119 Rage

“Harry, wake up,” Clint called out urgently as he shook Harry violently. “Harry! Come on, we need you!”

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, the cold sweat still clinging to his skin like a second layer of trauma. The horrors from his nightmare hadn’t faded; they echoed in his mind like ghosts clinging to his consciousness.

“The Hulk’s on a rampage,” Clint said. “The girl messed with everyone’s heads. Tony’s out there in the Hulkbuster trying to hold him off, but it’s not enough; he needs you. We need you.”

Harry sat up slowly, his muscles aching as if the nightmare had left bruises in reality. He could still feel Neville’s hands wrapped around his throat. He didn’t respond right away. He simply looked at Clint, and for a second too long, there was nothing behind Harry’s eyes. Just a void.

Clint noticed. “Harry?” he asked, softer now.

“Ultron?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse, still caught between the fog of nightmares and the harsh light of reality.

“He got away. With the Vibranium,” Clint said grimly.

The words hit harder than they should have. Failure crashed into Harry like a tidal wave, dragging guilt and helpless rage in its undertow. The memory of Wanda’s illusion still clawed at his mind, and in the aftermath, he had let his Occlumency shields crumble.

He clenched his fists.

“And the others?” he asked, though he already feared the answer.

Clint shook his head. “The girl got to them. They’re all down.”

Harry shut his eyes for half a second, but it was a mistake. The images came flooding back. Neville’s accusation. The throne. The cold, suffocating feeling surrounding the world.

When he opened them again, there was no trace of calm left.

Arcane energy began to ripple off him like heat off a forge. The runes etched into his robes ignited with silver light, crawling like living tattoos over his arms and chest. His eyes began to glow with barely contained wrath.

For a moment, Clint took a step back.

Harry didn’t notice.

He was too busy burning.

“Tony, what’s happening out there?” Harry called out in the coms.

All he heard in response was static and the rapid-fire mantra, “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep—go to sleep—”

“Tony,” Harry snapped, louder as arcane energy hummed around him.

There was a pause.

“Potter? That you?” Tony’s voice cut through, equal parts strained and hopeful. “Trying to get the big guy out of the city, but he’s not exactly in a listening mood. Veronica’s keeping him contained, for now. But I could really use a damn lullaby right about now.”

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Use Veronica to push him toward the shipyard,” Harry instructed, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Keep him away from high-rises. I’ll take it from there.”

“Copy that,” Tony replied, the relief in his voice barely masked by static. “And Potter… don’t die.”

Harry didn’t answer that.

“Also, have Fury send a response unit to the area Hulk hit. Civilians will need medical and evacuation teams on the ground immediately,” Harry continued, already rising to his feet, magical energy flowing through him like liquid fire.

“Roger that. Be safe.”

The comms clicked off, but Harry didn’t move right away.

He stared forward, jaw clenched, fury and responsibility locked in brutal conflict behind his glowing green eyes. After taking a breath to stabilise himself, Harry stepped out of the ship in silence. The arcane runes along his robes shimmered like molten silver, reacting to the barely contained storm inside him. The air around him shimmered, too charged, too tense, like the moment before a thunderstorm cracks the sky.

Clint followed, but slower. He kept a few cautious paces behind, hands twitching by his sides, not from fear… but from worry.

This wasn’t the Harry he knew. This Harry looked like a force of nature wrapped in human skin. His magic wasn’t just active, it was alive. Breathing. Radiating waves of energy like a living engine of fury. Clint had stood next to gods and monsters. But standing behind Harry now felt different. There was no malice in him, but there was no calm either.

This was what happened when a man who never let himself break finally started to crack. And Clint didn’t know who was scarier, a rampaging Hulk or a determined Harry.

From their vantage point, the city skyline was chaos, fires burned in the distance, smoke billowing between glass towers, sirens wailing like the world itself was crying out.

Then Clint spotted it. “Over there—”

Harry was already looking.

Far off, at the edge of the skyline, Tony’s Hulkbuster was in tatters. The once-massive armour was being torn apart, shredded like foil under the furious strength of the Hulk. Bits of metal went flying, smashing into buildings as Tony clung on, trying to drag Hulk toward the shipyard through sheer force and desperation.

Then, in one last gambit, Tony used Veronica’s reinforced frame to hurl the Hulk like a catapult. The green behemoth soared through the air, landing hard at the edge of the shipyard, tearing a trench into the pavement as it skidded to a stop.

A distant roar followed. Deep. Primeval. Furious.

Harry didn’t flinch.

Clint stepped up beside him, hesitating before speaking. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “But I’m the only one who can.”

Clint didn’t argue.

He just watched as Harry’s magic flared, silver and green, surrounding him like armour forged from grief and fury.

With a thunderous crack that echoed across the city like the sky itself had split, Harry apparated straight into the crater Hulk had gouged into the shipyard. The shockwave from his arrival rippled through the ground, rattling broken shipping containers and sending debris skittering across the pavement.

Steam curled from the runes etched into Harry’s cloak as the residual magic hissed against the air. He stood in the swirling dust, the green glow in his eyes like twin torches in the haze.

Hulk was already rising to his feet, rubble falling from his back, nostrils flaring as he bared his teeth. He turned, about to leap back toward the skyline towardsTony.

But then he froze.

Something prickled at the edges of his instincts. Something more dangerous.

He looked over his shoulder.

And saw the man standing in the crater with him.

For one long, heavy second, neither moved. The wind tugged at Harry’s cloak, and his magic thrummed like a living thing around him. The runes on his robes flared silver-white, dancing with raw power.

“Fight someone your own size,” Harry called out.

Hulk blinked. Snorted. Then roared—a full-throated, deafening bellow that cracked glass and shook the foundation of nearby warehouses. Birds scattered. Sirens wailed in the background, fading into nothing as the sound swallowed the city whole.

Harry didn’t flinch. He simply met Hulk’s fury with a grim stare, the air around him rippling with arcane energy.

The Hulk roared and lunged forward with terrifying force, a green blur of rage and muscle, aiming to crush Harry into the ground.

But Harry didn’t move.

With a flick of his wrist the air between them shimmered and midair, Hulk froze. He was caught in an arcane snare that stopped him cold. His momentum slammed into an unseen wall, his limbs flailing for a fraction of a second before Harry twisted his fingers sharply.

With a furious grunt, Harry threw his arm outward.

BOOM.

The Hulk was ripped out of the air like a rag doll and hurled across the shipyard. He smashed through two cranes like they were made of matchsticks and crashed through the hull of a decommissioned freighter. Steel groaned. Metal warped. The ship split cleanly down the middle as Hulk’s body tore through its core, sending debris and twisted containers everywhere.

Harry stood in the settling dust, breathing hard through his nose. The magic pulsing around him was alive, volatile, and hungry for more.

The Hulk rose with a guttural snarl, green muscles rippling beneath shredded flesh. He tore chunks of jagged metal from the ruined ship around him. Sheets of steel that bent and folded under his grip like paper. With primal ingenuity, he shaped them into crude, massive gauntlets, thick enough to punch through buildings.

His eyes locked onto Harry, filled with fury and confusion. Then, with a roar that cracked the shipping graveyard, he charged.

Harry didn’t flinch.

He extended his right hand, and the air shimmered with magic. A silver gleam pulsed in his palm, then grew into the shape of a weapon. The Asgardian blade dropped into his grasp with a satisfying ring, the runes etched into its surface glowing with faint golden light in answer to the rage burning inside him.

He didn’t run. He didn’t blink.

He walked toward the green behemoth, ready to face the challenge.

As Harry reached striking distance, the Hulk swung his makeshift gauntlets with wild, bone-crushing power. But Harry moved like liquid. He weaved through the chaos, letting the wind of each swing brush past him by inches.

The Hulk jabbed left, then right, throwing in a thunderous kick, roaring with frustration when nothing landed. He was a storm of rage and strength, but not focus. Not discipline.

Harry ducked a right hook and spun low, barely touching the ground as the uppercut whooshed overhead. He rose with a pivot, dancing just outside the Hulk’s range like he had practised for this moment a thousand times.

Then came a powerful left swing. Harry brought his blade up, catching it cleanly with the side of his blade.

Boom.

A shockwave rang out from the impact—metal groaned, glass shattered, the ground trembled. But Harry stood unmoved, blade steady, green eyes locked onto his opponent.

The Hulk blinked, momentarily stunned by the resistance.

That hesitation was all Harry needed. He stepped inside the monster’s reach, ducked low, and grabbed the Hulk’s arm. Magic flared through his muscles as he twisted the Hulk’s momentum.

In one fluid motion, Harry pivoted and hurled the beast over his shoulder.

Boom.

The Hulk slammed into the ground with a deafening crash. Harry didn’t step back. He stood over the monster, blade lowered, chest rising slow and steady. This wasn’t about power. It was about skill. And Harry had both.

The Hulk rose from the cratered ground like an avalanche coming back to life. His steel gauntlets, twisted from the last clash, still crackled with the residue of his rage. Ships around him groaned as their unstable hulls teetered, dislodged from their foundations by the shockwaves of their battle.

Harry stood still, his blade now humming faintly in the chaos, but his eyes locked on the brute like a predator studying his prey.

Then, Harry slowly raised his left hand. The wind stilled. Magic swirled.

With a sudden snap of his wrist, a cascade of ethereal energy surged outward. Dozens—no, scores—of glowing daggers materialised in mid-air, each one suspended like a star frozen in time. Fifty conjured blades hovered above him, each forged differently, some glinting with icy edges, others wreathed in green infernal fire, still others vibrating with invisible runes etched into their hilts.

The Hulk roared and charged, fists pounding against the ground like drums of war.

Harry exhaled. “Now.”

The sky itself screamed as the daggers launched forward like a meteor shower.

The first ten struck the Hulk's shoulders, embedding into thick muscle. The next wave pierced his arms, chest, and back. One by one, the daggers found their mark. None piercing deep enough to mortally wound, but each burying itself just far enough to remain lodged in the Hulk's flesh.

The beast didn’t flinch.

He kept coming.

Another roar. More impact. Daggers buried themselves into his legs, his ribs, his collarbones. One slid against his jaw and buried into his neck muscle. The sound wasn’t metal on metal, it was metal into living stone. But still, the Hulk marched forward.

Twenty blades. Thirty.

Still no sign of pain. Only raw fury.

Then forty.

The final ten daggers struck almost simultaneously. One in each shoulder, one in each thigh, and the final one directly into the Hulk’s sternum. For a moment, he stood still, his massive green form now a pincushion of magical steel.

Then they began to glow.

A deep, sickly green hue pulsed from each dagger, overlaid with shadowy black energy that dripped like ink in water. The daggers twisted unnaturally, and from each blade, black-green chains erupted, snaking through the air like serpents.

The chains struck the earth, burrowing into the ground, anchoring themselves. With each passing second, the air grew heavier. Time itself seemed to slow.

The Hulk tried to move. One foot raised, but chains yanked it back down. He howled and tore through a few of them with a single flex, only for the broken chains to regenerate instantly, more violent than before. Every movement he made resulted in another explosion of ethereal bindings wrapping around him.

A tug-of-war began. Hulk versus magic. Rage against control.

With a thunderous roar, the Hulk punched the ground, sending out a shockwave that shattered a nearby ship's hull into a hundred molten pieces.

Harry didn’t blink.

More chains erupted from the glowing daggers. Some now wove around the Hulk’s arms, locking his elbows in place. Others crawled up his torso and pulled at his shoulders like a thousand invisible hands trying to rip him downward.

And finally, with a titanic groan of agony, the Hulk was forced to one knee.

The ground beneath him cracked. A nearby cargo ship split clean down the middle from the pressure. The entire ship graveyard now looked like a war zone carved by titans.

Harry walked forward through the debris, robe whipping behind him in the magical storm. His blade vanished into light. He didn’t need it anymore.

The Hulk saw him coming and responded with another roar, trying to surge back to his feet. Chains snapped, only for five more to wrap around his neck and chest. He snarled, saliva dripping from his teeth, eyes bloodshot and filled with war.

Harry approached the Hulk slowly. The chains binding the Hulk strained with his every breath, each flex of his muscles sending tremors across the ground, but they held firm. They were summoned by a will more furious than even the beast they shackled.

Harry barely noticed. His eyes were no longer emerald; instead, they were glowing a fierce, toxic green as they remained fixed on the creature before him. Not with hatred. Not even with anger. But with guilt. Crippling, corrosive guilt.

The vision Wanda had forced into his mind had split open something festering inside. He had let that thought be forgotten in the recesses of his mind, but the fact was he wasn't there. He had left them.

His fists clenched as he stepped closer.

He had run to a new world. Built a new family. Found new meaning. But deep inside, Harry Potter, the supposed saviour of one world, couldn’t shake the feeling that he had simply abandoned it for this one. That he had failed the very people he once swore to protect. That no matter how many battles he won, how many gods and monsters he faced, he was still that scared boy watching people die because he wasn’t strong enough.

“RAAAAAAARGH!” the Hulk bellowed, lunging forward.

But before the strike could land, black and green tendrils burst from Harry’s arm, wrapping around the Hulk’s incoming fist. The force of the halted blow shook the air with a thunderclap. But Harry didn’t even blink.

“I wasn’t there…” Harry whispered.

His other hand ignited with raw coalesced magic before swinging it as hard as he could. His knuckles connected with the Hulk’s jaw with a booming crunch, sending spittle and blood flying in opposite directions. The beast staggered, stunned from the sheer weight of the magic Harry had channelled in that punch. Magic that carried sorrow. Magic that carried shame.

Harry didn’t stop. Another punch followed. Then another.

The tendrils flared brighter with each impact, bolstering Harry’s strength and further constricting the Hulk. The green giant roared and thrashed, straining against the chains, but every movement made them dig deeper, into his skin, into the ground, into the air itself.

Harry’s vision blurred, tears mixing with sweat, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Every strike was a scream, a sob, a prayer.

He wasn’t hitting the Hulk.

He was hitting the man who abandoned the Magical World.

The boy who ran away.

The hero who wasn’t enough.

The Hulk growled, trying to slam both fists down on Harry’s shoulders, but Harry blocked them with his own hands, and a shockwave erupted as they clashed. The earth cracked beneath their feet again. Ships groaned under the force of their duel again. Thunder echoed in the sky despite the absence of clouds.

And then Harry unleashed another flurry of blows, uppercuts, hammer fists, open-palm blasts, each impact launching bursts of magic that scorched the air. Black lightning arced from his body, flaring across the battlefield like the wrath of gods.

The Hulk tried to retaliate again, swinging with all his might, but Harry turned, slipped under the blow, grabbed the Hulk’s wrist, and twisted it behind his back in one impossibly motion before slamming him face-first into the ground. The earth caved inward with a deafening BOOM, rippling like tinfoil.

Harry stood over him, breathing hard, chest heaving.

His face was no longer furious. It was broken.

“I wasn’t there…” he whispered again.

The Hulk groaned, still resisting, and Harry raised his hand and continued his onslaught on the restrained Hulk.

Harry didn’t know how much time had passed, but his fists were slick with his own blood. Magic burned raw and unfiltered through his veins, coalescing around his arms in an unstable storm of black and green. Each time he struck the Hulk’s face, a pulse of violent force echoed across the shipyard.

But Harry didn’t care. All he could feel was the emptiness gnawing inside him, carved out by Wanda’s vision. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. All this power, all this responsibility, and he had done nothing to save them.

He was supposed to be the Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. The one who fought the impossible and won. But that was a lifetime ago. Now? He was The Boy Who Ran Away.

The Hulk roared, struggling, the chains embedded in his body burning green fire as he fought against their grasp. Harry didn’t even flinch.

“I left them. I abandoned them. I failed them.” Harry muttered under his breath as he landed another brutal punch.

 “And now I’m doing the same thing again.”

Another.

“I can’t save anyone…”

Another.

“I’m just a goddamn fraud.”

Harry didn’t notice his knuckles splitting. Didn’t notice the trembling in his arms. The magic was eating at his own bones now, the toll of his uncontrolled rage evident in the cracks forming along his skin like spiderweb fractures. But he kept hitting. As if he could punish himself through the Hulk. As if breaking a monster might somehow repair the damage inside him.

Then, “That’s enough.” Clint’s voice cut through the storm like an arrow through fog. He appeared beside Harry, carefully, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Harry… please. Look at yourself. This isn’t helping.”

Harry’s fist was mid-swing again, trembling.

Clint stepped closer and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, Harry didn’t move. His chest heaved. His shoulders twitched. Then, finally, the fire in his eyes dimmed just enough to see again. His bloody hand opened, twitching with magic withdrawal.

With a whispered incantation, Harry raised his hand and cast a powerful sleeping charm directly into the Hulk’s chest. The chains pulsed once… then twice… and the Hulk let out a final, groggy roar before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. The chains started to shimmer, and the daggers all flickered back into nothingness.

As the green giant’s breathing slowed and his form shimmered back into the smaller, battered body of Bruce Banner, Tony landed beside them. The faceplate snapped open, revealing a pale, exhausted man trying to mask his panic.

Without a word, he knelt and gently gathered Bruce into his arms, bridal-style, his eyes flicking once to Harry.

Clint kept a steady hand on Harry he stared at Bruce’s unconscious form. He looked haunted. Broken. His own hands were trembling now.

“Come on,” Clint said softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Harry gave no resistance as Clint helped him toward the Quinjet.

Inside the Quinjet, everyone was rattled.

Natasha sat curled near the wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself, shivering from the haunted replay of her time in the Red Room. Her eyes didn’t blink as she stared at nothing, lips slightly parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Steve sat opposite her, elbows on his knees, eyes downcast. His shield lay at his feet, forgotten. He wasn’t thinking like a soldier right now. He was thinking like a man who’d seen too many battles and was starting to wonder if any of them ever truly ended.

Thor stood off to the side, fidgeting restlessly. The thunder god looked more like a caged lion than a warrior at rest. He kept glancing at Bruce’s unconscious form, at Harry, at the others, at everything and nothing, as though searching for some answer in the silence that none of them could give.

In the rear of the cabin, Tony gently laid Bruce down on the makeshift bunk, brushing a hand through his hair as he checked his vitals. There weren’t any bruises on him but not all bruises could be seen.

Harry sat slumped in the corner, his hands shaking from the magical backlash. Blood smeared his knuckles and forearms, and the glow of magic had long faded from his skin, leaving only pale, bruised exhaustion in its place.

Clint knelt beside him, easing a water bottle into his hands.

No one spoke.

Tony finally moved to the cockpit, settled into the pilot’s seat, and with a few flicks of his fingers, the Quinjet began to rise.

Outside, the wreckage of the shipyard receded into the haze. Craters. Broken hulls. Scorched steel. And in the middle of it all, the faint glow of lingering magic slowly faded into the Earth.