Harry kills Voldemort and, in his injured state, Apparates to Tony's house because he recognizes the older man as "Safe".

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, the Avengers or any other form of its media

Warning: Blood, bad writing, things you probably see in every other fanfic but it's okay, a bit of dissociation and a belated panic attack.

Harry stared blankly at Tony, blood drumming heartily in his ears and mind unable to make sense of the words that the man's lips seemed to be forming. Cold beads of sweat slowly tracked its way down the side of his face, and he had the inexplicable urge to laugh at the absurdity of his situation. Who knew that he would actually live long enough to see his brother? Certainly not him; Harry had resigned himself to the simple fact that he would die as he had lived: as nothing more than a figure pasted on the front of people's minds. A silhouette of a person for whom they would fill in the blanks. Someone worth mentioning, but never remembering as a human being.

He numbly took in the fact that his companion was becoming more and more manic in his gesturing, cheeks flushed and streaked with black motor oil.

What was it that saved him then? Why was he spared when good people- better people- were sacrificed for the sake of the "Greater Good"? Why did he have to come back, unwillingly, when so many others would have gladly returned if given the chance?

Why couldn't he have stayed dead?

Harry only realized that Tony had stopped talking when a calloused hand reached out to pull him into an embrace, flinching at the unexpected contact as an aborted whine escaped his lips. The strangled whimper made Tony hesitate for a moment, fingers retreating until there was only a whisper of a caress; glazed, blood-shot eyes drunkenly focused in on the other man when he realized that he had once again become lost in his own thoughts, struggling to understand the grimace that carved its way onto his brother's face.

What was it that he wanted? The last thing he remembered was stumbling into the kitchen of Tony's flat, having used the last of his magical resources to Apparate himself to America (a feat previously thought to have been impossible), and the engineer's mug shattering as it made contact with the floor, coffee splattering everywhere.

Through a haze of confusion, Harry managed to pick up on the heavy pounding of footsteps resonating through the floors, the impact so intense that he could almost see the walls vibrating. The wizard barely managed to process the concerned look on the engineer's face before a snarl passed his lips- feral, and altogether a more frightening visage than the older man had ever seen on his young face- and a blue dome-like shield was erected, his Magic responding to his whims with ease as he spun around to prepare for an attack.

Were there Death Eaters? Had they somehow managed to pick-up his signature when he came here? How stupid of him- Harry thought he had outgrown his immature recklessness, but apparently not since he obviously hadn't bothered to even think about the ramifications of his actions before following through with them. Most likely they had searched the building first, not wanting to splinch themselves by Apparating to an unknown destination; they would need to be in good health to take him down, and missing a leg would simply not do.

How surprised he was, then, when instead of Death Eaters, he was barraged with the sight of a tall, blond man in pajamas wielding a gaudy shield; another, shirtless brunet holding a quiver; and a red-headed woman effortlessly pointing a gun at him, regardless of the energy field surrounding the two (and also happened to be the only decently dressed individual). Eyes flitting from one form to the next, Harry blinked slowly, brows furrowed as he pivoted back to Tony with an unsteady sway.

Swallowing hard, the boy parted his lips and let out a dry wheeze before a shudder wracked his body and he fell to his knees.

Fingers clawed at the smooth tile uselessly with torn and broken nails, breath steadily increasing as it kept in pace with the swirling flashes of his agitated powers. He was still somewhat dissociated from his body, mind sauntering along as opposed to the frantic beating of his heart, merrily commenting on the fact that Tony was wearing the socks he gave him all those years ago- those horrible, ugly socks colored pink and green and orange that he gave to the man as a joke but was accepted jovially, as if he had been granted the powers of Jesus, and worn the very next day.

That was his last conscious thought before he finally succumbed to asphyxiation and fainted.