Something was off.
Some people might find it ridiculous of him to state without any evidence - especially given that it was the dead of night, his bedroom was pitch black, and he'd just woken up from a disorienting dream in which he and Draco were playing quidditch in Snape's left nostril - but seven years of war and a further fifteen as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's top field Auror had instilled in him the exact instincts and skills for this situation. It was what he was good at, chasing and bringing down criminals, even in his own home, on the strength of his own wits.
Also, his wards were softly jingling in his ears, but mostly that other stuff.
He felt something cold trace the edge of his ear and scowled. What - they couldn't best him in magic so they were going to try this the Muggle way? Hardly a fair fight, he had to say, but if that's what they wanted…
A wiggle of his fingers under the pillow brought his wand to hand, and he was ready.
“I know you're awake, Mr. Potter,” a low, husky voice breathed in his ear, and he felt a slow smile take over his face even as his body reacted. He threw himself upwards, wand flicking out and sending the gun flying across the room, bringing it in an arc to face the intruder. She reared back, unprepared for the movement, toppling back off the bed to land on her knees on the floor, but she recovered quickly and even before Harry had finished his motion she had another gun out, pointed at his head, leaving them facing off, weapon-to-weapon.
“Who are you?” Harry demanded, non-verbally lighting his wand, eyes taking as much of her in as they could in the dimness. Dark hair - a deep, sultry red, if he was to guess, from the way it gleamed brown. Hooded eyes watched him impassively, set above a nose that would be too impossibly perfect if not for the smallest gathering of cartilage on the bridge where it had been repeatedly broken. His Aurors wore that same mark from times when their episkeys were too shoddy or magic had been unavailable and they'd had to fix it by hand in the field. Subtle enough that a civilian might not notice, or it could be missed if unexpected, but she had broken into his house - his well-guarded, well-warded house - and so he'd been looking for signs of a professional.
More indications lay in her clothing, a black bodysuit with grey highlights to blend into the shadows, covering her hands and feet and neck until the only other distinguishing features on her were masked, and Harry only got the impression of a sleek, toned form with impressive musculature.
Ignoring how his blood was heating (he was a bloke, after all, and what appeared to be the world's sexiest woman was in his bedroom - nobody would react any different), he moved his gaze back up to her face, where he saw she was scrutinising him just as closely.
“You are Harry Potter?” she asked in a langorous way, as if they'd just met at a bar. “‘The Chosen One’?”
Even under these circumstances, Harry couldn't stop the grimace that crossed his face at that bloody title. “Right, that's me. Who're you?”
She relaxed her grip on the gun minutely, but Harry didn't drop his wand. He knew all about bluffing, wasn’t going to fall for that one. “Natasha Romanov,” she introduced herself, short and to the point, without any unnecessary faffing. “I am a friend of Darcy Lewis.”
Darcy Lewis? Ron's Darcy? The woman with the comic books and the little bobble-hats who was always making them cupcakes and was, to all appearances, completely and totally harmless? She was friends with this woman?
Romanov watched the thoughts flick across his face and her lips twitched into a facsimile of a smile. “I need your help.”
“Funny way to ask for it,” Harry grumbled, self-consciously pulling the sheet up his bare chest as he relaxed his wand hand. Not much, just enough that he had some movement. This whole situation was uncomfortable enough without the constant threat of death, thanks. Besides, despite how Ron could be a complete and utter idiot at times, he's managed not to get Harry killed for over twenty years now - he wouldn't break that streak for a girl. “What can I possibly help you with?”
She stood up in a single graceful movement, her limbs all stretching to their full length, and he saw with some consternation that she was his height, if not taller.
“You have experience disposing of things of great value.” A statement, rather than a question. He nodded, despite this fact. Beginning with Horcruxes and the Deathly Hallows, he and Hermione had run a cosy sideline in getting rid of potentially dangerous artefacts for years: cursed items not even the most accomplished curse-breakers could neutralise; items of prophecy that no one fancied falling into the wrong hands; even a misplaced governmental missile or two whenever Hermione deigned to pick up MI6's calls, which wasn't terribly frequently. Difficult jobs that worked to satisfy that craving for action inside of him, the part that cried out for danger.
That part that had women (-and men, in Hermione's case, which was what had driven her to date some Chaos God from who knows where-) running in the opposite direction. Hence the inexplicably strong reaction he was having to the scary possible-assassin in his bedroom.
Romanov nodded once, and then, in that brisk, Slavic way he would come to learn she had, threw a pair of jeans on the bed. “Get dressed,” she ordered, already walking from the room after another lingering once-over - and if he didn't know any better, he'd suspect she liked what she saw. “We have a job for you.”
“So…” Harry looked from the spy sitting across his kitchen table, down to the giant metal glove laying on the surface, benignly. “This is the Infinity Gauntlet.”
“Yes.”
“And you - meaning you, the Avengers, the American government and basically the whole world, including some aliens, too - need me to destroy it?”
“Yes.” She was looking at him impatiently, as if she'd expected them to be finished by now. “Well?”
“Well…” It would be difficult. A bit beyond his expertise, this intergalactic super-device or whatever it was meant to be. She'd given him a synopsis, though he had to admit he'd stopped listening, too mesmerised by the shapes her lips formed as she spoke. Really, how was a bloke meant to get work done with that sitting across from him? And it was only - he checked the clock - three in the morning. Indisputably, he was not at his best. “It'll take some time.”
“We had best start soon, then,” she said easily.
It turned out that figuring out how to destroy the glove wasn't that difficult, because there was precedent. Harry and Natasha - she allowed him to call her Natasha now, after only forty-three straight hours locked in a room together doing research, score - had decided to take it apart and spread the pieces around the world, hidden away in tombs and collapsed mines. Then, with the gem-toting knuckles, Harry had had a masterstroke of an idea.
“You're joking,” had been Natasha's response, flat in tone and expression.
“You'll see,” Harry had replied, whimsical to cover his fear.
No, battering and destroying the various pieces of the glove had been relatively easy. It was the endless stream of villains attempting to get their hands on it before they could complete their task that was the real pain in the arse.
“Are they-”
“Giant, mutant scorpions led by a man made up of eighty-percent robot parts, twenty-percent jelly? Why, yes. Yes, they are.”
Luckily, Natasha was as unflappable as it was physically possible to be without also being dead, and that, paired with his power and her skill, managed to keep them alive as they dropped fingers into volcanoes, earthquake ruptures, beneath glaciers and, on one notable occasion, on top of a particularly dense passing cloud. Sure, that's not where they'd meant to put it, but they'd been on Harry's broomstick and Natasha had been uneasy, especially when they'd hit a headwind - not to mention the Ridgeback hunting them from the rear - the jerking of the wood beneath them had been too much to bear, and she'd wrapped those long, deadly legs of hers around his waist from behind like a vice. He'd been too intent on not embarrassing himself to notice the damn thing dropping. Later, he claimed it had been on purpose.
Eventually, after a few weeks of sneaking out to destroy the gauntlet whenever they had free time, they were left with the knuckles. Harry had been keeping them in his pocket; used to having Dark Artifacts on his person, the remaining piece of the gauntlet was comparatively benevolent. They'd arranged to meet at midnight, an auspicious time for the remaining part of their errand, and Harry had to run directly from work as a case got a new break that had him working overtime. His cloak hurriedly flung over one shoulder, he lurched for the visitor's exit the second his paperwork was finished, rushing to the surface.
He didn't see her at first, dark as the night was, but she detached herself from the shadows she wore like a second skin as he stepped outside. “Ready?” she asked. He'd managed to coax her into actual conversation at multiple points over the past month or so, but as a rule she was a woman of few words, which was fine by Harry. Most of the time, he spoke enough for the both of them, and when he finally figured out that it didn't mean she didn't like him, it had become even more comfortable to be around her. Well, as comfortable as one could be spending time with someone who no doubt knew ten ways to kill you using only a fingernail, but Harry kind of liked that about her.
Liked a lot about her, actually. She wasn’t at all like any woman he’d ever known, and most of the time he found himself floundering, but once you got past the calm, capable exterior, you found a sharp, dry wit and a touchingly feminine side that, just as much as her looks or her terrifying skillset, enamoured him to her.
“Yeah. You sure you want to…” he held his arm out in question, to which she gave a stuttering blink he recognised as a stalled roll of her eyes.
“Hurry up, Potter. We don’t have all night.”
Smiling, he prepared himself for her touch as he always did, steeling against the the sparks that flickered up his arm where she touched him. Her jaw twitched, a mixture of nerves and the responding reaction on her side, and he pressed just that tiniest bit closer in reassurance. She hated Apparation, though she’d never said so - the loss of control was painful to her, and he was always honoured that she’d trust him with herself in this way.
They disappeared from the cold, smoggy London street to reappear in a frigid, icy field somewhere in North Scotland. Around them, flurries of snow fell, wind whipping them into beautiful, spiralling tornadoes. Starlight made them glitter, the air full of their song, and Harry wished, for a moment, that they could be here for some other reason, on a different night.
He led Natasha forward, following the wail of the wind, the quiet humming of voice on the air. Wards rippled across his skin, attempting to rip Natasha from his grip, but he pushed on, keeping her arm locked in his. All at once, he was released, and he and Natasha were stood directly before an elaborately carved stone archway.
Natasha froze on his arm, eyes wide. “It’s…”
“Beautiful,” Harry acknowledged, watching moonlight filter through the veil, blurring. Words were sang from within, calming, soothing. He was a friend of Death, now; it held no fear for him. He wasn’t lured in. It wasn’t his time.
“Beautiful,” Natasha agreed. She, too, was Death's intimate.
Harry rustled his cloak, pulling the final, tarnished piece of metal from within. “Are you ready?”
“Are you?” she countered. When he nodded, she amended her question to, “Will it work?”
He took a deep, long breath at that, opting not to reply when the only response he could find was it worked for Sirius. Instead, he handed the strip over to Natasha, who was studying his face intently.
“You can do the honours,” he smiled, though it was a little wobbly. So much for ‘friend of Death’. He'd not seen the veil since he'd supervised its removal from the Ministry, and it seemed he was more unnerved than he'd realised.
She blinked, all compassion wiped from her face when she turned it down to the gauntlet.
It only took a second to pick it up and whip it through the veil, her arm flashing white, the curtain rippling greedily as it passed. Then they turned, silent, and made their way from the warded area with sighs of relief.
Harry stopped, watching the storm pick up, a thought occurring to him. That was the last of it. Mission complete. No more Natasha…
Beside him, Natasha turned her face up to the sky, her eyes closed, porcelain skin shining. As he watched, holding his breath, a single, perfect snowflake landed on her cheekbone and melted into nothingness. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she said, absently.
“Is it?” His voice was lower than usual, gravelly, and she smirked.
“Got a Christmas wish?” she asked, surprisingly mischievously. “I'll grant you one. As a thank-you.”
A slightly breathy, surprised laugh escaped as he turned to her. “Anything?”
“Within reason.” Shockingly coquettish, her eyes - green, like his, which should remind him of his mum but managed to be so, totally anathema to everything Lily Potter that it wasn't a problem - grinned, even if her mouth never would.
Taking a chance, he brought a hand up, slightly numb from cold but not so much that it didn't buzz with her closeness when he cupped her chin. More snow, less delicate, blew across the space between them, but Harry wasn't noticing that anymore, was past such earthly concerns.
Kissing Natasha was unlike kissing any other woman. Soft and chaste, then more daring, he drank her up with all the barely restrained longing of the past few weeks. “Merlin,” he managed to gasp out, against her lips, she smirked, and then -
“Ow! Ow, ow!” Cold! Wet! A whole army of snowflakes seemed to be attacking his face, Natasha had detached herself, and he couldn't see her, but there was someone laughing -
-Natasha laughing.
He froze, listening to the sound as it bobbed and weaved through the air, like music, like magic, and he laughed, too.
Yeah, like Hades was he ever letting go of this woman.