Chapter 40

The faint hum of Tony's latest contraption—the Mark Whatever-He's-Calling-It-Now—blended with the rhythmic tapping of Rhodey's pen against his physics textbook. Tony's half of the dorm was its usual organized chaos: wires coiled like snakes across the floor, a half-disassembled microwave perched precariously on the desk, and a holographic projection of some schematics floating mid-air. Rhodey's side, in stark contrast, was neat and tidy, his bed made so tightly you could bounce a quarter off it.

"Cynthia, I don't think you understand," Tony said, spinning his chair around dramatically, arms flailing as he explained the intricacies of his latest invention. "This baby isn't just a toaster. It's a toaster and a cappuccino machine. Revolutionary, right? The kind of genius that gets you on the cover of Time Magazine."

Cynthia Smith—Miss Too-Good-To-Be-True—perched elegantly on the armrest of his chair, her fiery red hair catching the dim light of the room. She was leaning just close enough to invade Tony's personal space, her perfectly manicured nails lightly tracing circles on his shoulder.

"Tony, you're amazing," she purred, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds. "I've never met anyone like you. The way your mind works—it's… breathtaking."

Tony smirked, puffing out his chest. "Well, yeah, I get that a lot. Genius, billionaire, playboy, future philanthropist. It's tough being this awesome, but someone's gotta do it."

On the bed, Rhodey muttered to himself, his patience wearing thinner than the excuse Cynthia had given about her transfer. "Oh, for the love of—Tony, you're killing me, man."

Tony turned, raising an eyebrow. "What's your problem, Colonel Buzzkill? Can't handle a little genius in action?"

"My problem," Rhodey said, closing his textbook with a sharp snap, "is that you're so busy using the wrong brain that you're ignoring every single red flag waving in your face." He jabbed a finger toward Cynthia.

Tony looked genuinely confused. "What red flags? She's gorgeous. She's brilliant. And she laughs at all my jokes. What more could a guy want?"

"I dunno," Rhodey said dryly, "maybe a little thing called truth? Like the fact that your so-called girlfriend claims she transferred from Caltech, but there's no record of her there. None. Zilch. Nada."

Cynthia's smile faltered—just for a split second—but it was long enough for Rhodey to catch. Tony, of course, missed it entirely.

"Oh, here we go again," Tony groaned, spinning back toward Cynthia with a reassuring grin. "Ignore him, Cyn. He's just mad because his last date was a box of takeout and an episode of The Love Boat."

"First of all," Rhodey said, holding up a hand, "it was Golden Girls, thank you very much. Second, are you seriously going to ignore the fact that I checked with Caltech's student records and found nothing? No Cynthia Smith, no genius bombshell, no 'world's most perfect woman.' It doesn't add up, Tony."

Cynthia laughed lightly, the sound grating on Rhodey's nerves. "Oh, Rhodey," she said, her voice dripping with faux sweetness, "you must've made a mistake. Caltech is so strict about privacy, you know. Maybe they just didn't share the records with you?"

"Uh-huh," Rhodey deadpanned, crossing his arms. "Sure. And maybe I'm the King of England."

Tony snorted. "You'd look good wearing a crown, Rhodey. Very regal."

Rhodey glared at him. "Tony, focus. Something isn't right here. Doesn't it seem just a little convenient that she magically knows everything about you? Your likes, your dislikes, your favorite breakfast cereal, for crying out loud."

Tony opened his mouth to respond, but Cynthia beat him to it. "What can I say?" she said, her tone light and airy. "Tony's an open book. It's not hard to figure him out if you pay attention."

"Right," Rhodey said, his skepticism practically dripping from his words. "Because Tony Stark is just so predictable."

"Exactly!" Tony said, missing the sarcasm entirely. "I'm an open book! A brilliant, captivating book, but still—open."

Rhodey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tony, she's not who she says she is. I can feel it. Every gut instinct I have is screaming 'danger.' But, of course, you're too busy drooling over her to notice."

Cynthia's smile tightened, and Rhodey swore he saw her eyes flicker with something darker—something dangerous—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"Rhodey," Tony said, his tone suddenly serious as he stood up, "you're my best friend. My brother. But you've gotta trust me on this. Cyn's not hiding anything. She's just…" He turned to her, his grin returning. "Perfect."

Rhodey groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine. But when this blows up in your face—and it will—don't come crying to me."

Tony waved him off. "Noted. Now, if you'll excuse us, Cynthia and I have some very important toaster-slash-coffee-machine business to discuss."

Rhodey glared at Cynthia one last time before grabbing his textbook and storming out of the room.

As the door closed behind him, Cynthia's smile returned, but this time, it was sharper—colder.

"Your friend doesn't like me," she said, her tone light but her eyes calculating.

"Rhodey?" Tony scoffed, dismissing the idea with a wave. "Don't mind him. He's just jealous."

"Jealous," Cynthia repeated, her smile growing as she leaned closer. "Of course."

Outside the door, Rhodey leaned against the wall, his jaw clenched. He didn't know who Cynthia really was, but he was going to find out. And when he did, he just hoped it wasn't too late.

—

Cynthia's Apartment – Hydra Safehouse

The apartment was a picture of deception. On the surface, it looked like the kind of place any wealthy college student might rent—tasteful furniture, a few art pieces strategically placed to imply good taste, and just enough clutter to seem authentic. But beneath the veneer was a sophisticated Hydra base of operations. Surveillance feeds covered MIT's campus, encrypted communications channels hummed quietly, and a concealed weapons cache hid behind a faux bookshelf.

Cynthia—Sinthea Schmidt—stepped inside, and the air seemed to chill. Gone was the charming, doe-eyed co-ed who had Tony Stark eating out of her hand. Her posture straightened, her eyes sharpened, and her lips twisted into a smirk that radiated cold superiority. She was her father's daughter in every sense of the word, her every move deliberate, calculated, and tinged with an inherited malice.

The two Hydra operatives stationed inside snapped to attention as she entered. Both were trained killers, loyal to the cause, but even they seemed to shrink under her withering gaze.

"Agent Schmidt," the older of the two greeted stiffly, his voice betraying a hint of unease. "We've been monitoring James Rhodes, as you instructed."

"And?" Cynthia demanded, her tone clipped as she removed her tailored coat and draped it over the back of a chair. She crossed the room to the workstation, her heels clicking against the floor like the ticking of a countdown clock.

The younger agent hesitated before speaking. "He's suspicious, ma'am. He's been digging into your background at Caltech. He didn't find a Cynthia Smith in their records, and he's been trying to piece together more. So far, nothing concrete, but…"

"But he's persistent," Cynthia finished for him, her green eyes narrowing as she stared at the screen showing Rhodey's latest movements. "Typical soldier. Always sniffing around like a loyal dog, trying to protect his master."

The older agent cleared his throat. "Should we eliminate him?"

Cynthia turned to him slowly, her smile venomous. "Do you think that's what Johann Schmidt would do? Panic and lash out at the first sign of trouble?"

The agent visibly paled. "No, ma'am. Of course not."

"No," Cynthia said, her voice taking on an almost mocking lilt. "The Red Skull didn't conquer through brute force alone. He used cunning, strategy, and manipulation. He didn't just kill his enemies; he destroyed them utterly, leaving no trace of resistance. That's how Hydra prevails—always patient, always meticulous."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of her inherited philosophy. She turned back to the screen, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk as she considered her options.

"Rhodes is a problem," she admitted, almost begrudgingly. "He sees too much, asks too many questions. But he's also predictable. He won't act without proof. That gives us time to steer him away—or, failing that, discredit him."

The younger agent shifted uneasily. "And if he keeps digging?"

Cynthia's smirk returned, sharper now, more dangerous. "Then we deal with him. Permanently. But only when it's convenient for us. An accident, perhaps. A tragic car crash. Or better yet, something Stark blames himself for. That would weaken him further, make him more dependent on me."

The agents exchanged a glance, clearly unsettled by how easily she spoke of orchestrating someone's death. But they knew better than to question her.

"And Stark himself?" the older agent asked carefully.

Cynthia chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "Stark is brilliant, yes, but he's also arrogant and impulsive. He's blinded by his own genius—and by me." She leaned back against the desk, crossing her arms. "He thinks he's untouchable. That makes him vulnerable. All I have to do is keep stroking his ego, and he'll do whatever I want. His technology, his ideas—they'll all belong to Hydra soon enough."

Her gaze flicked back to the screen, where footage of Tony and Rhodey in their dorm room played on a loop. Tony was animated, showing off some prototype to Cynthia's earlier facade, while Rhodey sat in the background, watching her like a hawk.

"It's almost laughable," Cynthia said, her voice tinged with disdain. "The great Tony Stark, future industrialist, genius inventor, reduced to a lovesick fool by a pretty face. And Rhodes—so noble, so loyal. But loyalty is a weakness, one I'll exploit if necessary."

The younger agent finally found his voice. "And if Stark begins to suspect?"

Cynthia's eyes darkened, her expression turning icy. "Then we remind him why he needs me. Stark is ruled by his emotions—his ego, his desires, his fears. All it takes is the right pressure point, and he'll crumble. Hydra always wins, gentlemen. Always."

The two agents nodded, their unease palpable but their loyalty unshaken.

"Good," Cynthia said, pushing off the desk and straightening her posture. "Keep monitoring Rhodes. Report any changes immediately. And tighten our surveillance on Stark. I want to know what he's working on at all times. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.

Cynthia turned away, her smirk returning as she walked to the apartment's hidden armory. She ran her fingers along the edge of a concealed panel, her mind already plotting her next move.

She was a Schmidt, after all. Manipulation, control, and domination were in her blood. Tony Stark thought he was playing a game of intellect and innovation. He had no idea he was already losing a far deadlier game of power and survival.

—

The icy Massachusetts wind had Rhodey pulling his jacket tighter around him as he stood hunched over a payphone. He glanced over his shoulder, his breath fogging in the chilly air, paranoia gnawing at him. The empty street was quiet, save for the distant hum of passing cars. The glow of streetlights cast long, ghostly shadows, amplifying the uneasy feeling in his gut.

Rhodey wasn't one to overthink—or at least, that's what he told himself. But this? This situation had been nagging at him for weeks. And now, standing outside in the cold with the phone pressed against his ear, it felt like everything was about to come to a head.

"Stark Industries, New York office. How may I direct your call?" The voice on the other end was polished, professional, and annoyingly calm.

Rhodey hesitated, tightening his grip on the receiver. This wasn't just crossing a line—it was straight-up pole-vaulting over it. If Tony ever found out about this call… "Yeah, uh," he started, his voice coming out more awkward than intended. He cleared his throat. "I need to speak with Howard Stark. It's urgent."

There was a brief pause before the woman responded. "Mr. Stark is currently unavailable. May I ask who's calling and the nature of the urgency?"

Rhodey closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself. "It's James Rhodes. I'm—uh—a friend of Tony's. His son. It's about him. Tony, I mean. I think he's in some kind of trouble."

The receptionist's tone softened just slightly, enough for Rhodey to notice. "Please hold, Mr. Rhodes. I'll see if Mr. Stark is available."

The line went silent, save for a faint hum. Rhodey shifted his weight, glancing over his shoulder again. This wasn't like him. He was a "call it like you see it" kind of guy, not a sneaky, behind-your-back type. But when it came to Tony, someone had to be the responsible one.

His thoughts were interrupted by a deep, unmistakable voice on the other end. "James. This is Howard Stark. What's this about my son being in trouble?"

Rhodey straightened up instinctively. "Mr. Stark, sir. Look, I don't want to waste your time, but I think something's wrong. There's this girl—Cynthia Smith. She showed up out of nowhere a couple months back, and she's been getting real close to Tony."

"Close how?" Howard's voice was sharp now, all business.

"Too close," Rhodey replied. "She's perfect—too perfect, if you know what I mean. Knows all the right things to say, laughs at all his jokes, even understands his tech stuff, which, let's be real, is a pretty short list of people. I checked into her background—well, tried to. There's nothing. No school records, no family, no paper trail. It's like she just appeared out of thin air."

Howard didn't respond immediately, and Rhodey could almost hear the gears turning on the other end of the line.

"You're saying she's after something," Howard finally said.

"Exactly," Rhodey confirmed, his voice firm. "I don't know what it is, but I've got a bad feeling about her. She's dangerous, Mr. Stark. And Tony? He's too smitten to see it."

Howard let out a low hum, the kind that made Rhodey think he'd already started connecting dots Rhodey didn't even know existed. "Alright, James. You did the right thing calling me. I'll look into it. But listen to me carefully: Tony can't know about this. If he catches wind, he'll shut us both out faster than you can say 'reactor core.'"

Rhodey nodded, even though Howard couldn't see him. "Understood. I'll keep my head down."

"Good. And James?" Howard's voice took on a sharper edge. "Keep an eye on her. If she is what I think she might be, this is bigger than you realize."

"Yes, sir," Rhodey said, the weight of the conversation settling heavily on his shoulders.

The line went dead.

Rhodey hung up the receiver, leaning against the payphone for a moment. His breath was visible in the cold air, and he let out a low groan. "What the hell did I just get myself into?"

---

Some distance away, in a dimly lit apartment that masqueraded as a cozy student living space, Cynthia Schmidt stood in front of her concealed armory. She pulled open the hidden panel with a practiced motion, revealing an arsenal of Hydra-issue weapons and gadgets. The cold steel glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Behind her, two Hydra agents stood at attention, their unease palpable despite their disciplined postures. Cynthia's icy green eyes flicked to them in the reflection of the armory's mirrored surface.

"You're dismissed," she said curtly, her voice laced with authority.

The agents exchanged a quick glance before retreating silently, the soft click of the door leaving Cynthia alone with her thoughts—and her weapons.

She lingered in front of the armory, her fingers tracing the edge of a sleek dagger. A smirk curled at the corner of her lips. "James Rhodes," she murmured, the name rolling off her tongue like a curse. "Loyal, predictable, and annoyingly persistent."

Her mind raced, calculating her next move. Rhodes was a minor inconvenience, a fly buzzing too close to her web. But his interference was proof that her work had been effective. Tony Stark was exactly where she needed him—trusting, infatuated, blind.

Cynthia crossed to her workstation, her smirk widening as she activated a holographic display. Schematics of Stark's latest project flickered to life before her, along with encrypted Hydra communiqués.

"Stark's trust," she mused, tapping a finger against the hologram, "is his greatest flaw. And Rhodes? He's just another piece on the board."

Her smile turned predatory as she formulated her plan. Tony's brilliance, his technology, his influence—all of it was within her grasp. The Stark legacy would soon serve Hydra's cause.

And when the time came to shed her "Cynthia Smith" disguise, the world would learn to fear the name Sinthea Schmidt.

For now, she would play her role to perfection. The sweet, adoring girlfriend. The ideal student. The girl-next-door who had Tony Stark wrapped around her finger.

But beneath the surface, the Red Skull's bloodline burned bright, and Cynthia Schmidt would stop at nothing to claim what was hers.

—

Howard Stark leaned back in his leather office chair, the dim glow of a single desk lamp illuminating the controlled chaos of his workspace. Blueprints and prototype sketches littered the desk, alongside half-assembled devices humming faintly with energy. Normally, this was his sanctuary, the place where his genius thrived. But tonight, the air felt heavier. He reached for the rotary phone, its polished black surface cold against his fingers, and dialed a number from memory.

After two rings, a gravelly voice answered on the other end. "This better be good, Stark. I'm not in the mood for one of your late-night brainstorms about jetpacks or invisible cars."

Howard didn't bother with small talk. "Fury, it's not about me this time. It's about Tony."

There was a beat of silence before Nick Fury's unmistakable baritone cut through, sharp and unrelenting. "What'd he do now? Blow up another lab? Hack a government satellite? Or is this about that mess at the gala last month with the senator's daughter?"

Howard's voice dropped an octave, carrying an edge that made even Fury pause. "It's serious, Nick. There's a woman—Cynthia Smith. She's been hanging around Tony for months, cozying up to him like she's auditioning for a rom-com. But there's something off about her. No records, no history, no family. It's like she doesn't exist."

"Sounds like half the women in Hollywood," Fury shot back, though his tone had shifted to something more focused. "You're saying she's a ghost?"

"Exactly," Howard replied. "And ghosts usually have someone pulling their strings. My gut says Hydra."

Fury let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Hydra, huh? You're dragging me into this for a hunch? You've always had a flair for paranoia, Stark, but this is a stretch even for you."

"Don't patronize me, Fury," Howard snapped, leaning forward as if the intensity of his voice could travel through the line. "I've seen this play before. The perfect facade, the charm, the calculated moves. They're using her to get to Tony—and by extension, me."

There was a long pause on the other end, then the sound of Fury shifting, likely leaning back in his chair. "Alright, Howard. Let's say you're right, and Hydra's got their claws in some Stepford girlfriend. What's their angle? What's she after?"

"That's what I need you to figure out," Howard said, his voice tight with frustration. "Tony's too smitten to see it. And if I get involved directly, he'll shut me out faster than you can say 'arc reactor.'"

Fury sighed heavily, the sound carrying equal parts annoyance and resignation. "You're a pain in my ass, you know that? Alright, I'll put some people on it. But you owe me for this one, Stark. And don't give me that 'I funded half of S.H.I.E.L.D.' speech. This is personal, and personal costs extra."

Howard smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Put it on my tab."

"Damn right I will," Fury said. "But let me give you some advice. If this girl's Hydra, you'd better be ready for the fallout. You know how these bastards operate—they don't play games. If she's embedded herself with Tony, it's because they think he's useful. And if she's working him, then she's dangerous. Very dangerous."

Howard's grip on the receiver tightened. "You think I don't know that? That's why I called you, Fury. Hydra's been lying low, but if they're resurfacing now—through my son—it's a declaration of war."

"You're damn right it is," Fury said, his voice dropping into a growl. "And when Hydra declares war, you don't hesitate. You hit first, and you hit hard. So here's what I need from you: keep your head down, keep an eye on Tony, and let me do what I do best. If Hydra's making moves, I'll find them. And when I do, I'll make sure they regret it."

Howard leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "Just find out who she is, Fury. That's all I'm asking."

"Oh, I'll find out," Fury said, his tone dripping with confidence. "And when I do, you'd better be ready to play ball, Stark. Because if this is Hydra, it's not just Tony they're after—it's everything you've ever built."

The line went dead, leaving Howard alone in his office, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for a weathered file folder marked with the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia. Inside were decades of classified reports, each one a grim reminder of Hydra's reach and ruthlessness.

---

The safehouse in New York was quiet, the only sounds coming from the faint hum of the heater struggling against the December chill and the distant din of the city outside. Fury, seated at a metal desk, drummed his fingers on its surface as he stared at the rotary phone like it owed him an explanation. The room was dimly lit, the single bulb swinging faintly as if in rhythm with his growing impatience. Finally, he dialed the number, each turn of the rotary wheel adding to his frustration.

After a few rings, a familiar voice answered. Calm, smooth, and ever-so-slightly amused. "You rang, Fury?"

"Damn right I did," Fury barked. "Tell me, Romanoff, when was the last time Stark wasn't at the center of a goddamn mess?"

There was a faint sound of typing on Natasha's end, and he could picture her lounging on some couch, probably wearing that smug smirk of hers. "Tony Stark and 'mess' go together like vodka and bad decisions, Director. What's he done now?"

"He hasn't done jack—yet," Fury shot back, his tone sharp. "But there's this woman—Cynthia Smith. Showed up a couple months back, and according to Rhodey, she's already got Stark wrapped around her finger. Laughs at his jokes, keeps up with his tech talk, even looks like she was designed in some damn lab to be his perfect match."

Natasha's voice turned serious, though there was still a hint of amusement. "And you're worried she actually was designed in a lab. Hydra?"

"Bingo," Fury said, leaning forward, his hand gripping the phone like he could wring answers out of it. "Howard Stark's gut is screaming Hydra, and as much as I hate admitting it, the old man's instincts are usually dead-on. This isn't some gold digger or opportunist, Romanoff. It's too clean, too calculated. And if Hydra's got their claws in Stark, it's only a matter of time before they get their hands on the Arc Reactor—or worse."

There was a brief pause before Natasha spoke again. "You think they're targeting Stark to get to Howard? Or are they planning to use Tony as a weapon?"

"Hell if I know," Fury growled. "That's why you're on this. I need you to dig into this woman—Cynthia Smith. Every detail. I don't care if she bought a latte at some back-alley café in Prague; I want to know about it."

Natasha sighed, the sound barely audible but clear enough to make Fury's eye twitch. "You really know how to make an assignment sound fun, Fury."

"This ain't about fun. It's about keeping Hydra from turning Stark into their personal golden goose. If they get access to his tech, we're looking at a world of hurt that makes Manhattan look like a walk in Central Park."

"Alright," Natasha said, her voice firm now, all traces of amusement gone. "I'll start digging. She's bound to have slipped up somewhere. Nobody's perfect, no matter how good their cover is."

"Damn straight," Fury replied. "And Romanoff? Keep this quiet. If Stark gets wind of us digging into his new lady friend, he'll shut this operation down faster than you can say 'genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.'"

Natasha chuckled lightly, but there was steel in her tone. "Understood. You'll have an update soon."

"Six hours," Fury said, his voice a command. "I want updates every six hours. And if she sneezes, I wanna know the direction the snot flew."

"Got it," Natasha replied, her tone dry. "Anything else, or can I get to work?"

"Just don't screw this up," Fury said, hanging up before she could respond.

---

On the other end of the line, Natasha set her phone down and leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes already scanning the preliminary files she'd pulled up on Cynthia Smith. As expected, there was nothing. No school records, no family, no paper trail. It was as if she'd appeared out of thin air.

Natasha frowned, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the desk. Fury was right—this woman didn't just scream Hydra; she practically had their logo tattooed on her forehead. But there was something else nagging at Natasha, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Too clean," she muttered to herself. "And too convenient."

Her eyes flicked to the small, enchanted notebook sitting on the corner of her desk. It had been a gift from Harry, enchanted to allow instant communication via written messages. She'd been meaning to call him anyway—portal travel was infinitely more convenient than a red-eye flight to Massachusetts.

Reaching for the notebook, Natasha smirked to herself. "Time to bring in the wizard. Hydra's little ghost won't know what hit her."

With a flick of her wrist, she wrote a quick note: Harry, I've got a job for you. It's about Stark—and Hydra. I'll explain when you get here. Open a portal to the safehouse.

She closed the notebook, leaning back with a satisfied expression. "Let's see how Hydra handles a wizard on their tail."

—

The ancient library of Kamar-Taj was steeped in an aura of quiet mysticism. Shelves crammed with scrolls and tomes stretched up to the high ceilings, and the faint hum of magical wards made the air feel alive. Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, a thick book titled Dimensional Rifts and Their Practical Applications open in front of him. Despite the scholarly scene, his green eyes were lit with mischief.

Across the room, Wong was muttering irritably as he tried to untangle a mess of floating scrolls that, unbeknownst to him, Harry had enchanted to reorder themselves into the words "Wong Supreme Librarian".

"Potter!" Wong's voice boomed, breaking the tranquil atmosphere. "Do you ever take your studies seriously?"

Harry didn't look up from his book, instead flipping a page with exaggerated focus. "I'm deeply engrossed in expanding my magical horizons, Wong. You should be proud."

"Proud?" Wong's eyebrows shot up as he swatted at a rebellious scroll trying to spell "#1 Fan of Beyoncé". "I'll be proud when you stop treating this place like your personal playground!"

Harry shrugged, his grin barely hidden. "Can't help it if my creativity overflows into my studies."

Wong crossed his arms, glaring at Harry like an exasperated parent. "Creativity? If by creativity you mean turning my library into a bad comedy club, then yes, you're a visionary."

Before Harry could retort, his enchanted notebook on the nearby table began to glow, the edges pulsating with a faint golden light. The smirk on Harry's face faded as he reached for it, flipping it open to see Natasha's familiar handwriting:

Harry, I've got a job for you. It's about Stark—and Hydra. I'll explain when you get here. Open a portal to the safehouse.

Harry groaned, shutting the book with a snap. "Great. Hydra again."

Wong raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Hydra? Still trying to resurrect their tired world-domination schemes, I see."

"Seems like it," Harry muttered, shoving the book into his satchel. "And guess who gets to be the wizard on-call for all things Hydra and Stark-related?"

Wong snorted, his irritation replaced by a wry smile. "Well, don't let me keep you from your grand adventures. Just remember: the next time you prank my library, I'll personally send you to the Mirror Dimension."

"Love you too, Wong," Harry shot back with a grin.

He stepped into the center of the library, and with a flick of his wrist, drew a glowing circle in the air. The swirling, golden portal stabilized, casting warm light across the room.

Harry glanced back at Wong, his grin widening. "Don't miss me too much."

Wong waved him off with a dismissive flick of his hand. "I'll try to endure the peace and quiet in your absence."

Harry chuckled and stepped through the portal.

---

He emerged into the dimly lit interior of a New York safehouse. The contrast from Kamar-Taj's serene library was jarring: this place buzzed with tension, the hum of hidden technology blending with the faint rumble of the city outside.

Natasha was already waiting for him, leaning casually against a metal table. Dressed in her usual black tactical suit, she looked every inch the deadly operative. But her posture, while relaxed, had the kind of calculated ease that spoke of someone who was always ready to spring into action.

"Took you long enough," she said, her voice cool but edged with dry humor.

"Nat," Harry greeted, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. "Hydra again? Don't they ever get bored of being the bad guys?"

Natasha's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "You'd think so, but no. They've got a new angle this time, and it involves Tony."

Harry frowned, his playful demeanor giving way to concern. "What's going on?"

"There's a woman," Natasha began, pushing a file across the table toward him. "Cynthia Smith. She showed up in Tony's life a few months ago, and she's—well, let's just say she's the kind of perfect that sets off alarm bells."

Harry flipped open the file, scanning the contents. "No background, no family, no history," he muttered. "She's a ghost."

Natasha nodded, her expression serious. "Exactly. And Tony's too smitten to notice. Fury thinks she might be Hydra, sent to get close to him and, by extension, Stark tech."

"Classic honeytrap," Harry said, closing the file and giving Natasha a pointed look. "So what's the plan?"

"You," Natasha replied simply.

Harry raised an eyebrow, the sarcasm already dripping from his voice. "Me?"

Natasha straightened, crossing her arms in that confident, no-nonsense way she always did. "You're our magic expert. If she's using any kind of magical concealment or enhancements, you'll spot it faster than anyone else."

Harry didn't respond immediately, instead leaning against the table and giving her a slow, knowing look. Natasha stared back, expression unreadable, her poker face honed to perfection. Unfortunately for her, Harry wasn't easily fooled.

"Oh, that's good," Harry said at last, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Real convincing. You almost had me there."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, Nat," Harry said, waving the file in the air. "You don't call me just because I'm a 'magic expert.' You call me because you don't want to haul your perfectly toned spy ass onto a S.H.I.E.L.D. jet and spend hours flying to Massachusetts."

Natasha's poker face faltered for just a fraction of a second—a blink-and-you-miss-it moment that Harry immediately caught. "That's ridiculous," she said, her tone cool and controlled. "I called you because you're the best person for this job."

"Right, because Fury's entire network of agents, analysts, and tech specialists can't figure out what I could in five minutes," Harry quipped, grinning. "Face it, Romanoff. You just wanted a shortcut."

Natasha tilted her head, her lips pressing into a thin line as if considering whether to deny it further. Then, with a small shrug, she let out a sigh. "Fine. You got me," she admitted, her tone dry. "Massachusetts is cold, the jets smell like stale coffee, and I don't feel like spending hours listening to Fury bark orders in my ear. Happy?"

"Very," Harry replied smugly. "You could've just said that upfront, you know. Saved yourself the trouble of pretending you care about my 'magic expertise.'"

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "Well, you're here now, so are you going to help or what?"

Harry leaned back, arms crossed, enjoying the moment. "Oh, I'll help. But you owe me."

"Owe you what?" Natasha asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I don't know yet," Harry said, his grin widening. "But when I figure it out, you'll be the first to know."

Natasha smirked, her sharp, calculating side showing again. "Just make sure it's something I won't regret agreeing to."

"Oh, I'll make it memorable," Harry promised, already summoning his wand. With a quick flick, a portal began to form, swirling with golden energy.

As the portal stabilized, Harry glanced back at Natasha, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. "You're lucky I like you. Otherwise, you'd be booking that jet yourself."

Natasha gave him a sly smile, already stepping toward the portal. "And you're lucky you're useful. Otherwise, I wouldn't put up with your mouth."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Go on, then. Let's save Stark from his poor life choices."

"Typical Tuesday," Natasha replied before stepping through the portal, leaving Harry to follow with a shake of his head and a grin.

---

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