Dyslexia: If you notice mistakes, congratulations, hope you enjoyed your SATs, as well as this free fiction, which said dyslexia author is not being paid for.
Summary: Harry Potter learns he's adopted, and proceeds to have an identity crisis that Dumbledore does not approve of. Natasha learns she has a son, that SHIELD is run by Hydra, and the Red Room's still kicking. Acquiring herself a certain Winter Soldier, this broken family may just save the world. Captain America world that doesn't need Avengers, it needs soldiers who believe in a better tomorrow.
Timeline: Set after Iron Man way before the Avengers, you won't need to have seen any of the movies to follow, however, main inspiration will come from the three films, Captain America, Winter Soldier, and Black Widow. Harry Potter pulled from the late Order of the Phoenix.
WARNING: Some people are going to die, but like so do many people in the MCU and HP verse. Fatalism and dark humour about death. Harry Potter at his angsty, remember that canonically, Harry pushes everyone away.
Yes, Mischief Far From Managed is still ongoing, this plot is just way more streamlined.
The Sanest Family
"Wow, I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life?"
—Harry Potter, sarcastically stating the undeniable.
"I read the Hobbit. In 1937. When it first came out."
—Sergeant Bucky Barnes, knowing exactly who Gandalf is.
"I can do this all day."
"Yeah, I know. I know."
—Captain Steve Rogers, talking to himself with a heavy sigh.
"Are you kidding? I'm working. I'm in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me everything."
—Natasha Romanova, integrating military personnel while tied to a chair.
"Great plan, I love the part where I almost bled to death."
—Yelena Belova, sassing her older sister.
"Yelena, slight change of plan. I completely demolished one of the engines and we are going into a controlled crash."
—Melina Vostokova, executing a perfectly controlled crash.
"You both have killed so many people. Your ledgers must be dripping, just gushing red. I couldn't be more proud of you."
—Alexei Shostakov, being a proud papa.
Chapter 1 - An Awakening
"What the hell do you mean I'm adopted?" Harry asked, furious.
Sirius sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, "Harry… Your parents loved you more than anything in the world."
"Which ones?" Harry asked caustically. "Because apparently, the people I've wished for my whole life were only the second family to leave me behind."
"Harry, you're life—"
"Is empty! Don't any of you get it? Doesn't anyone understand? Life isn't worth living if you're alone. All I've wanted was a home, but every time I come close it's ripped away again!"
"Harry, I know—"
"No, you don't know. You said yourself, you had James and you had Hogwarts. But each and every year that's threatened. Every year someone or something has tried to kill me. I've put Hermione and Ron in endless amounts of danger, and they spent all summer lying to me! Lying to me because of Dumbledore who won't even look at me! He locked me up with the Dursleys and no one ever takes me seriously when I tell them someone is dangerous."
"I'm sorry," Sirius said.
"You should be sorry!" Harry yelled. "You were my godfather, you should have taken me with you and ran, instead of going after Pettigrew. But no, you like everyone else had to listen to Dumbledore!"
Sirius huffed, visibly shaken but more concerned about Harry, "And who's been telling me to listen to Dumbledore and stay locked up?"
"I don't want you locked up, Sirius! I want you safe! I want you alive! I want you to actually give a damn when I tell you Snape's hurting me, that he's making it worse, that Umbridge is evil! But you won't, because everyone has to listen to Dumbledore.
"Dumbledore doesn't care about. He doesn't care if I'm hurt or in danger or facing down bloody dragons, so long as I survive! So long as I live long enough to see Voldemort dead, then it's all bloody fine with him!"
"That's not true—"
"Isn't it true!?" Harry continued to yell. "A couple of kids got through his traps to the stone. I killed Quirrel, it was self-defence but it was still me who killed him, me who held on through the pain to burn his face off with my bare hands. Dumbledore brushed it under the rug and gave Gryffindor House points for successfully working together to murder a professor. Because Quirrel died, not Voldemort.
"Then the next year Ginny got processed and we all almost got eaten by a basilisk which I also killed and then killed a piece of Voldemort's soul.
"Third year there was you who was there for Pettigrew, not me. And the Dementors and Remus who couldn't be bothered to remember to take a life-saving potion. And then last year, Cedric died because of me."
"No, Harry that wasn't your fault."
"Then why does everyone I love die? Why are they always in harm's way because of me? I wish they had lived. I wish my parents had saved themselves because this isn't the life I want. I just want a family, I can enjoy life with and not worry that the next danger that comes will be the one they aren't strong enough or lucky enough to survive."
"I'm sorry," Sirius said again much quieter than before.
"Why did they leave me? My other parents?"
"We don't know. We, James, Lily, and I were at your grandparents' funeral. James' parents were like the parents mine never were. We stayed long past everyone had left. The sun had gone down out of nowhere their giant ball of blue light appeared and it disappeared but when we went to investigate we found you in the grass. You were so small and so quiet. It took two weeks of nursing your baby formula until you started to make noises and cry.
"Lily loved you instantly, of course, and James wouldn't stomach the thought of giving you up. So they pretended that Lily had hidden her pregnancy and James gave you his name and title. You were always real to them. Always their son.
"And you don't know how much of them I see in you, your goodness and bravery. You are a Potter and Lily's son, blood doesn't matter when somebody loves you."
Harry looked away, his hands shaking, and he wrapped his arms around himself as if he could hold himself together from falling apart. When Sirius reached out to him Harry stepped back.
It felt like one touch could break him.
"So my other parents could still be alive?" he asked.
"Harry, you were an infant left in a graveyard—"
"You don't know that," he immediately defended. "You said it was a blue light, I could have been stolen. You don't know, I bet no one does. I bet it's impossible to know now." He felt half hysterical with hope and devastation "Did I even have a name?"
"Your name was printed on a paper wristband as if you had been at a muggle hospital. We don't know your true birthday but you couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, at the most."
"What was my name?"
"Aleksey Yakovlevich Romanov."
Harry blinked, "I was Russian?"
Sirius smiled, "Apparently, we did try to locate your birth parents, we even reached out to the eastern magical hospitals as well as the muggle ones. But no one had listed a missing child by that name."
Aleksey Yakovlevich Romanov, Harry thought, the name hitting some part of him, part of him that had always wished to be someone else.
Sirius continued as Harry tried to absorb all this, "You had needle marks on your arms and you smelled like muggle chemicals. Lily took you to a muggle hospital but the doctors said you were beyond healthy. Which was lucky for an invent who had magically appeared out of nowhere.
Not nowhere, Harry thought vehemently. Somewhere out there, there might still be people looking for him.
It was a dangerous hope.
But no more dangerous than welcoming a Dementor's Kiss just to hold onto her voice a little longer.
"How the bloody hell did they get Harry James Potter from Aleksey Yakovlevich Romanov?" he asked.
"Your grandparents were named Feamont and Euphemia Potter, Lily and James both believed in simpler names and no one was likely to believe they would name their child such an un-British name."
"Why not Alexander, or Alex?" Harry asked.
Sirius shrugged, "I think Lily had an uncle Alex who she hated, also, Harry sort of sounds sort of similar. Alek-sey Har-ry. Then James' grandfather was Henry who went by Harry. It was a family name and, Harry, once they held you in their arms they wanted you more than anything."
"What about the rest?" he asked, not ready to be soothed.
Sirius didn't fight him on it. "Yakov is a form of James and Yakovlevichit would mean Son of James. Russian naming conversions typically have the middle name mean simply the son of whoever. So it's safe to assume your biological father was also named James."
That made Harry feel a bit better, though he would have preferred to keep his first name at least.
Aleksey.
It was better than Harry, better than random people saying, I'm not some Tom, Dick, or Harry.
"Why do I look like Lily and James? Is my name as fake as my face?"
Sirius flinched, "I don't know. Lily was an expert in Charms and James a master of Transfiguration, together they could have spelled you to take after them. Likely when James made you his heir, if he used one of the older rituals it may have superficially changed your appearance."
"Supifiacal how?"
"Your eye colour, hair colour, and likely, the general shape of your face."
"Oh, so everything," Harry snarled, the anger coming back in force. "I want it off."
"I can't Harry, even if I knew how it's for your own safety
"It's pretty apparent I'm not safe; I want it off."
Harry, the ministry is scrutinizing you, you don't want to suddenly not look like yourself.
"I don't look like myself, everything I am is a lie, my name, my parents, my face! I want it off."
"Harry, please," Sirius insisted.
"No, Sirius! I will always be grateful to them for loving me. But I'm tired of the secrets, I'm tired of being Harry Potter. If there is more to who I am, I want that."
"You don't understand the danger," Sirius said. "Being famous makes you a target, but it also means that you are protected by the sheer amount of people keeping an eye on you."
"If it is a choice between being protected or being myself, I'd rather be myself."
Sirius sighed, "Harry, one day, I hope you realize that your self-worth depends on your actions, not who you are related to."
Harry heard what he was saying, but Harry felt drowned, drained, and hung out to dry.
He was sick of being stuck in a tug of war between Voldemort and Dumbledore, Harry was pretty sure he'd rather try his luck in Russia.
Germany - MCU 2010
Soldat, code name Asset, class designation Winter Soldier, woke in a haze.
He was used to being carried, less used to being pulled over a slender shoulder.
Soldat lost time, even as a part of his numbed mind picked out the downed bodies on the ground.
When next he was aware he found himself in a bathtub of ice, it hurt less than he imagined.
It was half pleasant, in fact, and seeing as he knew torture was to follow, he allowed himself the reprieve of the slow awareness of his body. He drifted off into a light sleep.
He flinched awake at the motion of water being poured into the tub. There was no more ice in the water now.
Again, it was pleasant enough. His was head clearer than any time he had ever woken before, though he remained still.
He heard bare feet on tile, the light breathing of someone sitting beside the tub.
Only one, and no others.
Morons, Soldat could take on any single adversary. Any single handler, especially if they didn't fry his brain beforehand.
"I know you're awake, Soldat," a feminine voice said.
Soldat's eyes flashed open, his mind reeling.
Not only did this woman address him as he knew himself, not the Asset, but she was speaking English.
Had he been stolen from Hydra?
He focused on the woman, and recognised her, dimly.
A Widow, one of the Red Room's Spiders.
They were like Winter Soldiers, only different. In some ways, more dangerous, because they didn't need to be broken, they had been raised to be weapons.
Wet clay shaped to perfection.
Winter Soldiers were sculpted from stone that had been meant to remain in the world, weathered by elements, not human devastation…
But formed or broken, their purposes remained the same.
The Widow leaned forward, and he caught her wrist with his flesh hand, which is when he saw her.
Saw her.
She wore nothing but her undergarments, her breasts mounded to lovely a vantage point near his face.
He was far too out of it to act on anything, and he wasn't stupid enough to forget what she was, however, this was by far his favourite wake up he could recall.
"If you hurt me, I will snap your neck," he told her, voice rough but clear.
The red head smiled at him.
Soldat saw her eyes, remembered those eyes.
He released her wrist, and she shifted the wet towel over his metal arm.
"Why?" he asked.
The Widow smiled at him, trailing fingers over his neck.
It was a soft touch, and he found himself hungry for it.
Waking like this, in comfort, without being threatened, he wanted freedom.
"You don't remember me?" she asked in a husky tone.
"Should I?" he asked, closing his eyes as her hand wandered down his chest.
"You trained me for a few years," she said, amused yet sultry. "About a decade ago."
Memories flickered through his mind like a candle blooming to life from a struck match.
"Natasha."
"I need your help, Soldat."
"So you did steal me," he stated.
Natasha smiled, "I did, and I killed your handlers and took your book."
His mind sharpened on that, "You memorized it."
It wasn't a question.
"Help me, and I promise —for however long you stay by my side— I will never allow them to have you again. I will break you out of it."
"You are my handler."
"It will require a bit of trust."
"Trust," he repeated flatly.
He trusted no one, not even himself.
"Sleep," she coaxed, "And I'll prove it to you."
He watched her, "Were you worried about getting your dress wet?"
She leaned in very slowly and kissed the corner of his mouth, before whispering in his ear, "I was hoping to jog your memory, Sergeant. You've found my own asset to be diverting in the past."
The smell of her… it was almost enough to take the sting out of her use of that title.
"I'm just a soldier."
She rested her forehead against his, "No, my dearest, you are so much more than that."
He wasn't aware of falling back to sleep, and when he next roused it was to a hot bath that felt… in a word; heavenly.
If Natasha did plan to kill him, he could think of worse ways to go.
AN: Thoughts, crocodiles, or feedback pretty please?