When Harry wakes in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, and - if he were to guess - also in an unfamiliar house with no memory of how he got here, his first reaction is to sigh in annoyance.
He had had a rather excellent day of producing mayhem with Madzie, the two of them having felt the need to go all-out after not having seen each other for a while, something which has sadly been a byproduct of him and his parents moving to Alicante almost two years ago now.
His last memory is of waving Madzie goodbye as she stepped through a portal on the Institute’s lawn. And then, there is nothing.
He leans up on his elbows, eyes narrowing as he glances around himself.
It's the portraits that give away just where he might have ended up. The moving portraits.
Papa warned me this might happen at some point.
A quick glance around shows two occupied portraits and one that is suspiciously empty. So, the third one is probably carrying the news of Harry's waking to whoever decided to kidnap him.
One of the other portraits' occupants cheerfully waves at him. "You're awake," is the chipper greeting he receives.
"Astute observation," Harry returns blandly, adds a rather severe scowl for good measure, as is deserved for that sort of asinine comment.
Never let it be said that his two dads didn't both have a hand in teaching him how to deal with idiots. Between his Papa's cheerful-on-the-surface-but-all-the-more-cutting-for-it sarcasm and his Dad's forcefully passive-aggressive impassivity, Harry has yet to meet someone who he can't unnerve with just a glare and a well-aimed comment.
Making grown-ups cry is easier than one might think.
Isabelle calls him a terror, Clary a menace, and Simon has accused him of being evil incarnate more than once.
Jace, of course, is his absolute favorite partner-in-crime. No one pulls off confused innocence like his uncle and Jace has gotten the two of them out of many a scrape just by guilelessly batting his eyelashes at whoever was about to accuse them of something.
Harry takes another glance around himself, considers whether he should just make a portal and leave or whether he should let his parents come deal with whoever thought it a good idea to take him in the first place.
Then, he shrugs. Might as well.
Whoever thought it a good idea to kidnap the son of Alicante's High Warlock and the Clave's Inquisitor kind of has it coming.
He isn't even afraid of the situation he is in. Not in the least. Why would he be?
His magic is already leaking outwards, ever-increasing in intensity, easily spiraling beyond the wards that surround this building.
Like a beacon.
A beacon so bright his Papa will be tearing through the wards as though they were made of paper within the next minute or so.
There is a knock on the door.
Harry just glances at it and keeps his face neutral. Despite wanting to roll his eyes at the utter idiocy of whoever is on the other side of that door.
First they kidnap me and then they are trying to appear polite by knocking on the door?
He just calmly swings his legs out of the bed, magic swirling around him in ever-brightening spirals, a pattern his Papa taught him long ago, designed to slip past wards and perfectly recognizable to anyone looking for it. As his parents will be.
He calmly settles at the edge of the bed. And then, he waits.
He wonders whether it would be a bit too tongue-in-cheek if he starts whistling a funeral march.
"Harry?" A man asks from the other side of the door. "Are you awake?"
Like he said, morons.
Another knock. "Harry?" The same voice, now somewhere between worried and impatient. "We're coming in, okay?"
The door slowly swings open, revealing several people gathered in the hallway beyond.
There is a pause as they all blink at him where he is calmly sitting at the edge of the bed, staring right back at them, eyebrows raised at the lot of them. He can see some of them falter at the unexpected image of him just sitting there, calm as you please, and clearly waiting for something.
Then, "Harry," the old man at the front says cheerfully. "It's good to see you aw-"
The building trembles.
Dust raining down from the ceiling, floors creaking, walls shivering beneath a sudden assault.
The wards groan once, heave, and then – with the barely-there tinkling sound of shattering glass – simply give way.
Not even two seconds for Papa to rip through them, Harry thinks cheerfully.
The people around him are scrambling in utter panic, reaching for weapons or wands or whatever else.
Not like it will do them any good.
Because outside, beyond the building, Harry can feel the swirling of familiar magic – a vortex of power, dark and vibrating with fury, oppressive, unyielding, inescapable, almost paralyzing in its sheer overwhelming power – as his parents step past where the wards used to be, most likely followed by whoever else of their family decided to tag along with them.
And as tendrils of that same magic reach for him, seek him out, wrapping around him, warm and bright and gentle, feeling like safety, like home.
Harry just smiles.