Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Marvel or Disney. All rights go to respective owners.

A/N: Timeline for this is right after the fight with Nagini in Godric's Hollow and pre- Sokovia Accords and Inhumans revelations.

084 (Sweetheart, I Promise It's Magic)

Harry was drifting, lost in a haze of half-recollected memories and emotions. He wasn't quite sure where he was, but he supposed he wasn't dead. At least, he thought so. If befriending Luna during his fifth year — Was that really only two years ago? — had taught him anything, it was that anything was possible. It was rather peaceful … wherever he was. Wasn't death supposed to be peaceful?

Slight problem was that he didn't remember dying. He did remember a violent fight in a neglected cottage and shouting … as well as a snake? No, he had been fighting an old woman. Or was it a snake in a woman?

He tried to shake his head, almost as if to get rid of the memories floating back to the surface. He was starting to feel too much. His arms felt heavy; his eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. All he wanted to be able to do was just rest and forget, floating in the mist.

"Harry … Harry, you have to wake up. Please wake up! No! I don't want to go…"

Harry groaned as a soft voice broke through the fog. He didn't want to wake up. Why the hell should he? It was time for a break. He had done everything asked of him and more. No one could argue that he didn't deserve a rest. So, again, why should he do what the voice said?

But then again, maybe he should. The voice did sound familiar. Maybe he should trust it…

"Mr. Potter, it is time to wake up."

That was new. Harry internally frowned at the unfamiliar voice. Where as the first voice was definitely female — and oh so familiar — this one was a man's voice. While it was not harsh, there was a definite undercurrent of authority. The mist in his mind began to recede.

"Mr. Potter," the voice repeated more firmly, "we need to speak with you. It is time to get up."

Harry forced his eyes open.

Blinking at the harsh light, he struggled to look around. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. He was laying in a standard white hospital bed in a sparse, steel grey room. Various tubes and lines connected his body to a wide array of machines. One of which had started to frantically beep.

"Stop glaring, FitzSimmons. He's fine, see?"

Harry looked to his left, toward the person speaking. The commanding voice he had hear moments ago belonged to a middle-aged man in a black suit. He stood near the door and, while he didn't appear to be very imposing at first glance, Harry found that the man held himself with such confidence that he instinctively knew who was in charge.

"He most certainly is not fine, Coulson! His heart rate and blood pressure — both of which were already slightly abnormal — are skyrocketing! He needs a sedative now."

A furious petite woman in a white lab coat was scolding the man, who calmly let her vent. Harry wasn't paying too much attention to what was happening; his mind was still playing catch up. Sedatives. The woman had said "sedatives." That meant he wouldn't be able to stay awake. He needed to—

Hermione.

"Where is she!" Harry shouted. He tried to bolt upright, only to be held back down by straps on the hospital bed.

In hindsight, that might not have been the best plan of action. The group — Harry suddenly noticed another man, also wearing a lab coat, and two other women — all snapped into action. The woman in the lab coat quickly ran to a drawer and pulled out a syringe.

"It's going to be alright, Mr. Potter," she said. He could hear the nerves in her voice. She stepped forward and, with practiced ease, moved the syringe toward one of the tubes that was connected to him.

"No! Stop!" Harry said frantically. He tried to pull away, only to remember that he had been restrained. "Please … my friend! I need to find my friend! She—"

There was a sudden crack of displaced air. The woman yelped and jumped back, as a certain bushy-hair witch materialized into existence next to Harry.

"Stop!" Hermione shouted. She held her wand, leveled and steady, at the group. Without taking her eyes of the stunned doctors, she grabbed Harry's hand.

One wrong move by any of the mysterious strangers, and he knew Hermione would Apparate them out of there. He wondered why she hadn't done that yet, but knew there must be a reason.

The entire room suddenly came to life and fell into chaos.

"Freeze!"

"Don't move!"

"Don't touch him!"

"How—? I-I don't understand…"

The last one was the younger man in the lab coat. He was staring at Hermione in absolute confusion, as if his entire sense and understanding of the world had just fallen apart.

"Weapons down!" the man — Coulson, Harry remembered — ordered his compatriots.

"Coulson…" a stern woman, dressed in black, warned. Her gun was trained on Hermione. Harry moved to reach for his wand, which was never too far away, but quickly remembered he didn't have anything of his with him.

"Not now, May," Coulson said. His attention was focused on Harry and Hermione, and he addressed them directly. "We don't mean you harm."

"Could have fooled us," Harry muttered. Hermione slapped his arm.

"You're not helping, Harry," she chastised, although he could hear the amusement in her voice.

"How did you do that!" the young man in the lab coat demanded again. "It was almost like…" He trailed off, as if he couldn't voice the thought aloud.

Coulson lowered his weapon, which had everyone else following suit. Hermione was the last to do so, discreetly flicking her wand toward the door as she brought it down to her side. She looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. He nodded back at her.

Whatever her plan was, he would back her.

"Almost as if it was what?" she said, turning back to face the strangers. "Say it. It was almost like magic."

Well, that's one way to break the International Statute of Secrecy, Harry thought wryly.

The young woman in the lab coat scoffed.

"Magic's not real," she said condescendingly. "Right, Coulson? Just another 084 … teleportation or temporal displacement. But that's all theoretical. There's no one on the Index with this type of ability."

Temporal displacement? 084? All of these terms were going far over Harry's head, but Hermione was keeping up nicely.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," she said, matching the woman's attitude. "I promise it's magic. And we need your help."

"With what?" the last member of the group, a young woman with long brown hair, asked.

"We need help saving the world from an evil, magical megalomaniac, who has hidden soul fragments across Britain — perhaps even the world. He's gathering more followers everyday. Some are magical, like him, while others are vampires, werewolves, giants, and soul-sucking demons known as Dementors. He wants to kill pretty much everyone who doesn't prescribe to his Nazi-like beliefs. Did I miss anything, Harry?"

"No," he replied dryly. "I think that covers it."

Dead silence filled the room.

"So," Hermione prompted, after a minute, "can you help us or not?"

Coulson looked between them, searching their features. He must have seen something he liked or trusted because he offered his hand to them.

"Saving the world is our specialty," he said formally. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Word count (not including title and author's note): 1244