Before I start this chapter, go and check out the fantastic story, 'A Happy Accident: 70 Years,' by the wonderful Njchrispatrick. It is where the inspiration for this story came from. If you notice any similarities between the stories, I do have permission to use them.
When Harry Potter moved to America, the first thing he did was procure an apartment. Thanks to the false papers from the goblins, all made for a hefty sum of course, and the large amount of money sitting in his vault, it wasn't as much of a mission as he'd feared it would be. In his head, nightmare scenarios ran amok, mostly involving psycho real estate agents and, for some unknown reason, swooping crows.
In reality, it was as simple as going on a tour, finding a nice, airy apartment with what would be described as adequate views over a nice part of New York, and buying it. When deciding where to live, New York stood out like a sore thumb, like someone had turned fate into a highlighter and scribbled all over the city. This time, Harry found it hard to complain.
His first few days in New York were complete and utter bliss. He could walk down the street without a worry in the world, no reporter hounding him, no cameras flashing, no angry fans demanding autographs. Just him and the smell of the city which he was quickly coming to love, despite all the angrily honking cars, despite the loud, brash people, especially despite the overcrowding. There was simply something magical (and wasn't that ironic) about the place that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on.
True, he did miss his friends. A small, dull ache, throbbing day and night, found a home in his heart. Regular contact was kept, constant exchanges of letters detailing the smallest of details. Trivial to others, but to Harry they were worth more than gold. Pictures of Winona and Teddy found a way into his wallet, staring up at him every time he took out a note. And that was enough, for now.
After settling down, Harry decided that he would like to have a job. Though he had enough money to sit at home and lounge around all day, cruising and relaxing, the thought didn't attract him one bit. He was far more smitten with the idea of getting out there and working his ass off. Ever since the war, sitting still just wasn't on his agenda. When he did, a funny little itch began working its way up his spine, niggling at the back of his mind, like a piece of dust in his eye he couldn't quite get rid of.
After a little bit of looking, Harry was able to find himself a job as a waiter. It was stressful work, and there was a fairly annoying waitress who constantly flirted with him, but he enjoyed it. It kept him busy, even if some of the customers were complete assholes. Honestly, how hard was it for them to understand that it wasn't his fault there wasn't enough crumb on their fish? No amount of explaining would get them to see reason, that was one thing Harry had found out extremely quickly.
As was his nature, Harry made fast friends with the eccentric man who lived next door to him. His name was simply Magnus, which Harry suspected was a nickname. It wasn't like he would be told otherwise, so he didn't ask. Magus was tall and lanky, thin as a beanpole, looking like some sick wastrel from Victorian times. They watched a lot of movies together, occasionally going on a run. Harry enjoyed the company.
He lived in peace for a month, reveling in the technological wonders of the muggle world, enjoying the bustling night life and the wide variety of food the city offered. The new flavours he was introduced to were simply wondrous, leading to Harry becoming an adventurous eater. There was a point where he stopped, which may or may not have had something to do with a boiled chickens head. Harry would neither confirm nor deny the statement, so no amount of haggling would get him to talk about the disgusting experience.
Unfortunately, that peace was ended when, at nine o'clock in the morning, there was a knock on the door.
He blearily opened his sleep-logged eyes, his body instinctively curling up tighter under warm covers of his bed. He felt like hissing at whoever was disturbing his Saturday morning. There was silence, before the knock sounded again, this time more insistent. Whoever was behind the hand was impatient. Great.
Harry dragged himself out of bed, throwing on some clothes and shoving his glasses onto his face. Whoever was knocking at the door better have a good reason. To them, it may be a good time, but to him, the time was so early it was evil. Maybe he could just tell them to go away and come back later. That could work. Thanks to the incredibly stupid guests at the restaurant last night, Harry was in a crabby mood. He didn't mind being a bit stingy towards other people right now.
Right before he opened the door, he made sure to throw his glamour up, even though it did feel quite uncomfortable now that he spent a lot of him with his true appearance. It was like being forced into clothes two times two small. In short, he felt like a size four sausage in a size two casing. The difference in height was also slightly disconcerting.
For a third time, the knock sounded. Couldn't they have a mite of patience? With a huff, Harry yanked the door open.
"Do you know what time it is?" he growled, only to catch the next sentence in his mouth before it escaped. Standing in front of him was Phil Coulson, a man who he remembered very clearly. You couldn't exactly forget when a government agency, with a pirate looking spy man as an employee, asked you if you wanted a job.
Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I am aware."
Harry placed his hand on his forehead, rubbing it in frustration. He sighed and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry. Customers where I work as assholes." He glanced behind him at his living room, currently in a shambles. With a discreet swish of his wand and a whispered incantation, it quickly cleaned itself up. He turned back to Coulson. "Do you want to come in?"
"I don't remember you being this hospitable last time."
"To be fair, you did interrupt the middle of my trip."
"All a part of the job." Harry stood back and let Coulson into his living room. With the door shut, he followed the sharply dressed man to the couch and sat down, back straight. There was something about Coulson that made him want to present himself in the best way he could.
Harry cleared his throat to break the awkward silence that had fallen. "I presume you're here about the recruiting thing?" All of his more seemed to escape his mind, leaving him with the most basic of words. "I do still have the card."
"You would be right in your assumption, Mr. Potter. When we noticed you moved here, Fury decided that it would be advantageous to ask you a second time to join our agency."
"Wait, you want me to join your agency? As in, full on spy agent?"
"Not quite. That particular position would take years." Coulson's eyes darted about. "If we're going to talk about this, I would rather do it in a secure location. Would you be willing to come with me?"
"Oh, you're actually asking?" The joke fell on flat ears and an unimpressed scowl. "Yeah, okay, I'll go with you. Just give me a few minutes to get ready."
"Of course. We have a car waiting outside, so you won't need to do any of your magic mumbo jumbo."
"It isn't mumbo jumbo."
"To me it is."
All Harry could do was scoff in indignation and hurry off to his room to freshen up. Perhaps the man wasn't such a tightly wound screw after all.
Soon, he returned, in proper clothing, backpack slung over his shoulders. "Alright, let's go, shall we? I'm looking forward to seeing your boss again. Avast!"
"I'm sorry?"
"You know, avast. Pirate slang for onwards?"
"You are aware that avast means to stop, right?"
Harry's cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet and he hastened out of his apartment, finding the car he was supposed to get into (it was instantly recognisable) and slouching down into the back seat, avoiding eye contact.
So much for being mature.
They rode in silence, much like the last time. Coulson escorted Harry through very similar halls, despite the fact that they were in New York and not Washington. The same door was opened and he was ushered into the same office, where the same man sat behind the same desk.
Harry sat in the same chair and awkwardly smiled at Coulson, who left the room, closing the door with a click.
"So, Mr. Potter."
"So, Fury."
"I see that you decided to come to see us again, despite the adamant refusal that you were never going to see us again."
"I was in a difficult spot last time you talked to me."
"I could tell."
"Of course you could." Harry was about to continue when an overwhelming sense of wrong began creeping up his back. He turned around and saw an innocent looking cat sitting on the carpet, licking its paw. "What's wrong with that cat?"
"Nothing, not unless you look closer."
"Okay, okay," Harry reassured himself that the cat would do nothing. It was just a cat. "What was your offer?"
"I want you to come and work for SHIELD."
"I know that much." He shifted forward slightly. That cat was wrong. "But what kind of job?"
"A Specialist Operative. Your skills with magic would be greatly beneficial to our organisation. I understand that you're taking a break from your hero 'duties' at the moment, yes?"
"Yeah, I am."
"Well, you would be working in a team, here at SHIELD."
"If I didn't come to work for you, what kind of training would I have to go through?"
"You would start at the bottom and learn with the other recruits the necessary skills for the position." Fury raised his chin. "Would you at least consider it? We've had our eye on you for a long time."
"Yeah, I'll do it."
Fury seemed unfazed by Harry's sudden decision. "Good. You start in three days. Tomorrow you will be briefed and given the necessary tests and examinations." He stood. "That cat really does work wonders, doesn't she?"
Harry scowled. "I knew it!"
A few hours later, when Harry was sitting at home, having just resigned from his position as a waiter, he wondered just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.
Ron and Hermione were enjoying a quiet evening, a respite from Winona's constant crying. No matter how much they loved their little baby daughter, she was extremely exhausting at times. Just as Ron returned from the kitchen with their bowls of late night pasta, a frantic banging sounded from the door. It startled Ron so much that he tripped over the fuzzy maroon rug on the floor, sending the pasta flying. The pounding didn't stop.
Grumbling about the pasta, Ron walked over to the door and lazily opened it. A distraught woman fell through, onto their carpet, eyes red and puffy, shaking from grief. Ron instantly recognised her as Genevieve Armand. Something was different about her, though.
"Winona. You have to go and get Winona! Right now!" She grasped the hem of Ron's shirt, eyes wide, manic, tear tracks winding down her face. "He's gone mad! He's already taken my Emma and Gabriel!" She pushed him backwards. "Go and get her! Don't worry about what I've done in the past. Your daughter is all that matters!"
Ron felt his heart hammering. He didn't even question what was going on as he sprinted upstairs, barely feeling the floor beneath him. He burst into their room, rushing over to little Winona's crib. His heart jumped into his mouth when he saw that she was gone, gone out of the crib.
"HERMIONE!" The scream was full of anguish and grief he didn't know he was capable of. "HERMIONE!" Somehow, he was on the ground, limp like a ragdoll, screaming out into the air, barely aware that Hermione was already beside him, also screaming, clutching the sheets from the crib to her chest.
And then, an anger, a rage, a bubbling black hole filled him.
And it wasn't going to leave until he found his little girl, his sunshine, his flower, the most precious thing in the world to him.
God help whoever had taken her.
Because they were going to die a very painful death.
Sorry for the slight delay. I was planning, being really sick and starting a sort of new job. Anyway, plots picking up, I know what I'm doing with the Armand's and soon we'll be getting into what you've all been waiting for (hopefully).
Sincerely,
Mariadoria