Current Summary -

Nick Fury has about had it with the amount of bizarre experiences. Super humans, alien invasions, gods! The only exception might be the little wizard who speaks of the freedom in flight and weaves tales of Death as an old friend.

Rating - T for Language

Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter and Avengers except the plot of this fanfiction

Warnings - Profanity, cryptic weirdness, OOC because I can't write Nick Fury properly

Notes -

(Originally going to be part of the Counting Crows series, but I think I'll just make it a prequel to another crossover since there's hardly any action in here)

I didn't write about the Avengers really, because I feel like Nick Fury is a really underrated character, but eh, if you don't like, just click the back button and don't go back.

Update: So a guest reviewed that my title made no sense and my ending was lazy, which is completely true. My title was supposed to be symbolic so I just changed it real quick. for the ending, yes, it is so lazy and boring because I'm just that kind of disappointing person.

Fonts -

"Normal Speaking."

Normal Thinking.

I

It's almost three in the morning when the helicopter drops him off from night's gaping jaws. After saying a few words to the pilot, the latter takes off and Fury makes his way to SHIELD's roof door when something stops him. He has company, and he has no idea how that said company managed to come here undetected. SHIELD has one of best security measures, therefore, how is there a unsupervised teenager, standing on the ledge like there is nothing wrong in the world.

Fury doesn't immediately grab the gun by his hip, but his hand brushes against his holster. It's a young boy, appearing at the age of thirteen or fourteen. Only a select few have access to the roof of SHIELD's base and if someone wanted to use it, they had to receive permission. Fury doesn't recall him or anyone else giving permission for someone, let alone a teenager, to use the roof.

The teenager is leaning over the edge, upper body over as he peers past New York's burning lights to somewhere not seen by the normal human eye. Fury would've called him a daydreamer, but his eyes are focused in a way that made him think otherwise.

Brown hair—short brown hair, like the color of cedar and coffee. Flannel and jeans. Fury catches the quick glare of light from his glasses. His attire is so casual, you'd think he came here to sight-see. Actually, that might be the case because his demeanor is calm, irenic, and his arms are relaxed on cold metal. He observes the world below him thrive with human life and water.

"How'd you get here?" Fury speaks up, careful to not express any malicious intent through his voice. The boy is a potential threat, no matter how young because he's reminded of a young girl with hair like fire but eyes trained on blood, occupied with agile legs for dance and strong arms for crippling.

The boy gives away nothing akin to alarm or peril. His eyes are lost in the flashing lights and the crackling noises of the distant traffic. It's almost normal when he says, voice lost in the howls of wind and storm, "I flew."

Fury raises an eyebrow. "None of the personnel here would allow a foreign helicopter to land here, let alone enter the vicinity. In addition, I haven't heard of anything regarding a visit from a young teenager, unless I must've missed something."

"No, you're right. I'm not supposed to be here." The boy turns his head to him and Fury finds himself locked frozen still by a gaze crystallized in jades. Eye bags under his eyes and crumbs by his lips. There's the faint lining of a scar on his forehead where messy unkempt locks keep it from being very noticeable. "Sorry," he apologizes, and Fury finds it genuine along with the boy's British accent. It's almost unbelievable. "The location of this building is perfect. It's high up and not too crowded with traffic noises. I lived in this isolated school, where we rode carriages and wrote with quills."

Fury doesn't think he's human. He asks, and the boy says he is. He doesn't believe him.

"Are you an Asgardian?" Fury asks, and the question tastes funny because the boy doesn't act or look like one.

"You have Asgardians here?" There's a hint of surprise in his voice, but Nick muses it's only there for conversation sake.

Fury concludes that he's not from Earth or just too invested in Norse Mythology and his isolated school to realize that a few Asgardians came from Earth to fight each other.

"You're the director of SHIELD, right?"

Narrowing his eye, Fury states, "Yes, why?"

The boy shrugs and puffs out his cheeks. "Just wondering. I was asking around downstairs, but everyone just says you're scary."

Fury replies without a beat, "I'd settle for the word intimidating."

Smiling, the boy agrees, "Well, they're not wrong."

"If you know my name," Fury starts carefully, because there's a (probably) foreign being on the roof with him, and starting a fight without any kind of information is risky, "It would only be fair if I knew yours."

The boy hums away, eyes wandering to the night above where the lights of dying stars take their last breaths. "Harry."

"Last name?"

"I have many," Harry enlightens. Fury doesn't sense any ill intent or fear from him; the boy in front of him is an enigma. "I had a lot of families that I called my own. My biological one, my best friends', my godfather's—even though the rest of his family sucked. My professor and godson's too." At the mention of his godson, Harry's eyes lights up like sunlight on jewels.

Fury notes that Harry already has a godson at what appears to be a young age. He also notes that he hates cryptic people—people who speak in monologues and weird symbolism, which is sort of hypocritical.

"You're young," Fury comments as casually as orally possible.

"My friends always said I looked younger than I actually was," Harry mentions, and his voice is bittersweet.

"You used past tense."

"If you're wondering, they're dead."

"I'm sorry for your losses." There's no sympathy in his words, or any pity. His words are devoid of all emotion; they're only said as politeness "An accident?"

"No."

"Illness?" Fury guesses.

"No; age. They all lived healthy lives." Harry straightened his back and rolled back onto his heels, breathing in slowly and letting it out in one long sigh. "It was funny. I got to watch them read newspapers and knit sweaters in rocking chairs."

Fury's interest skyrocketed and his eyebrows knit. "You didn't have friends your age?"

Harry purses his lips. He ignores the question and comments, "I've met Death through many occasions, and each time, he curses me with something he thinks is a gift."

"What is the curse?"

"To never catch up with the friends and family who left me behind. To never catch my breath in a never ending road." His voice drags out a bit, and if Fury doesn't know better, he'd call him sad, but he isn't. He isn't sad by their deaths. He is just.. used to it.

Calloused hands, he has. They go up to his face, brushing a lock away.

At this point, Fury doesn't know whether he is a threat. Throughout the years, working as the director of SHIELD, he can thread out lies as fast as it takes to say liar and Harry has yet to speak lies today. Perhaps half-truths, but not a lie past his lips. He is a danger though. Maybe not to humans, because there's peace in his body and soul. His being is falling in love with everything the world does, and Fury doesn't know why. Perhaps Harry is entranced with something only he can see.

"I'm a wizard."

Fury falls out of his train of thought and he almost trips in his place. "What?" he breathes out, because he thinks he heard him wrong, and dear god, let him hear him wrong because Fury has gone through enough shit lately.

Harry smiles, and it's full of white teeth and honesty and mirth and everything is lighthearted. "I'm a wizard," he repeats, and there's no fear, or hesitance, or doubt. Just.. pride. "You know, wands, cauldrons, potions, magic." When Fury doesn't respond in the next few seconds, Harry sighs in defeat. "Wizard—wizard, you know, pointy hat. Male version of a witch; magic users like in fairy tales."

Fury is dead serious. "A wizard?"

The self-claimed wizard nods. "A wizard," Harry confirms before crossing his arms. "I didn't lie when I said I flew up here."

"On a broom?"

Harry shoots him a deadpanned look. "No, on a flying cat—yes, on a broom! I think you need to get your hearing checked out. Old age kind of sucks."

If Fury is annoyed, he doesn't show it. "How many more are there? Of your kind?"

There's a wince hidden beneath his casual smile. "Well.. there isn't?"

"You sound unsure. I'd prefer a more definite and confident answer," Fury says in a sharp yet calm way that doesn't make it sound like a demand. "Are there more of your kind or is just you?"

Harry narrows his eyes as the smile on his face fades away. "It's just me," he surrenders, and something close to melancholy flickers in his eyes. "However, wizards and witches aren't the only beings capable of using magic on this planet. If they were, I'd think I was special." He flutters his eyelashes in a mockingly way. "I'll leave you hanging on that. Have fun trying to find all the magic-users out there. I'm sure it'll be quite the adventure, Director Fury." The wizard lifts a leg and dangles it over the building.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Harry glances at Fury, blinking innocently. "To the bakery?"

"Bakery's don't open at three o'clock in the morning, unless you plan on breaking in."

Chuckling, Harry puffs his cheeks. "'Course not, but I really do need to go."

Fury levelly stares Harry down. "What makes you think I'll let you leave? You trespassed on SHIELD's headquarters and you have admitted to some weird claims about your species."

"You don't believe I'm a wizard?"

"Well," Fury shrugs. "There are some crazy people out there, but I wouldn't take any chances regarding supernatu—" And then he blinks.

And then there's light. Exploding forth, vines of gleaming emeralds reach forward, weaving themselves through the stars hidden in the sky, and from their buds bloom fires—fiery marmalade and sunsets bursting forward, petals of the dying sun sparking with the sweet smell of pollen. Fury is stunned into his spot with his heels stuck to the floor as he watches the branches extend, green stems and leaves, orange lilies and all.

There are fireflies, spotting the air till Fury mixes them up with the constellations. His gaze finds Harry, standing in the midst of a bed of lilies, watching with a vibe saying I-told-you-so and Fury would tell him off but there's pollen and fireflies and flowers and leaves and—

He blinks, and it's gone.

Okay. What the fuck was that.

Harry smirks mischievously from where he stands on the very ledge of SHIELD's headquarters, balancing even with the devil's hour gales screaming at him to fall. Fury thinks he will.

Fury quickly recovers from what he just witnessed. "For your sake and everyone else's, I'd insist you come with me. Safety purposes, of course."

Harry looks humored, but Fury can't really tell, with the wizard's face to the water below. "I'm a danger wherever I go. That won't change," Harry states, and it's said in a cold way. "Be it in a cage or at the heart of New York City. Death likes to hang around me; it manages to pick up some victims along the way. Therefore, for your sake and everyone else's," he declares, quoting Fury, "You'll let me wander."

However young he appears to be, his shadow scares the demons in the shadows back into hellfire. With wind rushing through his gossamer hair, he falls forward.

Fury pads over to the ledge. There's no body but there's a silhouette in the sky.

II

He puts the wizard on a watch list, although it's as useless as bending a paper and trying to smooth it back to its original form, since, apparently, to the world, Harry doesn't exist. Well, Harry, the 'wizard' doesn't exist. Sure, there's a couple Harry's in some cults around the world, but none have his unkempt hair, or his jade eyes, or the peace in his voice. He has eye bags permanently marked on his skin and a scar staining his forehead like some sort of brand.

He appeared human, but so did Thor and Loki Odinson, and while Fury would not like to make an enemy out of a foreign being again, some things must be done.

He has various agents out looking for the boy, but it's much more difficult than Fury anticipated. The security footage of the roof top showed no sign of Harry ever existing; all it showed was Fury standing alone on the roof, talking to air. Someone made a harmless remark about how Fury was just drunk-crazy, and while it was a harmless joke, punishment rained down hellfire on them.

Somehow, Fury isn't surprised on how Harry never showed up on tape. He claimed to be a wizard. Surely, there is some kind of concealment magic. With gods and super-humans walking among the Earth in normal everyday life, it isn't very hard to believe that a wizard exists with the endless possibilities of magic. Why is Fury only finding out about it now?

Around a few months later of nothing, not even a whisper of the existence of Harry, the boy finds him, not the other way around like how it's supposed to be.

Fury meets him at a bar in the late afternoon in Brooklyn.

The director is sitting silently by the edge of the said bar, swirling his liquor in his cup while in thought when someone takes a seat beside him without a ripple of noise. At first, he's extremely annoyed because the entire room is quiet and empty, with only another person or two sitting elsewhere, spread out. And someone chose to sit right beside him? Oh dear.

He turns to his new companion to tell him or her off when he meets that familiar curious gaze, that same silver gleam of light in the eyes of green gemstones and leaves. Harry's locks isn't messy this time—it's neat, straight, and styled. The bartender doesn't acknowledge the new customer's presence and that is quite concerning.

Once again, Fury isn't surprised but he questions on how Harry conceals himself to everyone but him. His interest of the boy increases.

Fury doesn't reach for his gun because Harry is staring at him with this sheer curiosity and wonder while stuffing his face with this sort of pastry Fury cannot identify. Sometimes, the one-eyed man questions if Harry is really a threat or a wizard for that matter due to the fact that the latter's eyes are wide in inquisitiveness and fascination.

"You're a curious thing, aren't you?" It's a statement, rather than a question, Fury would like to think. Harry is curious—a very interesting being who is interesting in ways a normal human wouldn't be able to comprehend.

"I'd like to take that as a compliment," he replies smoothly without a pause, and sips a cup of tea that wasn't there a moment ago.

A body of a child but the soul of a sage.

Fury downs the last of his liquor and sighs. His glass rim clicks against the table and the bartender comes to refill it when Fury gestures; the bartender doesn't spare Harry a single glance. "I've had agents search for you," Fury confesses casually, staring into the sinking ice of his liquor.

"I know," Harry divulges in a simple tone without giving anything away. "They're quite persistent but all they did was run around in circles."

"You knew."

"I did."

Fury narrows his eye at him, and there's more curiosity in his eye than ursgency or concern. "What is your purpose here? Money? Kill runs? World domination?" Fury interrogates, firing off questions and questions, because something Fury can't take more than anything, is not understanding how something works. That's what drives him to be involved with this line of work.

The wizard laughs lightheartedly, looking down at his dangling feet. "As if I had the power to do that."

He does. Fury can tell.

It's the way he holds himself up. While he claims himself to be a wizard, one wouldn't be so open and vulnerable to a high-ranking officer of SHIELD unless you were, one: arrogant, or two: strong as fuck. Harry appears like a regular grade schooler, slouching a bit with a loose t-shirt and flannel, but that laziness is a sort of confidence, as if he's daring the world to fight an enemy they can't yet see.

"Are you a danger to the Earth? Because I need to know and if you don't want to answer, I'll have to take you in."

"You'd take me in for questioning either way," Harry smirks, but then his shoulders fall back loosely. "Didn't I tell you already? I am a danger. Maybe not the Earth but maybe to anyone who pisses me off. And Death has my back, so there's that." Harry talks about Death like it's a being, not the conclusion of life. Perhaps he reads a whole lot of mythology?

"But no," Harry admits softly, and there's a honest glint in his eye. "I don't think I'll be a problem."

"How can I take your word for it?"

Harry snickers with a mischievous glare in his jade eyes. "I could show you."

"How?"

The expression of Harry's face is smug. He holds out his hand, palm flat as he whispers softly, his voice a ghost in the midst of devil's hour, "I await a guardian. Expecto Patronum." The hue of jade in his eyes glimmers, and in the light, they glow chartreuse.

Although he tries not to show it on his face, there's nothing Fury can do as he watches in pure curiosity and concealed fascination as a silver mist falls from the tips of Harry's fingers, wallowing like Winter's first breath from beneath fallen leaves. The clouds he has knitted between his fingers melt away as they weave gossamer threads into figures—beautiful, stunning, figures. They are small; a doe and a stag, leaping in joy within their little world. And then Fury feels it.

A sense of serene happiness washes over him—the calming waves by the ripple of a raindrop. The distant winds of home curl around him, and life adjusts to feel just a bit more beautiful than usual. What stands out the most, is the feeling of safety—he feels utterly safe, in a murky bar, alone with only a few other busy souls. There are arms around him and the knife of peril descends from his conscience. His injured eye aches a bit less. The war he never came back from, at the back of his mind, pauses, and the atmosphere of peace he had once forgotten, flows back in one unstoppable rush.

The air is a little more clear and his vision is a bit brighter. The doe and the stag, dance and dance, and Fury finds himself suffocating on the emotions of safety.

You know that feeling of drowning? Where water is down your throat, and everything is burning? Your lungs, your eyes? Fury was stuck in that moment, and whatever spell Harry has conjured brought him to the surface, where the air is cold and fresh and free, and where life thrives, whether in the sea with fins or in the sky with wings.

He fights a smile, and it's hard, because whatever this is, it's made of hope and love and happiness and everything great in the world, but then, like the stems of lilies on that roof trapped in darkness, it's gone. Just like that.

He glances up, and with an abrupt crack, Harry's gone along with the tiny stag and doe in love.

I think that's the moment Fury realized Harry is a serious danger—a terrible danger with abilities that can knock over mountains, because the power those hands hold are not comprehensible—because the peace in his eyes could only have come from war—because Fury knows that anyone would give anything to feel that safe haven once more after one taste of it.

III

When Agent Coulson's eyelids drop and his head tilts downward and his breathing abruptly stops, time freezes the moment. And it's not because of how the floor sways beneath Fury's feet, or how there's another hole in his chest, but because he sees him—that stupid wizard. Again; out of place.

Harry doesn't look like a child anymore. He's tall and an adult, like Agent Hill, with his glasses not sliding down, unkempt. His hair is combed and long, reaching to about his shoulders. His attire isn't flannel like the last two times they met. He's wearing a stainless suit with a yellow and red striped tie, a grim expression set on his face. The medics behind him are still, grief stricken across their faces as they're glued to the moment.

On how Harry froze time, Fury doesn't know. He doesn't even know if he wants to know. The boy—the man has too many cards up his sleeves.

"Why are you here?" Fury asks, and his voice is soft but betraying the tone of grief. He's always been unreadable; that won't change now. "Why are you here, Harry?"

There's a grim expression on his lips, not like his usual irenic smile or his humorous twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Death told me I should stop by. Reapings are something I don't like to see often, but he persuaded me. So here I am. Here we are," Harry mumbles, and he looks out of place—uncomfortable and concerned about his current situation.

"You talk about Death as if its a real tangible being."

"Why wouldn't I?" There's a genuine sincerity flickering in his jade orbs.

Fury has no witty remark to that because his agent—his loyal friend is dead at his feet by the dirty hands of an Asgardian. There's rage pulsing through him but it doesn't melt past his features. Agent Coulson told him to use his death for a pushing point for the Avengers Initiative; Fury has full intent on doing so.

"What are you going to do?" Harry solemnly inquires, curious more than sympathetic. Fury's kind of glad; he's not in the mood for pity and apologies.

Inhaling, Fury brings himself to calm down, but his pulse is racing too fast that he doesn't think he can calm down. "I can revive him—we have enough technology here to do it. So if Death really is reaping his soul, then we'll just take it back, even if we have to fight for it." There's a flame burning in his eye. "But if you can help it, tell him to not reap my Agent."

Harry levelly replies, gaze bland and still, "Do you think your Agent would want that?"

Arguing, Fury remarks, "Agent Coulson is one of the last people who shouldn't have died here—"

"I'm not afraid of death, Director. I thought I told you that, once before."

And then Agent Coulson is standing right in front of him, tall and confident like he always is. He isn't bleeding through the gaping stab in his chest (because it isn't even there) and Fury can see right through his body. Great, ghosts. What in the world is happening?

Behind the agent, Harry fiddles with a ring of silver and a stone of ebony in his hand.

Fury cannot believe his eye. "Agent Coulson?"

The latter is smiling, like he always was when he was amused. "Oh, don't worry, Director. I'm still dead," he reassures, and motions to his real animated body, which is, indeed, still against the wall. "As you can see, my body is still lying on the floor, Quite uncomfortable, if I had to say."

Even in death, he has the same sense of humor. It's bittersweet, but Fury can't forget that his Agent's ghost is standing, talking, and smiling in front of him. Fury swears that he is done with anyone and anything supernatural or magical since his lifespan is getting shorter by the minute.

"I can revive you," Fury says quickly. "It won't be easy but with the use of—"

"What makes you think I want to be revived?" Coulson asks, and the shine in his eyes are somber.

Fury reasons, "Agent Coulson—"

"Like I said," the latter reminds nonchalantly, and his face is set in a bittersweet expression, "I'm not afraid of death. I died; it's as simple as that. People die all the time. I accept that." He's being honest; Fury knows it. It's sort of selfish, but Fury believes that Coulson deserves to live another day—deserves to die another time.

"And what?" There's genuine disbelief in Fury's tone of voice. "You're just going to up and leave? Take a stab to the chest by some Norse god of Mischief and die?"

"It isn't the worst way to die." A smirk appears on the agent's face. "I did my job, even if Loki escaped. I have to say though, my job had a fantastic salary."

Fury's lips are pursed and his expression is grim. "Let me try, Phil. Let me try."

There's something akin to mirth in Agent Coulson's eyes; there's a conflicted shine there too. He doesn't say a word or anything when the medics start moving again, continuing with their job as they approach Coulson's animated corpse. The ghost of the agent fades away into the background.

The director glances to Harry, who's face is set to stone.

Fury blinks once more, and the wizard is gone with a crack of thunder.

The World Security Council tells him to nuke New York. It's crazy, and it will kill everyone without any drop of mercy. The citizens deserve more than this.

His heart nearly slips past his rib cage when his persuasions do not slow down the World Security Council, and when they send out the order to nuke New York, the timer starts. He calls Stark—tells him a missile is coming in mere minutes and if he doesn't stop it, everyone in the city will become ash. And they can't let that happen but time is running out and the amount of options keeps getting smaller and smaller.

Therefore, when SHIELD watches as Stark latches onto the missile and directs it skyward toward where the Alien portal tore apart the sky, a spark of hope grows to flames within the ashes.

There is ice in everyone's veins, but there is faith and hope in their eyes. Families and friends are there, in the city, escaping god knows what, while SHIELD watches from above. The only thing they can do is keep faith in Stark—have hope that Stark will manage the task—have hope in everything he has ever done in his entire life.

When Stark vanishes into gate between Earth and somewhere beyond, it's fast. Unlike what fiction says, adrenaline doesn't make things slow down. Not at all. Adrenaline makes them go faster. So once the nuke is out of the range of the city, SHIELD cheers with relief and happiness because only one human life will be sacrificed for the sake of millions. Fury, while relieved for the citizens, relieved for the city, is stabbed in the gut with a pang of concern, because if he could, he'd sacrifice no lives at all. But he can't be that half-full kind of person. For the sake of New York, it's up to Stark to—

"He's not dead yet."

Fury looks over with a wide eye.

"At least, not yet," Harry speaks up, sporting his usual red and black flannel. Unlike the last time Fury saw him, Harry is back in a child's body, maybe younger than the first time they met since the wizard is now up to his hip.

"Harry," Fury acknowledges and he's hesitant to ask why he's here because the last time Harry visited, it was at the feet of Agent Coulson's cold body.

Harry doesn't meet his gaze for a second, with his eyes trained on the screens. "Director Fury." And then he turns to look at the one-eyed man.

They stare at each other in silence and questioning (just Fury, actually, because Harry doesn't look like he cares about anything in the world), and Fury's patience is about to wear through, because Stark is in the portal, New York has all but fallen, Loki is still on the loose, and the aliens are still wreaking havoc. To make matters worse, Natasha has yet to close the portal with Stark still missing in action.

But this is the entirety of New York. She needs to close the portal.

"Harry," Fury begins, and there's supposed to be some tone of pleading, but there isn't. His voice is steady and fighting strong, and with the wizard who is friends with Death, he's got to ask. "If you've ever felt anything toward this city, don't let Stark die today."

"And I thought you didn't like him," Harry points out, sipping some herbal tea from a cup that wasn't in his hands before.

"He's arrogant and foolish at times. That I admit, but he's a good man." He doesn't let any emotion bleed through his face, because although Tony Stark is one of the most frustrating people to work with, he has a strong will to protect everything he holds dear. "He doesn't deserve to die, not on a day like this."

If aliens weren't plaguing the sky, the day would've been full of sunshine and beauty and everything peaceful (the kind of peaceful only New York would have).

Harry doesn't say a word in reply. He gazes into his one eye with his own forlorn ones, green jades, gleaming with something Fury can't identify and the latter gets frustrated, because when he can't understand something, he'll damn make sure he will, through any methods possible.

"Please." Fury's voice is devoid of anything like desperation, but the look in his eye aides him in his request. No signs of weakness will ever taint his voice.

The Chitauri drop like flies.

"You know, Death is fair." Harry turns away to look at the footage. The portal is closing—fast, and Stark hasn't flown through to brag in everyone's face that he flew a nuke into an alien mothership. That's worrying. "Sure," Harry begins nonchalantly, and there's a promising smile on his face as he continues, "the good people are usually the ones to die. It's like that saying. When you're in a garden, which flowers do you pick first?"

Fury purses his lips. "The most beautiful ones."

There's something akin to a chuckle on Harry's lips. "But sometimes, if a person is meant for more—if a person has something more to contribute, Death will let them live until their entire purpose is fulfilled."

Fury watches as Stark appears, falling through the sky like a lifeless corpse, limp and descending fast.

"That's why people call it Destiny, or fate if you want to be fancy." Harry's bittersweet smile widens into a grin, and Fury side-eyes the wizard in amusement. "To the well-organized mind, Death is but the next great adventure." A shadow of a tall yet old man stands over her shoulder with long white hair and a long white beard too. He sports a pair of glasses and a long robe. He's smiling.

When Fury blinks, the old man vanishes out of existence.

Harry's face is bright and full of mischief and Fury wonders why he's not wearing robes, or has a wand like a wizard that he claims to be.

"Can you bring people back?"

There's genuine confusion in Harry's expression when Fury asks. "Bring people back, how? The supermarket?" he asks. The one-eyed man muses that Harry knows what he's talking about, but he plays along.

"Can you bring people back from the dead?"

Harry snickers, but there's so much falsity dancing in the curve of his lips. "Director Fury, I think you're mistaking me for a necromancer. Not that they aren't cool, but—"

"Can," Fury intervenes, and his voice is sharp and threatening. Harry goes quiet as he continues, "you bring people back from the dead? On the day of Agent Coulson's supposed death, you called up a shadow of him. Is that the limit of that ability, or is there something more?" He wants to know, because he's reminded of all the good people who have passed when their lives were just beginning to get better.

With a silent gaze but a cold purse of his lips, Harry levelly offers without giving away too much, "The limitations of magic"—fingers cased in ice come up to his lips, and when he blows, snowflakes bloom into the air—"are endless.. as long as your imagination matches up with it."

Then he's gone with a deafening crack no one else seems to hear. They're all drowning in cheers and relieved sighs to notice the frosty floor.

Harry is anything but safe. Fury ponders if he could end the world in a single breath with the friend he calls Death at his side, but it's hard to even imagine the thought because Harry wears flannel and jeans, has unkempt hair and crumbs on the corners of his lips. If Harry was a villain, Fury wouldn't think he'd spend his time sipping tea, eating pastries, and visiting the director of SHIELD.

If Harry was a villain, he would have to have parent and self esteem problems because his older brother got all the attention, just like a certain God of Mischief.

IV

"They were not cowering wretches like we were promised," the Other rumbles in frustration, his knee upon the chilling ground. His head is bowed in respect, and his will to survive this meeting thrives. "They are unruly and therefore, cannot be ruled," he reports in something akin to indignance.

The titan sitting upon his throne grows amused and excited.

"To challenge them, is to court Death."

Thano smiles.

And within the shadows of a broken planet where the gravity lies in ruin and shards, the Master of Death hides behind a crying moon, watching, waiting, and preying down for the time to reap a being who believes it can play God like all of the villains of every story.

V

Fury finds himself conscious after the events of the Winter Soldier's beating (he will not admit that he got toyed with) and bullets through his chest. Where he is.. isn't the secret facility with a doctor and Maria Hill where he's supposed to be. Instead, when he opens his eye, he's blinded by this angelic burning glow. There's no mark or scar of his injuries as he pats himself down. He's in his regular clothing, not a hospital gown.

A dream, he thinks at first, because as he looks around to see exactly where he is, he is, put bluntly, confused. Fury stands in the middle of a station, painted the color of snow with a bright light where the sun should hang. It's like he was thrown into a blank canvas without any kind of paint. There are no trees or water.

There are no trains either, even though this is supposed to be a station. No noise, no chatter, no rumble of engines, and no silly banter between annoying children.

Where exactly is he?

The station is entirely blank, like the beginning outlines of a sketch. No words are on the signs that marks each of the column. No words are branded onto the wall where the station's name should be.

He might be dead. The thought crosses his mind and it sure is possible. Dr. Banner's stress serum could've malfunctioned but that is very unlikely but another possible cause would be that the traitors planted with SHIELD took no chances and just stabbed him in the head. The latter is the most likely situation.

Is this what death is?

A blank station with no where to go?

"Fortunately, you're far from dead, Director."

Fury spins around on his heel and he reaches for a gun that isn't there in his holster.

And there he is.

Harry stands as an adult, squarely, in front of him, eyes straight forward and arms by his side. His face is tranquil—calm, but not the good kind of calm. More like, the calm before the storm. The peace and anticipation before the war begins. He's dressed like that day he visited Agent Coulson's corpse, a neat suit with that same yellow and red striped tie. He seems fond of those colors.

"Where am I?" Fury demands bitterly, and he's done playing house with the wizard who talks of Death. Now, he's gambling with only a few chips while the wizard has only began to pile up his own chips into mountains.

Harry smiles in an emotion Fury could mistake as bittersweet and melancholic. "King's Cross Station," he answers kindly and when he tries to take a step forward, Fury shoots a warning glare at him, malicious and without mercy. The wizard calmly retreats and takes a few steps aside where the train tracks are to balance on the very ledge like some acrobat.

Fury doesn't bat an eye. "And why am I here?"

The wizard ignores his question, losing himself through forgotten pictures and journal entries. "The train here took me to my school in Scotland, the one of magic and quills. It would run for hours before we got there, but it was always worth it." There's a distant nostalgic happiness bleeding through his voice, and the calm blink of his eyes waver. "My friends and I would buy a whole bunch of sweets from the snack trolley until our compartment was littered in garbage," he comments, and melancholy swallows him up and his eyes lose to the focus on far away events.

"The view was worth it," he continues faintly. "It was all forests but it was nice to see things—landscapes without the taint of human intervention. I thinks that's why I love flying. It makes you feel free and unbound by all your responsibilities."

And then Harry meets his eye and when Fury expects to see nostalgia, all he finds is loss, unending grief and pain winding up around his core until it bursts in hurtful ways. Fury was wrong; Harry doesn't have peace in his soul. He has nothing.

"You should try."

"I should try what?" Fury asks and now, he's more cautious.

Harry smiles and it's full of white teeth and false happiness. "Flying."

"I have my helicarriers."

The wizard disapproves immediately, frowning as he shakes his head in disappointment. "No. I mean you should try flying without the rumble of machines, and instead with thunderstorms and rain."

"Well, I apologize for lacking a magic carpet, Aladdin," Fury retorts without amusement. "I am not here to listen to your life story, Harry."

The latter glares at him with pursed lips. "Are you always this bloody narky? That wasn't my life story and anyway, you're right. You're not here to listen to my monologues on how life is sad and unfair and boring. If you were, you'd never leave."

"Get to the point Harry," Fury echoes sharply, bite in his words. "You've frozen time, brought back a shadow of my dead agent, and didn't reap one of my Avenger initiatives. I do not understand what your motive is, or what you are, exactly, for that matter."

Harry rolls his eyes in irritation. "Do all life's questions have to be answered?"

"Yes, because if they aren't, my trust issues will only worsen," Fury states bluntly. "So, I ask you again, and I wouldn't like to ask a third time. What the hell are you?"

Humming away, Harry brushes away a stray lock from his face. He rocks back and forth on his feet, searching for something to say and how to say it. "I'm a wizard, didn't I say? You acknowledged that a while ago; the topic was supposedly done with."

"I know at least that much, but I don't think a wizard is capable of freezing time."

"You can't possibly think that. I'm the first wizard you've come across; how would you know what is normal and what is not?"

"You spoke half-truths that day when I first met you. A wizard, you claimed you were, but you were hiding something else."

"And how do you know you didn't interpret me incorrectly?"

"Psychology and years of experience. In addition, you mentioned you were like a wizard in fairy tales."

"And you're going to take my word for it? You said I lied at our first meeting."

"Not lie. Just half-truths. There's a distinct difference, and I don't think you're one to outright lie. If you were asked a question you didn't want to answer, you wouldn't say anything at all."

"How do you know for sure?" Harry meets his own gaze, and for the first time, Fury is at the mercy of a gaze as sharp as an icicle. He's frozen in his spot and he, quite literally, cannot look away. "What if I've just been manipulating you through our meetings? You live in this line of work, so the thought would've definitely crossed your mine."

Harry takes a step forward and challenges, "How do you know for sure?" and the ground shakes as his presence comes at Fury at full force.

"Because it's the only thing I can count on."

There's a sparkle of surprise gleaming in Harry's eyes before his gaze pulls away. Fury finds himself able to breathe. "Okay!" Harry throws up his hands in exaggeration. "Honestly, Fury, I don't bloody know exactly what I am. I've been called many things—names that never really explain my entire existence. Maybe one aspect, but not all of them simultaneously."

"What do you think you are?"

Harry's eyes fall from the world. "My mother was named a flower. She was as much fire as much she was jades. My father was born of magic, and bore the mark of a stag. Me? I was born of magic and I was as much jades as I was a stag."

A flower. The lilies at their first meeting.

Stag. The little figure of hope dancing in Harry's palm.

Jades. The color of his eyes.

Magic. The genes of a wizard.

Fury doesn't know where fire comes from.

"I thought I could die,"—Harry sighs—"and let another horrible fate be erased. It didn't completely work." Fire, and spells. A twin without a brother. Broken glass and unused film. The name of a father upon a dying friend. A snake who choked on its own venom. An elf who owed a debt. Two thread-entwined souls leaving a third behind. A flying owl who rained snow. A falling wizard who left legacies for hopeful children. "People I loved still died, but most of them survived. I was going to die for their sake, but Death wouldn't let me."

The station flickered into darkness and for a moment, Fury sees the outline of a scythe's shadow against the columns.

"Death won't let me die."

There's a pause. "You never die; you're immortal." He thought so.

"I found reapers trailing you yesterday. More than one because the more times a person has been close to death, the better the harvest."

There isn't anything Fury can say.

Harry laughs—and it's bitter and cold, heart-shaken laugh, full of anguish and suffering and the will to just give up. There's no sliver of happiness left within the wizard. "I almost thought you died—I almost thought that another person left me. I don't know if we were friends, or even acquaintances at all, but you were intriguing and entertaining. So I was sad when I thought you died, but then I found out you didn't, you bloody son of a bitch." The misery in his voice burns into blinding rage and his voice is shouting without mercy, "You chose to live, when you could've just thrown everything down and left. You're so lucky."

Despair dances in violet mist within his jade orbs.

Fury's expression is grim as he purses his lips.

"You're so lucky," the wizard repeats and there's a dull shine in his jaded eyes. "You get to choose."

Suddenly, the floor sweeps his feet from under him and Fury is sent plunging down a bottomless hole from a white empty void with nothing but the icy wind occupying him downward. The expression of woe and remorse sears itself into Fury's mind as Harry's voice echoes along the drop, sending shivers down every human on the planet.

"You have such a strong will to live that I almost remembered what it felt like to have one."

And then Fury wakes up.

VI

The last time Fury ever sees Harry, is when Stark and Banner create an artificial intelligence keen on wiping humanity off the Earth. First, it was one of the Avenger's brother who created the last massacre. Now, it has to be the Avengers themselves who create the next villain?

Fury loves them and all, but they're utterly terrible at their job. Are they that desperate for action?

He's waiting, sitting on a tumble of hay while he waits for Clint's wife, Laura, to send Tony over to the shed. It smells foul in here, but Fury doesn't bring himself to mind.

A presence lands beside him out of nowhere but he pays no attention. He's too used to it; he should be by now. Around the time after Fury faked his death and found himself stuck in a world of light and empty tracks, Harry started visiting more regularly, bringing some pastries of all sorts of flavors along the way. Once, he brought this bottle of alcohol called fire whiskey since Fury was picky about how Harry only brought sweet foods. Fire Whiskey deserves its name, because after one sip, Fury almost thought he would breathe out flames.

Fury never asked Harry how he found him all the time, and Harry never said anything about it. The question is still on Fury's mouth and the answer is still stirring in Harry's throat.

"An alien invasion, and then a bloodthirsty walking computer now? No wonder my school hated spaceships and technology," Harry mumbles as he bites into something called a treacle tart.

Fury mutters under his breath, "This is why the Avengers can't have nice things." He rests his hand on his face, disappointed at what has become of the Avengers. They're supposed to be protecting the world from disaster, not creating it.

Harry chuckles, amused at Fury's misery as he jumps to his feet, exploring around Clint's barn with a scrutinizing eye. "Enjoying your vacation playing dead, aren't you?" he inquires, hands behind his back as he pads around.

"Yes, I was," Fury starts in a bland tone, then continues with annoyance, "But then Stark and Dr. Banner had to create an AI whose goal is to wipe out humanity. If I could, I'd fire the Avengers, all of them, but technically I'm not their boss anymore."

Harry shoots an amused yet sympathetic smile at the one-eyed man before further exploring the farm. He chucks the last piece of his treacle tart into the air and catches it with his mouth. Unlike his usual attire (which now wouldn't be called his usual attire since he hasn't worn it in weeks), Harry wears a loose gray hoodie, hands inside the pocket, and some casual sweatpants. He looks like he just woke up from a long nap.

Despite all of the abilities Harry has previously displayed, Fury doesn't regard him as a threat. Well, not to innocents anyway. All Harry seems to do is eat sweet pastries, drink tea and sometimes alcohol when the occasion comes up, and his dry humor makes him resemble a normal teenager. The immortal wizard, whatever his past is, is only set on relaxing and finding a way to die. That's all. So far, there is no other motive of his. However, there is only two things bothering Fury. The first is trivial.

On Christmas night, Harry dropped by his hiding place, smiling and exclaiming, "Happy Christmas!" He was quite annoying. As a gift, Harry gave him a silver necklace, lined with copper, in the shape of an unfamiliar symbol. It was a circle with a stick through it, surrounded by a triangle. By the time Fury finished observing it, Harry was gone, leaving many questions unanswered. The next visit, Harry dodged all of the one-eyed man's questions.

The second thing that is bothering Fury is a more—well, serious topic.

He calls across the shed, "Harry?"

"Yeah?" The wizard answers where he is peeking out through the doorway.

"If the world was in danger—and I don't mean a trivial thing like a villain or two, I mean like, the world was really being threatened, where would you be?" Fury says it as casual as possible.

Harry's head snaps toward him. At first, he's surprised, but then the stun melts into confusion. He walks over to Fury, hands still fidgeting inside his pockets. He reasons lightheartedly, "It's not really my job to save the world—"

"Harry," Fury hems sternly and he gets a glare in return. "Straight answer."

"When do I get to ask the questions? Can't we talk about the weather or something? I swear, every time I visit, you're all mysterious and all what are you bloody hiding, immortal wizard person?" Harry protests in an indignant tone as he kicks at some stray hay on the ground. "You never give me a break. Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

Without a beat, Fury responds, "And satisfaction brought it back."

Glowering at him, Harry crosses his arms. "Okay, you want a bloody straight answer? I'll give you one. I've been alive for a long time, and if you want a clear picture, I'm older than that God of Thunder lad. I've seen civilizations fall and rise, and I've never intervened more than just a helping hand. When I was young, there was no doubt that I would've done everything to make sure everyone lived."

Older than the God of Thunder? "But now?"

A frustrated sigh escapes past his lips. "But now, after living millenniums without a bloody break, I can't bring myself to care if humanity falls."

"You just want to die. That's it?"

"Yes."

"What if I found a way for you to die?"

Harry quirks his eyebrow and looks at Fury as if he has lost his mind. "You think I haven't looked for a way to die myself?" he claims in a tone of disbelief. "I've been searching for millenniums and you're like, sixty. You can't help me Fury, only the surrender of Death can."

"You don't know what technology is capable of," Fury reasons and he's completely and utterly serious about finding a way for Harry to die in peace. "You said yourself that you hate technology. I've heard you say it dozens of times; you wouldn't even try to look for a way through it."

The wizard laughs a heartless laugh. "Why would you spend your time on finding a way for me to die?"

"Would you believe me if I said because we're friends?" Fury steadily meets Harry's green gaze.

No matter how much he resists, the stares of dead friends stab into Harry's back merciless. There's a lump in his throat and it's hard to breathe in here. Harry wants a friend, he does, because after so many millenniums, jumping and leaping between dimensions, seeing the future of one world and then seeing the beginning of another, he has never let someone get close. He doesn't want to watch another friend fade away into the hands of Death—he doesn't want to watch another friend leave him behind.

"Let's make a deal, Harry."

Fury's voice snaps Harry out of his train of thought. The wizard is curious. "Oh? What's the deal?"

"If I find a way for you to die, you have to make sure Earth doesn't fall to the hands of something sinister." There's no drop of mirth in the former director's voice. Harry wants him to be kidding.

Harry points out nonchalantly. "That's a one-sided deal."

"You don't know that," Fury replies smoothly, keen on winning this inner fight.

There is no immediate response from Harry, whose face is curled in frustration, whose lips are pursed in anger, and whose entire body is screaming you can't help me.

"A deal then?" Fury holds out a hand to him, but all Harry sees is his smiling best friends, with their pumpkin and cinnamon locks. They're cheering him on; he can hear them in the distant veil. Something tightens in Harry's chest and suddenly he can't breathe. Don't take the hand, continue living forever. Take the hand, lie to the person in this universe who wants to help you.

Harry stares, contemplating. There are thousands of thoughts whirling through his head; Fury can see it in his eyes, and for a second, Fury doesn't think he'll take the deal. But then Harry sighs out one big breath and his hand reaches forward. However, his hand doesn't stop at Fury's; it goes up to his wrist and holds there.

Does a wizard know how a handshake works?

But when the wizard whose eyes are flashing with doubt starts to speak, Fury understands.

"I, Harry Potter, will adhere Nicholas Joseph Fury's wishes, to protect the Earth from world-threatening disasters and all things sinister, as long as he shall breathes." A gorgeous golden vine ties around their wrists, binding them tightly together until they can no longer move away. Harry's eyes are closed peacefully but confidently as his words flow along with his spell. With each word, the vine tightens.

"Only whereas the children of this planet require strength, will I withdraw and sanction their desires to fight thy battles."

There's truth in his words, and Fury finds himself mesmerized by the foreign tongue of wizardry and witch craft.

And concluding his vow, Harry opens his eyes slightly as the vine brightens, glittering starlight from its very core, "I shall endure the agony of a thousand deaths if I sever this vow."

As Harry takes a breath, the vine slowly fades from existence and what bound their wrists together vanishes. They let go.

"Fancy wording a vow has, doesn't it?" Harry smiles, and his eyes appear brighter with a purpose. Before Fury can reply, probably with more questions, Harry interjects briskly, "Ah, I didn't come here just to chat."

Fury quirks an eyebrow at that. "That's surprising. You usually come to gossip."

The wizard brushes off the one-eyed man's teasing remark. "I will be gone for a while."

That takes Fury off guard. "How long? You just made a vow to—"

"Maybe around a year; I'm not sure," Harry interrupts easily as he fumbles with his hoodie pocket.

"What kind of business would keep a wizard like you busy?" Fury questions, quite curious, because Harry is never busy.

Harry yanks out a small broken shard of a mirror out of his hoodie pocket and Fury just stares in bewilderment. As if it is normal, Harry admires the piece of the mirror and continues, answering Fury's question, "The biggest kid in the playground thinks he can play with politics."

The former director raises an eyebrow.

Harry sighs and elaborates in distress and annoyance, "Someone stole a couple of pebbles from this dimension's rock collection so I gotta keep tabs on him."

"Why did you make that vow if you're already protecting the world?"

"You said you had trust issues," Harry reasons with a nonchalant shrug. "Well, anyway, here."

Harry hands him a mirror—well, a shard of one, like it's something casual. Fury peers down at his reflection and he can see his own confusion."I don't need your hand-me-downs, Harry."

The immortal wizard takes out an identical one—out of his hoodie pocket. What is in that pocket? "It's not a hand-me-down, or a regular mirror for that matter." His voice comes out of Fury's mirror. The latter can see Harry in his mirror. What in the world— Okay, magic is weird, he gets that. Carry on.

"It's a two-way mirror for communication," Harry explains as he spins his own mirror shard in his hands. The wizard's fingers start to bleed and Fury is about to point it out but Harry doesn't look bothered by it at all. "My father and my godfather used it all the time. If you ever need me, just holler, mate."

Then Stark walks in, his normal intrigued gaze pinned onto the tractor. Fury glances back over to where Harry should be, but like all those times before, he's gone without a trace. Fury didn't even hear the normal crack of thunder.

He's disappointed that he didn't get to say goodbye but they don't really need to. Harry's got a purpose: keeping tabs on a powerful being who likes to steal rocks, and protecting Earth. And Fury's got a purpose too, here on Earth.

He stands up because now, he has to give a pep talk to one arrogant millionaire playboy.

Today's going to be a long day.

"Do me a favor."

Stark doesn't look happy to see him alive.

And like Harry, Fury smiles in mirth, "Try not to bring it to life."

VII

When Fury meets Wanda Maximoff, the surviving twin who can blast people away and lift objects with a thought, and can control minds like a puppeteer with just so much as a touch, he's reminded of the little wizard with jade eyes, unkempt brown hair, nothing in his soul, and a will to die.

END