blinds him momentarily. A great big ball of yellow, poised high in the infinite blue, that burns his eyes. (What's the weather like, Bruce?) The sun.

His pupils constrict, focusing, and a tall, green-clad figure slides into view.

Loki.

The first thing Harry notices is the horned helmet, which would look quite silly on anyone else, but makes the lean man predatory and dangerous. His long green cloak snaps at the heels of his dark boots. Harry almost makes the mistake of stepping on its hem before he redirects his foot at the last moment.

"Where are we going?" There. Harry feels a bit of satisfaction as the words tumble from his lips more smoothly, at last resembling actual English. He suppresses the random urge to babble shamelessly about everything that he sees around him.

The hand is still clamped on his shoulder, quite tightly. Harry doesn't try to shake it off. He likes it there. It's a good reminder that none of this is a hallucination.

"The Tower, little enigma," Loki answers, and Harry feels his brow pucker instinctually into a frown, because that reply has to be the King of answers-that-don't-answer-anything.

And, little enigma?

"Wouldn't you like to see the beautiful unfolding of a plan long developed?"

"All right," Harry says after a moment. His hand rises, tugs at the collar around his neck. It's snug, but not uncomfortable. If Harry wasn't hyper-aware of everything touching his skin, he wouldn't have noticed it.

He looks back down at his feet.

His cloak swishes between his legs. The black material hides most of his ratty sneakers. He doesn't remember where he got them. Aunt Petunia? Maybe he picked them out of the trash.

He does remember looking down at them when he clamped his arms around Tom's waist in a welcoming, celebratory tug. It's one of the most vivid memories he has from his home world. The sight of them makes a strange nausea shudder in his gut.

Without warning, a green mist obscures his vision, a sight that is, to Harry's slight irritation, becoming a regular occurrence, and there is a soft crack. Harry feels the texture of the ground underneath his sneakers morph into a smoother surface. His ears pop under elevation pressure.

When the mist clears, he is suddenly hundreds of feet in the air, standing with his feet planted on the roof of a soaring skyscraper. The wind has picked up exponentially. It whips his bangs into his eyes, makes his cloak flap against his legs. He abruptly remembers quidditch, and flying.

The cold hand slips from his shoulder- Harry almost reaches up to tug it back- and Loki stalks away from him, giving him space.

Without the anchor, Harry suddenly feels very small and alone.

He turns clumsily, scuffing his heel on the ground and almost wheeling over backwards. Loki examines him through lidded eyes. The blue sparkle in them is more pronounced than over.

"What is your name, child?" He inquires with cool politeness. Harry's fingers twitch with the instinct to tug at the collar. He still has his magic, he knows, but the fact that it is blocked unnerves him more than he would care to admit.

"..." He points at the collar, eyes narrowing in a glare, as if bartering an answer for his release. Being able to express his dissatisfaction so openly without unnecessary inked words scribbled across a white expanse is supremely pleasing.

In response to his silent request, Loki laughs lightly. The sound is hollow. Everything about him is hollow- his swagger, his smile, his laugh, his purpose.

'He puts on a mask of conviction,' Harry realizes, 'but that's all it is: a front. Something's going on in him, a turmoil, and he doesn't want anyone to see it, because he's afraid it will be seen as a weakness.'

Loki goes still, derisive laughter dying in his pale throat. His posture positively drips icicles. "And how would you know me?" Controlled tone, squared shoulders.

Harry can't help but flush in embarrassment when he realizes that he had spoken his musing aloud. It's hard, separating his private thoughts from his mouth.

"It's in your eyes," Harry says by way of explanation. He's still not used to the sound of his voice. "They're so fake. And blue. I didn't think they would be so blue." He touches a finger to the corner of his mouth, grimacing. He knows he should, but he can't bring himself to shut up. "Like, Tesseract-blue. Is that affecting you? Wait, is that controlling you?"

Loki's calm pretense darkens. "No one controls me," he hisses. The ornate, deadly-looking scepter gripped securely in one hand glows briefly in correspondence with his irises. Harry surveys this, unconsciously arching a black brow in contemplation. A half-baked theory pencils itself in his brain, and he stares openly at Loki's aristocratic face.

"Well, why wouldn't they?" He says mildly. "You're nothing more than a puppet."

In a second, Harry's throat is constricted. Loki's hand is crushing his windpipe, hoisting him off the ground. He can't breathe properly without the exerted pressure coarsening each inhalation. 'This was not thought out properly,' He admits to himself.

But still, he raises his eyes, gazing openly into Loki's. The blue flecks in them glow madly, as if lit and fed by an inner light.

"Ah," he croaks out. 'Rage. The… thing… feeds off rage...'

Loki's hand spasms; he drops Harry without warning. Harry lands in a jumble of limbs. It takes a moment to recalibrate his systems once again. Rubbing his throat- the collar chafes his skin- he looks up. His hand drops to his chest. He can feel his pulse fluttering through the warm fabric of his cloak and shirt. Beautiful.

Loki is staring at him; a sort of unguardedness about him that Harry, in all of his short time knowing him, has not glimpsed yet. His confidence seems drained. The blue glow is dim once again.

"I'm not controlled. I make my own plans, I carry them out. I will rule, and the nations will look to me and bow," he offers lamely. Instead of self-assurance, his posture screams of uncertainty. It only serves to add fuel to Harry's solidifying suspicions.

"Then put down the staff," he challenges. "You've got your own magic. You've got your own power, your own skill, don't you? Why do you need the scepter? What purpose does it serve?" He speaks softly, slowly, the way he used to talk to his beloved Hedwig late at night.

In a snap, the faux confidence is back. Loki bends in a swagger, pivoting jauntily on his heel, a scornful sneer twisting his pale lips.

"I will not bandy words with a child. You know nothing of the world. I expected a valuable ally when I freed you from that magical prison, not a philosophical boy. If your containment was not already in cinders, I would have already returned you to it."

Harry scrambles to his feet. A familiar rage is spiraling within him- a bitter, black, all-consuming feeling that shorts out his ability to think and makes his forgo all precautions.

"I'm not a child!" He yells, a bit louder than he intended. He hasn't spoken above a soft whisper yet, and raising his voice to such a degree almost startles him. "Believe me, I've- I've seen awful things!" (Tom laughs when his cruciatus curse sends a fellow classmate into convulsions) (fake whispers and sentiment, empty eyes veiled by layered masks) "I'm older than I look," he finishes, and the frustration is taxing. He's used to a blank white canvas to eloquently spread his feelings out upon, and until he submits his entries, no one can tell what he's thinking. He's used to controlling the conversation, because until he replies, there is no conversation.

But being alive is different. He has a face now, which reveals all of his emotions before he can speak, and there is suddenly a concept of time that must be obeyed and adhered to. There are no more lengthy pauses while he figures out what to say. Everything simply leaps from his tongue, unbidden, clumsy and unclear in its desire to be understood. It's incredibly maddening.

"Be that as it may," Loki still isn't looking at him- Harry's chest tightens in irritated desperation (Look at me- I'm alive- LOOK AT ME)

"-your prison was destroyed. Which leaves us…" he pauses, spins a bit to face the child. Harry's chest is pumping desperately. His heartbeat is quick and light. The sensation its pounding causes in his chest is mildly unpleasant. "... with a few choices."

He extends a hand, fingers splayed as if to beckon. Jade mist coalesces from the palm, flowing along the rooftop until it submerges Harry's ankles. As if a solid thing, it drags him backwards, yanking him roughly off his feet and causing him to fall onto his front, where it pins him to the ground.

There is a hot sort of tingling in his knees now. He lifts himself up and draws his right leg forward as best as he can with the green manacles suddenly clamped around his ankle. There is an asymmetrical patch of blood marring his kneecap. The wind tumbling over the light wound stings.

Morbidly fascinated, Harry touches a finger to the edge of the scrape, prodding the raw flesh. The sting morphs into a tiny little heartbeat, pounding in his knee.

Entirely engrossed, he doesn't notice the booted feet coming to a stop in front of him.

A hand drags through his hair, breaking his trance, and tugs his head back. His roots prickle and Harry reigns in a hiss.

"... Choice one, would be that I kill you." The scepter's blade touches his throat idly. Harry goes still. He can feel the sharp coldness resting right on top of the pulsepoint in his throat. Harry glares, then smooths his expression over with a bit of effort- relaxing the tightened eyebrows, widening the eyes, easing the mouth.

It sounds strange, but he doesn't know what to do with his face. Glare petulantly? Appear apathetic? Smile? The choices are mind-spinning, and even as, on his knees, he stares death in the face, he can't help but rejoice in the terrifying freedom.

The wicked edge of the blade curves gently, drifting downwards to hover in little circles above his heart. At least, Harry thinks his heart. He can't quite remember which side of his chest the heart is on, left or right. He's simply not used to having a heart, or even a chest for that matter.

"... Choice two, would be that I enslave your mind and consequently your magic." Responding to his soft words, the scepter's inlaid blue fragment glows brightly, eager to do its master's bidding.

The threatening blade draws away.

"And last, but certainly least… I could set you free."

"I like that option," Harry says mildly. Loki smiles a humorless smile, arching his brows.

"Oh, I thought you might." He twirls the staff through the long fingers of his hand. (Tom spins the wand idly between his fingers, eyes fixed intently on the cowering form of Abraxas Malfoy.) "But, you see, it doesn't necessarily benefit me."

The hand is back in his hair, rubbing one of the raven strands between two fingertips under a critical eye. Harry hates himself right then, because the sensation is so foreign and so perfectly soothing that he almost leans into the touch. His small hands tremble into fists. The feeling of cold fingertips brushing lightly over his scalp is a welcome reminder of his living status, and touch-deprived as he is, Harry cannot bring himself to break away.

"And after I expended all that energy… triggering the Tesseract in a controlled spell is no easy feat, I assure you." The hand falters, then resumes combing through Harry's hair, trimmed nails scraping carefully across his scalp. Harry wonders briefly if this is something parents did to soothe their children.

(He won't admit it, but it does feel rather pleasant.)

Loki kneels in front of him, mussing up his hair playfully. "Did you know that you formed entirely out of ink? It simply built itself upwards, sprouting arms and legs, little shapes and details breathing to life. The spark of Tesseract leapt inside you, and then all of the ink simply bled off. It was unconditionally riveting."

The scepter is back, glowing once more.

"So, as you might imagine, I have many curiosities regarding yourself… how you came to be trapped within that prison… the extent of your magic… your backstory personally… and, at a later date, when I am comfortably settled on my throne… you can tell me all about it."

"No thank you," Harry declines politely.

Loki laughs. "It's not up to you." He dismisses with a sort of finality, as though they're done with the conversation. His grip on Harry's hair turns painful, bracing him in place, as the scepter rises and glows more brightly than ever.

The point touches his chest.

And suddenly all Harry can see is blue.

A sharp, distinct shade of cobalt, a veil drawn over his eyes. It's muffling, blanketing, and not only in the physical sense.

Harry's mind slows, thickening like gravy, curdling and withdrawing-intact, but suppressed. And yet, and yet at the same time he is standing up-he knows he is. He's the one doing it. He's smiling, because he's happy-isn't he?-and nothing is wrong.

There are hands around his throat- gentle ones, the skin is icy cold- and fingers are prising something from his neck. The collar. Loki is removing the collar.

'How nice of him' Harry thinks listlessly as a warm feeling rushes through his veins, centering in his chest. He feels stronger now. He flexes his fingers, peering down at them oddly through the thick haze.

It's really not that hard to think anymore. He feels fine, actually. He's the one moving his hands, stretching his fingers, not anyone or anything else. He's not being controlled.

This is of his own free will, isn't it?

'Yes. Yes it is.'

'Good.'

He walks with Loki to the edge of the rooftop.

"Wait here," the man instructs, and disappears in a swirl of mist. It's a good idea that makes sense. Harry can do that. He nods affably and sits, drawing his knees up to his chest, curling his elbows around his knees, gazing out over the beautiful rooftops. Sunlight gleams off the hundreds of windows, like a bug with a million tinted eyes. A backdrop of pale blue sky frames the thrusting structures, a burning sun hovering over the tops like a suspended ball of fire.

It's pretty.

Half-formed thoughts flow gently through his mind, unblocked and drifting slowly, leaves trapped in the eddy. He thinks about the rooftops. He thinks about bugs with a million eyes. He thinks about blue oceans, and blue candy- he'd like some candy a lot, he hasn't had anything to eat yet, has he?- and blue skies and blue gems, and he oddly enough, as his thoughts wander, touches briefly on his One-Day game.

'Why not?' He shrugs mentally, and starts.

'One day I'll fly on a broom again.'

'One day I'll eat nothing but candy for an entire day.'

'One day I'll show Bruce some magic.'

He basks in that thought for a while. Yes, he'd like to see Bruce, see how accurate his mind's eye view of Bruce had been. He'd like to show him some of the happy, fun spells he knows. Simple charms. Bruce would like that. So captivated in the thought, he almost doesn't notice Loki's return, this time with a rather large, complex machine and a frumpy old man with blue, blue eyes in tow.

The scientist- Dr. Selvig, his blue voice inserts softly- sets to work, powering on the unit. Four metallic claw-like extensions release some kind of force field, and Loki deposits the pretty blue Tesseract cube into the space, where it floats serenely, glowing wisps revolving around it as energy is siphoned off.

Harry walks over, humming absently. He can't remember any songs to sing, so he makes up his own meandering tune as he moves.

He tugs on Loki's sleeve. The man looks down at him, smiling coaxingly. Harry doesn't notice the smugness of it.

"Yes, child?"

"When can we see Bruce?"

Loki's smile falters, fades, replaced by a perplexed expression that crinkles his brow. "The Hulk?"

"No," Harry patiently amends, "Bruce. Bruce Banner."

A small expletive in an entirely different language hisses between Loki's white teeth as he kneels quickly, thumbing open one of Harry's eyes and peering intently into the iris. It's uncomfortable, but Harry lets it slide.

"I don't understand," Loki mutters distractedly, bobbing his head as he looks at Harry through different angles. "There should be no free will..."

Well, that doesn't seem right.

Loki brings out his scepter, touches the fine point of the blade to Harry's chest once again. Harry tips his head in confusion.
"You already did that," he points out blankly.

"Yes, I know," Loki mutters through gritted teeth, "but apparently… it didn't…"

Harry waits patiently as Loki fiddles with the scepter, and occupies his mind with thoughts of a gentle doctor with a big green problem.

"This is a bad idea," Cap warned. His voice filtered through the comm. link built into Tony's headgear, sounding ruffled and resigned all at once. "This is a very, very bad idea."

"All my ideas are bad ideas," Tony snorted as his streamlined suit zipped through a bank of clouds like a red-and-gold arrow. "But they usually work out in the end."

"Why am I having trouble believing that?" Cap sighed. Tony smirked a little-honestly, it was so easy to rile Big-Boy-Blue up, it almost wasn't even fun.

"We just have to find Jolly Green Giant, get him back to the helicarrier, and we're done," Tony promised, dramatically rolling his eyes. "Don't get your spangles in a bunch."

"It wasn't authorized!" Cap exploded in return. Tony looked down. The sleek quinjet flew in a path parallel to his own two hundred feet below him, skimming the underside of the cloud bank. If he had his suit's vision zoom in on the plane, he could almost make out Cap's head of blonde hair in the cockpit.

"I didn't see Fury come running out to protest," Tony bantered, absentmindedly correcting his course. They were a bit too much to the left. The Hulk's fall- an easy calculation involving the speed of acceleration and the height they had occupied coupled with the weather at the given time- had to lead to somewhere in this zone. Tony was inwardly hoping that there would be an obvious trail of destruction to follow.

"That's because he's probably busy tending to the injured. Or the dead." Cap's voice was tight, a soldier's pain locked behind barricades of irritation.

Tony didn't know what to say to that. He'd never been good with death. Normal people cried and grieved and comforted each other, but not Tony.

He just tucked it away for further analysis at a later date.

"Sir, there have been reports of a giant green alien in the rural community on the outskirts of the city," Jarvis informed him. A holographic map appeared in the darkness of Tony's helmet, a little pin pointing to the origin of the complaints.

"Cap, we got our coordinates."

Tony descended gracefully to the broken earth, powering off his repulsor gloves and boots and falling the last ten feet. The suit absorbed nearly all of the vibrations from the impact, and Tony scarcely stumbled. Seconds later, Cap's stolen borrowed jet touched down, the wheels smoothly carrying the plane down the long, straight dirt path several hundred feet away. Tony waited, awkwardly scuffing an armored boot along some uprooted plants.

"This it?" Cap questioned when he had jogged over.

In reply, Tony turned and patted a bent sign sticking out of the ground, bearing a crooked plank with an address painted on it in white. At his touch, the sign fell over, the plank dislodging and tumbling over the dusty ground. Tony awkwardly withdrew his hand. Steve rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Together, they approached the small house. It was ranch-styled, one floor with a few horizontal windows. The roof had a gentle slope and was missing a majority of its shingles.

About a hundred feet past the house was a massive jumble of broken planks and bricks. A patchwork barn skeleton still stood somewhat, poking stubbornly out of the rubble like gangly toothpicks.

'Yeah, Jolly Green Giant was here.'

"I might buy this place for a vacation home," Tony mused sardonically, spinning as he walked to get a good view of the dusty surroundings. "Prime piece of real estate here."

"Shut it, Stark."

They jogged up the wooden steps leading to the roofed veranda. Cap shifted his shield to the other hand so he could knock on the door with his right.

"Do you ever let go of that thing?" Tony mocked. "What, is it like a baby blanket or something? I mean, it's totally cool, really. Shields, teddy bears, they're all the same."

A vein pulsed visibly in Steve's neck.

Tony smirked.

Steve knocked three times. "Someone's coming," he whispered quietly after a moment. Tony quietly cursed his superhuman senses. The door opened to a wizened old man in stained overalls and a plain button up shirt with rolled up sleeves. The man looked at them in confusion, leaning against the doorway for support. Past him, Tony could see a quaint little living room, with old-style patterned parlor wallpaper and curious little knickknacks resting on dusty shelves.

"Hi," Tony said brightly before Cap could speak, "have you seen a big green dude with awful coffee breath lately? Not too intelligent, maybe shrunk into a naked guy? We kinda need him to stop an alien invasion."

The old man stared.

Tony grinned

Cap dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

AN: So, about Harry succumbing to the Tesseract... sorta. My reasons being 1. We see Harry struggle to resist the Imperius curse in the fourth book, I believe, and the Tesseract mind control has to be crazy more powerful than that if it can control Hawkeye without a bit of resistance. 2. I didn't want to turn this into a super/godlike!Harry!fic. 3. It certainly adds some tension to the plot, doesn't it? 4. I think Harry, especially after mentally aging so long in the Diary, would be able to fight it off... eventually. Think: he's just gotten out of the Diary, and the sensory overload is incredible. He's not completely taken, either, as you hopefully saw... ;)

In further regards to the Tesseract, in many books and movies, abilities have nothing to do with whether or not mind-control works. How would being magical improve the strength of mind, or strength of character? In my head, it has always been the strength of the magic used. It's not even based on the amount of headstrong for me. If that were the case, then Hawkeye would have thrown it off immediately. No, it's the strength of the magic used. And since the Tesseract is some supremely powerful artifact of the Cosmos that has the ability to open a freaking wormhole, then I think it can control human minds with relative ease.

You can disagree if you want, that's fine, but I will be basing the rest of the story off of this headcanon.

Believe it or not, I cut this chapter off, so I've got more written. HOPEFULLY- I should really stop saying that because it seems I am unable to meet self-appointed deadlines- the next chapter should come out quickly.

Love, peace, and happiness!

Next chapter: Bruce, Hawkeye, and Heck-yeah-Phil Coulson. And Ink. ;)))))) I think next chapter is going to be really really long, so hey, you guys have something to look forward to.