Harry Potter: The Revenant

Sirius and James sat across from each other in the safehouse's library, a small room crammed with magical tomes, Shield files, and stacks of Lily's notes that somehow seemed to defy gravity. The books Harry had magically photocopied for them from Kamar-Taj lay open in front of them, glowing faintly with the otherworldly energy of their origin.

Sirius, slouched in his chair with one leg thrown over the armrest, was flipping through Advanced Transfiguration Techniques: Shaping the Elements and Beyond. He muttered under his breath as he read, scratching his head in confusion. "So, let me get this straight—these Kamar-Taj types use magic without wands, focus it through these hand gestures, and essentially force reality to behave itself? And all they need is their own willpower and, what, sheer stubbornness?"

James, who was leaning over Practical Applications of Combat Magic: A Sorcerer's Handbook, didn't look up. "Sounds right up your alley, Pads. You're already stubborn enough to qualify."

Sirius smirked. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Prongs. Besides, I'd like to see you try to keep up with this stuff. Half of these hand movements look like they were designed by someone who's had way too much coffee."

James raised a brow, finally glancing up. "Says the bloke who could never manage a simple Aguamenti without accidentally soaking half the Gryffindor Common Room. Don't act like you're some magical prodigy."

Sirius flipped him an obscene gesture with a flick of his wand. A small spark shot out, but nothing dramatic. "That was one time. And anyway, this is different. It's all about channeling raw magic, shaping it into whatever you want. I think I can figure it out—eventually. The question is, can you manage to adapt this," he tapped James's book, "without blowing yourself up?"

James ignored the jab, tapping his wand against the edge of the book, his hazel eyes scanning the spell diagrams. "Combat magic here seems more straightforward than wand-based dueling. Most of it's about using the environment—creating shields, summoning energy blasts, and trapping enemies in these crazy magical constructs. But the weird thing is, there's almost no reliance on verbal incantations."

"Well, you've been practicing silent casting for years," Sirius pointed out. "Should be a piece of cake for you. Although…" His tone turned teasing. "You might have to drop that dramatic wand-twirling flourish of yours. Can't have the bad guys laughing at you mid-fight."

James rolled his eyes. "The flourish adds style. Don't act like you haven't been impressed."

Sirius barked a laugh. "Impressed? No. Mildly embarrassed for you? Constantly."

They fell into a companionable silence for a few minutes, both of them reading intently. Every now and then, Sirius would mutter a spell under his breath or practice one of the intricate gestures described in the book. James, meanwhile, seemed deep in thought, tapping his wand rhythmically against his knee.

Finally, Sirius leaned back with a groan, tossing his book onto the table. "All right, let's test this out. If these sorcerers don't need wands, maybe we don't either. Let's see if we can force some of this magic to play nice with what we've already got."

James closed his book more carefully, nodding. "Agreed. We'll start simple."

Sirius stood, rolling up his sleeves. "Simple? Where's the fun in that? Let's try something flashy." He grinned mischievously, pointing at the bookshelf on the far wall. "I bet I can transfigure that into a dragon faster than you can."

James raised a brow. "You mean blow it up faster than I can?"

"Same difference," Sirius replied with a smirk.

James stepped back, drawing his wand. "All right, Pads. Show me what you've got."

Sirius closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He stretched out his hands, mimicking the gestures described in the book. His wand was tucked into his back pocket, forgotten for the moment. Slowly, his hands began to glow with a faint, silvery light.

"Not bad," James admitted, watching with genuine interest. "Now what?"

"Now," Sirius said, grinning, "I turn that dusty old thing into something exciting." He thrust his hands forward, and the glow shot toward the bookshelf. For a moment, it shimmered, and the wood began to twist and warp.

Then, with a loud pop, the entire bookshelf collapsed into a pile of multicolored butterflies that fluttered chaotically around the room.

James burst out laughing. "A dragon, huh? Looks more like your Patronus had a bunch of illegitimate children."

Sirius scowled, though he couldn't quite hide his grin. "Shut it, Prongs. I'm learning. Let's see you do better."

James stepped forward, pointing his wand at a nearby chair. He muttered a few words under his breath and mimicked one of the combat techniques he'd been reading about. His wand glowed faintly, and the chair began to levitate, spinning slowly in midair.

"Impressive," Sirius admitted, leaning against the table. "But can it breathe fire?"

James smirked. "Not yet. But give me a week, and we'll see."

They spent the next hour experimenting, alternating between their wands and trying to channel magic wandlessly. While neither of them managed to completely master the Kamar-Taj techniques, they made surprising progress. Sirius discovered he could transfigure small objects with minimal effort, while James found that focusing his magic through gestures seemed to amplify his spellwork.

Finally, they collapsed onto the couch, both grinning despite their exhaustion.

"You know," Sirius said, wiping sweat from his brow, "this might actually work. Combining Kamar-Taj magic with wand magic… it could give us an edge."

James nodded, staring thoughtfully at his wand. "It's going to take time, but yeah. If we can integrate this into what we already know, we might be able to outmatch anything Voldemort—or Hydra—throws at us."

Sirius smirked. "Now you're talking. Let's show them what the Marauders can really do."

—

Lily sat in the corner of the safehouse's common room, a large, ornate book on advanced wards and protective magic spread across the table in front of her. The faint golden glow of the Kamar-Taj book illuminated her face as she scribbled furiously on a piece of parchment, her notes scattered all around her. Every now and then, her wand would flick in the air, tracing a glowing sigil that hovered for a moment before fading. She muttered to herself, lips pursed in concentration.

The wards from Kamar-Taj were entirely unlike anything she'd ever seen before. While the magical world relied heavily on runic sequences rooted in ancient Norse, Celtic, and Egyptian traditions, the runes here seemed to draw from a completely alien system. The intricacy was mesmerizing—these wards didn't just block spells; they absorbed, redirected, or even transformed magical energy into harmless forms. The possibilities were endless.

"Still with your nose in that book?" came a familiar, slightly teasing voice.

Lily glanced up to see Andromeda standing nearby, holding two cups of tea. "You've been at it for hours. What is it this time? Something groundbreaking, I assume?"

Lily leaned back with a faint smile, gesturing for Andromeda to join her. "You could say that. Look at this." She tapped the page in front of her. The intricate diagram of interconnected runes shimmered faintly, as though imbued with the magic it described. "These are wards from Kamar-Taj. Entirely different from the ones we use in the Wizarding world. I've already integrated some of them into the team's gear—made their protections stronger, more flexible."

Andromeda placed a cup of tea beside Lily and peered over her shoulder, her dark eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Runes, but… they're not runes. Not like we know them, anyway." She traced the edge of the diagram with her finger, frowning. "These don't follow any of the standard patterns. No Norse influence, no Egyptian roots… where are they even from?"

"That's the thing," Lily said excitedly. "I think they're entirely unique to the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj. They don't just represent concepts like power, protection, or transformation. They're dynamic. They react to intent and the flow of magic itself."

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Dynamic runes? That shouldn't be possible. Once a rune is inscribed or activated, its function is fixed. At least, that's what every Magical Theory text I've ever read claims."

"Exactly!" Lily said, her green eyes alight with enthusiasm. "These aren't static like ours. They're more like… like living symbols. They change depending on how they're drawn, activated, or layered. Watch this."

She picked up her wand and drew a glowing symbol in the air, one of the wards from the book. As Andromeda watched, Lily modified the lines with a few careful strokes. The glowing sigil shimmered and morphed into a slightly different shape. "That's the same ward," Lily explained. "But with a few adjustments, it went from a shield that deflects energy to one that absorbs it."

Andromeda's mouth fell open slightly. "That… that shouldn't work. But it does. You've tested it?"

Lily nodded. "On the team's armor. Howard and I collaborated. I used these wards, and he layered them into the Vibranium. The result? A defense that not only blocks most spells and attacks but also strengthens with every hit it takes. It's incredible."

Andromeda shook her head in amazement. "No wonder you've been glued to that book. This could revolutionize everything. Wards, enchantments… even potion-making. If these runes can adapt like that, there's no telling how many applications they might have."

"Exactly," Lily said again, a slight flush of pride on her cheeks. "But it's not just about the wards themselves. It's the way they think about magic. It's not rigid or formulaic—it's fluid, intuitive. Like…" She paused, searching for the right words. "Like painting a picture instead of solving an equation."

Andromeda leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea thoughtfully. "I'll admit, I never thought I'd see something that made our magical traditions feel outdated. But this… this is something else."

Lily smiled faintly. "It is. And I think it's just the beginning. If we can figure out how to combine these techniques with what we already know, the possibilities are endless. Stronger wards, better protections, maybe even new ways to cast spells."

Andromeda smirked. "You're already thinking of outdoing Voldemort, aren't you?"

"Always," Lily said with a sly grin. "And Hydra. And anyone else who dares come after my family."

Andromeda chuckled. "Fair enough. So, what's next? Are you planning to teach James and Sirius these new techniques?"

"Oh, I'll teach them," Lily said with a wicked glint in her eye. "But only after I've mastered them myself. Let's see if those two can keep up for once."

Andromeda laughed. "They're going to love that." She reached for the book, flipping through a few pages. "Mind if I borrow this for a bit? I'd like to take a closer look."

"Of course," Lily said. "But be careful. Some of these wards are… tricky. If you draw one wrong, it might backfire."

"Noted," Andromeda said dryly, already engrossed in the glowing diagrams. "And Lily?"

"Yes?"

Andromeda glanced up, her expression serious but warm. "Harry and Rose are lucky to have a mum like you. And James… well, he's luckier than he deserves."

Lily laughed, a soft, genuine sound. "Thanks, Andi. That means a lot."

As the two women bent over the book, the room filled with the quiet hum of their collaboration, the glow of the Kamar-Taj wards casting flickering patterns on the walls.

—

Tony Stark straightened his tie in front of the dorm room mirror, his expression the picture of smug self-satisfaction. He gave himself a little finger-gun salute. "What do you think, Rhodey? Am I 'most eligible genius billionaire playboy in the making,' or am I 'irresistible charmer who's going to make Cynthia forget what the word no means'?"

Rhodey, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a textbook in hand, barely glanced up. "I think you're trying way too hard for a girl who's probably out to steal your tech or your wallet. Maybe both."

Tony turned to him, mock offense radiating from every inch of his being. "Wow. First of all, rude. Second of all, you don't know that. Cynthia is—"

"Smart, gorgeous, and 'totally into you,'" Rhodey interrupted, making air quotes. "Yeah, yeah, I've heard the spiel, Tony. But what I'm telling you is something about her doesn't sit right."

Tony scoffed, turning back to the mirror to adjust his collar. "You're just saying that because she doesn't laugh at your jokes like she does mine."

"Because your jokes aren't funny," Rhodey shot back, flipping a page in his book. "But seriously, man, do you ever stop to wonder how she got here?"

Tony shrugged, sliding on his signature sunglasses. "Maybe she applied to MIT the same way I did—by being a once-in-a-generation genius with a killer smile. It's not exactly rocket science."

Rhodey snorted. "Yeah, but you applied when you were eleven, Tony. Cynthia just waltzes in halfway through senior year like it's nothing. Transfers don't happen that easily at this level. And when I asked her about it, she was… evasive."

Tony raised an eyebrow, lowering his glasses to give Rhodey a pointed look. "Evasive how?"

"She said she transferred from Caltech," Rhodey explained, closing his book and leaning forward, "but I checked the student directory. There's no record of her ever being there. Not under Cynthia, not under any alias I could think of. She's a ghost."

Tony smirked, tilting his head. "Maybe she's just that good. A secret genius who prefers to stay under the radar, unlike some of us who bask in the spotlight."

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Or maybe she's not who she says she is. And don't even get me started on that whole 'a little bit of everywhere' nonsense when I asked where she's from. Who says that?"

Tony grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, slipping it on with a dramatic flourish. "People with a mysterious allure. You know, the kind of people who make life interesting."

"Or people hiding something." Rhodey's tone turned serious. "Listen, T, I'm not saying don't go out with her. I'm saying keep your guard up. For all we know, she could be working for a competitor—or worse."

Tony turned, arms outstretched like he was inviting an audience to admire him. "Rhodey, Rhodey, Rhodey… When have I ever been anything but careful?"

Rhodey gave him a deadpan look. "Do you want a list? Because I can make one."

Tony grinned, pointing at him. "That's why I like you, buddy. Always keeping me grounded."

"Somebody has to," Rhodey muttered, shaking his head. "Seriously, man. If she's legit, great. But if not, I don't want to have to explain to your dad how his only son got conned by a pretty face."

Tony raised a hand as he opened the door. "Relax. I've got this under control. If Cynthia's playing a game, she's playing against the Tony Stark, and let's be honest—she's already lost."

Rhodey sighed as the door closed behind him. "Yeah, because your ego's totally not a blind spot," he said to the empty room.

Grabbing his laptop, Rhodey powered it up and began typing. If Tony wasn't going to take this seriously, then Rhodey would have to do some digging on his own. He wasn't about to let his best friend walk into a trap—not without a backup plan, anyway.

Because something about Cynthia was off, and Rhodey wasn't going to rest until he figured out what.

—

In a sleek, nondescript apartment a few blocks from MIT, Cynthia Smith—or as her true identity dictated, Sinthea Schmidt, daughter of the infamous Red Skull—stood in front of a vanity mirror, her expression one of calm precision as she adjusted the delicate clasp of her necklace. The reflection staring back at her was meticulously crafted: warm, approachable, and utterly unthreatening. The perfect cover for her mission.

Behind her, two Hydra operatives, dressed in plain black clothing, hovered uncertainly near the doorway. One of them, a wiry man with a perpetual sneer, cleared his throat. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Frau Schmidt? Getting this close to Stark? He's a wildcard."

Cynthia's sharp green eyes flicked to him in the mirror. "That's why you're not getting close to Stark. I am." Her tone was as smooth as silk, but there was a razor edge underneath that made the operative flinch. "Your job is to watch and report. Nothing more."

The second henchman, a broader man with a buzz cut, frowned. "With all due respect, ma'am, surveillance isn't exactly our specialty. If the opportunity arises to neutralize the target—"

"No." Cynthia spun around, the sharpness in her voice cutting through the air like a blade. She stepped toward them, her heels clicking ominously against the floor. "I said surveillance only. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

The first operative raised his hands in surrender. "No, ma'am. We get it. No action unless ordered."

"Good." Cynthia's demeanor softened slightly, though her eyes still carried a glint of warning. "Tony Stark is not a typical target. He's brilliant, erratic, and unfortunately, too valuable to simply eliminate. Hydra wants him… persuaded. And that requires finesse, not brute force."

"Finesse," the second operative repeated dubiously, as though the word offended him.

"Yes, finesse," Cynthia snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Which means you two will sit in the surveillance van, monitor my movements, and report back to me when this is over. Do you think you can manage that without embarrassing yourselves?"

The two men exchanged a glance, then nodded. "Understood, ma'am."

Satisfied, Cynthia turned back to the mirror, adjusting her hair into soft waves. Her dress was simple but elegant—a deep red that hinted at her true loyalties without revealing them outright. She applied a final coat of lipstick, a shade perfectly chosen to appear both understated and captivating.

As she slipped on her heels, she addressed the operatives without looking at them. "Stark may be reckless, but he's also predictable. He craves attention and thrives on being the smartest person in the room. All I have to do is feed that ego, and he'll walk right into Hydra's hands."

The wiry operative frowned. "And if he doesn't?"

Cynthia smiled faintly, a chilling expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Then we adapt. But for now, we stick to the plan. No risks, no improvisation. Stark doesn't suspect a thing, and I intend to keep it that way."

As she grabbed her clutch and headed for the door, the operatives followed her to the hallway. The buzz-cut one hesitated. "Just remember, ma'am… he's not the only wildcard. His roommate's been poking around."

"Rhodey?" Cynthia scoffed, waving dismissively. "Please. He's nothing more than a loyal lapdog. Annoying, but harmless. If he gets too curious, we'll handle him. But for now, let's not attract attention. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," the wiry operative muttered, stepping back into the shadows.

Cynthia walked down the hall with confidence, her heels clicking in an even rhythm. She was ready. Tonight was just the beginning, and Tony Stark was a pawn in a much larger game. Hydra always played the long game, and if everything went according to plan, she'd ensure that Stark Industries—and its brilliant young heir—became assets to the cause.

After all, what was a little seduction compared to the glory of Hydra?

—

Tony Stark adjusted the collar of his tailored blazer as he strode up the stairs to Cynthia's apartment door. The smirk on his face was pure confidence, as though the world were already applauding his latest conquest. He paused just before knocking, glancing at his reflection in the glossy apartment window beside the door. "Damn, Stark," he muttered to himself, smoothing his hair, "you clean up good."

He reached out and knocked twice, a confident rhythm, and then leaned casually against the doorframe, as though he were posing for the cover of Genius Playboy Billionaire Monthly.

The door opened a moment later, and Cynthia Smith stood there, framed by the soft light of her apartment. She looked stunning in her deep red dress, the color accentuating her sharp green eyes. Her lips curved into a soft smile, equal parts inviting and mysterious.

"Tony," she said, her voice warm and perfectly measured, "right on time."

"Well, I couldn't keep you waiting," Tony quipped, offering her a once-over that was only slightly more obvious than it needed to be. "Wow. You look—" He gestured vaguely, then gave her a roguish grin. "I was going to say 'phenomenal,' but I think 'intimidatingly gorgeous' might be more accurate."

Cynthia chuckled lightly, stepping out of the doorway and closing the door behind her. "Careful, Stark. You're laying it on so thick, I might think you're nervous."

"Nervous? Me? Never." He offered his arm, which she took gracefully. "I've been accused of being a lot of things—charming, brilliant, devilishly handsome—but nervous isn't one of them."

As they descended the stairs, Tony noticed a nondescript black van parked across the street. He didn't think much of it—MIT wasn't exactly in the suburbs—but his genius mind filed it away instinctively.

"So," Tony said, as they walked toward his sleek vintage convertible parked nearby, "Rhodey thinks you're secretly a super-spy or something. Says you're too good to be true."

Cynthia arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, her smile not faltering. "And what do you think?"

Tony opened the car door for her, then paused dramatically. "Well," he said, leaning in slightly, "I think Rhodey spends too much time watching conspiracy movies. But… I wouldn't mind finding out if he's right."

She laughed softly as she slid into the passenger seat, her movements graceful and deliberate. Tony shut the door and walked around to the driver's side, his grin widening. He loved a good mystery—and Cynthia Smith, for all her apparent brilliance and beauty, had an air of intrigue he couldn't resist.

As he started the engine, she turned to him, her smile playful. "Do you always listen to your roommate's dating advice?"

Tony pulled out into the street, the car purring like a contented cat. "Rhodey? Nah. He's just jealous. Guy wishes he had my charm."

Back in the van across the street, the two Hydra operatives watched the convertible pull away. The wiry one, peering through binoculars, shook his head. "How does he do it?"

"Do what?" grunted the broad-shouldered one.

"Make it look so easy. If I tried to pull off half the stuff Stark does, I'd be in traction or prison."

The broad one snorted. "You're not Tony Stark. None of us are. Let's just stick to the job."

In the car, Cynthia turned to Tony, her tone light but with a trace of curiosity. "So, what's the plan for tonight, Mr. Stark?"

"Ah, see, that's where the magic happens," Tony said, winking as he turned a corner. "I like to keep things spontaneous. Keeps life interesting. But I promise you, by the end of the night, you'll be thinking, 'Best date ever.'"

Cynthia leaned back in her seat, her smile never wavering. Inside, she couldn't help but marvel at his natural charisma. It wasn't just his genius or his money—though both were formidable—it was his sheer audacity. Tony Stark was a puzzle, one she intended to solve, piece by piece.

And if she had to break his heart—or his spirit—in the process? Well, that was just part of the job.

"Let's see if you can live up to your own hype, Tony," she said, her tone playful yet challenging.

"Oh, I don't just live up to it," Tony shot back with a cocky grin. "I exceed it."

The car roared down the road, the city lights reflecting off its polished surface, as the game between them began. Neither knew just how dangerous it would become.

—

The vintage convertible rolled to a smooth stop in front of an elegant, modern restaurant tucked between the bustling streets of Boston. Tony hopped out with a practiced flair and was at Cynthia's door before she could even reach for the handle. He opened it with a flourish, extending a hand.

"Dinner's on me. Drinks are optional but strongly encouraged," he quipped, helping her out of the car.

"Such a gentleman," Cynthia teased, accepting his hand.

"Only when it counts," Tony said with a wink, his grin unrelenting as he led her inside.

The maître d' greeted Tony like an old friend, and why wouldn't he? This wasn't Tony's first impromptu reservation at an exclusive eatery. Within minutes, the pair was seated at a private booth near the back, soft jazz playing in the background, the lighting dim and intimate.

Cynthia glanced around. "You don't strike me as a jazz guy, Stark."

Tony leaned back in his chair, smirking. "I contain multitudes. Besides, jazz is like me—unpredictable, smooth, and occasionally misunderstood."

Cynthia chuckled. "I'll give you 'unpredictable.' The rest is still up for debate."

A waiter arrived, handing them menus that might as well have been bound in gold. Tony waved his away.

"Two glasses of your best red, and let's go with the chef's tasting menu," he said, cutting off any protest from Cynthia with a charming smile. "Trust me. You'll love it."

Cynthia raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. She folded her menu and handed it back to the waiter. As the server walked away, she leaned forward slightly, her emerald eyes gleaming. "So, Tony, tell me—what's the catch?"

Tony tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Catch? There's no catch. You're gorgeous, brilliant, and I have impeccable taste. It's a win-win."

"Right," Cynthia said, her smile amused. "The famous Tony Stark charm. But why me? MIT is full of brilliant minds, and I'm sure you've had your pick."

Tony's smirk faltered for a brief moment, replaced by something genuine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Here's the thing," he said, his tone suddenly serious. "You're not like the others. Most people, you can read them in five seconds—what they want, what they're after. But you? You're… complicated."

Cynthia's expression didn't waver, but inwardly, she tensed. She forced a laugh, tilting her head. "Complicated? That's not exactly a compliment."

"Oh, but it is," Tony countered, his grin returning. "I like puzzles. And you? You're a work of art wrapped in a riddle with a side of danger."

"Danger?" Cynthia repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, you are sitting across from me. That's already a risk," Tony said, leaning back with a triumphant smirk.

Cynthia shook her head, laughing softly. "You're impossible."

"Impossible is my middle name," Tony quipped as the waiter returned with their wine.

They clinked glasses, Cynthia smiling faintly as she sipped the red wine, the rich flavor masking the unease brewing beneath her surface.

---

Across the street, the two Hydra operatives sat in their nondescript black van, watching the restaurant through binoculars.

"She's good," the wiry one muttered, lowering his binoculars. "Too good. Stark doesn't even know what's coming."

"Focus," the broad-shouldered operative growled. "We're here to observe, not commentate."

"But doesn't it feel… wrong? Like we're sending a lion to charm a shark?"

The larger operative sighed, checking his watch. "Our orders are clear. Smith gathers intel, we keep our distance. Stark isn't our concern right now."

The wiry one frowned, his curiosity burning. "Yeah, but what happens when he is our concern?"

---

Back in the restaurant, Tony and Cynthia had transitioned into lighter conversation, trading stories. Tony recounted an ill-fated experiment involving Rhodey, a makeshift rocket engine, and a very expensive lab coat.

"So, the fire department shows up, right?" Tony said, laughing. "And Rhodey's standing there, covered in soot, trying to convince them it was all part of the experiment. I swear, if he'd said 'controlled burn' one more time, I would've died laughing."

Cynthia chuckled, shaking her head. "And they just let you off the hook?"

"Well, you know," Tony said, shrugging nonchalantly. "I'm me."

"That explains a lot," Cynthia said dryly, sipping her wine.

"Okay, your turn," Tony said, leaning forward. "Tell me something about you. And don't give me the standard transfer-student spiel. I want the juicy stuff."

Cynthia hesitated, her mind racing. She couldn't exactly share her real background. Instead, she smiled slyly. "Juicy stuff, huh? Well, I'm ambidextrous, I make a mean soufflé, and I've been told I have a killer poker face."

Tony studied her, intrigued. "Poker face, huh? We'll have to test that sometime."

"Maybe," Cynthia said, her smile enigmatic.

The night continued, their banter growing more comfortable, but beneath it all, Cynthia's mind remained sharp, calculating. Tony Stark was a piece on Hydra's chessboard—a piece she couldn't afford to mishandle.

As they left the restaurant, Tony opened the car door for her again, still the picture of charm. Cynthia slid into the seat, her thoughts swirling as she watched him walk around to the driver's side.

She had to admit, Tony Stark was unlike anyone she'd ever met. And that made him all the more dangerous.

—

In the quiet stillness of her chamber, the Ancient One stood before the Orb of Agamotto, her translucent hands hovering over the swirling mists contained within. The scene reflected in the orb wasn't of some apocalyptic battlefield or a mystic confrontation against Dormammu, but rather a modest restaurant in Boston, where Tony Stark and Cynthia Smith sat across from each other, engaged in animated conversation.

Her usual serene expression was tinged with faint curiosity, and perhaps just a sliver of unease. It wasn't often she observed such mundane human interactions, but Tony Stark was no ordinary mortal.

"Even in his youth, he has a gravitational pull," she mused to herself, her tone contemplative. "Stark Industries, the Arc Reactor, the Avengers—his mind, his choices, they ripple across the multiverse."

But this wasn't just idle curiosity. She was watching because, in any timeline, Tony Stark was crucial—an unshakable constant in the battle against Thanos. The snap, the stones, the ultimate sacrifice... these were absolute points in time, unchangeable in the grand calculus of reality.

Yet, her gaze lingered longer than it should have. Cynthia Smith—no, Sinthea Schmidt—was an anomaly, an unexpected variable that the timelines had not accounted for in quite this way. She was Hydra, born of the Red Skull's legacy, and her presence here, entwined with Tony's, was a danger that could not be overstated.

The Ancient One exhaled softly, her golden robes shimmering faintly in the dim light of her chamber. She didn't need the Orb to see what this encounter meant. Cynthia's presence, coupled with Tony's youthful arrogance, could spell disaster.

Her fingers traced delicate patterns over the Orb, fast-forwarding through the timeline just enough to glimpse the immediate possibilities. The futures splintered and wove together, countless outcomes coalescing into one undeniable truth: Tony Stark was in danger.

Her mind turned to Harry Potter, the young sorcerer who had upended so many established patterns of fate simply by existing in this world. With Harry's presence, the timeline had shifted like a river diverted by a rock. Howard and Maria Stark still lived, meaning Tony's journey to becoming Iron Man was now untethered from its original path.

"Would Harry intervene if he knew?" she wondered aloud, her tone thoughtful. Harry had an inherent penchant for meddling, and while his actions often veered into reckless territory, they were guided by a fierce loyalty and determination to protect those he cared about.

But then she shook her head. Tony becoming Iron Man is an absolute point. Without it, the Avengers would never form. The fight against Thanos would crumble before it began. Even if she wanted to, she could not alter this outcome.

Still, it was tempting.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, a rare display of humanity beneath her centuries-old veneer. "You would try to save him, wouldn't you, Harry? If you knew the danger, you would leap in without hesitation. But some things… some burdens cannot be lifted."

She turned her attention back to the orb, the scene shifting as Tony escorted Cynthia back to his car, his charm unwavering. The Ancient One tilted her head, the faintest trace of amusement glimmering in her eyes.

"Of course, Stark, you're still Stark," she murmured. "Even faced with mortal peril, you wouldn't see it. Not yet."

For a brief moment, she considered warning Harry—not to intervene, but to prepare him for the fallout. Yet even that thought was fleeting. Harry's presence had already destabilized the timeline enough; she couldn't risk tipping the scales further.

Instead, she allowed the orb to dim, the images fading into a soft golden glow. Turning away, she moved gracefully through the chamber, her thoughts lingering on the altered paths ahead.

"Much has changed," she whispered to herself. "But the universe has a way of correcting itself."

She clasped her hands behind her back, her gaze distant. Still, I wonder… how much of that correction will be because of Harry Potter?

With that, the Ancient One descended into the depths of Kamar-Taj, her mind both heavy with worry and alight with curiosity. Whatever came next, she would watch closely. The stakes had never been higher, and the pieces on the board were moving faster than ever before.

---

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