Summary: You can be forced to pick sides, what's right, what's easier. Your innocence can be torn from you in slow, cruel and unusual ways. If it makes you feel better, you can let yourself believe you're breathing, even if you're struggling to. But nothing will ever be the same again.

Warnings: Language, as always, and violence/torture on down the road. Rating will go up.

From Em's Notes: Well well, if it isn't a) a new way of formatting my long ass intros and b) the AU that everyone does but has never done like this. Wink. I've honestly been the biggest Harry Potter buff all my life — my entire elementary school years were spent obsessing over these books during the week and on the weekends, playing with the Neighborhood Kids (what we called ourselves, I didn't choose our name guys) in what I suppose were our own Harry Potter AUs. I actually formulated this idea around a year ago and have neglected it, of course, but it's one of those ideas that has never truly gone away. Huge mega shoutout to my love Drew, who helped me from everything from sorting our favorite characters to ironing out the wrinkles but hasn't seen a word of this story — don't know how or why she puts up with me, but she does and I remain grateful. This is a Marauders era fic, solely so I'd have as much range with this as I so desired and I could get as dark as I wanted to. And I like dark. Also, some of these characters are going to start in pretty far off places from where we see them in the MCU and such (except for AOU because I don't even know what that is) but please bear with me, I know what I'm doing. Eventual Clintasha. Welcome to the longest prologue of your life, and I genuinely hope that you all enjoy this story as much as I have. Reviews are beyond appreciated.

Prologue: These Are Dark Times

He never really recognized her until third year. Before that, it had mostly been association by roll call and the red flames for hair, and that was about as far as Clint's knowledge of Natasha Romanoff went. He was pretty sure if asked, she'd say the same about him, if that much. Being a Slytherin, she didn't really waste her time with anyone who wasn't of the same blood status as her. She was a nasty bitch, Romanoff; prejudiced and blood-obsessed just like the lot of her housemates. It was a shame, he often thought, when he'd see her shooting dirty glares at groups of kids just because of the entitlement she assumed came with the green scarf draped around her neck. Clint, a half-blood himself, wasn't too concerned about getting on her bad side. She might have been talented in DADA, but he was pretty quick with a defense charm or two. Besides, it wasn't like she noticed him.

God forbid Natasha Romanoff notice anyone who wasn't a pure blood.

In third year however, his knowledge of Natasha Romanoff expanded slightly, including the descriptive words of 'bitch', 'tormentor', and more or less, 'evil'. She was nasty, and not just the nasty that he'd figured her to be, with her shooting glares at kids. She was the kind of girl who hexed people for a good laugh, alongside some of the brutes that accompanied her in Slytherin. Clint didn't realize it until a few of the fourth years came stumbling into the Gryffindor common room one night whilst doing his homework.

"Well, it's definitely a stinging jinx to the face," one of the boys mused.

"Who did you say did it, kid?"

Now completely eavesdropping, Clint swiveled around in his seat to see two of the more brawny kids lie a rather scrawny one down on the couch. "Mm, I don't remember," came the voice of the boy whom they'd stretched out, his voice quiet. "It was a girl though. Red hair."

"Natasha," Clint found himself saying, out loud at that. All of the heads in the room, minus that of the kid lying down, snapped up to where he was. "Natasha Romanoff? Third year? Slytherin?"

"Does she have—"

"Red hair, yeah, loads of it," Clint replied to the rather cut fourteen year old blonde in front of him. "Hear she's pretty talented when it comes to hexes, she's the best in our Defense class."

Grabbing him by the hand, the blonde boy dragged him away from his homework and over to the couch where some of the boys were trying their best to help comfort the small kid through the side effect of the stinging jinx since there was hardly anything to do but wait for it to subside. Natasha didn't miss; she'd gotten him square in the face. "Can you make anything of this?" the blonde asked him again.

Clint nodded. "Definitely Natasha, she doesn't seem like the type to miss." Kneeling down beside the couch, Clint stretched his arm out over the arm of it. "What's your name?" he asked the boy on the couch.

"Steve," he mumbled into his hands that were currently holding his face. "Steve Rogers."

"Did you piss Romanoff off that bad or something? I don't think I've ever seen her do this much damage without a reason," Clint said, mostly to himself.

"Natasha doesn't need a reason; blood status is her reason." The uncomfortable realization settled in the pit of Clint's stomach. Right, she would be into the whole pure blood mania. By the looks of the hex, he couldn't have been a pure blood, or even a half blood at that. It wasn't Clint making his stupid assumptions, as Pepper would call it, but rather, more of an educated guess. Letting the breath he didn't realize that he'd been holding fall past his lips in a sigh, Clint sat back on his knees.

"Don't worry kid, we'll take care of you." Steve however, was already fast asleep.

Thor, the muscly blonde, and Clint both befriended each other, as well as Steve from that moment on. Despite the interesting age gap between the three of them–Thor a fourth year, Clint in third and Steve in second–they managed to slowly appreciate each other's company and the support that came along with it.

Clint confronted Natasha two days after sleeping in a chair down in the common room with Steve and Thor, making sure that Steve didn't do anything stupid and that the stinging jinx went down–which it had, but not for a long few hours without sleep on Clint's part. He'd been livid when he saw her sitting by the large tree out in the courtyard, drawing his wand from his cloak in record time as he stomped over to where she and her friends were, all surrounding a book and laughing. "Find something funny?" he interjected coldly. Natasha's head lifted, her green eyes wicked.

"I don't know," she said just as icily, slamming the book shut. "Mind informing me of what it is we find funny?" One of her eyebrows risen and a slight smirk on her face, she stood up.

"You know what I'm talking about," Clint growled. "A stinging jinx? Very classy."

"Oh," she coincided, feigning innocence in a tone of voice that reminded Clint vaguely of poisoned honey. "You're talking about that scrawny little Mudblood."

"Do not call him that."

Tossing her head over her shoulder to snicker with her friends, she locked eyes with Clint, a wayward smile slapped over her lips and the nasty glint still in her green eyes. "Did he send his boyfriend to come and stick up for him?" she scoffed.

Jabbing his wand forcefully into the cavity of her chest, Clint stepped a bit closer. "I'm not afraid to hex you into oblivion."

"I'd love to see you try," she purred, her voice dripping with malice as she drew her own wand from the pockets of her robe and pressed the tip lightly to his chest, barely touching. Delicate, she was, but not a damn thing delicate about her. "Next time, I won't hex the Mudblood, I'll be sure to get his great protector." With that, Natasha turned on her heel and strode away from him, the flames she had for hair following after her.

That was the moment that Clint Barton knew that he hated Natasha Romanoff with every fiber of his being.

• • •

Fourth year was the year of the werewolf, as far as Clint was concerned. He, Thor, and Steve had all become what they nicknamed themselves as the Three Brothers, a nod to the old tale of the Deathly Hallows (something that had to be explained to Steve when Thor's booming pureblood mouth brought it up) and they'd all managed to make some more friends themselves outside of their house. Clint and Pepper Potts, whom he always jokingly called Virginia seeing as how she hated the name, had been friends since childhood and she'd managed to find her way into the boys' dynamic. Along with her, she brought the quiet and almost-as-awkward-as-Steve-but-not-quite Bruce Banner who slipped into their brotherhood pretty easily. It was simple; Bruce understood Potions better than anyone, and they were all grasping for straws. And regardless of the fact that he came from a different house, he was the same year as Clint and Pepper, and it was nice to finally have a guy friend who was the same age as him.

Whenever she hung out with them, Pepper would always forget she was hanging around a group of boys, slip and begin talking about her larger than life crush on Tony Stark. Ah, Tony, one of the finest Slytherin had to offer. He was something like a legend around the castle; what with his quick wit, capability of losing forty points and gaining fifty all over the course of one class, and his intellect in general, it was evident why Pepper liked him so much. He was a Ravenclaw with the demeanor of a Slytherin, probably the whole reason he was sorted there.

Usually, with the mentioning of Tony Stark brought in an entirely new, differently targeted conversation towards none other than Natasha Romanoff. Most girls got more beautiful when they got older, Clint figured, but Natasha just got more spiteful. She was worse than she was last year, always harassing first years–even if they came from her own house, so she'd obviously ignored her own 'Omit the Slytherins' guideline when she went on her rounds. Everything that she did, she did with a sugary sweet smile on her face, so sweet that it was nauseating. Those eyes were still wild though, just like her hair. And her tongue, for that matter, because every time Clint overheard her berating someone, it was usually sharp as a whip. She was a clever girl, Natasha; horribly twisted, but clever. Clint also couldn't help but to notice that for some reason, she was always hanging around Thor's brother, Loki; and god, was Loki worse than Natasha.

Clint liked to believe that there was no way in hell that someone like Thor and then someone like Loki could share the same blood. It was impossible. Loki was every definition of the word evil, even more so than Natasha. He was always taunting kids, preaching about a pureblood society in that entitled and regal voice of his—something about the Odinson boys was that they always talked like they had waltzed straight out of one of Shakespeare's plays—and shooting these deadly glares at the Gryffindor table every chance he got.

When Clint asked Thor about it one morning at breakfast, he'd shrugged. "My brother claims I am a traitor for spending my time with you lot, for he thinks the status of one's blood determines the kind of company they keep," he said, talking through a mouthful of waffle.

Clint rolled his eyes. "He needs to get his head out of his ass and look around at the people he calls good company," he muttered, head nodding in the direction of the Slytherin table. "I mean, seriously?"

"He and Natasha are spending an awful lot of time together," Steve noted, and Clint groaned loudly.

"Match made in heaven, don't you think?"

"If Loki's intentions for her go past a mere companionship, he hasn't made them known to me."

Clint smiled dryly. "Well, if you ask me, it's kind of hard to have just a mere companionship with someone like Natasha, what with her idea of having a good time being rehearsing Unforgivables." Taking a bite of the stack of waffles in front of him, Clint waved his fork around. "And besides, when was the last time Loki told you anything?"

This much was true, and their table knew it. It was more of a rhetorical question; being friends with Thor for a year now meant that they had an abundant knowledge on Loki and his ever-frustrating tendencies. If Thor was the middle of the day, Loki was the dead of night. Secretive, cunning, and completely misleading — the perfect recipe for the perfect stereotypical Slytherin. The two brothers couldn't be any farther apart on a spectrum, and they'd grown apart, no rhyme or reason to it. Thor seemed to lived in a perpetual state of denial, failing to see what the rest of them saw in Loki. They saw a fast track Death Eater, whereas Thor still saw the little dark haired boy whom he spent most of his childhood attached at the hip of, flying toy brooms in the backyard and sneaking up past their bedtime.

Thor gave them a half-hearted shrug and dunked a spoon into his porridge.

Loki and Natasha were a bad idea on their own, and a downright terror when lumped together. Vicious, they were; they were the ones who left a nasty taste in the mouth of anyone who wasn't a Slytherin and didn't already have fair reason to cower away from the emerald green scarves and their equally piercing glares when they came gliding down the halls. Those two were notorious for instigating, Natasha the more direct of the two. If Clint had a Sickle for every time that he saw that malicious glint dancing in her eyes or heard her practicing hexes underneath her breath in class, he'd be bloody rich. And if he had a Sickle for every time Natasha tried to rile him up in particular, he'd own the half of London.

Ever since that day in third year when he'd confronted her after leaving Steve to groan in pain from her Stinging Jinx square between the eyes, she went above and beyond to make his life a living hell — or at least, the parts where she was present. She hadn't hexed him like she swore that day on the grounds, but Merlin, did she try her hardest to make him want to point the wand at his own head out of relieving himself from the misery. She was a bitch, Romanoff, plain and simple. And unfortunately, she was predictable. Find a weak target, hone in, and fire until they're all but extinguished.

It was what she did with Bruce, anyways, and made an already messy situation into a disaster zone. It was her talent.

Bruce was one of the more kept to Ravenclaws, even if Clint only knew of a few aside from him and Pepper. Rarely did he join them at their table for meals as his head was usually tucked away in a book, and when he did, he hardly piped up in the conversation unless someone addressed him directly or he saw a point that needed his gentle correction. So Clint didn't quite understand why Romanoff had zeroed in on someone he hadn't figured was even on her radar and went after him ruthlessly. The scathing looks, the dodging hexes, the holing up in Ravenclaw Tower during any spare second that Pepper found herself so disheartened by, it was all a tell tale sign of being tormented by the red head. Clint's teeth were grinding away to the gum, seeing red every time she strolled past without a care on her shoulders and a white knuckled grip on the wand in his coat pocket. Yet another person in his life that was being subjected to Natasha's torture and at any moment, he'd reach his breaking point. And it didn't take long before she crossed over the line in one swift step.

Clint had retreated up to the library, a much better place to tackle the winding Muggle Studies essay that had been assigned than the common room, where most of the other Gryffindors tended to let the excitement of conversation get the better of their volume. His attention span was relatively short, especially when it came to something as dreadfully boring as Muggle Studies. So, in his quest for an abandoned table, it didn't take much for him to be derailed by the telltale sounds of an argument brewing.

"What the fuck did you do to me?"

"I, I don't know what you're talking about," stammered the other voice.

"I mean this." Rounding the corner, Clint was treated to the sight of a petite girl with flames for hair scrunched over Bruce, holding up her sweater as he looked on in horror. "I can't even sit down without the stitches ripping."

"Sit differently?"

The growl that ripped from her throat was loud enough that Clint could hear it from several feet away. "You think this is funny? You're the one who did this to me."

"And you shouldn't have been where you're not supposed to!" Bruce finally snapped. "There's a reason the Shrieking Shack is off limits."

"That doesn't change the fact that I've got a gash the size of the Great Lake on my stomach!"

"You're not an idiot, Natasha, you know what happens. I can't tell you from Professor Fury, whatever happened to you is on your head." Clint had never heard Bruce's voice so clipped; it was crystal-clear that whatever they were arguing about, he wasn't budging.

She shook her head, leaning into a dangerous proximity towards Bruce. "I swear to Merlin, if I end up becoming some kind of dog like you—"

Gently setting his things down on the empty table next to Bruce's, he walked over with fires lighting underneath his feet. "Bruce?" he asked rather loudly, both Bruce and Natasha's heads snapping in his direction. Bruce, still pale, seemed relieved in Clint's newfound presence, and Natasha's eyes were crackling with electricity. She was pissed.

"Oh look, the great protector returns," she sneered, putting a bit more distance between her and Bruce as she straightened up. Natasha's arms folded over her chest, a clear mock at being curious. "Are you just that drawn to me?"

"Get lost."

"Ah-ah," she sang condescendingly. "I was here first, and I've got a little business to take up with Moony here."

Clint was stiff as a board. "I don't think you heard me," he repeated, a dangerous feat. "I said get lost."

Instead of moving, her eyes ravaged over Clint, the realization settling over her features. "You don't know what he is, do you?" Natasha asked, her voice in a genuine tone of surprise. Clint's face never changed shape, instead kept steady at burning holes into her eyes. She leaned away. "Bloody hell, you don't."

"Natasha—"

"Shut up, mutt," she spat over her shoulder at Bruce, who at this point, was silently praying that she would leave — or that he would be swallowed by the ground whole.

In one swift moment, his wand was out of his cloak and in the grasp of his balled up fist, pointed directly at the cavity of her chest. "Keep talking, Romanoff, find out where it gets you."

Natasha took a quick glance over at Bruce before her eyes directed back to Clint, sweeping over his face and looking for any small crack that might reveal a weakness. "You'd better hope I don't become one of you," she finally warned, intended for Bruce. "Because if I do, I'm killing you first."

She bumped Clint's shoulder forcefully as she navigated past him and out of the library. Bruce was studying the carpet intently when Clint took a seat next to him, and the sigh that escaped him the moment Clint demanded to know what that was all about was tired. It wasn't a secret — any demeaning conversation in which Natasha was doing the demeaning was enough to drain a person.

Bruce resignedly explained what had happened a few nights previous. Natasha and a few of her friends had all thought it a great idea to sneak out to the Shrieking Shack, which had been placed off limits by the Headmaster ever since they were first years. Bruce had been there as well, and once they realized that they weren't alone, they'd decided to make a little fun out of his presence, taunting and tormenting him just as they were known for. However, what they hadn't quite picked up on was that Bruce was there for a reason, and it didn't take much for them to throw a match on a powder keg. Bruce had ended up lashing out, and had hurt Natasha in the process, leaving her a little freaked and a lot of angry.

"So why were you there?" he finally asked, after all was said and done. "Why were you hiding out in the Shrieking Shack?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Clint blinked a few times in response, his answer spoken loud and clear. Bruce sighed. Clearly, things went right over Clint's head and all of the palpable hints — Natasha's derogatory terms, the fact that the past weekend had been a full moon and there was no other reason to seek refuge in the Shrieking Shack of all places — weren't enough. "I'm a werewolf."

That had resulted in a few ticks of silence, but finally, Clint gave a halfhearted shrug. "Okay," he said calmly.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Bruce was puzzled by this, judging by the telltale look on his face. "So…you're not…you know, you're not—" He was stammering for the right words, looking for a word to put to whatever he'd expected Clint to feel, but it wasn't necessary. Clint already knew his answer.

"Why would I be?"

That was the end of that conversation.

It was still evident something wasn't settling well with Bruce, and the only plausible option was still the Natasha issue. Even though she was the nastiest bitch Hogwarts had had to offer, there was something with her that had crawled underneath his skin. Didn't take long to figure it out, either. "You feel bad about it?" Clint asked, and he could see the answer written across Bruce's face as he tilted his head in response.

He did. That was Bruce's character; he'd regret it if he accidentally stepped on the coattails of a ghost. "Don't."

"Don't?"

"Yeah," Clint insisted, Bruce's face twisting up in confusion. "Whatever you…the other guy, whoever did to her, she deserved it. Serves her right for making everyone else suffer over the past four years."

"Unlike her, Clint, I don't actually enjoy hurting people. I feel bad about it whenever it happens. I don't want for it to happen; why else would I subject myself to hiding out in the Shrieking Shack every full moon? Not because I want to, that's for sure."

"You just got the first taste of what kind of karma's coming around to bite her in the ass," Clint reassured his friend, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. The Grim is awaiting her in her tea leaves."

That was how Natasha Romanoff got a thin scar stretching across her lower abdomen, and when Clint Barton realized he'd never wanted someone — her — to die more in that moment than he did.

• • •

Fifth year was the year everything changed.

Clint and his friends were entering exam years, all except for Steve who was probably blessing whatever lucky star out there. Clint had started shaving over the summer. Pepper, who had always preferred a more natural look, now began to experiment with makeup that made her look almost like a girl. Thor's voice mirrored that of Professor Fury's, it was so deep. Fifth year was the year that they'd swiftly shut the door on their childhood and entered the later stages of adolescence. Hell, Clint almost felt like he was an adult at this point. Things were different at Hogwarts too; the aura in the halls was much heavier than it had ever been, and it was almost like someone had flipped a switch. People whispered more than they laughed, the bands of friends were so tight they were exclusive, and the light in the castle made things look more of an olive-tone than their usual warm grey.

The only thing that had stayed constant, unfortunately, was Natasha Romanoff. Her red hair now fell down behind her back in waves, her green eyes still feral. She had slimmed out, her cheekbones prominent and her hands thin and dainty. The teenage boy in Clint told him that she was attractive, much more attractive than she'd been the past few years, beautiful even —and then the sane side of Clint told him that roses had thorns sharp enough to pierce an artery, if they were impaled hard enough.

He'd assumed she was evil when she hexed Steve in the face, or tormented Bruce over their incident in the Shrieking Shack, or had pushed first years down the stairs, or had even kicked a puppy (the last was an exaggeration, but wasn't something he'd put past her doing) but he hadn't seen evil. Not until fifth year.

Romanoff was lethal. In DADA, which they of course had with Slytherin, he thought many a times she was actually trying to murder him. All of it done with a venomous smile on her face, of course, and nothing less.

Her boyfriend — this was confirmed by Thor, who said that she'd spent an awful lot of time at their house over summer holiday — was even more of a nightmare than he had been in previous years, but it, like all things, had risen to a new altitude. Loki was dark in the same way that Thor resembled that of a golden retriever. It was a genuine darkness that followed him, not some joking, spitefulness that Natasha carried on her shoulders. If she was a storm cloud, then Loki was black nothingness.

Thor worried about him a lot, to say the least, despite being the younger of the two and being aware that there was virtually nothing he could do to sway him.

The tables seemed to grow emptier as the year went on. It was the elephant in the room; war was stirring around them and it wasn't going to slow down for anything. It was going to keep building, tensions heightening, more and more missing slots at the tables and in class and even in the dormitories. It was the science of the thing — people were getting finicky, nerves coiled tight and bound to lash back at any given moment.

If anything, it made Clint more grateful for his friends.

Sprawled out on the couch in the Gryffindor common room one evening, with Steve and Thor on opposite sides of the fireplace in their respective places — Steve on the floor and Thor in the armchair — the ghost of a smile faded onto Clint's lips. "This really is going to be the year where things stop feeling like they do, aren't they?" he muttered wistfully.

Steve's eyes were sad as he stared back at him, but it was Thor's voice that answered his question. "Oh, I think it does not matter how things feel," he protested. "As long as we are within each other's company, we can take on anything that dares to step in our path!"

Clint blinked a few times after that motivational statement. A lopsided smirk started to reveal itself as he spoke. "Do you ever not talk like you're a runaway from the Shakespeare festival?" He and Steve both erupted into laughter, Thor's face falling slightly before he joined in the melody.

When their laughter had faltered, Steve filled the silence with his own comments. "I think everyone knows it," he admitted. "It's inevitable that something's coming."

"Godric knows as much, my NEWTs will be the death—"

"Not that." Steve's expression was blank in response to Thor's attempt at lightening the mood.

"So what do you think it is, Rogers?" Clint asked.

The younger boy shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. But something, whatever it is, is out there, and it's coming for all of us."

"Puberty?" Thor tried again, and the two others rolled their eyes.

"Seriously, Thor."

"You think it's something like…war?" The word was a nail in the coffin within itself, and even Thor's jokey manner couldn't have brought any life back to the conversation. It was serious, it was heavy, and it was the truth. It had been the storm cloud rumbling in the distance, and while it was still awhile away, rain was coming and it was going to come down hard. Clint swallowed hard, trying to rid his mouth of the taste a word like 'war' had left. He hadn't lived through any wars, himself — his grandfather had at some point and talked about those days during bedtime stories, but it sure wasn't something he was lining himself up to experience firsthand.

Steve's face twisted up, pondering the thought. It took him a moment, but when he spoke, he spoke softly and carefully, like every word had been meticulously chosen. "I think that whatever it is, it's going to have sides."

"Sides? Elaborate," Thor insisted.

"There's two sides to a coin, two sides to just about everything," he explained. "And whatever this is, it'll have sides too. It all comes down to what's right or what's easier."

One thing was for sure — that was the year Clint knew that if something was coming for him, he'd pick his friends. He'd pick his friends a thousand times before he picked to cut a corner.

• • •

Sixth year? Sixth year was the year in which Clint Barton found himself sitting opposite Professor Coulson, eyes bugging out of his head at what he'd dared to suggest.

"You want me to what?" he repeated, dumbfounded. The words that had just fallen from Coulson's lips had to be a joke. There was no way it wasn't a joke, the idea of it was so outrageous that it was comical.

"Tutor, Barton."

Clint leaned back in his chair, his hands thrown up in the air in defeat. "No. Absolutely not. Anyone but her."

The professor's face twisted into a grimace. "Well, unfortunately for you, I don't get to pick the student that needs your assistance, and my asking was rhetorical."

Of course it was.

According to the head of Gryffindor House, he'd been — er, nominated, to tutor one of the students in Slytherin in Muggle Studies. Muggle Studies was, by no means the most thrilling subject Hogwarts had to offer, but rather a course that dealt with memorization of random facts. And if there was anything Clint knew how to do, it was memorize the arbitrary. Apparently, his marks were on the brighter end of the spectrum and that he was the only person Coulson trusted enough to refer to Fury, someone who would 'get the job done and get it right'. The assumption was that one of the younger students in Slytherin needed the help; even knowing the trick around Muggle Studies wouldn't have been enough for Coulson to offer up Clint as bait.

But, as most things went, it wasn't what Clint had anticipated in all. In fact, it was the complete opposite.

Instead of some second year who was struggling, it was Natasha bloody Romanoff. That nearly knocked him into the floor, had he not been sitting he knew that he probably would have stumbled at the revelation. Natasha Romanoff, one of the brightest students — he wasn't one to compliment Romanoff on anything, but if she was smart enough to know how to kill him numerous ways she had to have some light on upstairs — and also one of the ones who would prefer to see his head on a stake than on top of his shoulders, needed help in Muggle Studies? No. It didn't make sense. And the fact that she'd even brought into it had completely turned him off to the idea.

"What in Merlin's name does she even need Muggle Studies for anymore?" he found himself grumbling. "It's a bloody elective."

"I didn't ask Fury the details behind her predicament, I merely asked what subject and who the student was. And what time would work for you, since he knew Natasha's schedule." That made total sense, Natasha was Fury's lapdog. It wasn't a secret, either. Favorite student in DADA, favorite house occupant, favorite student on the grounds, hell, she was his favorite student that there'd ever been, really.

Clint swallowed the obscenities down, around the newly formed knot in his throat. "With all due respect, sir," he said, his voice strangled. "I don't know why you and Professor Fury are even friends."

Coulson gave a thin lipped smile. "You'd be surprised at the company a person keeps."

He slouched a little farther in his chair, sighing resignedly. "No getting out of this, sir?"

The sad smile on Professor Coulson's face, said it all, really.

And that was how Clint found himself tutoring, of all people, Natasha Romanoff.

It was a nightmare the first two times they met up. He knew that he was there for tutoring purposes and tutoring purposes only, but Merlin, did he want to just grill her like a filet. Clint wanted to know everything; what her true motives were, why she of all people was taking Muggle Studies, why she wanted to see him dead, or maybe even take his own form of vengeance since she was now the one under his jurisdiction and duel her all the way into next Thursday, but he refrained from doing so. Instead, he just told her what do do, explained the things he needed to explain, and prayed that she wouldn't take some of the spare time to rehearse Unforgivables.

But she rarely spoke, which had taken Clint by surprise. Usually, she would take any opportunity to bite his head off with those snake fangs of hers, or at least jump at the chance to hex him while he was off guard, but she didn't say a word. Not unless it was to mumble something about the incompetency of Muggles — nothing short of her usual, or to ask what a certain thing was that she didn't quite grasp. And when she didn't get something and asked him for help, it usually sparked an argument. The closer they got to ending of the session, the more tension that had spread over the room.

Typically, he left with a migraine after the screaming match and almost-draw of the wands that they ended their tutoring sessions on a note with.

The third time, however, was definitely more interesting.

Realizing that their dinner hour was almost up and that downtime was about to begin was a dreaded feeling, and he expressed so with a loud groan. That caught the attention of Steve, who was sitting next to him. "Everything alright, Barton?" he asked.

Thor could tell by the look on his face what awaited him, a smirk crawling over his lips and a chuckle emerging from his chest. "He's off to go tutor the she-demon," he mused.

"Don't remind me."

Steve winced. "How much longer is Coulson making you tutor her?"

Clint's head fell onto the table in defeat. "How much longer is the school year?" he mumbled.

"Awhile," Thor happily informed them, and as if on cue, Clint groaned again.

"Well…maybe it won't be that bad?" Steve offered, his best attempt at being helpful. He didn't like Natasha any more than Clint did, and Clint was aware his friend was only trying to help, but it was a shoddy attempt.

Pulling himself to his feet, he smoothed out the top of his robes. "Maybe." He paused for effect, before glancing back down at his friends. "Or, maybe she'll try and kill me."

"Godric-speed!"

Natasha was already waiting for him in the DADA room, where Professor Fury had agreed the two of them could meet. It was neutral territory — not entirely so, but there was no point in arguing with a man like Professor Fury, who could move mountains with his sheer presence if he so desired. She was flipping through the pages off her textbook absentmindedly with her wand, not even bothering to look up when Clint entered. "You're late," she pointed out, voice echoing off the walls in the room.

"And you're literate."

She raised her eyes to meet him, the smirk colored across her lips. "Not if I don't know what I'm reading," she replied, and already, Clint could feel his skin crawling.

Huffing, he marched over to where he was and turned a large chunk of pages over, flipping her right to the middle of the book. "Here's something for you to read," he said dryly. Natasha looked up at him quizzically, almost as if she were questioning his gall and where it had all of a sudden come from.

He sat down across from her, eyes flitting from the book back to her. Both of his eyebrows lifted. "Well? I've got Quidditch practice in the morning, get to learning."

And so, they fell into their routine once again; sit in silence as Natasha did the extra coursework that Professor Morse had assigned to her, Clint reading through one of his own books and only pulling himself out whenever she had a question. Occasionally, he'd study her in small doses when she wasn't looking — or, at least, was pretending she wasn't, and internally struggled with his thought process. She'd gotten prettier, of course, just something that happened to a girl the older she got, but with Natasha, it was a magnetizing type of beauty. Her red hair had been chopped off when they'd returned to school, a blunt cut that brushed over her shoulders. Her eyes were still as electric as they'd always been, and he had to remind his hormones that they were dangerous with good reason. She was a snake, and best not to mess with a snake.

The robe of her sleeve fell as she hastily scribbled away on the parchment, and Clint couldn't help but look up from his book at the distraction. There appeared to be something there on her forearm, and he tried to be discreet about getting a closer look. It seemed as though she'd accidentally brushed and stained her arm with ink or something, and he couldn't make out how far down it went.

"Natasha," he started warily. "I think you've got something on your arm."

Almost like a recoil, she jerked her sleeve back up. Those green eyes of hers had gone feral, but there was something different to them. Like she was afraid.

She gathered her things in record time, even though they were nowhere near close to the end of their scheduled time. He gaped at her like a fish out of water, the words not forming on his tongue but the thoughts bouncing around in his mind all of the same degree — what the hell just happened? Storming past him on her way out, she leaned down in his direction as she passed by, books clutched tightly to her chest. "We're done here," she hissed spitefully, rushing out of the classroom to Merlin only knew where. That left Clint, sitting at an empty desk in an empty classroom, completely befuddled.

That was the night the first student went missing.