Disclaimer. This will steal a few ideas from Inception and dream sharing but it isn't really a crossover.

Also, any of the warnings affect you then I suggest you either read carefully or ignore this story completely.

Warning:

Past off screen character death. (Non-canonical death.)

Oblique mentions to PTSD like things.

Oh, and torture...yeah, probably don't read this if you couldn't read someone being crucio'ed in the Harry Potter books. It isn't really any more graphic than that but be warned.

#

Fingernails dug deep, one hand into the soft flesh of his thigh and the other clawing at the dusty earth.

Screams ripped through the silence, panting breaths broke the peace.

"Have you had enough, yet, imposter?" Gloating arrogance dripped from every syllable.

Harry's eyes drifted shut of their own accord. He was used to pain (as much as you can be used to it) but endless torture wore down his defences pretty quickly. He was human after all, not a god or some kind of superhuman.

(The only difference was he didn't stay dead.)

"Really? Well, as you wish."

Searing agony.

Harry screamed.

Minutes, hours, seconds, days later he stopped. The pain halted.

Harry only wished he could feel glad for the respite. But all he could muster was a sense of dread.

"Time for some more of your recollections, I think. They are most amusing."

-He was standing outside the Ministry of Magic, wand held loosely in his grip the people walking down the street ignoring the invisible man in their midst.

He had on the blue robes of his profession, well supposed 'profession' anyway and an artefact in his pocket.

He had spent the last couple of days tracking down this insidious magical item, a small emerald pendant. It looked so innocent, just an ordinary item.

It was magical in nature however and had been slipped into the muggle world for a reason. It targeted the owner and unless kept in a magically warded safe managed to slowly wear down the owners mental and physical health.

It was muggle baiting in the extreme and that was what Harry dealt with. Finding magical items in the muggle world that did horrific things. Usually cursed items.

But it wasn't the nasty nature of the pendant that had him idling outside the ministry at ten am in the morning on a Saturday (he had located many more horrific items, after all). It was the fact that this was the third time he had tracked down this particular pendent.

The third time.

His superiors were supposed to destroy the items so they couldn't cause further harm, or return them to the wizard or witch if they had been reported stolen.

Harry worked for the silent offices, ones not really known. And he had done so for three years now.

Immediately after the war he had gone into Auror training with Ron and after three years of instruction had been accepted as a fully fledged Auror. He had quit a mere three years later.

The silent department had sought him out to recover magical items. Harry had thought a change of scenery just what he needed.

He enjoyed seeking the items, enjoyed (somewhat guiltily) sneaking into houses and stealing them. It honed his instincts and he was never really one to play by the rules.

(A more secret, more subtle and covert version of Arthur Weasley's job. No erasing memories, no getting seen, radio silence.)

But the second time he had found the emerald pendent (five months after first handing it in) he had felt a twinge of doubt.

His superior had reassured him that it was a different pendent, made by the same person and with the same effects but a different one all the same. Harry had agreed outwardly...but cast an undetectable charm on the pendent so he would know it was the same one if he ever came across it again.

Here he was. With the pendent his superior had assured him had been destroyed. Twice.

Harry grimaced and spun away from the entrance to the ministry. He apparated back to his house, Number 12 Grimmauld Place and entered tossing the pendent from hand to hand.

Right. So he knew his superiors had lied, two of them at least. But how far did the deception extend?

Had his superior been tricked? No, he had assured Harry that it was a different pendent, Louis knew and he wagered Teaps knew too.

Harry grimaced; the corruption in the Ministry always put a sour taste in his mouth, the taste of bitter failure.

He had tried to get rid of corruption during his brief Auror career, he had thought the silent department free of it, they were doing something good-protecting muggles...

Obviously not. Once again he had been naive.

Harry slammed his fist into the wall barely wincing as tender flesh rubbed against bone.

Taste like ashes on his tongue.

He would have to start investigating how far these lies ran.-

Harry gasped for breath as he was once again given back his mind, brought back to reality. He glared in Thanos' general direction.

It wasn't like viewing memories in a pensieve, he wasn't watching memories. He was reliving them.

In pensieves you watched your memory from an outsiders perspective, Thanos made him live through them again, feel the emotions, thoughts he had felt when the memory was made.

But he still didn't know why Thanos was doing it.

A deep chuckle grated through the oppressive atmosphere.

"Haven't you guessed yet? My, my...use that pitiful brain of yours for once."

He hated Thanos being inside his head. Thanos could do something that was essentially the opposite of Legilimency, he read Harry's thoughts rather than viewing his memories.

There, Professor Snape, reading minds is not impossible. Harry thought with a bitter snort.

"What do you mean?" Harry responded, wincing at his voice. It was a hoarse scratchy version of his usual smooth tones and it physically pained him to speak.

A deep sigh made the ground beneath Harry tremble. Harry's gaze narrowed, what did Thanos mean? Why would he be picking through Harry's memories?

"I shall let you come to your own conclusions, imposter, you will see the truth soon enough. Perhaps you may even thank me for the mercy I have thus far shown."

Harry's lip curled at the thought of thanking Thanos for anything.

"Now, now, that wasn't very pleasant."

And Harry again screamed before snapping his mouth shut and nearly biting off his own tongue. He would not give him the satisfaction of hearing his pain. Coppery warmth filled his mouth and Harry spat out the crimson liquid feeling the sting in his tongue which was nothing compared to the agony that caressed his limbs, contorting them into shapes Harry had previously thought impossible for the human body to form.

The pain let up eventually, it always did, and Harry shuddered, shivering uncontrollably on the dusty warm ground.

He barely had time to catch his breath before hurtling through his mind and once again falling into memories.

-He stared at the parchment in front of him uncomprehendingly.

Surely it was wrong-surely it couldn't be-he couldn't have been working as-

He thought-he thought that-he thought the silent department had been protecting muggles...

Not profiting on their distress.

One or two people in the department, like him, worked on that ideal, the ideal that they were helping the muggles, collecting items from the magical world and returning them.

But only one or two people.

The others were-

Half of them were putting out the magical items into the muggle world to kill/torture/maim innocent non-magical people while the other half sold the items found on the wizarding black market uncaring that the item would be sent back to the muggle world to cause more harm.

And as it was a silent department their actions were less on display so this was all easier to accomplish under officials eyes.

(How could he have been so blind?)

Harry closed his eyes and breathed out harshly. His eyes snapped open and he glared at the wall.

This had to stop. He had to stop it.-

Harry stared up at the sky, the black abyss he could see speckled here and there with an occasional star. He turned to look at Thanos.

"Why?" He breathed eyes slipping shut with exhaustion.

"Your world has an apt saying, know your enemies."

"Why am I an enemy?" Harry asked, eyes itching with tiredness. He shoved the feeling away, fatigue was the least of his problems.

"Your title." Came the answer for once bereft of amusement. Malice, though, that was evident.

Harry frowned. His title? He didn't have a title...he wasn't a Lord or anything like that...Perhaps as an Avenger?

His breath caught when he realised what Thanos was referring to.

Master of Death.

"What about it?" He asked, his voice a little stronger now he was finally getting answers.

"Imposter," Thanos hissed, "No one is the master of Death, she has no master."

Harry blinked was that possessiveness in Thanos' voice, protectiveness? Yearning?

"Wha-"

He wasn't allowed to finish and once more his screams filled the air.

Harry panted hands twitching spasmodically his limbs trembling uncontrollably. If he had been lying on a bed or pallet he would have surely fallen off from the near violent tremors wracking through him.

It hurt to shake. It hurt to lie still but less so, if only his body would cooperate.

"Take him away. Keep watch. Do not let him escape." Thanos' voice boomed around, coming from his left, his right, above, below, piercing through everything and slowly bringing Harry back to awareness.

He blinked fuzzily. What? Take who away?

He felt movement and tension in his arms.

It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to realise it was him being dragged away by someone, or something.

Oh. So Thanos hadn't been talking to him after all.

Harry wondered how long he had spent in front of Thanos, being melded to the creatures every whim and fancy. He also wondered why on earth he was being taken away now.

Did Thanos even need to sleep or eat?

Harry himself felt hollow, hunger turned to a remembered ache. His mouth was dry, and wasn't the last sign of thirst a dry mouth?

Thanos hadn't given him any form of nourishment so far and Harry hoped this wouldn't be the norm.

Dying of dehydration was painful and nasty. And it took three/four long days. Harry knew from previous experience. Not really something he wanted to remember let alone revisit.

"Drink." A sound like nails down chalkboard assaulted Harry's eardrums and his winced turning to the owner of the voice. If he had had a voice like that then...well, killing himself didn't exactly work but he would do something...

Maybe tearing out his vocal cords? They would only actually grow back when he died...again.

If he didn't die after gaining a wound of some sort then he would suffer through healing (not so much considering there were magical ways...potions, spells etc that sped it up) and the new scar/injury would only fully heal once he died.

Harry had spent months at one point with only one arm. He had been involved in a case that had ended...badly (this was before he had quit the Aurors) and the fiendfyre hadn't been put out in time.

The healers at St. Mungos weren't able to do anything with the blackened limb so to prevent the decay spreading (Fiendfyre was a nasty spell and getting scorched by it left more than a scar, the spell residue lingered) his hand was...removed.

Magic couldn't heal everything. That was why Moody had had a wooden leg and an eyeball not his own. Some curses couldn't be countered or cured properly.

Harry had spent three months learning how to move about with only one arm, the other was a stump at his elbow.

It hadn't been all that painful (he regularly gave thanks for pain potions) but it was irritating. Especially the pitying looks.

Then, not three months after gaining the injury (and loosing an appendage) he had died (murdered was more apt a term). When he had woken up he had once again had use of all his limbs, a freshly grown arm at his side.

Hermione still didn't believe him fully when he said he hadn't meant to die just to regain the appendage...

She might be semi right, not that Harry was admitting to anything.

He had played it off as paying an exclusive renowned healer in Switzerland who had 'healed' him. An experimental operation.

Ron and Hermione were the only two who knew the truth.

Anyway, dying was not on the agenda. Who knew how much it might anger Thanos should he (briefly-and he never remembered it) enter the halls of the dead, death's realm?

He glared at the...thing that had dragged him to a dank cavern, a cell presumably, on principal.

The thing didn't even twitch just gestured towards the bowl it had pushed towards Harry.

A brief flare of anger gave him the strength to sit up when he saw the bowl the water had been put in. It was a dog bowl, but that wasn't what had made Harry so cross.

It was the inscription on the side that enraged him.

PADFOOT was carved neatly with an elegant flourish on the lip of the bowl along with a single paw print.

Harry lunged forward and slung the bowl away from him spilling the contents and listening to the resulting clanging sounds before collapsing on the cool hard stone. It was rough and scraped at his skin but Harry couldn't care less.

Thanos had relished Harry's pain in reliving some memories, he lingered on the ones where Harry was feeling the most depressed, the times just after Sirius' death and other similar occasions, times when negative emotions flooded him.

Harry knew it was only memories but when he was feeling the emotions anew and reliving events it was hard to recall this fact.

And it seemed Thanos wasn't done with his torments.

The...thing standing at the entrance to the shallow cave didn't even flinch, disappointingly.

Harry closed his eyes already regretting the rash action. Water was valuable and he had flung it to the ground in a fit of emotion...not clever. Especially seeing as he didn't know if he would get the same courtesy again.

Great.

He couldn't have been with Thanos for more (or less) than twenty-four hours (judging by the dryness in his throat...although with all the torture...) and he was already making juvenile mistakes.

He remembered what one of his Auror trainers had said once.

"'If ever you're caught, and you will be Potter, don't let your pride rule you. Eat, drink (unless you know for sure it's drugged), sleep. Nobody wants a dead hero. Especially not me, think of all the paperwork.'"

He snorted in brief amusement, Richards had been a tough love Auror but she was amazing in the field and a brilliant tutor.

Xxx

"Hello, is this Miss Hermione Granger's residence?" Tony asked into the phone (and Steve was still struck by the difference...there were mobile phones now, smaller than the palm of his hand...) with undeniable charm.

"YEAH, JUST WAIT A SEC, I'LL GET HER." The male voice boomed out of the phone and Tony yanked the phone away from his ear looking at the contraption warily.

"HERMIONE! SOME POSH GIT ON THE FELEPHONE FOR YOU!"

"Posh git?!" Tony mouthed incredulously.

"What's a 'felephone'?" Steve asked wondering if this was yet another device he would have to learn about.

"I think he means telephone." Bruce murmured looking almost tickled by the events. They listened to the conversation the phone picked up curiously.

"Honestly Ronald," A female voice chastised the voice picking up in volume so Steve assumed she was approaching the phone.

Eavesdropping on a conversation was not the most immoral thing Steve had ever done but he did feel a tingle of shame on overhearing a talk between two innocent people.

"How many times have I told you? It is a 'telephone' 'Te-le-phone'. You didn't shout through it again did you?" A sigh was audible. "I've just put Hugo down for a nap; Rose is watching the Teletubbies, go watch her."

There was a rustle of movement and the sound of footsteps receding.

"Hermione Granger speaking, who is this?" A crisp female voice spoke clearly. Steve was glad she didn't shout like her...husband? Or partner did.

"Miss Granger, I'm Tony Stark and I'm ringing to talk to you about a mutual acquaintance, a friend of us both who goes by the name Harry Potter-"

There was a strangled gasp.

"I don't know what you want but if you have harmed a hair on his head then-"

This time Tony interrupted.

"That wasn't a threat, I don't make threats I make promises. I, and a few of my associates, just wanted to inform you of your friends condition." Tony paused here, waiting for Hermione to ask.

She didn't disappoint.

"What is his condition?" She asked in clipped tones, not fully able to hide the worry evident.

"Physically he is perfectly fine. The only problem is that he won't wake up." Tony informed her. The sigh of relief over the phone made Steve frown, why was she relieved.

"Don't worry, this happens sometimes. He'll wake up in an hour or two, maybe less-"

"I don't think you understand. Harry Potter collapsed eight days ago and hasn't woken since."

There was silence.

"Where is he?" Hermione asked and despite the fact her voice was nearly a whisper in volume it was no less harsh than the fiercest order.

"Stark Tower, New York. I can have a jet sent over to England in-"

"Not necessary. Mr Stark, was it? Well, thank you for informing me. Me and my husband will be along shortly."

The phone clicked silent.

"She hung up on me." Tony pouted. Bruce looked at him.

Steve felt another joke fly over his head. In seventy years so much had changed. At least human nature was the same. Even if there were wizards and witches around.

But apparently he had just been ignorant of their existence before. They weren't actually anything new.

"Guests tomorrow! I wonder if wizards like Italian...the restaurant on the corner does amazing Arrabiata and they do takeaway for Tony Stark."

Steve and Bruce shared a glance then shrugged.

Xxx

"I'm bored." Tony muttered, tapping away on another of those...tablet thing-y.

Steve ignored him. Again. As he focussed on his sketch.

"When will they get here?" He whined.

Steve wasn't the only one rolling his eyes.

When the rest of the Avengers had heard that some friends of Harry's were popping round they had made themselves present, except Thor-who was on Asgard at the moment, and milled around one of the communal rooms Tony had gifted them all.

"The flight is about twelve hours isn't it? And they refused your jet so add in that time." Clint remarked absently as he looked over one of the various arrows Tony had passed to him when he walked in the room.

Steve sat far enough away that if one of them exploded (again) then he wouldn't be in direct range.

(That meant little when you factored in the fact that Tony had tampered with them...and Steve wasn't totally sure the explosion last time wasn't a prank from Tony.)

"Magic, Clint. I've heard it can do some pretty impressive things." Natasha said dryly.

Clint waved his hand, far too engrossed in his new set of arrows to reply.

"Oh, I've been meaning to mention this for a bit, Tony is there a setting with the lights? I tried asking JARVIS to turn them all off in the room when I went to sleep but he said something about overriding orders. They only dimmed." Bruce asked quietly.

Tony's fingers skittered across the screen of the...thing even faster than before and for a moment Steve thought he was too absorbed to have heard Bruce.

"It's not the room, big guy, it's your room. Big difference. And I'll sort it with JARVIS. There's been some problems since my tower was hijacked by Rudolph." Tony answered a few beats too late, looking fixedly at the screen in his lap.

Steve wondered what he was working on that had him so absorbed. Then he shrugged, he wouldn't understand it even if he was told.

"Sir, there it appears a man and a woman have managed to enter the lobby. They match the descriptions of Mr Potter's friends."

JARVIS's voice never failed to make Steve stiffen, he would have jumped but after the third time he managed to lessen his instinctive response. It was just a little odd to have a disembodied voice talk to you.

"Already? It's only been an hour and a half..." Bruce said slowly, pushing up his glasses.

Tony jumped to his feet, excitement lighting his eyes as he practically skipped down to the foyer.

The others followed, less exuberantly but with their own curiosity.

Steve noticed Clint tuck the arrows into the quiver (when had he put on the quiver? Had it always been there?) on his back and Natasha's hands were loose at her sides in a way that said she was tense to those who worked with her closely.

They poured out of the lift (Steve wasn't the only one edgy in the space of the frankly huge elevator, they were all pretty messed up in his humble opinion) and stared at the two people who had managed to enter Tony's tower.

They were...unremarkable.

Steve felt a tinge of disappointment then chided himself.

What had he been expecting?

Them to sweep in on broomsticks toting round a dragon or two? Transforming themselves from a top hat into themselves?

The woman was average height, probably a little on the short side, with a curling mass of bushy brown hair and sharp eyes and the man was tall, lanky with bright red hair and a plethora of freckles complete with a long nose and clear blue eyes.

They were dressed normally too. Jeans and t-shirts, trainers. Nothing especially magical about their outfits. There was a stain on the man's sleeve.

They screamed ordinary.

Which Steve knew for a fact (unless Tony was playing a very elaborate joke-he didn't put it past him) that they weren't. They really, really weren't.

Not even for wizards and witches.

And yet...

He could pass them in the streets and not know they were anything other than a couple, just into their thirties, enjoying a day out.

He wondered if that was a deliberate ploy, to blend in, or whether it was unconscious.

He noticed Natasha's eyes narrow. He would bet his art supplies she was thinking along the same lines as him and found it equally disturbing.

Maybe disturbing wasn't the right word...unsettling? No, disconcerting, that was it.

"Where is he?" Was the first words out of the woman's mouth, the beginnings of crows feet around her eyes deepening and her lips tight.

"Yeah, where's Harry?" The man reiterated, his shoulders stiff, blue eyes glancing over them all before dismissing them for his greater concern, his friends presence. Or lack of.

Tony, for once, seemed to recognise now was not the time to antagonise or rile up the two in front of him, not when they were so visibly edgy for their friend.

Maybe he did have a survival instinct.

It was the first Steve was seeing of it.

"This way, he's in his room, we had the medical equipment brought to him rather than moving him when he didn't wake after three days...So, do you really eat cockroach cluster?" Tony asked leading them to Harry's room.

Then again...maybe not.

The woman ignored him, single minded in her approach.

The man, however, snorted.

"Nah. Well, only for a joke. My brother tricks people into eating it by saying it's peanut brittle. Very few people actually like it."

"What about Blood Pops then?"

"Well, you'll get weirdo's who eat them but they're mainly for vampires...not that they're any good for them and apparently even most vampires don't like the flavour, too sweet." The red head answered, eyeing the woman just ahead of him with a pinched look.

A nervous twitch of his fingers had Natasha's hand inching towards her belt.

The man didn't notice as he simply ran his hand through his hair as blue eyes scanned the area edgily.

From the worried flare of his nostrils Steve wouldn't have thought he was anything more than a concerned friend. Someone worried about his brother in arms.

And they weren't any different. Steve realised.

They were people, people who possessed a strange energy called magic but still people.

They weren't all competent spys with slightly too piercing eyes like Harry, that was like saying everyone was the same as Natasha.

The world may be different but there was always one fixed point. The people. The magical world was the same.

Steve relaxed slightly.

He could deal with that. It was no different to waking up seventy years in the future.