The cool, damp air of London at night wrapped around Harry Potter like a cloak, but it offered little comfort against the turmoil raging within him. The city's heartbeat, usually a comforting constant, now felt distant and indifferent to his pain. His footsteps, aimless and heavy, echoed through the shadowed streets, each step a reminder of his solitude. Lost in a whirlwind of grief and anger, Harry's mind relentlessly replayed the harrowing events at the Department of Mysteries. The loss of Sirius and Remus weighed on him with a crushing intensity, leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill.
As the distant clock tower chimed, marking the late hour, Harry found himself in front of an old phone booth. Its red paint, peeling and weathered, stood a sign of the passage of time. Entering the booth, he watched as his breath fogged the glass panels, enclosing him in a small, isolated world. With trembling hands, he dialed Clint Barton's number - a connection to a life that seemed so far removed from his current reality. The phone rang, its sound a stark contrast to the stillness of the night.
He dialed the only number that came to mind, a number from a different world, a different life. Clint Barton's number, an unlikely friend he had made in a twist of fate. The phone rang, cutting through the silence of the night, a lifeline in his sea of despair.
Clint answered, his voice laced with concern at the unusual hour. "Hello?"
Harry's voice broke as he tried to speak, his words lost in sobs. He could barely articulate the grief that consumed him. The pain of losing Sirius and Remus was overwhelming, a torrent of emotions he couldn't control.
Clint recognizing Harry's voice and the depth of he distress, switched to a soothing tone. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Just take a deep breath for me, alright? Breathe in, breathe out. That's it. Can you tell me what happened?"
Taking a few shaky breaths, Harry tried to find his voice amidst the turmoil that raged within him. Each inhale was a struggle, each exhale a release of pent-up emotion. "Sirius... and Remus," he managed to stammer out, the names catching in his throat like thorns. "They're gone. I'm... I'm alone again. Just when I thought I had... had a family."
The words tumbled out, raw and unrestrained. "It's all spiraling, Clint. I've lost more people. I'm afraid, scared... I don't even know where I am. Everything's just... falling apart." His voice was a mere whisper.
On the other end of the line, Clint's heart clenched at the desolation in Harry's voice. "Harry, are you in a safe place?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
Harry looked around, the dimly lit streets casting elongated shadows that danced eerily. "I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice a mere whisper betraying his uncertainty.
Clint, sensing the urgency of the situation, continued, "Are you in London or Scotland? I need to know where you are."
"I'm in London," Harry replied, his voice barely audible. "Near... near a clock tower. It just chimed a while ago."
"Okay, listen to me closely," Clint responded quickly. "I'm currently in France, but Natasha is in London. I can have her come to you and take you to a safe house. She's a friend, Harry, someone you can trust."
Harry's heart pounded at the mention of someone new, another stranger in the midst of his chaotic world. "I... I've never met her," he said hesitantly.
"I know, but she's a good friend of mine. She'll keep you safe until I can get there," Clint assured him. "Can you do that for me, Harry? Can you wait for Natasha?"
A pause lingered in the air as Harry wrestled with his uncertainty and fear. Finally, he nodded, forgetting for a moment that Clint couldn't see him. "Yes, I'll wait for her," he said, a sense of resolve steadying his voice.
On the other end of the line, Clint, keenly attuned to Harry's wavering tone, quickly interjected with reassurance. "Harry, I need you to help me help you," he urged, his voice a betraying his sense of urgency. "Just take a quick look outside for any sign or landmark, then I'll call Natasha, and I promise I'll call you back immediately. I know this is challenging, but your trust is crucial here." His words, meant to inspire confidence, hung in the air, waiting for Harry's response.
Harry, though still gripped by uncertainty, nodded silently, forgetting for a moment that Clint couldn't see him. "Okay," he said, his voice still shaking but showing a hint of resolve. "I'll... I'll do it. Just... hold on a second."
Harry gently set the phone down, careful not to disconnect the call. Stepping out of the narrow confines of the phone booth, he found himself enveloped by the cool embrace of the night. The streets, shrouded in shadows, lay quiet before him. A soft breeze whisked through the air, playfully tugging at his hair and sending a shiver cascading down his spine. His gaze drifted until it found a street sign, its letters barely discernible under the dim glow of a nearby streetlight. Taking in a deep breath, he returned to the booth, the phone still awaiting his return. Picking up the phone, he brought it close, "It's Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue," he said into the receiver, his voice slightly more confident.
"That's great, Harry. Charing Cross and Shaftesbury," Clint repeated. "I'm going to make this as quick as I can. Stay right there. Natasha will find you. You're doing really well under tough circumstances."
The line went silent, and Harry felt a brief wave of panic. He put the phone back on the receiver, his eyes fixed on the dark, empty streets, waiting for the comforting sound of Clint's voice to return.
Meanwhile, Clint, with urgency in his movements, dialed Natasha's number. The phone rang, and soon her familiar voice answered, tinted with her usual light-hearted banter. "Clint, to what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night call?"
Clint's tone was serious, cutting through the usual camaraderie. "Nat, I need your help. It's about Harry, the kid I've been talking to for the past year. He's in London, outside alone, and he's scared. Something bad has happened."
Natasha's demeanor shifted instantly, her voice losing its teasing edge. "What's going on, Clint?"
"He's just lost two people close to him. He's at the intersection of Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue, near a clock tower. I'm still in France, but I need you to find him. Take him to the safe houses. I'll finish up the mission here and come to London as fast as I can."
Without hesitation, Natasha responded, her voice now all business. "Understood. I'm on my way. Keep your phone close, and update me if anything changes."
Clint could hear the sounds of Natasha preparing to leave in the background. "Thanks, Nat. Be careful, and call me as soon as you're back in the safe house."
The line went dead, and Natasha swiftly moved into action. She knew the streets of London fairly well and had a sense of urgency about this mission. Clint had never asked for her help like this before, and she could tell from his voice that this was important. She knew he saw this kid as one of his own
Clint then quickly scrolled through the recent calls on his phone, finding the number for the payphone Harry had used. Dialing it, he waited, each ring echoing his growing concern.
Finally, Harry's voice came through, hesitant but hopeful. "Clint?"
"Harry, it's me," Clint said quickly. "Natasha is on her way to you. She's got red hair, you can't miss her. She'll take you back to the safehouse where you can rest."
Harry's response was a mixture of relief and anxiety. "Okay, I'll look for her," he said, his voice barely above a whisper while he raised his wand and looked around wierily. Something didn't feel right and he didn't know what. He didn't know if it was his nerves from the recent battle or if there was something more out there.
On the other end of the line, Clint's voice was laced with concern. "Harry, are you there? Talk to me. How are you holding up?"
Harry's voice wavered, the phone feeling like a lifeline in his trembling hands. "Clint," he started, his words breaking through the tight knot of emotion in his throat, "everything's fallen apart. Sirius... I... how can I go on without him? And Remus... I'm lost, and I'm frightened." His voice, laden with raw pain, conveyed the depth of his despair, each word a reflection of his heartache.
Clint, on the other end, could hear the depth of Harry's grief. "Harry, talk to me. What happened?" he asked gently, knowing full well that Harry needed to voice his pain, but also mindful not to push too hard.
Tears streamed down Harry's cheeks as he clutched the receiver. "Sirius and Remus... I saw them... they're gone." His voice was a choked whisper, laden with unbearable loss. "I tried to save them, but I couldn't. It happened right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspeakable sorrow. Clint, though far away, felt a pang of helplessness, wishing he could be there to offer more than just words. "Harry, I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through right now," he said softly.
"It's my fault, Clint. I should've been faster, stronger... better. I keep trying to make things right, but everything I touch just falls apart," Harry sobbed, his grief overwhelming him.
Clint's voice was steady, a calm in the storm of Harry's grief. "Harry, this isn't your fault. You've faced more than anyone your age should, and you've done so bravely. Grief can be crushing, and it's okay to feel broken. But remember, it's not the end. You're not alone, and this pain won't last forever."
"I feel so lost, Clint. They were more than just friends; they were family. And now there's just this..." Harry's voice trailed off, the pain too raw to put into words. As he leaned heavily against the side of the payphone, a sudden movement in the shadows caught his eye. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice tense with alarm.
Clint's voice echoed from the phone, "Harry, what's happening? Are you okay?"
Harry didn't immediately respond to Clint. Instead, he eyed the newcomer warily. The woman, with her striking red hair, raised her hands in a non-threatening gesture, standing just outside the payphone's dim light.
"My name is Natasha," she spoke softly, her eyes fixed on the slender object in Harry's hand, not quite understanding what it was but sensing its potential for defense. "Clint sent me to help you."
On the phone, Clint's voice was filled with urgency, "Harry, listen to me. That's Natasha. She's there to help you. You can trust her."
Harry's grip on his wand tightened, his arm shaking slightly from a mix of fear and grief. The name 'Natasha' resonated in his mind, a name Clint had mentioned, but his trust was hard to give in these moments of despair.
"How do I know It's really her and I can trust her?" Harry's voice was laced with suspicion and weariness.
"Clint told me you'd be at Charing Cross Road and Shaftesbury Avenue," Natasha said, maintaining a safe distance. "He's worried about you. I'm here to make sure you're safe."
Clint, still on the phone, reassured Harry, "Ask her what her favorite thing to cook is."
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, the question teetering on the edge of his lips. "What's your favorite thing to cook?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
Natasha, taken aback by the question, let out an unexpected snort. "Cook?" she chuckled, shaking her head. "I can't cook worth beans. It's a disaster every time I try."
Harry relayed this back to Clint, who immediately confirmed, "That's her, alright. Harry, please, go with her somewhere safe. She's there to help you."
Slowly, Harry lowered his wand, though he remained guarded. "Okay," he said, more to Clint than to Natasha.
"Alright, I'm hanging up. But Clint, please hurry," Harry said, a tremor in his voice, betraying the fear and urgency he felt. He hung up the phone with reluctance, a part of him wanting to cling to the connection with Clint, his link to something familiar and safe.
Harry's hand remained close to his wand still uneasy. Despite the reassurance in Clint's voice and Natasha's calm demeanor, there was something unsettling in the air, something Harry couldn't quite place. The atmosphere felt charged, almost expectant, as if the night itself was holding its breath.
Natasha noticed the tension in Harry's stance. "You're safe with me, Harry," she repeated, her voice a gentle attempt to pierce through the fog of his apprehension. "I'm here to help, not to harm."
Reaching into her bag, she offered him a coat. "Here, it's cold tonight. This should help," she said, extending the coat towards him. Harry accepted it, wrapping it around his shoulders, grateful for the added warmth against the chilling air.
As they began to move, Harry's senses remained heightened, his magical instincts on alert. The cool, damp air of London seemed to carry whispers, echoes of unseen threats, or perhaps just the shadows of his own turbulent thoughts.
"Something doesn't feel right," Harry murmured, more to himself than to Natasha. His eyes scanned the dark alleys and closed shop fronts, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of the danger he felt looming.
Natasha, trained to read environments and people, picked up on Harry's discomfort. "Talk to me, Harry. What are you sensing?" she asked, her eyes also scanning their surroundings, her own instincts as a seasoned agent kicking in.
"It's like... like something's waiting. Watching," Harry tried to explain, his grip on his wand tightening. "I can't see it, but I can feel it. There's something more here, in the shadows."
Natasha's expression turned more serious, understanding that Harry's instincts, honed through years of facing real and present dangers, might be picking up something she couldn't. "Okay, we'll proceed with caution," she said, her voice low and steady. "Stay close to me."
They moved through the streets with a heightened sense of vigilance, the silence of the night punctuated by the distant sounds of the city. Harry's awareness of the unseen presence grew stronger, a nagging sense that they were not alone, that something in the darkness was mirroring their steps, just beyond the reach of sight.
The sense of unease intensified as Harry and Natasha moved briskly through the streets. The night air, already chilly, took on a sharper, more biting cold. Harry stopped abruptly, his breath visible in the frigid air. "Dementors," he whispered, a chill of fear running down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Natasha tensed, looking around. Surprisingly, she too could see the dark, wraith-like figures approaching, a fact that should have been impossible given her non-magical background. But there was no time to ponder this anomaly. Harry's focus was on the immediate threat.
Without fully understanding the danger, Natasha acted impulsively. "I'll hold them off!" she declared, stepping forward with a defiant look. She swung her arm through the nearest dementor, but her hand passed through it as if it were smoke. A wave of cold despair engulfed her, leaving her breathless and weak. "I can't... they're not..." she stammered, stepping back towards Harry, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock.
Harry, seeing Natasha's distress, quickly stepped in front of her. Raising his wand, he attempted to conjure a Patronus Charm. "Expecto Patronum!" he cried, but his voice was hoarse with grief. The charm, powered by positive memories, faltered due to his overwhelming sorrow. A faint wisp of silver light emerged, not enough to form a full Patronus but just sufficient to hold the dementors at bay for a moment.
"Run!" Harry urged Natasha, and they sprinted down the street, the dementors gliding ominously behind them. Harry's mind raced, trying to find a happy memory strong enough to fuel the charm, but his thoughts were clouded with images of Sirius and Remus.
As they rounded a corner, Natasha, still reeling from her encounter, glanced back to see the dementors gaining on them. "Harry, you have to try again!" she shouted over the howling wind that seemed to accompany the creatures.
Gritting his teeth, Harry focused on the memory of his first Quidditch match, the rush of flying, the cheers of the crowd. It was a moment of pure joy, untainted by the darkness that seemed to follow him. "Expecto Patronum!" he shouted again, his voice stronger this time.
A more substantial burst of silver light erupted from his wand, coalescing into the form of a stag. The Patronus charged at the dementors, scattering them momentarily. The reprieve was brief, but it bought them precious time.
They continued to run, their breaths ragged, the cold biting at their skin. Harry knew they couldn't outrun the dementors for long. He needed to find the strength to cast another Patronus, a more powerful one that could drive the dementors away for good.
As they dashed through an alley, Harry's mind frantically searched for another memory, something powerful and pure. And then it came to him – the feeling of seen and belonging when Remus held him and comforted him. The calmness he had felt in his heart.
With renewed determination, he skidded to a halt, turned, and raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!" This time, the words rang out with confidence and clarity. The stag burst forth in a blaze of silvery light, larger and more luminous than before. It charged at the advancing dementors, its antlers lowered.
The dementors recoiled, their forms wavering under the assault of the Patronus. One by one, they began to retreat, disappearing into the night from whence they came.
Harry slumped against the wall, his breaths heavy, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from his veins. Natasha stood beside him, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and admiration.
"You did it, Harry," she breathed relief flowing though her. Just what were those creatures and why could she not touch them?
Harry nodded, trying to catch his breath. "We should keep moving. They might come back." He was exhausted, but they couldn't afford to linger.
Natasha carefully put an arm under Harry's supporting Harry, his exhaustion evident in every step. As they walked, she remained silent, her mind racing with questions about what had just transpired. She had seen things tonight that defied explanation – the ghostly creatures, the silver light from Harry's wand – yet she had no context for understanding them. Clint had mentioned Harry was unique, but the extent of that uniqueness was only now becoming clear.
Once they reached the hideout, Natasha helped Harry into a chair. She observed him closely, her training as an agent kicking in. She noted his pale complexion and the weary slump of his shoulders. It was clear that whatever he had faced, it had taken a significant toll on him.
"Are you injured in any way?" Natasha asked, her eyes scanning for any obvious wounds.
Harry, slightly dazed, looked down at himself, as if seeing his condition for the first time. He noticed cuts and scrapes marring his skin, remnants of curses he'd narrowly escaped. "I... I think so," he muttered, a hint of surprise in his voice.
Without a moment's hesitation, Natasha sprang into action, swiftly collecting an array of first aid supplies. She returned to Harry's side, her movements exuding a calm yet urgent efficiency. As she began to tend to his wounds, she noticed the extent of his injuries: several deep cuts that looked like they were inflicted by some unknown, sinister force. They were quite extensive, marring his skin in jagged lines.
Her hands, steady and experienced, worked meticulously. She started by carefully cleaning each wound, ensuring no debris was left to cause infection. The antiseptic stung slightly as she applied it, but Harry barely flinched, lost in his own thoughts. Natasha then skillfully bandaged the cuts, her technique refined and practiced, providing the best protection and support for each injury.
Throughout the process, she remained silent, focusing solely on the task at hand. Her actions were gentle yet efficient, a testament to her extensive training and experience in field medicine. Despite the severity of the wounds, Natasha's adept care ensured that they were thoroughly and effectively treated.
Harry's hand trembled slightly as he accepted the glass of water Natasha offered afterward. She watched him drink, her mind still trying to piece together the puzzle. Clint had never mentioned anything about Harry being involved in the supernatural or the unexplainable. All she knew was that he was a young man Clint had befriended, who was now apparently in some kind of danger.
"Try to rest," Natasha advised softly, her voice imbued with a concern that was professional yet genuine. "We're safe here. I'll stand guard overnight."
After suggesting rest, Natasha noticed Harry's struggle to maintain even a sitting posture, his body swaying slightly with fatigue. With a swift yet gentle motion, she assisted Harry to his feet. "Come on, you need to lie down," she said, guiding him towards the only bed in the room.
Harry moved almost mechanically, his movements sluggish, a clear sign of his physical and emotional exhaustion. As they reached the bed, Natasha carefully helped him sit on the edge. He reached up, slowly removing his glasses with a weary hand, placing them gently on the nightstand. Then he carefully laid his wand beside them, the slender stick that had drawn Natasha's curiosity.
He then slowly lay down, his eyes, still heavy with unspeakable sorrow and fatigue, barely staying open. Natasha watched him for a moment, noting the way he ensured his glasses and wand were safe before allowing himself to rest.
Natasha retrieved a couple of blankets from a nearby cupboard. She unfolded them and gently covered Harry, ensuring he was comfortably tucked in. Her actions were methodical, a part of her still on high alert, but another part was touched by Harry's vulnerability in this moment.
As Harry closed his eyes, attempting to find some solace in rest, Natasha remained alert, her gaze fixed on the door. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. She needed to understand what Harry was involved in, what those creatures were, and how he had managed to fend them off with only a slender stick that emitted light.
But she knew that now was not the time for questions. Harry needed rest, and she needed to ensure his safety. The mystery of Harry's abilities and the night's events would have to wait until he was in a better state to talk.
Natasha, still keeping a watchful eye on the sleeping Harry, quietly stepped to the side of the room to call to Clint. The room was silent except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of Harry, who was now lost in a restless slumber.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Clint's number. He answered almost immediately, his voice laced with worry. "Nat? Is he okay?"
Natasha glanced back at Harry, ensuring he was still asleep. "He's safe," she replied quietly. "we're at the safe house now. But Clint, something happened. We were attacked on the way here by... I don't even know how to describe them. Shadowy figures, cold and dreadful. Harry... he fought them off with some kind of... light that came out of a stick he was holding."
On the other end of the line, Clint's concern was palpable. "Did he say anything about what they were?"
"No, he didn't. But whatever those things were, they seemed to fear the light he produced," Natasha answered, her voice a mix of confusion and curiosity.
Clint let out a sigh, a sound that conveyed both worry and frustration. "I've always had a feeling that Harry was part of some other world, something... magical, maybe. But he's never really talked about it. This is all new to me, Nat. Just keep him safe until I get there, okay?"
"I will," Natasha assured him. "But Clint, it's not just physical danger he's in. The kid's gone through something terrible. He's lost people close to him. He's not just physically hurt; he's really emotionally shattered."
"I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can. For now, we need to make sure he knows he's not alone in this," Clint said before ending the call.
Natasha put away her phone and returned to her position near Harry. Despite the calmness of his sleeping form, his face bore the marks of deep emotional scars. She felt a surge of sympathy for him, so young yet carrying burdens that would weigh heavily on the shoulders of even the most seasoned warriors.
The night gradually gave way to the early light of dawn, seeping through the curtains of the safe house. The room was still, save for the quiet sounds of a city slowly waking up. Natasha remained vigilant, her eyes occasionally moving to the young man lying on the bed. She had seen many things in her life, but the events of last night were beyond anything she had encountered.
As the morning light grew stronger, Harry began to stir. His movements were slow and labored, as if even the simple act of waking was a monumental effort. He slowly sat up in bed, putting on his glasses his eyes heavy with sleep and sorrow, adjusting to the dim light of the room.
Natasha, noticing his movements, quietly approached and sat down on the bed next to him. In her hands, she held a plate of hastily prepared food. It wasn't much, but she hoped it would at least provide him with some much-needed strength.
"Morning, Harry," she said softly, offering him the plate. "I made some breakfast. It's not gourmet, but it's edible, which is more than I can say for some of the stuff I've had to eat on missions. How are you feeling?"
Harry looked down at the food in his lap, his gaze distant and unfocused. He took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to speak, and then exhaled slowly. He finally looked up at Natasha, his green eyes clouded with confusion and pain.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice a mere whisper. "I don't know how I'm feeling."
Natasha nodded, understanding his turmoil. "That's okay, Harry. You don't need to have all the answers right now. Just try to eat something, okay? You need your strength."
Harry nodded slowly, picking at the food with little interest but recognizing the necessity of eating. Natasha watched him, her expression one of concern and empathy. She knew that words were not enough to heal the wounds he carried, but she also knew the importance of being there, offering support in silence.
After a few moments of quiet, Natasha decided to give Harry some space, hoping to make him feel more at ease. She got up and busied herself with small tasks around the room, keeping a discreet eye on him. The silence in the room was punctuated only by the soft clinking of utensils and Harry's subdued movements.
Finally, Natasha, her curiosity getting the better of her, broke the silence. "Harry, about last night... those creatures, what were they? And how did you make them go away? I've never seen anything like that."
Harry hesitated, looking at Natasha. He was acutely aware of the wizarding world's Statute of Secrecy, but the reality of his situation was stark. He had performed magic in front of a Muggle, and after the tragic events at the Department of Mysteries, he figured he was probably expelled from school anyway. Besides, Natasha had seen the Dementors, which meant she must have some latent magical sensitivity or had been exposed to the magical world before.
He sighed, a sense of resignation lacing his voice. "They're called Dementors. They're... they're like dark creatures, feed off happiness, leaving nothing but despair in their wake. The worst thing they can do is the Dementor's Kiss – it's when they... they suck out a person's soul, leaving them just empty shells. I made them go away with a Patronus Charm. It's a positive force, a kind of... magical protection, made from the happiest memories one can muster to counteract their despair."
Natasha listened intently, trying to comprehend the depth of what Harry was explaining. "A Patronus Charm? That light that came from your... wand, was it?" she asked, trying to piece together her understanding of this new, magical world.
Harry nodded, "Yes, it's a wand. The light, the Patronus, it's like a shield. It requires a strong, happy memory to work. The Dementors... they can't withstand it."
Natasha, now sitting back down beside him, felt a chill run down her spine at the thought. "Sucked out my soul?" she repeated, the weight of the concept hitting her. "That's... that's terrifying. I mean, I've seen a lot in my line of work, but the idea of something that can literally consume your soul... That's something else." She looked at Harry with a mixture of awe and a newfound respect. "That's incredible, Harry. To think you can conjure such a powerful protection... it's beyond anything I've ever encountered." Her tone was one of deep respect, tinged with a hint of wonder at the extraordinary abilities of the young man sitting beside her.
Harry managed a small, weary smile. "It's not something I'd call incredible. It's just part of my world... a world that's... well, it's complicated."
Natasha could see the weight of his world in his eyes, the burden he carried. "Have you ever mentioned any of this to Clint?" she asked gently, already knowing the answer but wanting to keep Harry talking and calm.
Harry's expression shifted slightly, a mix of thoughtfulness and caution in his eyes. "I kind of have, but not in so many words," he admitted. "We have a law in our world, a rule about not telling non-magical people – Muggles – about our existence. It's to keep us safe, to keep them safe."
Natasha's eyebrow arched higher, a playful glint appearing in her eyes. "Muggles? That's the official term? Sounds like something out of a children's book," she remarked, her tone laced with a hint of amusement.
"Yeah, Muggles," Harry confirmed with a slight smile, appreciating her light-hearted take. "It's just a term we use for people who don't have magic, who aren't part of the wizarding world."
A moment of silence passed as Natasha processed this information. Then, looking at Natasha curiously, Harry asked, "Had you ever heard of magic before all this?"
Natasha looked at him, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "No, I hadn't. Why?"
"Because Muggles can't see Dementors," Harry explained slowly, his tone a mix of realization and wonder. "If you saw them last night, it means you must have some magic in you. I wonder if you're a squib..."
Natasha, confused, asked, "A squib? What's that?"
"A squib is someone born into a magical family but doesn't have magical powers themselves. They're kind of in-between the magical world and the Muggle world," Harry explained. "It's rare, but it happens. They can usually see things that Muggles can't, like Dementors."
Harry, looking earnestly at Natasha, ventured a question, "Were your parents involved in magic in any way?"
Natasha's expression softened slightly, yet her tone retained its playful edge. "My parents? I never knew them, so if they were part of some secret wizarding world, they kept that hidden along with everything else." Her smirk returned as she added, "But hey, maybe there's a mystery there. A magical spy in the family? Sounds like a good plot for a novel." Her words were tinged with light humor, yet a hint of genuine curiosity lingered in her eyes.
Harry, absorbing Natasha's words, sighed and looked down at his almost empty plate. The weight of his own experiences felt heavy on his shoulders, a stark contrast to Natasha's light-hearted speculation about her family. The pain of his recent loss was palpable, wrapping around him like a suffocating cloak. His mind drifted to his own family history, filled with its own secrets and tragedies.
Breaking the momentary silence, Harry's voice was low and strained with emotion. "I had a vision about Sirius, my godfather," he began, the effort to keep his composure evident. "I thought he was in danger, so I went to find him. It turned out to be a trap set by the man who's been after me." His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the starkly different yet equally complex paths that had led them both to this moment.
He paused, the burden of his next words seeming to weigh him down. "In the battle that followed, Sirius was killed. And Remus... Remus was there too, trying to protect me. He was killed as well."
Harry's face crumpled, the raw agony of his loss laid bare. "I tried to save them, but I couldn't. It's just... it's all so complicated, and now they're both gone." His voice cracked, revealing his inner turmoil.
Natasha set aside the papers and pulled up a chair next to Harry, Natasha settled herself close to him, her expression conveying both concern and a calming presence. She regarded Harry earnestly. "Listen, Harry, it's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for things that were out of your control," she said, her voice soft but firm, aiming to pierce through the fog of guilt surrounding him.
Harry met her gaze, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. "But it is my fault," he protested, his voice strained with the weight of his guilt. "If I hadn't gone there with my friends, if I hadn't convinced them it was the right thing to do, none of this would have happened. They were there because of me. I led my friends into a trap."
His hands clenched into fists, a physical manifestation of his internal struggle. Natasha could see the burden of leadership and responsibility weighing heavily on him, the all-too-familiar weight of having decisions lead to unintended and tragic consequences.
"Harry," Natasha began, choosing her words carefully, "in situations like these, we make the best decisions we can with the information we have. It's easy to look back and see what we could have done differently, but that doesn't mean the outcome was your fault. You acted to protect, not to harm."
Harry's expression softened slightly, a sign that her words were reaching him, even if they couldn't erase his pain. "I just wish I could have done more, saved them somehow," he murmured, the words laced with a profound sense of loss.
Natasha nodded, acknowledging his feelings. "Wishing to have done more is a sign of your courage and your care for others. It's what makes you who you are. But carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, blaming yourself for every outcome, that's a burden no one should bear alone."
Harry sat quietly, his eyes distant, seemingly not absorbing anything Natasha was saying. He was too lost in his grief, his mind replaying the tragic events over and over. Natasha, observing his detachment, gently tried a different approach. "Harry, is there anyone from your school who might be looking for you?" she asked softly.
He just shrugged his shoulders, his expression blank. The question seemed to barely register in his clouded thoughts. Natasha, understanding that he was not in a state to have more conversation, decided to shift her approach to something more immediate and practical.
"Why don't you take a shower and get cleaned up a bit? It might make you feel a little better," Natasha suggested kindly. "Clint left some clothes behind that you can change into."
Harry seemed to consider her words for a moment before giving a slight nod. Natasha took his plate and without a word, he stood up slowly, his movements still showing signs of his deep fatigue and emotional toll.
The silence of the room was suddenly broken by a knock at the door. Natasha's instincts immediately kicked in, her body tensing as she prepared for any threat. She moved quietly but swiftly towards the door, ready to confront whoever was on the other side.
Peeking through the side of the door, she saw Clint standing there. A wave of relief washed over her as she opened the door to let him in. "Clint," she greeted, her voice a mix of relief and caution.
Clint stepped inside, quickly scanning the room. "Where's Harry?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. The sound of water running from the bathroom answered his question, and he nodded in understanding.
"He's taking a shower," Natasha informed him, closing the door behind him.
Clint's expression was one of worry. "How is he doing?" he asked, turning to face Natasha.
Natasha filled him in on what Harry had told her, about the Dementors, the Patronus Charm, and the tragic events Harry had experienced. "He's in a bad place, Clint. Physically and emotionally exhausted. And... he feels responsible for what happened to Sirius and Remus," she explained, her tone reflecting the seriousness of the situation.
Clint listened intently, his face growing more solemn with each detail. "I had no idea he was dealing with all of this," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Has he contacted anyone at his school so they know he is safe?"
Natasha shook her head, responding to Clint's question. "I tried to ask him about contacting someone, but Harry's really out of it. I don't think he's even considering reaching out right now."
Clint nodded, understanding the severity of Harry's condition. He reached into his bag, pulling out a small, well-used notebook. Flipping through the pages, he found what he was looking for and pulled out his phone. "I've got the number for Sirius's house. I'm going to give them a call. They should know Harry's safe," he said, his voice carrying a blend of determination and concern.
In the background they could hear the shower cease. Natasha, her eyes reflecting a blend of concern and determination, turned to Clint. "Maybe you should talk with Harry first," she said softly, her voice carrying the gravity of their situation. Clint, his expression a mix of readiness and apprehension, gave a small nod and set down his gear, mentally preparing himself for the conversation ahead.
Harry soon emerged, his hair still damp, his face showing signs of a slight refreshment, but the shadows under his eyes told a story of inner turmoil and unspeakable pain. Clint, seeing the young wizard, stepped forward and wrapped him in a supportive embrace. It was a simple, yet powerful gesture.
Harry leaned into Clint's embrace, finding a moment of solace in the simple act of human connection. The comfort was fleeting, but necessary. Clint gently pulled back, meeting Harry's gaze with a look of understanding and compassion.
"Harry, I know you've been through a lot, and it's okay to not be okay right now," Clint said, his voice steady and reassuring. "But we need to let your friends know you're safe. I have a number for Sirius's place. I can call them, let them know you're here."
Harry's eyes flickered with a brief spark of resistance, but it quickly faded into resignation. He gave a small nod, the gesture heavy with the weight of his grief. "Yeah, you're right. They should know. I just... I didn't know how to face them after everything that's happened."
Clint squeezed Harry's shoulder gently. "It's alright. They're your friends. They care about you. And they're probably worried sick. Let's just let them know you're safe, and we can take it from there."
As Harry stood there, still damp from his shower, Clint dialed the number he had for Sirius's house. There was a brief moment of uncertainty as the phone rang, echoing the tension in the room. Finally, someone picked up - it was Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep, authoritative voice on the other end.
"Hello?" Kingsley's voice was laced with caution.
Clint introduced himself quickly. "Hi, this is Clint. I'm a friend of Harry's. He's here with me, and he's safe."
There was a moment of palpable relief on the other end of the line. Kingsley's voice, usually so composed and steady, betrayed a hint of emotion. "Oh, thank Merlin. We've been worried sick about him. Is he alright? Where is he?"
Clint glanced at Harry, who stood silently nearby, his face still showing signs of recent distress. "He's right here. There was an incident with some dementors, but he's safe now," Clint assured.
Kingsley took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "Dementors, you say?" There was a hint of concern in his voice. "That's troubling. But I'm relieved Harry is safe for now. There have been attacks all over the city," Kingsley explained gravely. "It's a dangerous time, especially with Voldemort intensifying his efforts to find Harry. It's imperative that Harry is brought back to Grimmauld Place under magical protection as soon as possible. The city isn't safe for him with Voldemort actively searching."
Clint looked over at Harry, his expression somber. He understood the gravity of the situation. "I get it," he said solemnly. "We'll keep him secure until you can arrange transport back."
Kingsley's voice softened, offering a sliver of comfort in these dark times. "Clint, if you wish, you're welcome to stay with Harry for a while. We could use the extra help."
Then, with a gentleness that contrasted with the urgency of their conversation, Kingsley shared unexpected news. "And Clint... Remus Lupin is still alive. He's gravely injured, but he's holding on. He's been asking for Harry."
Harry closed his eyes, he took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose himself amidst the storm of emotions. A tear slipped down his cheek as he exhaled Remus's name. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with a hopeful yet pained expression as he looked at Clint, silently conveying his urgent need to see Remus as soon as possible.
Clint looked back at Harry with a reassuring gaze. "We're in a safehouse on the far end of the city," he relayed to Kingsley over the phone, then turned to Harry. "I'll stay with you"
Natasha, standing a bit apart, observed the exchange and placed a comforting hand on Clint's arm. "I'll handle the leftover mission logistics," she offered quietly. Her understanding of the situation was clear; she knew how much Harry meant to Clint. He had become like one of his own kids.
Clint gave her a grateful nod, appreciating her taking over the mission responsibilities. This allowed him to focus on the more immediate and personal crisis at hand. "Thanks, Nat."
Kingsley's response on the other end of the phone was prompt. "I need the exact address, Clint."
Clint quickly flipped through his notebook again, finding the details he needed. "It's 42 Westerfield Lane, at the outskirts of the city. It's secluded, should be safe for now," he relayed the address confidently.
"Got it. I'll be there shortly. Stay inside until I come," Kingsley instructed
"Will do. We'll be waiting," Clint responded, then after a brief pause, he added, "And Kingsley, thank you."
"Anytime. Anything for Harry."
As Clint ended the call and put his phone away, he turned his attention back to Harry. Despite the gravity of their situation, Clint's gaze softened as he took in Harry's appearance. The large bandages, likely Natasha's handiwork, were a stark reminder of the recent ordeal.
"You look like you've been through the wringer, Harry," Clint commented, a hint of lightheartedness in his tone, trying to lift the mood.
Harry, caught off guard by the comment, managed a small, weary smile and wiped the remaining tears from his face. "Yeah, well, you don't look so great yourself," he retorted, gesturing towards the visible marks and wounds Clint had sustained from his own recent missions.
Their brief exchange lightened the air, bringing a moment of levity as they both laughed a bit. It was a needed respite from the emotional weight they had been carrying.
Clint, stepping closer, pulled Harry back into a hug, this time with a gentle, fatherly warmth. "Guess we both need to take better care of each other, huh?" he said, the words muffled against Harry's hair.
Harry nodded slowly, pulling back from the embrace to really look at the room they were in. The safehouse, under Natasha's watch, was functional but sparse, with the bare minimum of furniture and decoration. It was a far cry from the warmth and clutter of the Burrow or even the eclectic charm of Grimmauld Place.
He let his eyes wander over the stark walls and the few pieces of utilitarian furniture. "You know, for a top-secret safehouse, it's not exactly... cozy," Harry remarked, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Natasha, overhearing the comment from where she was organizing some equipment, snorted in response. "Well, excuse me for not prioritizing interior decorating in the middle of a crisis," she retorted, her tone playfully defensive. She glanced around the room with a mock-serious expression. "I'll make sure to add a few throw pillows and maybe a nice rug next time."
Harry chuckled, the sound a welcome relief from the tension that had been hanging in the air. "I'll hold you to that," he replied, his smile growing a bit more genuine.
Their light-hearted banter was a brief respite, a moment of normalcy in an otherwise tumultuous time. It reminded them that despite the darkness encroaching upon their world, there were still moments of laughter and camaraderie to be found.
Clint ruffled Harry's hair affectionately, his smile widening. "Once all this is over, you'll have to introduce me to your friends, especially this Ginny you keep mentioning." His tone was teasing, but there was a genuine interest in his eyes.
Harry's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red at the mention of Ginny. He looked away, unable to meet Clint's gaze, as a mix of shyness and fondness took over him. "Yeah, I suppose I will," he muttered, the thought bringing both anxiety and excitement.
Nat, witnessing the exchange, let out a snort of amusement, clearly enjoying the moment. She continued packing her bag, her movements efficient and practiced, but her lips were curved in a smirk. It was rare to see Harry so flustered, and she wasn't about to let the opportunity pass without a bit of teasing.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, filled only with the sounds of their movements and the occasional chuckle. Despite the circumstances, there was a sense of unity and strength among them. A knock at the door interrupted the silence around them. The sound was sharp, a stark contrast to their relaxed atmosphere.
Natasha, always alert, paused her packing and moved swiftly to the door. Her movements were silent and precise, a testament to her training. She peered through the peephole, her expression unreadable. Satisfied with what she saw, she unlocked the door and swung it open, revealing Kingsley Shacklebolt on the other side.
Kingsley's eyes widened slightly in surprise as he took in Natasha's presence. His usual composed demeanor faltered for a moment, a rare occurrence for the seasoned Auror. "I wasn't aware we had an additional... ally," he remarked, his tone a mix of curiosity and respect.
Natasha offered him a thin smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I tend to keep a low profile," she replied dryly, stepping aside to let him enter.
Kingsley nodded, accepting her explanation with a measured gaze. He stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with a sense of authority and calm assurance. "Good to see everyone," he began, addressing the group, his eyes briefly meeting Harry's. "We have much to discuss, but first, is everyone ready to move out?"
Harry, gathering his thoughts, turned towards Nat. "Thanks, Natasha, for everything... last night, this morning. I don't know what I would've done without you," he said, his voice carrying a deep sense of gratitude.
Natasha met his gaze and nodded, a hint of warmth in her usually stoic expression. "Anytime, kid."
