If Stark hadn't been the most valuable member of the Avengers Initiate, a technological genius, and someone that Nick occasionally cared about, he'd be strangling him right now.
"You let him go?" he bellowed.
Stark didn't look up.
"Yup. Although it could be argued that he escaped, or even left. I wasn't exactly trying to make him stay."
"May I ask why not?"
"May I ask why? He's not broken any laws, none that matter at least." Stark finally tucked his phone away and grinned. "The more you hound him, the faster he'll run."
Nick huffed. As usual, Stark was right. He was saying exactly the same thing Phil had been browbeating into him after the disaster in that New York diner.
Instead, here they were in New Hampshire, Potter displaying his usual disregard for the laws of physics. At least with Stark, Rogers, and Banner, he knew how their 'powers' had come into being—through science and hard work. He feared the unknown, the enormous capacity for dangerous that the world contained. He hated being unable to control it.
"He did ask me to give you a message."
"Yeah?"
"He said 'say hi to Phil'." Stark frowned, sliding his sunglasses onto his face. "Who the hell is Phil?"
Nick snorted, shaking his head. The man was never going to let him live this down.
Harry's face was plastered all over the news. He pocketed his phone and sighed. It was as he'd expected, after the attention that Stark had drawn.
It would have been inconvenient for anyone else. He half-wondered if that had been intentional, but Stark hadn't seemed the type to that sort of subterfuge. He stared into the mirror, wondering what colour he should charm his eyes. Perhaps red? Then he could truly embrace the Dark Lord visage.
'It's a fine line between hero and villain' indeed. Stark would know, he trod it too. Impudent little shit. Harry tapped the mirror, charming his eyes hazel to match his dad's, and altering the shape of his nose to mimic his mum's. He ran a hand through his hair, giving it golden streaks so that it was tawny, not jet black. He looked a little like Teddy had, in his youth.
The sound of sirens made Harry grin. He eyed his reflection and dubbed it suitably dissimilar to his true face. Exiting the bathroom, he joined the other patrons of the pub just half a mile from where he'd been found before alternatively watching the TV and the emergency vehicles whizz past the road outside, discussing the drama.
"That's Iron Man, isn't it?"
The media choppers had arrived just in time to watch Stark step into his suit.
"You can probably see him fly off from outside," Harry suggested. The bar was emptied in a sudden rush.
"Thanks for that, running off my customers," grumbled the woman behind the bar.
"They'll be back, I'm sure," Harry said. He grinned. "Won't be able to resist the gossip."
He followed the assembled throng outside, then ducked around the side of the house. Using the Hallows to charming himself completely invisible, he walked back toward the pub he'd just left Stark behind in. One man seemed to be directing the chaos as they evacuated patrons and began interrogations. He stormed around in a black leather jacket and wore an eyepatch like some kind of pirate. Moody would have loved him.
"Get Phil Coulson here right now!" he boomed.
Harry bit back a laugh. He watched for a few minutes, trying to understand the depth of their operation, but the man in charge seemed to be getting twitchier by the second, glancing around like he expected to catch someone watching them. He supposed it wasn't paranoia if someone really was out to get you.
It was time to move on. Harry Disapparated with a quiet pop.
Phil was there when the tech team finally managed to open up Harry's VW van and so he was there to see the explosion of furniture, clothing, and paraphernalia pour out from the van.
They'd had to take the van apart at the seams, using fire rescue equipment.
"What the hell?" Fitz muttered as he began picking through it all. "It's not physically possible that this all fitted in here. Is that a double bed? Is that a piano?!"
It was, indeed, a piano. The piano had folded in upon itself, crushed between the walls of the VW.
"That is a criminal waste of a Steinway," May muttered.
"But how?" Fitz continued, shaking his head. "It's not like it ever fitted!"
"There's a crumbled fireplace over here," Simmons called. "And a washing machine."
There was a pause filled with indeterminate cursing.
"And a dryer. What the—how?"
Phil blinked. He pressed his palms into his eyes. Attempting to wrap his mind around Harry and everything that entailed was looking to be impossible.
"Magic," he finally said. "Let's just say, magic made it happen, and take it from there, okay?"
Fitz and Simmons exchanged equivalent looks of horror.
"But how?" they said in unison.
Phil groaned.
It wasn't like he had any idea.
When Tony received the report detailing the contents of Potter's van, he sent it back, thinking it was a joke.
Fury called him ten minutes later.
"It's not a joke, Stark," he said, looking weary. "I don't know how the fuck he's doing it."
"Really?" Tony said. He pulled up the report again. "Nicky, this report tells me that inside that van there was a six-foot-wide dining table, a baby grand, and three sofas, to name just a few items. JARVIS, set that up for me."
Immediately, a hologram of what Potter's van had contained appeared before him, their cubic volume hovering beside each item. Tony flicked it, spinning it before him.
"There's no physical way that everything on this list fitted inside that van. It's not possible. Look—the sofas take up a third of the space themselves."
He snapped his fingers, pointing them toward Fury.
"Physics says no."
Fury narrowed his single eye.
"I'm well aware of that, Stark. Physics also says no to a lot of things, like teleportation, and goddamn dimension travellers, but we've witnessed that happening too. Like it or not, the man had a bloody apartment inside his van. I've no damn idea how."
Tony stared at the hologram. He compressed it, brought up an image of a VW, considered how the hell this could happen.
"I'll call you back," he said, shutting down the call with a swipe of his hand.
"Stark!"
"Call terminated," JARVIS advised.
"Total blackout, J," Tony said. He drummed his fingers on the arc reactor. If what Fury had said was true, then somehow Potter had found a way to make things smaller than they ought to be.
He voiced that thought aloud.
"Or the inside of the van larger," JARVIS said. Tony stared at the glass walls of his workshop.
"Or that," he conceded.
He was going to need help. Unfortunately, the only person that could help him also hated Tony's guts. Tony sighed, tossing a spanner from hand to hand, before chucking it onto the worktop with a clatter.
"JARVIS, I think it's about time I found out exactly what my father did to Hank Pym."
Harry moved back to New York. He amused himself at the thought that he was hiding right under SHIELD's nose, but they deserved the snub. He conjured himself a set of IDs and rented a flat in Brooklyn.
He passed himself off a writer, to his neighbours, who were polite and quiet for the most part. Harry did write, but he spent the majority of his time exploring New York using the Muggle transport network. It was a brilliant city. He did miss the magical communities, but it had been years since he'd visited them anyway.
One evening, as he traipsed up the stairs with groceries in each hand, he ran into the man from flat five, directly above his. He was tall and blonde, the type that worked out a lot.
"Need help with your bags?" the man asked, dangling his earphones around his neck. He'd obviously just been for a run.
"Sure." Harry smiled, glad to see that some people in New York could be decent human beings. "In fact, would you like to come over for dinner, as thanks?"
The man scooped up the groceries and bounded up the stairs, still full of energy. He grinned down from the landing above.
"Sounds great, thanks. You don't mind if I shower, first?"
"Not at all. It'll give me time to get started," Harry said, following with a little less speed.
"New to the city?" the man said. "I can't help but notice the accent."
"Spot on," Harry agreed. "Yourself?"
"Nah, Brooklyn born and bred."
The man popped the groceries by Harry's door and offered his hand.
"Steve, nice to meetcha."
"Harry," Harry responded. "See you in half an hour?"
"I'll be there," Steve said with a grin. "Thanks again. I'm not much of a cook myself, to be honest."
"It just takes a little practise," Harry said. He should know. He unlocked his door and dragged both bags in. With the door shut, he sagged against it.
It would be nice to have some company again, even if it was just dinner. He supposed he could always kidnap Phil and take him out somewhere, but somehow Harry didn't think that would go down so well.
Running a practised eye over his apartment, he flicked his wand, making sure that everything magical was tidied away before he took the shopping through to the kitchen. He began unpacking, considering what to cook. Spag bol was a safe bet, everybody loved that. Hopefully, Steve would too.
Nick waved for Barton to come in, lifting his head at the knock. Barton skulked through the door, sliding a report onto his desk.
"Rogers has made contact with a neighbour. Nothing new other than that, sir."
Nick eyed the file. After the debacle with Potter, he hardly felt like sifting through paperwork, not when one of his most reliable agents had been on surveillance all week.
"The neighbour?"
Barton shrugged. "A writer. Trust fund baby, too, looks like. They had dinner, parted ways."
"Did you run a background check?"
"Nothing came up."
Nick nodded, pushing the file to the side. He offered Barton a nod.
"Well done. It's been a hell of a week. Get some rest, you're back on him in forty-eight hours."
Barton grinned. "Any luck with the wizard?"
Nick scoffed. "Wizard? What gave you that idea?"
"Sounds better than sorcerer, doesn't it? Harry Potter, the wizard."
"Get out of here, Barton," Nick said, suppressing a grin. He was a cheeky little shit, but always had something to say to cheer him up.
"Sir, yes sir." Barton saluted and scarpered out the door.
Nick contemplated the file again, then stored it in Roger's draw. He wasn't going to bother reading the report, not if it was as simple as Barton had implied. He withdrew a bottle of scotch and a glass, pouring himself a small measure.
Leaning back into his chair, Nick toasted Potter for his successful outwitting of them so far. He then toasted Rogers, for adjusting so well to modern life.
It would be good for the man to make a friend. What could go wrong?