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Chapter Text

The ancient stone archway stood silent in the Department of Mysteries, its tattered black curtain swaying despite the absence of any breeze. Harry's heart hammered against his ribs as he watched the fabric ripple, knowing—*knowing*—that Sirius had just fallen through it.

"No!" The word tore from his throat, raw and desperate.

Behind him, he could hear the ongoing battle—spells crackling through the air, shouts of pain and fury—but it all seemed distant now, muffled by the rushing sound in his ears. All that mattered was the archway and what lay beyond.

"Harry, don't!" Remus's voice cut through his trance, sharp with panic. "You can't—"

But Harry was already moving. Remus lunged forward, fingers grasping for Harry's robes, but Harry twisted away with desperate agility. The older wizard's hand caught only empty air as Harry sprinted toward the dais.

"SIRIUS!" Harry's scream echoed off the stone walls as he leaped.

For a moment, he hung suspended in the air before the archway, the whispers from beyond the veil growing louder, more insistent. Then the darkness swallowed him whole.

The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced—not the sharp hook behind his navel of a Portkey, nor the crushing squeeze of Apparition. This was like falling through layers of existence itself, each one peeling away another piece of the world he knew. His magic crackled around him, wild and uncontrolled, responding to his terror and determination in equal measure.

Then, abruptly, he landed.

Harry found himself in a place that defied description. It wasn't quite darkness, nor was it light. The ground beneath his feet felt solid enough, but when he looked down, he couldn't see it clearly. Mist swirled around him, occasionally taking shapes that made him think of memories—fragments of faces, places, moments that flickered and faded before he could grasp them.

"Sirius?" he called out, his voice strangely muffled here. "SIRIUS!"

Silence answered him. Not even an echo.

Harry stumbled forward, panic clawing at his chest. This place felt wrong, ancient and hungry. The whispers he'd heard from the veil were clearer now, speaking in languages he didn't recognize, telling him things he didn't want to hear.

*Lost,* they seemed to say. *Gone. Forever.*

"No," Harry whispered, then louder, "NO! He's here somewhere. He has to be!"

That's when he saw himself.

The other Harry stepped out of the mist ahead of him, but something was fundamentally wrong. His lightning bolt scar was a vivid, angry red that seemed to pulse with its own light. His eyes, while still green, held a coldness that made Harry's blood freeze.

"Well, well," the other Harry said, his voice carrying an inflection that was sickeningly familiar. "How fitting that you should come here, to this place between life and death. Though I must say, your timing couldn't be better."

Harry's hand instinctively reached for his wand, but his fingers found only empty air. He'd lost it in the fall.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, though part of him already knew the answer.

The other Harry smiled, and it was a expression Harry had seen in nightmares—Tom Riddle's smile on his own face.

"I'm you, Harry Potter. Or rather, I'm what you could become. What you *will* become, once you understand the truth." The false Harry began to circle him slowly, predatorily. "Did you really think that scar was just a mark? Did you never wonder why you could speak to serpents, why you could see into his mind?"

"You're lying," Harry said, but his voice shook.

"Am I? Tell me, Harry—why do you think Dumbledore left you with those muggles? Why do you think he never told you about your parents' true legacy, about the prophecy, about so many things?" The false Harry's smile widened. "He's been raising you like a pig for slaughter, boy. Making sure you had no self-worth, no understanding of your own power. All so that when the time came, you'd walk willingly to your death."

The words hit Harry like physical blows. The Dursleys. The cupboard. Years of being told he was worthless, a freak, unwanted. And Dumbledore had known. Had chosen it.

"No," Harry whispered, but doubt crept into his voice.

"Oh, yes. You see, Harry, you carry a piece of Voldemort's soul in that scar. A Horcrux, though I doubt the old fool ever bothered to explain what that means. It means you must die for Voldemort to truly die. And Dumbledore has spent years making sure you'd be broken enough to accept that fate."

The false Harry stopped directly in front of him, extending his hand.

"But it doesn't have to be that way. Give me control. Let me show you what real power feels like. Together, we can remake this world, reshape it into something worthy of our strength."

Harry stared at the offered hand, feeling the weight of everything he'd learned crashing down on him. The Dursleys. Dumbledore's manipulations. The prophecy. Sirius's death.

But then he thought of his friends. Of Ron's loyalty. Of Hermione's fierce intelligence and love. Of the Order members fighting even now in the Department of Mysteries. Of everyone who had believed in him, not because Dumbledore told them to, but because of who he chose to be.

"No," Harry said, his voice growing stronger. "You're not me. You're just the worst parts of Tom Riddle, clinging to existence. And I won't let you use me."

The false Harry's expression twisted with rage. "Foolish boy! You choose suffering over power? Death over dominion?"

"I choose *choice*," Harry said firmly. "Even if Dumbledore manipulated me, even if I am broken—I still get to decide who I am. And I choose to be better than you."

The battle that followed wasn't fought with wands or spells, but with will itself. Harry felt the fragment of soul trying to overwhelm him, to drag him down into darkness and despair. But he fought back with every happy memory, every moment of love and friendship he'd ever experienced. The warmth of the Weasley family. Hermione's hug after the troll. Hagrid's gentle care. Even Sirius's laughter.

With a sound like tearing fabric, the false Harry screamed and began to dissolve, pulled apart by the hungry mists of the veil.

"This isn't over!" it shrieked as it faded. "You'll die anyway! The prophecy—"

But its voice was cut off as the darkness claimed it.

Harry collapsed to his knees, utterly drained. In the distance, he could swear he heard screaming—multiple voices crying out in agony. But the sound faded quickly, leaving only the whispered voices of the veil.

As exhaustion pulled him toward unconsciousness, Harry became aware of two figures approaching through the mist. One seemed to be wreathed in shadow, ancient and patient. The other burned with inner fire, radiant and fierce.

"Interesting," said a voice like the turning of pages in an old book. "Very interesting indeed."

"The boy has potential," agreed another voice, this one like the crackling of flames. "Great potential."

Harry tried to speak, to ask who they were, but darkness claimed him before he could form the words.

The last thing he heard before the world faded completely was the sound of two cosmic entities making a decision that would change everything.

—

# The Space Between

The mist parted like theater curtains, and Harry found himself face-to-face with two figures that made every instinct he'd honed through five years of mortal peril scream contradictory warnings. He struggled to his feet, legs shaking like a newborn foal's, every ounce of strength drained from the battle with Tom's soul fragment. But Potter pride—that stubborn, reckless thing that had gotten him into more trouble than Lockhart's entire collected works—kept his spine straight.

The first figure was cloaked in shadows so deep they seemed to devour light itself. She was beautiful in the way winter storms were beautiful—terrible, inevitable, and utterly beyond mortal comprehension. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves around a face that belonged on Renaissance sculptures, all sharp cheekbones and elegant lines. But it was her eyes that gave her away—ancient beyond measure, holding the weight of every final breath ever drawn.

The second burned like a living star given human form, and Harry had to resist the urge to shield his eyes. She was tall, statuesque, with hair that moved like liquid flame and skin that seemed to glow from within. Her features were sharp and aristocratic, but there was something fierce and primal in her gaze—the look of a predator that had never known fear because nothing in the universe was foolish enough to hunt her.

"Well," Harry said, his voice only slightly hoarse from screaming, "this is either the most elaborate hallucination I've ever had, or I've just stumbled into something that's going to make fighting a basilisk look like a pleasant afternoon stroll."

The woman of fire smiled, and it was like watching the birth of stars. "Oh, I like this one already," she purred, her voice carrying an accent that seemed to shift and flow like her flames—sometimes American, sometimes something older and indefinable. "He's got spine."

The shadow woman's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "Most mortals grovel when they meet us. Or faint. The fainting is quite common, actually." Her voice was cultured, precise—the kind of upper-class British accent that could cut glass.

"Sorry to disappoint," Harry replied with a crooked grin that had been charming witches since his fourth year. "But I've had tea with Voldemort, been possessed by diary-horcruxes, and spent the better part of five years having my life threatened by things that shouldn't exist. My standards for 'terrifying cosmic encounters' are probably a bit skewed."

The fire woman laughed, a sound like wind chimes made of pure joy. "Oh, this is delicious. Tell me, handsome, do you know who we are?"

Harry looked between them, taking in the shadows that clung to one like a second skin and the flames that danced around the other without burning her dress. "Well, given the whole 'place between life and death' setting, and the fact that you're both radiating enough power to make Dumbledore look like a first-year with a broken wand, I'm going to hazard a guess." He looked at the shadow woman first. "You'd be Death, wouldn't you? And you," he turned to the fire woman, "are something to do with rebirth. Phoenix, maybe?"

Death inclined her head with regal grace. "Perceptive. I am Death of the Endless, the final mercy, the last kindness. And this," she gestured to her companion, "is the Phoenix Force—creation and destruction, life and death, the fire that burns in the heart of every star."

"Right," Harry said, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "So, just to clarify—am I dead? Because I have to say, if this is the afterlife, it's got a very avant-garde decorating scheme."

The Phoenix Force stepped closer, and Harry caught a whiff of something that reminded him of Fawkes—cinnamon and sunlight and the promise of new beginnings. "Not dead, gorgeous. You're in the space between. Neither living nor dead, not yet committed to either path."

"But," Death added, her voice gentle despite its terrible certainty, "what enters the Veil cannot return to the world it left. Those are the rules, and even I cannot break them."

Harry felt his heart skip a beat. "So Sirius—"

"Lives," Death said quickly, and Harry's knees nearly gave out with relief. "He passed through before you, and has already been delivered to another realm. A world quite different from your own."

"Then send me there," Harry said immediately, his voice taking on that particular tone of stubborn determination that had driven his teachers to drink for five straight years. "Please. I can't—I can't lose him again. Not after everything."

The Phoenix Force's expression softened, and for a moment she looked almost maternal. "Oh, sweetheart. The world he's gone to... it's not like yours. It's a place where humans share the Earth with beings called mutants—people born with extraordinary abilities that manifest during adolescence."

"Mutants?" Harry frowned. "Like... what kind of abilities?"

"All sorts," Death explained, settling gracefully onto what appeared to be a chair made of crystallized shadow. "Telepathy, super strength, the ability to control weather or manipulate metal. Some can phase through walls, others can generate energy beams from their eyes. They're the next step in human evolution, though not everyone sees it that way."

"Let me guess," Harry said dryly, "they're feared and persecuted by the people they're trying to protect? Because that would be par for the course in my experience."

The Phoenix Force's flames flared with what looked like approval. "Exactly. They face prejudice, violence, government registration programs designed to track and control them. Sound familiar?"

Harry snorted. "Sounds like being a wizard in the muggle world, only with more leather uniforms and dramatic speeches, I'm guessing."

"You're not wrong," Death said with what might have been amusement. "The question is, would you want to be one of them?"

"One of them?"

The Phoenix Force moved closer, her hand hovering just over his chest. Harry could feel heat radiating from her skin, but it was the warm, comforting heat of a fireplace on a winter night, not the destructive burn of flame. "You already carry more than mortal essence in your veins, beautiful. Phoenix tears and basilisk venom, life and death intertwined. It's been changing you slowly, rewriting your DNA strand by strand."

Harry looked down at himself, then back up at her with a raised eyebrow. "Are you saying I'm already part mutant? Because that would explain a lot about my luck, actually."

"Not yet," Death corrected. "But the potential is there. The foundation has been laid. All it would take is... a little push."

"What kind of push?" Harry asked warily. "Because my experience with helpful magical transformations has been decidedly mixed."

The Phoenix Force's smile was pure temptation. "We want to awaken what's already dormant within you. Give you abilities that would let you not just survive in this new world, but thrive in it. Powers that complement what's already in your blood."

"Such as?"

"Draconic in nature," Death said, her voice taking on a clinical tone that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Snape explaining particularly gruesome potion ingredients. "Enhanced physical capabilities—strength, speed, durability that would make you very difficult to kill. A healing factor powered by the phoenix essence in your system."

"The ability to manifest scale-like armor at will," the Phoenix Force continued, her eyes literally glowing with excitement. "Weaponized breath—fire, lightning, frost, acid, even plasma if you're feeling particularly creative."

"Flight," Death added. "Using wings formed from pure psychic energy—a gift from the Phoenix Force's domain."

"Wandless magic," the Phoenix Force said with obvious glee. "Your abilities would flow directly from your will and intent, no focus required."

"And an intimidation aura," Death finished. "The ability to project such overwhelming presence that lesser beings would be compelled to submit or flee. Rather like what Tom Riddle could do, but powered by strength of character rather than fear and madness."

Harry was quiet for a long moment, processing all of this. "Right. So you're offering to turn me into a dragon-powered superhuman wizard. And the catch is?"

"No catch," Death said simply. "Consider it payment for services rendered. Even as we speak, the Veil is drawing in every fragment of Tom Riddle's fractured soul. The ring, the diadem, the locket, the serpent—all of them are being consumed, and with them gone..."

A distant scream echoed through the mist, a sound of such absolute agony that it made Harry's teeth ache. It went on for several long seconds before cutting off abruptly.

"And there goes Voldemort's original body," the Phoenix Force said cheerfully. "Spontaneous combustion, right in the middle of the Ministry. Rather dramatic, really. I approve."

Harry felt a weight he'd been carrying for five years suddenly lift from his shoulders. "He's actually dead? Properly dead? Not coming-back-as-a-wraith or possessing-random-animals dead?"

"Oh, completely and utterly deceased," Death said with evident satisfaction. "Tom Riddle has finally moved on to face whatever judgment awaits souls like his. A day I've been anticipating for quite some time, I must admit."

"Well," Harry said, a grin spreading across his face, "that's the best news I've heard all year. Possibly all decade."

"There is one small complication," Death continued, her expression growing more serious. "If we do this—if we grant you these abilities and send you to this new world—you won't be able to return to your original reality. The laws governing dimensional travel are quite strict about that sort of thing."

Harry's smile faltered slightly. "So I'd never see my friends again? Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys?"

"They'll mourn you," the Phoenix Force said gently. "But they'll also move on. The war is over now—they no longer need the Boy Who Lived. They can finally have the peaceful lives they deserve."

"But this new world," Death added, "is full of people who could use someone with your particular combination of power and moral compass. Someone who chooses to fight not because he has to, but because it's the right thing to do."

Harry was quiet for a long time, staring into the shifting mist. Finally, he looked back up at the two cosmic entities with a rueful smile.

"You know, when I jumped through that bloody veil, all I was thinking about was saving Sirius. I didn't exactly plan on a complete life makeover."

"The best adventures rarely go according to plan," the Phoenix Force pointed out with a knowing smile.

"True enough." Harry straightened his shoulders, and for a moment he looked exactly like what he was—a young man who had faced down the darkest wizard in a century and won. "Right then. Dragon powers it is. But I have two conditions."

"Name them," Death said.

"First, when I find Sirius, I'm giving him the lecture of a lifetime about jumping through mysterious magical doorways without thinking. I don't care if he's technically my elder—someone needs to teach that man some basic self-preservation instincts."

Both cosmic entities laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the space between worlds.

"And second?" the Phoenix Force asked, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Harry's grin turned decidedly wicked. "If I'm going to be a superhero in a world full of people with ridiculous powers and dramatic backstories, I'm doing it properly. None of this 'hide behind a mild-mannered alter ego' nonsense. I've spent enough years pretending to be someone I'm not."

Death's smile was sharp as a blade. "I think you're going to fit in beautifully, Harry Potter."

The Phoenix Force stepped forward, her flames wrapping around him like an embrace. "Are you ready, gorgeous?"

Harry took a deep breath, thinking of Sirius somewhere in another world, probably causing chaos and wondering where his godson had gotten to. Thinking of the friends he'd have to leave behind, but who would finally be safe. Thinking of a new world full of new people to protect, new wrongs to right, new adventures to stumble into.

"You know what?" he said, his green eyes bright with anticipation. "I was born ready."

The transformation began with light—blinding, searing light that seemed to pour from the Phoenix Force herself. Harry felt it sink into his bones, his blood, his very DNA, rewriting him at the most fundamental level. The phoenix essence and basilisk venom that had been dormant in his system suddenly roared to life, weaving together into something entirely new.

Fire raced through his veins, but it didn't burn—it *changed* him. He could feel his bones becoming denser, his muscles restructuring themselves, his skin developing the ability to shift into something harder than steel. Power filled every cell, transforming him from the inside out.

When the light finally faded, Harry collapsed to his knees, gasping. But even as his consciousness began to slip away, he could feel the changes taking root—wings of pure psychic energy flickering in and out of existence behind him, scales rippling beneath his skin like chain mail made of diamonds.

The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was the Phoenix Force's voice, warm with pride and anticipation:

"Welcome to your new life, Dragon-Born.”

—

# The New World

The grounds of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters lay serene under the silver embrace of a full moon, the manicured lawns stretching endlessly toward the treeline. It was the kind of peaceful night that made Charles Xavier almost forget about the constant struggles his students faced in a world that feared them. Almost.

But tonight, peace was about to be shattered in the most spectacular way possible.

Xavier sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the great lawn, his fingers steepled as he contemplated the strange psychic disturbance he'd sensed just minutes earlier. It had been like a stone dropped into still water—ripples of displaced energy spreading outward from a single point of impact.

"Something's coming, isn't it?" Logan's gravelly voice cut through the quiet. The Canadian stood beside Xavier's chair, arms crossed over his flannel shirt, a half-smoked cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. His entire posture screamed barely-contained violence, like a wolf pretending to be a guard dog.

"Something already came," Xavier corrected gently, nodding toward a figure sprawled motionless on the pristine grass about thirty yards away. "Ten minutes ago, to be precise."

Logan's nostrils flared as he caught the scent on the night breeze. "Human. Male. But he smells like..." He paused, frowning. "Like he's been rollin' around in a chemistry lab that caught fire. And there's somethin' else. Somethin' I ain't smellin' right."

The unconscious man was a study in contradiction—tall and lean, with aristocratic features that spoke of good breeding, but dressed in what appeared to be elaborate period costume. His long black hair fanned out across the grass like spilled ink, and his clothes were singed and torn as if he'd been through an explosion.

"Fascinating," Xavier murmured, his keen eyes taking in every detail. "He simply materialized. No aircraft, no vehicle, no mutant signature I could detect. One moment empty air, the next..."

"Next we got ourselves a refugee from a Renaissance fair," Logan finished dryly, taking a step closer to the prone figure. "You want me to wake him up, or are we gonna sit here admirn' his fashion sense all night?"

Before Xavier could respond, the night sky lit up like the Fourth of July had arrived three months early.

A tear appeared in the fabric of reality itself, about twenty feet above the lawn—a jagged wound in the air that bled fire and shadow in equal measure. Through the rift came a figure that made Logan's every instinct scream danger, descending on wings that seemed to be made of pure psychic energy, each beat sending ripples of power through the air.

"Well," Logan said, his claws extending with their characteristic snikt, "that's new."

The being that descended was armored from head to toe in what looked like living dragon scales, each one gleaming black as midnight but shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson. The armor moved like a second skin, shifting and adjusting with each movement, and the heat radiating from it made the air shimmer like a mirage.

"Logan, wait," Xavier said sharply, one hand raised. He'd barely brushed against the newcomer's mind before recoiling as if burned. The psychic presence was like touching a solar flare—raw, untamed power held in check by sheer force of will. "This one is... extraordinary."

"Yeah, well, extraordinary tends to mean 'really good at killin' people' in my experience," Logan muttered, but he didn't advance. Yet.

The armored figure landed with surprising grace, barely disturbing the grass beneath his feet despite the obvious weight of the scales. His wings—those impossible constructs of pure mental energy—dissolved into sparkles of light that faded into the night air.

For a moment, he stood perfectly still, and Logan found himself fighting the urge to step backward. There was something primal about the presence this being projected, something that spoke to the deepest, most primitive parts of the human brain. It was the feeling of standing in the shadow of an apex predator—beautiful, terrible, and utterly without mercy.

Then the figure turned toward them, and Logan could see his face was hidden behind a helm that looked like it had been carved from the skull of some great dragon, complete with glowing crimson eye slits and razor-sharp teeth.

"You know," Logan said conversationally, "I've fought a lot of weird stuff in my time. Sentinels, Sabretooth, that ridiculous purple guy with the helmet. But you might just take the cake for 'most likely to give small children nightmares.'"

The armored figure cocked his head slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was muffled by the helm but unmistakably young—and distinctly British.

"Sorry about the dramatic entrance," he said, and Logan blinked in surprise. The kid—because that's what the voice suggested, someone barely out of his teens—sounded like he was apologizing for tracking mud on a carpet. "I'm still getting used to the whole 'cosmic transportation' thing. Haven't quite figured out how to stick the landing yet."

With a sound like flowing water, the draconic helm began to retract, scales folding back and disappearing to reveal the face beneath. Logan's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.

The kid was maybe fifteen, sixteen at most, with the kind of classically handsome features that belonged on movie posters. His black hair stuck up at odd angles—whether by design or defiance of gravity, Logan couldn't tell—and his eyes were the most vivid shade of green Logan had ever seen. But it was the expression in those eyes that caught him off guard: exhaustion, determination, and a weary kind of wisdom that had no business being in someone so young.

"Bloody hell," the kid continued, running a hand through his unruly hair, "interdimensional travel is murder on the complexion. I feel like I've been turned inside out and put through a blender."

Xavier leaned forward slightly in his wheelchair, fascination evident on his patrician features. "Interdimensional travel? My dear boy, are you saying you're not from this reality?"

The kid's green eyes fixed on Xavier with laser intensity, and Logan noticed the way his posture shifted subtly—still relaxed, but ready to move in an instant. Kid had good instincts.

"That depends," the young man said with a crooked smile that was equal parts charming and dangerous. "In this reality, is there a school for people with extraordinary abilities run by a brilliant bald man in a wheelchair who can read minds?"

Xavier's eyebrows rose toward his perfectly smooth scalp. "That's... remarkably specific."

"And remarkably accurate," the kid replied with obvious satisfaction. "Excellent. That means I'm in the right place, more or less." He turned that piercing green gaze toward Logan next. "And you'd be the famously grumpy Canadian with the metal skeleton and the anger management issues?"

Logan's claws extended another few inches. "Kid, you've got about thirty seconds to explain who you are and what you want before I introduce you to my anger management issues up close and personal."

"Fair enough." The young man straightened, and despite his youth, there was something regal about the gesture. "My name is Harry Potter, and I'm looking for someone. A man named Sirius Black—tall, dark hair, tendency toward dramatic gestures, and an unhealthy obsession with motorcycles. He's family, and I've traveled a very long way to find him."

"Harry Potter?" Xavier repeated thoughtfully. "That name is... familiar somehow."

Harry's smile turned slightly wry. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Occupational hazard of being famous, I suppose."

"Famous for what?" Logan asked suspiciously. In his experience, young people who were famous usually fell into one of two categories: trouble, or really big trouble.

"Oh, the usual," Harry said with studied casualness. "Defeating dark wizards, saving the world, that sort of thing. Nothing too exciting."

Logan stared at him. "Dark wizards."

"Mmm."

"You're serious."

"Completely."

"Kid," Logan said slowly, "are you telling me you're some kind of... what, magic user?"

Harry's eyes lit up with genuine amusement. "Magic user? That's a new one. I prefer 'wizard,' personally, but I suppose the terminology doesn't really matter now." He glanced down at his scale-covered hands. "Especially since I seem to be something rather more than human these days."

Xavier's expression grew even more intrigued. "The armor—it's not separate from you, is it? It's part of your mutation."

"Got it in one," Harry confirmed. "Though I have to say, 'mutation' makes it sound like I caught something unpleasant from a public loo. The entities who gave me these abilities called it a 'gift.'"

"Entities?" Logan's voice sharpened. "What kind of entities?"

Harry's expression grew distant for a moment. "The kind that exist beyond mortal comprehension and have names like 'Death' and 'Phoenix Force.' The kind that can remake you from the ground up and send you careening through dimensional barriers like a particularly confused cannonball."

Logan and Xavier exchanged glances. 

"Phoenix Force?" Xavier said quietly.

"You know her?" Harry asked with interest. "Tall, gorgeous, tendency to speak in cosmic riddles and set things on fire? Lovely woman, terrible for one's peace of mind."

"We've... encountered the Phoenix before," Xavier said carefully. "It's not typically known for its restraint."

Harry snorted. "Try having her rewrite your DNA while chatting about the nature of existence. Though I have to say, she did excellent work. I feel like I could arm-wrestle a dragon and have a fighting chance."

"About that," Logan said, gesturing toward Harry's obviously non-human appearance. "The whole scales-and-wings thing. You planning on explaining what you are exactly?"

"Honestly? I'm still figuring that out myself," Harry admitted. "Best I can tell, I'm some sort of dragon-human hybrid with a side order of cosmic enhancement. I can fly, breathe various types of destructive energy, and apparently project an aura that makes people want to either bow down or run screaming. The jury's still out on which reaction I prefer."

As if to demonstrate, Harry let just a fraction of his presence leak through his mental barriers. Logan immediately felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and even Xavier's psychic shields reinforced themselves instinctively.

"Impressive," Xavier said, though his voice was slightly strained. "And dangerous. That level of psychic pressure could easily overwhelm an untrained mind."

"Sorry," Harry said, quickly reeling in his aura. "Still learning to control it. It's like having a new limb you've never used before—awkward and potentially destructive until you get the hang of it."

Logan's claws retracted with a soft snikt. Despite himself, he was starting to like the kid. Anyone who could project that kind of power and still apologize for it afterward had potential.

"So," Harry continued, glancing between them hopefully, "about Sirius Black? Tall, handsome in a devil-may-care sort of way, probably confused the hell out of whoever found him? Ring any bells?"

Xavier and Logan exchanged another look.

"The man on the lawn," Xavier said slowly. "Dark hair, expensive but damaged clothing, carrying what appears to be a wooden stick..."

"That's a wand, and that's him," Harry said immediately, relief flooding his features. He started toward the unconscious figure, his movements fluid despite the obvious weight of his armored form. "Thank God. I was starting to worry I'd ended up in the wrong dimension entirely."

"Hold up there, kid," Logan called, causing Harry to pause mid-stride. "Before you go wakin' up sleeping beauty, maybe you want to tell us a little more about what we're dealing with here? Because in my experience, people who fall out of other dimensions tend to bring their problems with them."

Harry turned back with a rueful expression. "Well, since you put it that way... the good news is that the homicidal dark wizard who's been trying to kill me since I was eleven is definitively dead. The bad news is that Sirius and I are now stranded in a reality where magic doesn't exist and we're probably going to have to start over completely."

"Magic doesn't exist?" Xavier repeated with obvious fascination.

"Not the way we're used to, anyway," Harry confirmed. "Where I come from, there's an entire hidden society of wizards and witches living alongside the non-magical population. Here, from what I understand, you have mutants instead. Different source, similar results."

"And you're sure your... Sirius... won't be a threat?" Logan pressed.

Harry's expression grew fierce, and for a moment Logan caught a glimpse of the steel beneath the young man's polite exterior. "Sirius Black is the best man I know. He's brave, loyal, and would die before he'd hurt an innocent person. He's also my godfather, and I've spent the better part of a year thinking he was a mass murderer thanks to a series of spectacular misunderstandings."

"A year?" Xavier's voice was gentle but probing.

"Long story involving time travel, mistaken identity, and a werewolf," Harry said dismissively. "The point is, he's family. The only family I have left, actually, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose him again."

The raw emotion in those words seemed to satisfy Logan's concerns. He nodded grudgingly. "Fair enough, kid. But if he wakes up swinging..."

"Then I'll handle it," Harry said firmly. "But he won't. Sirius is dramatic, not destructive. Well, not usually destructive. There was that incident with the flying motorcycle, but that was more property damage than actual—"

"Flying motorcycle?" Logan interrupted with sudden interest.

Harry grinned, and Logan was struck by how young he looked when he smiled like that. "Oh, you'll love Sirius. He's got excellent taste in both vehicles and mayhem."

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes later, Harry found himself trailing behind Dr. Henry "Hank" McCoy—"Dr. McCoy, if you please," the man had corrected with the kind of polite emphasis that carried the weight of doctoral dissertations and tenure committee meetings—down a gleaming corridor that looked like someone had crossed the Enterprise with Hogwarts and forgotten to add the moving staircases.

The blue-furred geneticist moved with the polished ease of a Shakespearean actor who'd accidentally been body-swapped with a professional wrestler. His long arms swept through the air in theatrical gestures that punctuated every syllable, each movement calculated with the precision of someone who'd memorized the Oxford English Dictionary and decided to perform it as interpretive dance.

"The infirmary here," Hank was saying, his voice carrying that particular academic tone that suggested he'd been perfecting lectures since before Harry was born, "is equipped with some of the most advanced medical technology available in the western hemisphere. Or, indeed, anywhere that hasn't been forcibly annexed by certain governments whose names I shall tactfully omit—though one suspects they rhyme with 'schmydra' and employ an alarming number of individuals with facial hair that defies both gravity and good taste."

Harry raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "So you're telling me you've got the NHS beat, then? Because I'll be honest, that's setting the bar somewhere around the Earth's core."

Hank's mouth twitched into what might have been the beginning of a smile, his canine features somehow managing to convey academic amusement. "If by NHS you mean your nation's admirably persistent healthcare service—which, I must note, I hold in the highest regard despite its occasional fondness for queues that stretch into geological ages—then yes, I daresay we may have them at something of a disadvantage. At least when it comes to handling claws, plasma discharges, spontaneous combustion, and the occasional student who accidentally phases through three floors of school infrastructure."

"Ah," Harry said with mock solemnity, "the usual teenage problems, then. Though I have to ask—do you get many walk-ins complaining of accidental time travel? Asking for a friend."

"More often than one might expect," Hank replied without missing a beat. "Though typically they arrive stark naked and speaking in future tense. Your sartorial choices, while striking, suggest either remarkable foresight or a interdimensional dry cleaner."

Behind them, Ororo Munroe walked with the unhurried grace of a queen whose court was wherever she deigned to plant her feet. White hair cascaded like liquid starlight over her shoulders, and her eyes—those impossible, storm-born eyes that seemed to hold both the fury of tornadoes and the peace of morning mist—tracked their surroundings with the steady attention of someone who'd learned that weather patterns and teenage mutants were equally unpredictable.

"Your friend shows no sign of injury," she said, her accent weaving through the words like silk thread through fine cloth—African rhythms wrapped in something else Harry couldn't quite place. Her voice carried the kind of quiet authority that suggested she could call down lightning or offer comfort with equal ease. "Breathing steady, pulse strong, temperature normal. As if he sleeps peacefully. Though sleep rarely carries such... resonance."

"Resonance?" Harry asked, glancing back at her. "That sounds ominous. Like the kind of thing that ends with 'and then everything exploded.'"

Ororo's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "In this place, most things do end that way eventually. But this feels different. Deeper. Like a song being hummed just below the range of hearing."

"Fantastic," Harry said dryly. "My godfather's gone all mystical. Next you'll tell me he's channeling the cosmic forces of the universe through his spectacular hair."

"I would not rule it out entirely," Hank interjected cheerfully. "We once had a student whose emotional state was directly correlated with local seismic activity. Another young lady whose sneezes opened temporary rifts in space-time. After seventeen years in this establishment, I have learned that dismissing possibilities as 'too ridiculous' is itself rather ridiculous."

"Seventeen years?" Harry shot him a sideways look. "Christ, that's dedication. Most people would've run screaming after the first interdimensional incident."

"Oh, I did run screaming," Hank said with academic cheer. "Twice, actually. But then I realized that between the cosmic horror and the grading papers, the cosmic horror was significantly less tedious."

Harry barked out a laugh. "Fair point. Though I've got to ask—do you always talk like you've swallowed a thesaurus, or is this special occasion vocabulary?"

"My dear boy," Hank said, placing a massive blue hand over his heart in mock offense, "I am wounded. Simply because I choose to employ the full breadth and majesty of the English language rather than limiting myself to grunts and abbreviations does not mean I have committed any lexicographical crimes. Besides," his eyes twinkled, "wait until you meet Charles. I sound practically monosyllabic compared to him."

"God help us all," Harry muttered.

Ororo's soft chuckle sounded like distant thunder. "Charles does enjoy his speeches. Though they are usually worth hearing."

"Here we are," Hank announced with a flourish, stopping before a door marked Infirmary – Authorized Personnel Only (Unauthorized Personnel Will Be Subjected to Educational Lectures on the Cardiovascular System). He keyed in a code with those massive fingers, each digit press deliberate and careful. "Inside you will find not only diagnostic equipment and biometric scanners of my own design—patents pending, naturally—but also, I trust, a wardrobe selection to make you somewhat less conspicuous. Your present attire, magnificent though it is, does tend to draw the eye. And occasionally cause small children to point and ask their parents awkward questions about why the nice man is wearing dragon skin."

Harry glanced down at the shimmering black scales veined with gold and crimson that rippled across his skin like living metal, catching the fluorescent lights and throwing them back in patterns that hurt to look at directly. "What, this old thing? I was going for 'understated elegance.' Thought it was practically muggle casual wear."

Hank's chuckle rumbled through his chest like an earthquake made of mirth. "Ah yes, quite. Nothing says 'blending in' quite like looking as though one has recently won a wrestling match with a particularly fashionable dragon. In any case, I have prepared clean clothes in what I judged to be approximately your size, though I confess your… enhanced physiology rather complicates standard measurements. I estimated based on your shoulder breadth, which suggests either extensive physical training or possibly a very committed relationship with protein supplements."

"Bit of both, actually," Harry said with a self-deprecating grin. "Though most of the protein came in the form of whatever the Dursleys didn't finish. Builds character, apparently. And muscle mass, if you're persistent enough."

Ororo's expression darkened slightly, storm clouds gathering behind her eyes. "Family can be... complicated."

"That's one word for it," Harry agreed, then shook his head. "But enough ancient history. Fair warning about the armor—it doesn't exactly come off the conventional way. More like it... goes away. Vanishes. Poof. Like my dignity during seventh year, or any hope of Snape ever giving me a decent grade."

Hank's eyes practically lit up like Christmas morning. "Fascinating! A symbiotic exo-dermal lattice structure, fully integrated with your nervous system and subject to conscious recall. The defensive applications alone could revolutionize personal protection technology. The molecular bonding mechanisms must be extraordinary—do you feel any sensation during the transition? Heat? Cold? Tingling? And the storage medium—is it truly extra-dimensional or merely compressed into subatomic—"

"Doctor," Ororo interjected gently, though amusement danced in her storm-touched gaze like lightning playing through cloud formations, "perhaps let the young man actually use the facilities before you draft him into your next research paper."

"Yes, yes, quite right," Hank said, looking faintly abashed in the way of academics who'd been caught mid-tangent. "Forgive me. Intellectual enthusiasm does tend to override social niceties. The bathroom is through that door—fully stocked with amenities, including soap that doesn't require a chemistry degree to operate. Clothing folded neatly on the counter. And Mr. Potter..." His tone softened, the academic bluster fading into something genuinely warm. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. We're honored to have you."

Harry felt something loosen in his chest at the simple sincerity of it. "Appreciated, Dr. McCoy. And it's just Harry, if you don't mind. The title thing... I've collected enough of those to stock a small library. Most of them involving the word 'git.'"

"Just Harry it is, then," Hank said with grave formality. "Though I reserve the right to upgrade you to 'Harry, defender of dimensions' if circumstances warrant."

"I'll hold you to that," Harry said, and disappeared into the bathroom with something that might have been the first genuine smile he'd worn since arriving in this peculiar new world.

---

The bathroom was spotless in the way that suggested either obsessive maintenance or possibly a very committed house-elf with advanced degrees in sanitation. Every surface gleamed like it had been personally polished by someone who considered cleanliness a competitive sport. Harry caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror and stopped dead in his tracks.

*Bloody hell.*

The armor clung to his form like liquid midnight shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire. Every scale caught the light and threw it back transformed, creating patterns that seemed to shift and flow even when he stood perfectly still. He looked mythic. Legendary. Like someone had taken the concept of 'knight errant' and fed it nothing but protein shakes and heroic deeds for several years running.

Except the knight looked like he'd been through a blender. Shadows pooled under his eyes like bruises, and his face was drawn tight with the kind of exhaustion that went bone-deep. He touched the mirror's surface and muttered, "Right then, Potter. Let's see who's still hiding under all this cosmic window dressing. Hopefully someone who still knows how to tie his own shoes."

He closed his eyes and reached for that strange new instinct—like flexing a muscle he'd never known he had. The scales shimmered, rippled, then began to flow backward, melting into his skin like liquid shadow returning to the darkness that birthed it.

When he opened his eyes again, his breath caught in his throat.

Gone was the wiry fifteen-year-old he remembered—all sharp angles and hand-me-down clothes that never quite fit. In his place stood someone who looked like he'd been personally commissioned by a sculptor with both talent and an extremely generous budget. His shoulders filled the mirror frame; his chest and arms carried the kind of defined muscle that suggested he'd been bench-pressing motorcycles as a hobby. His legs looked like they'd been built to run down fleeing dark wizards, and his jaw...

"Merlin's saggy left sock," he breathed. "I actually have a jawline. Like, a proper one. The kind that could probably cut glass if properly motivated."

Green eyes blazed like polished emeralds set in a face that Hollywood would've killed for. His hair—still wonderfully, defiantly messy—now looked artfully tousled rather than simply neglected, as though he'd hired a professional stylist who specialized in 'ruggedly handsome disaster.'

Harry swallowed hard, running a hand through said hair. "Well. That's... comprehensively unexpected."

Then he glanced down and felt his ears turn scarlet.

"Oh, *brilliant*. Of course the universe would enhance *everything*. Because apparently cosmic power comes with a sense of humor that makes the Weasley twins look subtle." He grabbed for the towel with speed that would've impressed a Seeker. "Right then. Shower first. Existential crisis about supernatural body modification second. Figuring out how to explain this without sounding completely mental... that can be third. Maybe fourth, depending on whether McCoy's got any books on 'Coping With Cosmic Makeovers for Dummies.'"

---

The hot water cascaded over him like a blessing, carrying away layers of interdimensional travel grime, magical residue, and what might have been actual stardust. Harry closed his eyes and let himself simply *feel* for the first time since arriving in this strange new world.

Everything was different. Not just the obvious changes—though those were rather hard to ignore—but the subtle things. His balance felt different, like his center of gravity had been recalibrated by someone who understood physics on a level that would make Newton weep with envy. His muscles moved with a kind of liquid precision that belonged in nature documentaries about hunting cats.

Even his senses were sharper. He could hear individual water droplets striking the tile, could distinguish between the slightly different pitches they made depending on where they hit. The soap smelled like seventeen different botanical ingredients, each one distinct and clear.

"Right," he said aloud, testing his voice. Still his, but deeper now, with more resonance. "So apparently along with the cosmic power package, I've also been upgraded to Supernatural Hunk, Complete Edition. Wonderful. Because what every awkward teenager needs is to wake up looking like he walked off a movie poster."

He scrubbed his hair with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "At least I still sound like me. Well, like me if I'd been voiced by someone with an actual budget for vocal coaching. Small mercies, Potter. Take them where you find them."

The shampoo was, he had to admit, absolutely excellent. Whatever Xavier's was paying for bathroom supplies, it was worth every penny.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped out looking significantly more human and considerably less like he'd been dipped in liquid starlight. The mirror confirmed what he'd feared: the changes weren't going anywhere. He looked like someone had taken the awkward teenager version of Harry Potter and fed him nothing but superhero serum and good nutrition for about three years.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, pulling on the jeans McCoy had left. They fit perfectly, which was either excellent guesswork or mildly concerning surveillance. "I look like I should be rescuing cats from trees and posing for romantic comedies. This is going to take some getting used to."

The sweater—soft grey wool that probably cost more than the Dursleys spent on his food in a year—settled over his shoulders like it had been tailored specifically for him. Which, given the precision of the fit, it probably had been.

Harry studied his reflection one more time, tilted his head, and attempted his most charming smile. The effect was devastating.

"Right then, Potter," he said to his reflection. "Time to go forth and attempt to convince a school full of superpowered individuals that you're not completely barking mad. Should be simple enough. After all, how hard could it be to explain that you're a wizard from another dimension who just got cosmically enhanced by mysterious forces? People love a good origin story."

He squared his shoulders, checked that everything was properly covered—the universe's sense of humor only went so far—and opened the door.

"Time to face the music. And probably McCoy's seventeen-part dissertation on the theoretical applications of interdimensional armor. Joy."

---

The medical bay was a study in contrasts—gleaming steel surfaces that could double as mirrors, soft ambient lighting that somehow managed to be both clinical and welcoming, and the faint, rhythmic hum of machines so advanced Harry suspected they might be reading his thoughts along with his vitals. The whole place looked like someone had torn a page from a sci-fi novel and decided to make it reality. Very un-Hogwarts, indeed. Someone—probably Storm, given the thoughtful touch—had placed fresh white lilies in a crystal vase by the bedside, their perfume cutting through the antiseptic smell.

Sirius lay sprawled across what had to be the Rolls-Royce of hospital beds, all gleaming chrome and holographic displays. The diagnostic monitors surrounding him beeped with the patience of well-trained servants, their soft chorus creating an oddly soothing symphony. Even unconscious, the man managed to look like he was posing for the cover of Wizard Weekly's "Most Eligible Bachelors" issue.

At his side sat Professor Charles Xavier, every inch the distinguished academic even in this sterile environment. His hand was pressed to his temple, brow furrowed in the kind of concentration that suggested he was wrestling with something particularly stubborn. The man had the bearing of someone accustomed to solving impossible problems before breakfast.

Across the room, Logan leaned against the wall with the casual ownership of a man who'd been thrown through enough walls to know which ones were worth respecting. Arms crossed, shoulders set in that perpetual ready-for-trouble stance, he looked like he'd been carved from granite and taught to scowl. The faint scent of his ever-present cigars clung to him like a signature cologne.

Dr. Hank McCoy stood hunched over a tablet, his blue fur practically bristling with academic frustration as readouts scrolled past faster than most mortal eyes could follow. His fingers danced across the screen with the precision of a concert pianist, muttering under his breath in what sounded suspiciously like Latin mixed with colorful invectives.

Ororo Munroe—Storm—stood at the foot of the bed like a goddess overseeing her domain. Her posture was serenely elegant, white hair shifting with an unfelt breeze that seemed to follow her everywhere. There was something about her presence that made the very air feel more alive, charged with potential.

Harry stepped closer, his green eyes cataloguing each face in turn. The weight of their collective attention was palpable, but not uncomfortable. These were people who'd seen their share of impossible things. "Any change since I left?"

Xavier lowered his hand with the careful precision of a man setting down something fragile, his sigh carrying the weight of genuine concern. When he spoke, his voice held that distinctive velvet baritone that could probably convince water to flow uphill. "None whatsoever, I'm afraid. His mind is present—very much alive and characteristically... spirited. But it's suspended, as if caught between waking and sleeping. Like a lantern whose flame has been snuffed out, though the wick remains perfectly intact and ready to burn."

"Medically speaking," Hank interjected, his cultured tones carrying both frustration and fascination in equal measure, "he presents a most perplexing paradox. Brain activity well within normal parameters, cardiac rhythm steady as a metronome, no evidence of trauma, toxins, or any pathological process I can identify. By all rights, he should be sitting up, demanding his discharge papers, and probably flirting with the nursing staff by now."

"Knowing Sirius," Harry muttered, "he'd have charmed half the medical bay into bringing him tea and the other half into smuggling in alcohol."

Storm's lips curved in an amused smile. "He does seem the type."

Logan snorted from his wall. "Kid's got his number."

Harry's gaze softened as he studied his godfather more carefully. Even unconscious, Sirius managed to look irritatingly handsome—aristocratic features that belonged on a statue, softened only by the ridiculous, roguish sprawl of his dark hair across the pillow. He looked less like a patient and more like a man taking a particularly luxurious nap, probably dreaming about motorbikes, firewhisky, and whatever delightfully impractical prank he'd spring on the world upon waking.

His eyes drifted to the nightstand. "He had this with him when we found him?"

Storm inclined her head with that regal grace that made every movement look deliberate. "Clutched so tightly in his hand we had to ease his fingers open. Whatever it is, he wasn't letting go without a fight."

Harry reached for Sirius's wand—thirteen and three-quarter inches of ebony, elegant as a blade and twice as dangerous. The moment his fingers closed around it, warmth pulsed through the wood like a heartbeat, familiar and welcoming. Magic recognized magic, even across dimensional boundaries.

And then it hit him like a Bludger to the skull.

He smacked his forehead hard enough to leave a mark. "Merlin's saggy left testicle—of course! I'm a complete and utter pillock."

Logan straightened, pushing off the wall with predatory grace. "News to precisely no one, bub. But if you've got something useful rattling around in that pretty head of yours, now'd be a good time to share."

"Logan," Xavier chided mildly, though his eyes held curiosity.

Harry turned, brandishing the wand like it was Excalibur and he'd just remembered he was bloody Arthur. "He was hit with a Stunning Spell just before he fell through the Veil. Standard battlefield magic—knocks you unconscious and keeps you that way until someone specifically cancels it. Bellatrix, the psychotic cow, caught him square in the chest."

Xavier leaned forward, intrigued. "And such an enchantment could survive dimensional transition?"

Harry's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Professor, magic isn't bound by your physics. It's not logical, it's not reasonable, and it sure as hell isn't polite. When magic says 'stay down,' you stay down. Doesn't matter if you've hopped realities, traveled through time, or taken up residence in bloody Narnia."

"Fascinating," Hank breathed, his scientific mind clearly spinning at light speed. "A neurological stasis effect bound directly to the subject's life force, completely independent of environmental context. The theoretical applications for trauma medicine alone could revolutionize—"

"Easy there, Doctor Frankenstein," Harry interrupted with a grin. "Let's see if I can actually wake him up before you start writing grant proposals."

Storm's eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth. "Perhaps allow him to succeed before you draft the Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Henry."

Hank had the grace to look sheepish. "Quite right. Forgive my enthusiasm."

Harry squared his shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle around him like an old cloak. "Right. Fair warning, everyone—this is my first proper attempt at wandless magic since my delightful cosmic makeover. So if I accidentally explode, someone please have the courtesy to clean up the mess before Rita Skeeter finds out and writes a headline about it."

"The kid's got a sense of humor," Logan observed, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced that was a good thing. "Just try not to blow up my medical bay."

"Your medical bay?" Harry raised an eyebrow that could have been trademarked for devastating effect.

"I've bled on more surfaces in here than anyone else. Gives a man certain rights."

"Logan," Xavier said with the weary patience of a man who'd had this conversation before.

Harry ignored the byplay, focusing entirely on Sirius. He placed one hand gently on his godfather's brow—warm, alive, stubbornly unconscious—and raised the other. The power that surged through him was nothing like the controlled channeling he was used to with a wand. This was raw, primal, like every cell in his body had become a conductor for forces that laughed at the concept of limitation.

"*Enervate.*"

Golden light poured from his palm like liquid starlight, wrapping Sirius in its radiance. The very air seemed to thrum with energy, and Harry felt the magic respond to his will with an eagerness that was almost frightening. For a heartbeat, nothing changed.

Then Sirius exploded into motion like a man still in the middle of a battlefield.

His fist shot toward Harry's throat with the precision of someone who'd learned to fight dirty and never forgotten the lessons. His other hand grasped desperately for a wand that wasn't there, grey eyes blazing with the kind of battle-madness that had made him legendary among Aurors and Death Eaters alike.

Harry caught the striking wrist inches from his neck, his grip firm but not cruel, moving with the kind of casual grace that suggested he'd done this before. "Good evening to you too, Padfoot. Lovely to see you're still leading with violence."

Sirius twisted like a duelist, all lethal elegance and practiced fury, driving his free fist toward Harry's ribs with enough force to crack bone. Harry caught that wrist as well, completely unbothered, as if catching lightning bolts was just another Tuesday activity.

"Bloody—" Sirius snarled, knee lashing upward toward Harry's gut with the kind of desperate ferocity of a cornered wolf.

Harry didn't even blink. The knee connected with what felt like a brick wall wrapped in expensive fabric. It was like trying to hurt a mountain.

"Jesus," Logan muttered appreciatively. "Kid's built like a tank."

"Logan, perhaps—" Xavier started with sharp concern.

"No need for intervention, Professor," Harry cut in smoothly, his tone carrying just enough authority to make it clear he had the situation well in hand. He tightened his grip just enough to be unbreakable without causing pain, his voice dropping to that low, warm register that Sirius would recognize anywhere. "Easy there, Padfoot. The war's over. You're safe. You're with me."

The nickname—*Padfoot*—sliced through Sirius's fury like a blade through silk. His eyes sharpened with startling speed, battle-madness giving way to dawning recognition. He took in the height first, then the shoulders that belonged on a rugby player, then the jawline that could have been carved by Michelangelo on his best day.

"…Harry?" His voice cracked like a teenager's, disbelief painted across every aristocratic feature. He stared openly, taking inventory of the transformation with the thoroughness of a man who'd known Harry since he was a scrawny eleven-year-old. "Bloody hell, pup. What in Merlin's name happened to you? Did you eat a bloody dragon?"

Harry released him and stepped back, his smirk crooked enough to be devastating. "Oh, you know how it is. Veil diving, cosmic remodeling, the full spa treatment. Apparently, getting hurled between dimensions comes with a complimentary makeover." He gestured grandly to the room around them. "Welcome to another reality, Padfoot. People here are called mutants instead of wizards, but they're just as prone to blowing things up. Try to act impressed."

Sirius sat up properly, running both hands through his hair in a gesture Harry recognized as his thinking pose. "And I suppose there's a long version of this story?"

"Considerably longer," Harry confirmed with theatrical gravity, "and infinitely more depressing. I'll save it for when you've had a proper meal and possibly several drinks. For now—" His expression grew serious, concern bleeding through the humor. "Are you alright? What's the last thing you remember?"

Sirius's face darkened, jaw setting in a way that promised retribution. "Bellatrix, the psychotic bitch. Caught me with something nasty just before I took my unscheduled tumble through your mysterious archway. Then nothing but falling—rather like a very long, very boring dream about gravity." He paused, then grinned with wolfish delight. "Woke up trying to punch you in the throat. Good to know my survival instincts made the dimensional journey intact."

"Yes, thank you for that heartwarming reunion," Harry said dryly. "Really felt the love."

"Always aim for the throat, pup. First rule of fighting dirty."

"I'll add it to my list, right after 'don't follow mysterious godfathers through ancient magical archways.'"

"Where's the fun in that?"

Xavier cleared his throat with the gentle authority of a man accustomed to managing extraordinary personalities. "Mr. Black, if I may—these are my colleagues. I am Professor Charles Xavier. This institution is my school for gifted youngsters."

Sirius swung his legs over the side of the bed and offered a bow that managed to be both graceful and slightly mocking—a talent that was purely Black family genetics. "Sirius Orion Black, at your service. Apologies for the dramatic entrance—I've never been what you'd call a graceful waker. Tend to assume I'm still fighting for my life until proven otherwise."

"An understandable reaction," Storm said with warm amusement, "given your circumstances. I am Ororo Munroe. Most call me Storm."

"Storm," Sirius repeated, tasting the name like fine wine. "Meteorologically themed, I assume? Please tell me you can summon lightning. Harry's told me absolutely nothing useful about this place, and I'm starting to feel underdressed for whatever party we've crashed."

As if summoned by his words, the air around Storm began to shift subtly, charged with potential energy. "Among other things, yes."

"Outstanding. I do love a woman who can electrocute people."

Logan straightened from his wall, and the soft *snikt* of extending claws punctuated his introduction. "Logan."

Sirius blinked at the adamantium blades, then grinned with genuine appreciation. "Right to the point. I respect that in a man. Do they retract, or are handshakes off the table permanently?"

"They retract," Logan said with what might have been amusement. "Most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"Sometimes I forget they're out."

"Brilliant. A man after my own heart."

Dr. McCoy stepped forward, his enthusiasm barely contained behind academic politeness. "Dr. Henry McCoy, and if I may say so, Mr. Black, you present a most fascinating case study. The dimensional transition appears to have had no deleterious effects whatsoever, which suggests either remarkable adaptive physiology or—"

"Hank," Xavier interrupted gently, though his eyes definitely held amusement now. "Perhaps we might allow our guest to fully regain consciousness before subjecting him to peer review?"

"Of course, of course," Hank said, adjusting his glasses with the sheepish air of a man caught being too clever for his own good. "Though I would be absolutely delighted to discuss the theoretical implications at your convenience, Mr. Black. The chance to study trans-dimensional magical theory is—"

"Is something that'll keep until tomorrow," Storm cut in smoothly, though her smile took any sting out of the interruption. "Tonight, I believe our guests have earned some rest."

"Rest," Harry groaned theatrically, "is the best idea anyone's had since Logan volunteered to shut up for five minutes."

"When the hell did I—" Logan started, then caught the grin. "Smart ass."

"I prefer 'devastatingly witty,' but I'll accept 'smart ass' from you, Logan. It's got a certain rough charm."

But Sirius leaned forward, and suddenly his expression was razor-sharp, the playful mask dropping to reveal the calculating mind underneath. "Before we adjourn to wherever you're planning to stash me, pup—what exactly can you do now? Because the Harry Potter I knew this morning couldn't bench-press a feather, let alone catch punches like he's made of bloody adamantium."

Harry's smirk was pure predator. "Well, since you asked so nicely—let me give you a proper demonstration."

The change was instant and breathtaking. Scales poured across his body like molten obsidian, each one catching the light as they formed seamless armor across his frame. The transformation flowed like liquid mercury, reshaping him until he stood gleaming like some ancient god of war given human form. Then, with a thought that felt as natural as breathing, psychic wings unfurled from his shoulders—vast, magnificent constructs of pure energy that filled the medical bay with warm, living light.

The silence stretched for exactly three heartbeats.

"Well," Sirius said finally, his voice carefully measured. "Bugger me sideways with a Quidditch broom."

"Language, Mr. Black," Storm said, but she was fighting a smile.

"Ororo, my dear, I believe the circumstances call for a bit of creative expression." Sirius stood slowly, circling Harry like he was examining a particularly impressive piece of art. "When I told you to aim high in life, pup, I wasn't suggesting you join the bloody pantheon of ancient heroes."

"You always said I was destined for great things," Harry replied, wings shifting slightly as he turned to keep Sirius in view. "I just took a more literal approach than expected."

"Great things, yes. Becoming a living legend out of Greek mythology was perhaps a touch more ambitious than I had in mind." Sirius reached out as if to touch one of the wings, then thought better of it. "Do they... work?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Can you fly?"

"Can Storm make it rain?"

"Point taken." Sirius backed up a step, shaking his head in wonder. "And here I was worried about explaining to James and Lily how their son managed to fail his Defense Against the Dark Arts practical. Instead, I get to explain how he became a bloody superhero."

The wings folded back into nothingness, and the scales melted away like they'd never been there. Harry stood before them again, looking perfectly normal except for the small detail that he'd just demonstrated he was anything but.

"They're..." Xavier began, then paused, searching for adequate words. "They're quite remarkable, Harry."

"They're bloody impossible is what they are," Hank muttered, stylus moving frantically across his tablet. "The energy requirements alone should—"

"Should probably be discussed over breakfast," Harry interrupted smoothly. "Along with a dozen other impossibilities I'm still trying to wrap my head around."

Sirius was still staring at him with something approaching awe. "You know, pup, when you decided to have a growth spurt, you really didn't do anything by halves, did you?"

"Black family genetics," Harry replied with a shrug that was entirely too casual for someone who'd just manifested wings made of psychic energy. "Go big or go home."

"Speaking of which," Storm interjected with motherly authority, "I believe 'home' for tonight means the guest quarters. Both of you look ready to fall over."

"I could sleep for a week," Harry admitted. "Dimensional travel is murder on the constitution."

"Lightweight," Sirius said with fond mockery. "Though I suppose I can't talk, seeing as I've been unconscious for... how long exactly?"

"Few hours," Logan supplied. "Not bad for a guy who took a header through a magic door."

"A magic archway," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."

"What difference?"

"About three feet of carved stone and several centuries of accumulated dark magic."

"That... actually doesn't make me feel better about any of this."

"Wasn't meant to, Padfoot. We'll cover the existential horror in tomorrow's briefing."

Xavier smiled, the expression warm and paternal. "I believe Storm's suggestion of rest is quite sound. There will be time for questions and explanations tomorrow. Tonight, simply be grateful you're both safe."

"Safe," Sirius repeated, looking around the room at the assembled mutants with something approaching wonder. "You know, I think I'm starting to like this place."

"Give it time," Logan said with a grunt that might have been amusement. "It grows on you."

"Like a particularly agreeable fungus?"

"...Sure, kid. Whatever works for you."

Harry laughed—rich, genuine, and alive with relief. For the first time since the Department of Mysteries, since watching Sirius fall through that bloody Veil, he felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight with grief and guilt and the terrible weight of being alone.

Because Sirius was here. Sirius was awake, and making jokes, and looking at Harry like he'd hung the moon and painted the stars. And if Sirius Black—who'd survived Azkaban, fought in two wars, and maintained his sense of humor through twelve years of hell—could roll with dimensional travel and cosmic makeovers?

Then Harry bloody Potter could handle anything this new reality threw at them.

"Come on then, Padfoot," he said, offering his arm with mock formality. "Let's see what passes for guest quarters in Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters."

"Lead the way, pup," Sirius replied, accepting the arm with equal ceremony. "Though I reserve the right to complain loudly if the accommodations don't meet Black family standards."

"Which are?"

"Egyptian cotton sheets, at minimum. A decent view. And absolutely no house-elves—I've had quite enough of being waited on by creatures who insist on being grateful for the privilege."

Storm laughed, the sound like silver bells. "I believe we can manage that."

As they moved toward the door, Sirius glanced back at the assembled X-Men. "Thank you. All of you. For taking care of him while I was... indisposed."

"Our pleasure," Xavier said simply. "Welcome to the future, Mr. Black."

"Let's hope it's an improvement on the past," Sirius replied, then grinned with that roguish charm that had gotten him into and out of more trouble than any reasonable person should survive. "Though given present company, I'd say our odds are rather good."

Chapter Text

The Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters maintained the kind of pre-dawn quiet that belonged in cathedrals and libraries—hushed, expectant, and faintly sacred. Harry Potter found himself awake at half-past five, staring at a ceiling that was both completely foreign and oddly comforting. The guest quarters were luxurious in an understated way that would have made the Dursleys weep with envy: Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like sleeping on clouds, furniture that cost more than most people's cars, and a view of manicured grounds that stretched toward distant forests like something from a postcard.

He'd slept better than he had in months, which was saying something considering he'd just been cosmically remodeled and hurled across dimensional boundaries. Apparently, his new physiology came with upgraded recovery systems—no more tossing and turning, no nightmares featuring red eyes and high, cold laughter. Just deep, dreamless sleep that left him feeling like he could wrestle a dragon and win.

The problem was that his internal clock had been thoroughly scrambled by interdimensional travel. His body insisted it was time to be awake and alert, while his brain pointed out that dawn was still an hour away and normal people didn't start their days before the sun remembered it had a job to do.

"Right then," he murmured to the elegant crown molding, his voice carrying that particular brand of dry British wit that had gotten him through five years of magical disasters. "Early bird gets the worm, and all that rot. Though I suppose in a place like this, the worms probably have superpowers too. Might as well have a proper look around before I accidentally declare war on the local wildlife."

He slipped into jeans that hugged his newly enhanced physique like they'd been tailored by Savile Row's finest, and a dark grey sweater that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that somewhere between yesterday morning and this morning, he'd been upgraded from 'scrawny teenager' to 'walking recruitment poster for the benefits of cosmic enhancement.' The clothing fit perfectly in that slightly unsettling way that suggested either excellent guesswork or mildly invasive surveillance.

"Note to self," he said to his reflection as he padded barefoot toward the door, "ask McCoy if telepathic tailoring is a standard service, or if I should be concerned about the privacy implications of magically fitted trousers."

The hallway beyond was dimly lit by what appeared to be automatic sensors, each fixture glowing to life as he approached and fading again once he'd passed. The technology was subtle but impressive, like everything else he'd seen so far. It reminded him of Hogwarts, if Hogwarts had been designed by someone with actual funding and a working knowledge of physics.

The mansion felt different at this hour. During the day, it hummed with the controlled chaos of teenage energy and academic pursuit. But in these quiet moments before dawn, it revealed its true nature: a haven built by someone who understood that sanctuary meant more than just four walls and a roof. Every detail spoke of careful thought—the way the corridors curved to create cozy alcoves, how the windows were positioned to catch every scrap of natural light, the abundance of plants and artwork that made the space feel lived-in rather than institutional.

Harry found himself drifting through the halls like a particularly well-dressed ghost, his enhanced senses cataloguing everything with the thoroughness of someone who'd learned that survival often depended on knowing your environment. The building's bones were old—probably nineteenth century, he guessed—but the infrastructure was cutting-edge. Climate control that adjusted itself room by room, security systems that would make Gringotts jealous, and what looked suspiciously like holographic displays built into the very walls.

"Bloody hell," he whispered appreciatively. "Xavier's got better tech than the Ministry of Magic, and they're supposedly the pinnacle of wizarding innovation. Though given that the Ministry's idea of cutting-edge technology is a self-stirring cauldron, that's perhaps not saying much."

He paused before a portrait of a stern-looking gentleman in Victorian dress, whose painted eyes seemed to follow his movement with the kind of intensity that suggested either exceptional artistry or mild haunting. The nameplate read "Nathaniel Essex" in elegant script.

"Well, Nathaniel," Harry said conversationally, his voice carrying that particular tone of polite interest that upper-class Brits used when making small talk with the potentially dangerous, "hope you don't mind the company. I'm what you might call the new kid, though I suspect I'm technically older than most of your usual residents. Dimensionally displaced, cosmically enhanced, and currently suffering from what I can only describe as supernatural jet lag."

The portrait, being significantly less enchanted than those at Hogwarts, offered no response beyond that unsettling painted stare.

"Right. Not much for conversation, are you? Fair enough." Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose dead Victorians have heard stranger things than interdimensional refugees. Probably had tea with them, knowing this place. Though I have to say, your expression suggests either chronic indigestion or deep philosophical concerns about the nature of existence. Possibly both."

He continued his wandering, eventually finding himself in what appeared to be the mansion's main atrium. The space soared three stories high, crowned by an elaborate skylight that would flood the area with natural light once the sun remembered its manners. Even in the pre-dawn gloom, the architecture was breathtaking—classical proportions married to modern sensibilities, creating something both timeless and thoroughly contemporary.

A grand staircase curved upward from the center of the space, its banister polished to mirror brightness and lined with what appeared to be actual marble. Portrait galleries lined the upper levels, featuring what Harry assumed were important figures from the school's history. The whole effect was rather like standing in the foyer of a very expensive hotel, except this hotel came with the implicit promise that the guests might accidentally level city blocks while working on their homework.

"Merlin's beard," Harry breathed, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "And I thought Hogwarts was pretentious. This place looks like it was decorated by someone who thought Versailles was a bit too understated."

Harry was contemplating the engineering required for that skylight—and wondering whether it was designed to withstand the occasional bout of teenage superhuman tantrum—when he heard it: the soft pad of bare feet on marble, moving with the careful stealth of someone trying very hard not to wake anyone. He turned toward the sound, curious about who else was awake at this ungodly hour.

What he saw made him freeze like a startled deer.

A young woman—girl, really, probably fifteen or sixteen—was creeping down the staircase with the exaggerated care of someone engaged in covert operations. She wore pajama shorts that were criminally brief and revealed long, coltish legs that belonged in renaissance paintings, paired with a tank top in a shade of green that perfectly matched her eyes. The tank top had clearly been slept in and clung to curves that made Harry's enhanced physiology suddenly feel like a significant disadvantage in terms of maintaining his composure.

Her auburn hair was an absolute disaster, sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics and possibly challenged Einstein's theory of relativity. She had the slightly unfocused expression of someone who wasn't entirely awake yet, combined with the kind of natural, unconscious grace that suggested she had no idea how absolutely stunning she was.

She was, quite simply, beautiful in that fresh-faced, girl-next-door way that made poets write very bad verse and teenage boys walk into stationary objects.

Harry Potter, being a teenage boy himself—albeit one who'd been recently upgraded to supernatural specifications and now looked like he'd been personally carved by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired period—promptly demonstrated his continued membership in that demographic by walking straight into a potted plant.

The crash was magnificent. The plant—some sort of decorative fern that had probably cost more than the entire annual budget of the Dursleys' household—toppled over with the theatrical flair of a dying opera singer. Soil exploded across the pristine marble floor in a spray of earth and ceramic fragments, while Harry flailed wildly in an attempt to catch both himself and the pot, succeeding only in making the disaster more comprehensive and infinitely more embarrassing.

He landed hard on his backside, covered in dirt and plant matter, while pottery shards scattered around him like shrapnel. The sound echoed through the atrium with the finality of a cathedral bell, ensuring that anyone within three floors would be fully aware that someone had just made a spectacular fool of themselves.

The girl on the stairs stopped mid-step, eyes wide with alarm that quickly shifted to poorly suppressed amusement. Her hand flew to her mouth, but he could see the smile threatening to break free behind her fingers.

"Oh," she said, her voice carrying just a hint of laughter that sounded like silver bells being gently shaken. "Oh my."

Harry sat in his patch of destruction, dirt in his hair and what felt like half the potting soil down his shirt, and gave her his most charming smile—the one that had gotten him out of trouble with McGonagall exactly zero times but always seemed worth trying. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that he was currently wearing half a fern as a hat.

"Good morning," he said with the kind of dignity that only worked when you were sitting in a pile of broken pottery, his accent crisp and distinctly upper-class despite the circumstances. "Lovely day for destroying expensive landscaping, don't you think? I was just demonstrating the advanced combat techniques they teach at Hogwarts. Plant warfare is apparently more challenging than I anticipated."

She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes were definitely dancing now, bright blue and sparkling with mirth. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, but—" She gestured helplessly at the carnage surrounding him.

"No, no, laugh away," Harry said, pushing himself to his feet with as much grace as he could muster while covered in soil. His enhanced physique made the movement fluid despite the circumstances, and he couldn't help but notice the way her eyes tracked the motion. "I'm sure it's quite the sight. New student makes spectacular first impression by declaring war on the local flora. I'll probably make the school newsletter. 'Potter vs. Plant: A Cautionary Tale About Pre-Dawn Navigation.'"

"Are you hurt?" she asked, genuine concern creeping into her voice as she came down the last few steps. There was something endearingly motherly about the question, despite the fact that she was clearly younger than he was.

"Only my pride, and that was never in particularly good shape to begin with." He brushed dirt off his jeans, which only succeeded in smearing it around more effectively. "Though I suspect I'll be getting a lecture about respecting the sanctity of potted plants. Probably delivered by someone with very strong opinions about proper hallway navigation and the dangers of wandering around unsupervised."

She was closer now, and Harry found himself momentarily distracted by the way the dim lighting caught the red in her hair, turning it copper and gold and several other colors that probably had names he didn't know. Her eyes were the kind of blue that reminded him of summer skies and deeper things—the sort of blue that poets spent their entire careers trying to describe and never quite managed.

"I don't think Professor Xavier will mind," she said gently, her voice carrying a warm quality that made something tight in Harry's chest loosen. "He's quite understanding about accidents. We've all had our share of... mishaps."

"Speaking from experience?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow in a way that had been known to cause hearts to flutter and occasionally stop entirely.

Her cheeks flushed pink, a delicate color that somehow made her even more beautiful. "Let's just say the greenhouse still bears certain scars from my first week here."

"What happened?" Harry leaned against the wall with studied casualness, crossing his arms in a way that absolutely did not show off his enhanced physique. Not at all.

"I may have accidentally... set fire to the prize-winning orchids during a particularly vivid nightmare." She bit her lower lip in a way that was absolutely devastating. "Turns out psychic flames and delicate flowers don't mix well. Professor McCoy was very understanding, but I think he's still mourning the loss of his hybrid tea roses."

Harry blinked, his casual pose forgotten. "Psychic flames?"

She bit her lower lip again, suddenly looking uncertain in a way that made Harry want to reassure her immediately. "I'm... I have telepathic and telekinetic abilities. Among other things. The fire is new, and I'm still learning to control it. It's... complicated."

The moment she mentioned fire, Harry felt something deep in his chest stir—a warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with recognition. It was like hearing a familiar song played in a different key, or seeing a constellation from an unfamiliar angle. Power calling to power.

And from the way her eyes suddenly sharpened, pupils dilating slightly as her head tilted in unconscious listening, she felt it too.

"You're..." she began, then stopped, uncertainty flickering across her features. "There's something about you. Something familiar. Like..." She frowned, searching for words. "Like hearing an echo of your own voice, but deeper somehow. Stronger."

Harry's enhanced senses picked up the subtle changes in her body language—the slight shift in her stance, the way her breathing had become more controlled, the faint scent of ozone that seemed to cling to her skin. Most telling of all was the way the air around her seemed to shimmer with barely contained energy, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt.

"You feel it too," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

She nodded slowly, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "It's like... like you carry a piece of the same fire I do. But that's impossible. The Phoenix Force is unique, and I'm the only one who—" She stopped, eyes widening as the implications hit her.

"Phoenix Force," Harry repeated, and now his voice carried a weight that made the words ring in the vast space of the atrium. "Tall, gorgeous, tendency to speak in cosmic riddles and remake people from the ground up? Flames that burn without consuming, except when they decide to consume everything? That Phoenix Force?"

Her hand went to her throat as if she could physically feel the power stirring there. "You've met her."

"More than met. She's the reason I look like I've been personally carved by Michelangelo and fed nothing but protein shakes for a year." Harry stepped closer, and the warmth between them intensified, like standing near a banked fire that was suddenly remembering how to burn. "She enhanced me. Made me something more than human so I could survive in this reality. Apparently, cosmic entities have very strong opinions about proper preparation for interdimensional travel."

"Enhanced you how?" Her voice was barely above a whisper now, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever spell was weaving itself around them.

Harry glanced around the empty atrium, then back at her with a roguish smile that could have powered small cities. "Would you like me to show you? Fair warning—it's a bit dramatic. I'm still getting used to the whole 'cosmic power' thing, and subtlety was never my strong suit to begin with. My Hogwarts professors can attest to that, assuming any of them survived the experience."

She nodded, taking a step back to give him room, but her eyes never left his face.

Harry closed his eyes and reached for that place inside himself where the Phoenix's gift lived—not the raw, wild magic he'd been born with, but something deeper and infinitely more dangerous. "Right then. Try not to be too impressed. I'm still getting used to the whole 'living legend' thing, and my ego's already dangerously oversized."

The armor flowed across his skin like liquid midnight, each scale catching and reflecting the dim light until he seemed to glow from within. The transformation was fluid, organic, like watching mercury flow uphill. Each scale was a work of art in its own right—black as the space between stars but shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire that pulsed with his heartbeat.

Then came the wings, unfurling from his shoulders in a display of pure psychic energy that filled the atrium with warm, living radiance. They weren't physical constructs but something deeper—crystallized thought given form, power made manifest. The light they cast was warm and inviting, like standing in a shaft of perfect sunlight.

When he opened his eyes, they blazed like they were lit from within, and his voice carried a resonance that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"Well?" he asked, and even that simple word carried power. "What's the verdict? Impressive enough to forgive the whole 'destroying your landscaping' incident?"

She was staring at him with something approaching awe, her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide. "My God," she breathed. "You're beautiful."

Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks—a rather ridiculous response from someone currently armored in dragon scales and sporting wings made of crystallized thought. "I'm told the Phoenix has excellent taste in renovations. Though I have to say, she didn't ask before starting the whole 'cosmic makeover' process. Bit presumptuous, really, but I suppose when you're a cosmic force of creation and destruction, concepts like 'informed consent' become more like 'gentle suggestions.'"

"She does." The girl's voice carried a certainty that spoke to personal experience. "Though she's never... I mean, I've felt her presence, her influence, but she's never appeared to me directly. Never spoken to me face-to-face. I wasn't even sure she was really there until recently."

"Count yourself lucky," Harry said with rueful humor, letting just a hint of his natural charm show through the cosmic grandeur. "She has opinions. Lots of them. And she's not particularly concerned with human concepts like 'consent' or 'asking permission before rewriting your genetic code.' Very much a 'act first, explain later' sort of cosmic entity. If she explains at all."

The girl laughed, a sound like silver bells that made something warm unfurl in Harry's chest. "That sounds like her. I've been learning to work with the power she's given me, but it's... overwhelming sometimes. Like trying to contain the sun in a teacup."

"What's your name?" Harry asked, letting the wings fold back into nothingness while keeping the armor. Somehow, standing there in his enhanced form felt right with her—like he didn't need to pretend to be smaller or weaker than he was.

"Jean," she said, then smiled with the kind of shy warmth that could stop traffic and probably had. "Jean Grey."

"Harry Potter," he replied, offering a slight bow that managed to be both formal and slightly mocking—a distinctly British combination of respect and gentle mockery. "Interdimensional refugee, cosmic experiment, and apparently the universe's answer to the question 'what happens when you give a moderately competent wizard delusions of grandeur and unlimited power?'"

"Moderately competent?" Jean raised an eyebrow that could have been trademarked for devastating effect. There was something delightfully challenging in her tone.

"Well, I did manage to defeat a dark wizard or two," Harry said with studied modesty. "Though I'm told that was more luck than skill. My former headmaster was quite insistent on that point. Something about 'reckless endangerment of yourself and others' and 'flagrant disregard for school property.' Very ungrateful, considering I saved the school. Multiple times."

"Multiple times?" Jean's smile widened, and Harry felt his heart do something athletic in his chest.

"Oh yes. First year was a possessed professor trying to steal an ancient artifact. Second year, basilisk in the plumbing—sixty-foot snake with a killing gaze. Third year was a falsely accused godfather and a pack of soul-sucking demons. Fourth year, resurrection of the aforementioned dark wizard during what was supposed to be a friendly sporting competition. Fifth year..." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "Fifth year was the Department of Mysteries, which is how I ended up here."

"That's quite a resume," Jean said softly. "And you said you're only moderately competent?"

"My Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would disagree," Harry replied with a self-deprecating grin. "According to her, I'm a 'dangerous delinquent with no respect for authority and a disturbing tendency toward vigilantism.' I prefer 'proactive problem solver with flexible interpretations of rules and regulations.'"

Jean laughed again, and the sound was like music. "I like your interpretation better."

"I'll bet you do." Her eyes traveled over the armor with frank appreciation that made Harry's enhanced physiology suddenly feel like both a blessing and a curse. "How long have you been here?"

"About twelve hours. Arrived yesterday evening in what I'm told was a rather spectacular fashion. Apparently, interdimensional travel isn't known for its subtlety. There was fire, there was falling from great heights, and there may have been some property damage. Standard Tuesday for Harry Potter, really. There's nothing normal about my life."

"Neither are you, from what I can see." She gestured at the destroyed plant, then at his current appearance. "Do you always make such memorable first impressions?"

"Only on days ending in 'y,'" Harry replied with a grin that could have powered small cities. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've destroyed expensive landscaping while meeting a beautiful girl. Usually, it's the other way around—I meet the girl, then things explode. This is actually an improvement on my track record. Progress, one might say."

Jean's cheeks turned pink again, but she was smiling. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Potter."

"Please, just Harry. 'Mr. Potter' makes me sound like I should be wearing a bowler hat and lecturing people about the importance of proper tea service. Or possibly running for Parliament. Both equally terrifying prospects."

"Just Harry, then." She took another step closer, and Harry could see flecks of gold in her green eyes that seemed to shift and dance like tiny flames. "What were you doing wandering the halls at this hour? Insomnia?"

"Dimensional jet lag," Harry admitted with a rueful chuckle. "My internal clock is thoroughly confused about what time it's supposed to be. Apparently, cosmic enhancement doesn't come with an automatic adjustment for interdimensional travel. My body thinks it's time to be awake and alert, while my brain is pointing out that dawn is still an hour away and normal people don't start their days before the sun remembers it has a job to do. What about you? Sneaking around in your pajamas doesn't seem like standard pre-dawn behavior, though I have to say, you make it look remarkably elegant."

"Nightmares," she said simply, and something in her voice made Harry's protective instincts snap to attention like a guard dog hearing an intruder. "They've been getting stronger lately. More vivid. Sometimes it's easier to be awake than to risk... well, let's just say psychic flames and dormitories don't mix well. The school's insurance policy is probably quite specific about that sort of thing."

Harry's expression softened, the playful banter fading into genuine concern. "The Phoenix power. It's hard to control when you're not fully conscious, isn't it?"

She nodded, looking suddenly younger and more vulnerable. "It wants to burn. Not destructively, but... completely. Like it wants to remake everything from the ground up. And when I'm asleep, when my guards are down..." She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

"It gets ideas," Harry finished quietly. "I know the feeling. When the Phoenix enhanced me, she didn't just change my body. She changed how I process magic, how I interact with the world around me. Sometimes I feel like I could reshape reality with a thought, and that's absolutely terrifying. Power without wisdom is just destruction waiting to happen."

"Exactly." Relief flooded her features at being understood. "Everyone here is so kind, so patient, but they don't really understand what it's like to carry something that's simultaneously part of you and completely beyond you. Like having a wild animal sleeping in your chest—beautiful and powerful, but always ready to wake up and remind you that you're not really in control."

"Want to know a secret?" Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean that made his head spin. "The Phoenix Force isn't just power. It's alive. Conscious. And it has opinions about how that power should be used."

Jean's eyes widened. "You can feel her? As a separate presence?"

"Sometimes. Usually when I'm pushing the boundaries of what I can do, or when I'm in danger. She's... protective. Maternal, almost, but in the way that volcanoes are maternal. Lots of warmth and creative energy, with the occasional tendency toward spectacular destruction. Very much a 'I love you so much I'll burn down the world if someone threatens you' sort of cosmic parent."

"That's exactly what it's like," Jean breathed. "Like having a cosmic parent who loves you enough to burn down the world if someone threatens you. I never thought... I mean, I felt something there, but I wasn't sure if it was really separate from me or just... wishful thinking."

They stood there for a moment, sharing the kind of understanding that came from recognizing kindred spirits. Around them, the pre-dawn quiet felt less empty and more expectant, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

"So," Harry said eventually, letting the armor melt away until he stood before her in simple jeans and sweater, looking perfectly human except for the slight glow that seemed to emanate from his skin and the way his green eyes held depths that hadn't been there before, "what do you do when the nightmares get too intense? Besides wandering around mansion corridors in your pajamas, I mean. Not that I'm complaining about the pajamas—they're quite fetching."

Jean glanced down at herself as if just remembering her state of undress, and her blush deepened to a shade that could have started its own fashion trend. "Oh God, I must look like a complete disaster. Bedhead and wrinkled pajamas—definitely not how I wanted to meet the mysterious new student everyone's going to be talking about."

"For what it's worth," Harry said gently, his voice carrying that particular quality that made hearts flutter and occasionally stop entirely, "you look beautiful. Bedhead and all. In fact, I'd say the bedhead rather adds to your charm. Very... accessible goddess, if you will."

She looked up at him through her lashes, and there was something in her expression that made Harry's breath catch and his enhanced physiology suddenly feel like a significant disadvantage. "You're very sweet."

"I'm really not," Harry replied honestly, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I'm reckless, prone to dramatic gestures, and have a documented tendency toward spectacular property damage. My former professors have extensive files on the subject. But you make me want to be better than I am. Which is terrifying, considering we've known each other for all of ten minutes."

"We've known each other for all of ten minutes," Jean pointed out, but there was something soft in her voice.

"Yeah, well," Harry's grin was crooked and self-deprecating, "I've always been a fast worker. Usually gets me into trouble—and occasionally gets me out of it again. But occasionally it pays off in spectacular fashion. I'm hoping this is one of those occasions."

Jean laughed again, and the sound seemed to chase away the shadows that had been lurking in her eyes. "I think I like trouble. Especially when it comes with an English accent and interdimensional credentials."

"In that case, Miss Grey," Harry said with a theatrical bow that would have made his etiquette tutors weep with pride, "I believe we're going to get along splendidly. Though I should warn you—I come with a rather extensive collection of enemies, a tendency toward heroic stupidity, and what my godfather calls 'an alarming disregard for personal safety.' Package deal, I'm afraid."

"I think I can live with that," Jean said softly. "After all, I come with cosmic fire, psychic powers, and a tendency to accidentally incinerate things when I have bad dreams. We might just balance each other out."

The sound of footsteps echoing through the hallways made them both turn. Someone was approaching—probably drawn by the crash of Harry's spectacular introduction to the potted plant.

"We should probably explain about the botanical carnage," Jean said, gesturing toward the scattered remains of the fern. "Before someone assumes we're under attack by houseplant terrorists or interdimensional gardening enthusiasts."

"Right you are," Harry agreed, then paused with a mischievous glint in his green eyes that promised trouble. "Unless you'd prefer to let them wonder. I bet we could come up with some truly spectacular explanations. Interdimensional plant monsters? Psychic garden warfare? The revenge of chlorophyll? I once convinced my cousin that gnomes were plotting to overthrow the government through strategic lawn decoration."

"You're terrible," Jean said, but she was fighting a smile that threatened to break free at any moment.

"Absolutely terrible," Harry agreed cheerfully. "It's part of my charm. Along with the cosmic powers, devastating good looks, and ability to destroy expensive landscaping while making witty conversation. Very specialized skill set, really. Not many people can pull it off with proper British flair."

"Your charm is having cosmic powers and looking like you walked off a movie poster," Jean pointed out, though her tone suggested she wasn't particularly complaining about either development.

"That's just the packaging," Harry replied with mock seriousness, striking a pose that showed off his enhanced physique to devastating effect. "The real charm is my sparkling personality, razor-sharp wit, and ability to make complete disasters seem like charming character quirks. Plus, I make an excellent cup of tea. Essential skill for any proper British gentleman, cosmic powers or no cosmic powers."

The footsteps were getting closer—definitely heading their way. Jean glanced toward the sound, then back at Harry with something that might have been regret.

"I should probably go get dressed. Properly dressed, I mean. Before whoever's coming decides I've completely abandoned all sense of decorum and started wandering around in my underwear."

"Probably wise," Harry agreed, though he made no move to step away from her. In fact, he seemed to be finding excuses to stay exactly where he was. "Though for the record, I think you look perfect exactly as you are. Like some sort of pre-dawn goddess who's decided to grace us mortals with her presence."

"Flatterer," Jean accused, but her smile was warm enough to power small cities.

"Guilty as charged," Harry replied without the slightest hint of shame. "Though in my defense, it's hardly flattery if it's demonstrably true."

She started toward the stairs, then paused and looked back at him over her shoulder in a way that should have been illegal in at least seventeen countries. "Harry?"

"Yes?" His voice had gone slightly rough around the edges.

"I'm glad you're here. Even if you do have a tendency toward property damage and making me forget how to form coherent sentences."

"I'm glad I'm here too," Harry said softly, and for a moment his mask of playful charm slipped to reveal something deeper and more vulnerable. "More than I thought I would be. This place... you... it feels like maybe I've found something I didn't even know I was looking for."

She smiled—bright and warm and full of promise—and then she was gone, padding up the stairs with that same careful stealth she'd used coming down. Harry watched until she disappeared around the corner, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst.

But as he waited for whatever faculty member was about to discover him standing in a pile of destroyed pottery at half-past five in the morning, he found himself smiling. For the first time since arriving in this strange new reality, he felt something that wasn't just relief or gratitude or grim determination.

He felt hope.

And maybe, just maybe, something that felt suspiciously like the beginning of falling in love.

The footsteps rounded the corner, revealing a rumpled-looking Logan in flannel pajama pants that had seen better decades and a tank top that was probably older than Harry was. His hair was even more ridiculous than usual, sticking up at angles that suggested either a very restless night or a recent encounter with a small explosive device. He took in the scene—Harry standing in the middle of botanical destruction, dirt still clinging to his clothes but looking oddly satisfied with life—and snorted.

"Let me guess, bub," Logan growled, his voice carrying that particular gravelly quality that suggested he'd either been smoking cigars since birth or had gargled with industrial solvent, "interdimensional jet lag?"

"Something like that," Harry replied, his smile never wavering. There was something almost luminous about his expression, like he'd just discovered the answer to life, the universe, and everything, and it had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant.

"Uh-huh." Logan's keen nose picked up traces of feminine scent and psychic energy, and his expression grew knowing in the way that suggested he'd seen this particular drama play out before. "And I suppose you just happened to run into that plant all by yourself? No witnesses, no accomplices, just you versus the forces of decorative vegetation?"

"Completely unprovoked attack," Harry confirmed with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for state funerals and tax audits. "The fern was clearly lying in wait. Probably been planning it for hours. Very cunning, your local plant life. I suspect it may have been in league with the soil—there was definitely coordination involved."

"Sure it was." Logan crouched down and began gathering the larger pieces of pottery with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd cleaned up after more than his share of disasters. "You know, kid, if you're gonna start knockin' over the furniture every time you meet a pretty girl, we're gonna need to invest in some cheaper landscaping. Maybe some of that plastic stuff. Harder to destroy, easier to replace."

Harry's cheeks reddened, but his grin only widened in a way that suggested he wasn't even slightly ashamed of whatever had just transpired. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Logan. I was simply exploring the architectural marvels of this fine institution when I was brutally assaulted by hostile flora."

"Course you were," Logan said with the kind of dry skepticism that came from decades of dealing with people who thought they were cleverer than they actually were. "And I'm sure the fact that you smell like Jean Grey's shampoo is just a weird coincidence."

"I have an excellent sense of smell," Harry replied with dignity that would have been more convincing if he hadn't been standing in a pile of potting soil. "Perhaps I simply noticed the pleasant floral scents that pervade this well-maintained establishment."

Logan straightened, ceramic shards in his palm, and fixed Harry with a look that could have curdled milk at fifty paces. "Just remember—Jean's a good kid. Smart, powerful, and deserves better than some interdimensional pretty boy who's gonna break her heart when he figures out how to get home."

The smile faded from Harry's face, replaced by something more serious. "I'm not going home, Logan. Can't, actually. The rules of dimensional travel are quite specific about that sort of thing."

"You sure about that?"

"Completely." Harry met Logan's eyes steadily. "This is my reality now. These are my people. And if Jean Grey wants to give me a chance, I'm not going anywhere."

Logan studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright then. But if you hurt her—"

"You'll introduce me to your claws in a very personal way," Harry finished. "I get it. And Logan? I'd deserve it."

"Good." Logan's expression softened slightly. "Now help me clean up this mess before Storm sees it and decides to lecture us both about responsibility and proper care of institutional property."

Harry knelt down and began gathering pottery fragments, but his mind was elsewhere—following a red-haired girl up a grand staircase, thinking about phoenix fire and cosmic connections and the way her smile could light up even the darkest corners of a pre-dawn mansion.

Yeah, he thought as he worked. He was definitely going to like it here.

Chapter Text

An hour later, Harry found himself seated in what could only be described as the office of someone who collected degrees the way other people collected stamps—if stamp collectors had a particular fondness for chaos theory and architectural impossibilities. Professor Charles Xavier's study was a masterpiece of academic achievement barely contained within four walls that seemed to bend the laws of physics through sheer intellectual force.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under the weight of volumes in at least a dozen languages, their leather spines creating a rainbow of scholarly ambition that stretched from Aristotelian philosophy to quantum mechanics. The massive mahogany desk—a piece that had probably witnessed more dissertations than most universities—had surrendered entirely to the academic equivalent of entropy, disappearing beneath layers of research papers, student files, and what appeared to be blueprints for technology that belonged in science fiction novels rather than educational institutions.

Sirius occupied the chair beside him with the kind of elegant sprawl that suggested he'd been personally tutored in the ancient art of making expensive furniture look even more expensive through sheer presence alone. His dark hair had been tamed into something approaching respectability—a minor miracle that probably involved either advanced chemistry or mild coercion—and he'd traded his battle-worn robes for clothes that Xavier had provided with the mysterious efficiency that seemed to characterize everything about this place.

The charcoal slacks and navy sweater fit well enough to suggest either excellent guesswork, sophisticated scanning technology, or measurements taken while he'd been unconscious—a possibility that Sirius had accepted with the philosophical resignation of someone who'd learned that unconsciousness was often the most peaceful part of any given day.

The mokeskin pouch sat on Xavier's desk between them like a small, unassuming landmine—the kind of object that looked harmless until someone mentioned its potential for reshaping local economics. Harry had watched Sirius's eyebrows climb toward his hairline when he'd explained about the dimensional barriers preventing their return, performing a slow-motion dance of surprise that would have been amusing under different circumstances.

Those same eyebrows had descended into thoughtful calculation when the subject of practical necessities had come up—minor details like money, documentation, and the bureaucratic nightmare of not existing in a reality that took existence very seriously indeed.

"Right," Sirius had said with the kind of philosophical acceptance that came from twelve years in Azkaban teaching a man to appreciate the relative nature of unfortunate circumstances, "so we're officially non-persons in a world where non-persons tend to have difficulties with things like bank accounts, employment, and not being arrested for the heinous crime of existing without proper paperwork. Wonderful. Though I suppose it could be worse—at least this world's prison system probably doesn't employ soul-sucking demons as guards. That's got to count for something in the cosmic balance of things."

"The American correctional system has its own unique challenges," Xavier had replied with the kind of diplomatic understatement that suggested intimate familiarity with bureaucratic horrors, "but you're correct that they don't employ dementors. Though some of the administrative procedures come remarkably close."

Now Logan leaned against the office doorframe with his customary air of barely contained violence wrapped in flannel and denim, examining one of the gold galleons with the intensity of a man who'd spent several decades learning to distinguish genuine artifacts from elaborate fakes—usually while people shot at him. The coin caught the morning light and threw it back in patterns that belonged in fairy tales rather than economic systems, each gleam suggesting stories that involved dragons, goblins, and exchange rates based on magical creature byproducts.

"Well," Logan said finally, his gravelly voice carrying a note of grudging respect that he typically reserved for fine whiskey and well-crafted weapons, "I gotta hand it to you, Black. When you said the Blacks always carry enough money to buy a small country, you weren't kidding around. This is solid gold, and old as hell. Museum quality stuff. Hell, probably belongs in a museum, come to think of it."

Sirius's smile carried just a hint of the arrogance that had gotten him into spectacular trouble at Hogwarts and several other educational institutions that preferred not to discuss the incidents in polite company. "The Black family motto has always been 'Be prepared for anything, including sudden exile from your native reality.' Very practical people, my ancestors. Paranoid, megalomaniacal, occasionally completely insane, and prone to dramatic gestures involving dark magic and property destruction, but undeniably practical when it came to portable wealth."

"How much are we talking about here?" Harry asked, eyeing the pouch with the newfound interest of someone who was beginning to understand that survival in this reality might depend on more than his ability to produce fire from his fingertips. He'd never paid much attention to the finer details of wizarding currency—when you spent most of your childhood thinking a fifty-pence piece represented untold riches, the concept of carrying around actual gold coins seemed like something out of a particularly elaborate fever dream.

Sirius upended the pouch onto Xavier's desk with the casual flair of someone performing a magic trick, and the resulting cascade of gold made a sound like metallic rain falling on mahogany. Galleons scattered across the desk surface, each one gleaming like a miniature sun and bearing the intricate designs that suggested the goblin mints took their craftsmanship very seriously indeed.

"Rough count?" Sirius said, his tone suggesting he was enjoying the theatrical effect of five thousand gold coins catching the morning light, "About five thousand galleons. Give or take a few dozen, depending on whether you count the ones that have been slightly defaced by emergency spell-casting. Nothing ruins the mint condition of currency quite like using coins as improvised magical focuses during life-or-death situations."

Logan whistled, a sound that suggested he was rapidly recalculating his initial impression of their financial situation and coming up with numbers that involved significantly more zeros than he'd anticipated. "Five thousand coins? Jesus. Even if they're just worth their weight in gold, that's... that's more money than most people see in a lifetime."

"More than enough to get you established," Xavier finished, though his expression suggested he was doing mental calculations that involved considerably more than simple precious metal values—the kind of mathematics that included variables like federal attention, tax implications, and the inevitable bureaucratic complications that arose when large amounts of undocumented wealth suddenly appeared in reality. "Though Logan raises a valid point about provenance. In this reality, the sudden appearance of five thousand gold coins that shouldn't exist according to any known historical records tends to attract attention from people with badges, guns, and very pointed questions about tax evasion."

"We'll have to be smart about it," Logan said, settling into the chair across from Xavier's desk with the fluid grace of a predator finally deciding to rest—though the alertness never left his eyes, suggesting that relaxation was always a temporary state that could be abandoned at a moment's notice. "Claim you found them at an archaeological site—old family property, maybe. Something that's been in the family for generations but never properly catalogued. Sell them in small batches through different dealers, different cities, maybe spread it out over six months to a year. Might take a while, but it'll keep the feds from wondering where two guys with no documentation suddenly acquired what amounts to a dragon's hoard."

"The federal authorities," Xavier clarified with the patient tone of someone who'd spent decades explaining the complexities of modern government to individuals whose previous experience with bureaucracy involved significantly fewer forms and considerably more magic, "have a notably dim view of undocumented wealth. Particularly when it involves precious metals, historical artifacts, and individuals who cannot adequately explain their origins. They tend to assume the worst about such situations, and their assumptions generally involve words like 'smuggling,' 'money laundering,' and 'international conspiracy.'"

Sirius nodded with the kind of understanding that came from spending twelve years as a fugitive from a government that had wanted him kissed by soul-sucking demons, an experience that tended to provide valuable insights into the relationship between authority and paranoia. "Right. Low profile, gradual conversion, probably several different identities spread across multiple states. I can work with that—it's not like I haven't had practice being someone else. Though I have to ask, what's the current market rate for turning medieval gold coins into something more immediately useful, like documentation that proves we exist and aren't figments of someone's particularly elaborate imagination?"

"Documentation will be the considerably larger challenge," Xavier admitted, his fingers steepling in front of him with the precision of someone who'd spent decades coordinating complex operations that existed in the gray areas between legal and necessary. "Logan has contacts who can help with the financial conversion—people who understand that sometimes valuable items appear in circumstances that don't fit neatly into standard commercial categories. But establishing legal identities in the modern world requires more than money. Birth certificates, social security numbers, educational records, employment history—the entire bureaucratic infrastructure of existence that most people acquire automatically by having the courtesy to be born in the correct reality."

Harry raised an eyebrow with the kind of aristocratic precision that suggested noble breeding combined with years of practice dealing with bureaucratic absurdity. "Please tell me you're not suggesting we embark on careers as professional forgers. I've had enough of being wanted by the government for things I didn't actually do."

"Nothing quite so dramatic or potentially incriminating," Xavier replied with a slight smile that suggested he'd navigated these waters before, probably more frequently than anyone should have to. "I have colleagues in various government agencies who occasionally assist with... unusual situations. Refugees whose homelands no longer exist, witnesses in protection programs whose previous lives need to disappear entirely, individuals whose circumstances don't fit neatly into standard bureaucratic categories and who need to be inserted into society with minimal questions asked. Your situation, while admittedly unique in its specifics, is not entirely without precedent in terms of the solutions required."

"Meaning?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested he was beginning to suspect that Xavier's definition of 'colleagues' might involve people whose business cards were notably vague about their actual job titles.

"Meaning I can make some calls to people who owe me favors, most of whom work in departments that officially don't exist and handle situations that never happened," Xavier said with the matter-of-fact delivery of someone discussing the weather rather than potential federal crimes. "It will take time—probably several months to create backgrounds comprehensive enough to withstand casual scrutiny—and it won't be cheap, but within six months you should have everything you need to function as legal residents of this reality. Complete with educational records that explain your somewhat unusual skill sets without mentioning interdimensional travel or magical education."

"And in the meantime?" Sirius asked with the practical concern of someone who'd learned that the period between 'current crisis' and 'workable solution' was often where the most interesting problems arose.

"In the meantime, you're guests of the school," Xavier replied smoothly. "Which brings us to another matter entirely, and one that I suspect will prove considerably more complex than simple documentation fraud." His expression grew more serious, taking on the weight of someone preparing to deliver news that was significant in ways that weren't immediately obvious. "Harry, I took the liberty of using Cerebro to scan for your mutant signature while you were unconscious. The results were... illuminating."

"Cerebro?" Sirius asked, his tone carrying the kind of polite interest that suggested he was filing this information under 'potentially important things to remember later' while simultaneously calculating how many new ways this reality could surprise them. Given their track record with surprising realities, this was probably a reasonable precaution.

Xavier gestured toward what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary wall panel, which responded to his touch by sliding back with the silent efficiency of advanced technology to reveal a bank of monitors, control systems, and equipment that belonged in the kind of science fiction films where the heroes saved the world through superior computer graphics. The display suggested capabilities that made Hogwarts' magical monitoring systems look like children's toys constructed from parchment and wishful thinking.

"A device I designed to locate and identify mutants anywhere in the world," Xavier explained, his voice taking on the cadence of someone who'd given this particular lecture many times before, though rarely to audiences who'd recently survived interdimensional travel. "It amplifies telepathic abilities to a global scale, allowing me to detect the distinctive brain patterns associated with active or dormant X-genes. Think of it as a very sophisticated magical detector, except it detects genetic potential rather than spell residue."

"X-genes?" Harry leaned forward with genuine curiosity, his green eyes brightening with the kind of intellectual interest that had once made Hermione declare him 'almost educable' during their better moments at Hogwarts. "I'm assuming this isn't a reference to particularly exciting chromosomes."

Xavier's smile carried the warmth of a teacher who'd found a genuinely interested student. "The genetic marker that causes mutation—the biological foundation for abilities that transcend normal human limitations. In most cases, the genes remain dormant until adolescence, when various factors can trigger manifestation. Stress, trauma, extreme emotion—the catalysts vary significantly, but the result is the same. Abilities that allow individuals to manipulate reality in ways that conventional science insists should be impossible."

Sirius was studying the equipment with the kind of fascination that suggested his years as a member of the Order of the Phoenix had given him a healthy appreciation for sophisticated detection systems, particularly ones that didn't rely on temperamental magical creatures or artifacts that occasionally exploded without warning. "And you found Harry on this... Cerebro device? Despite the fact that he's from another dimension entirely?"

"I did indeed," Xavier said, and something in his tone suggested the discovery had been significant in ways that extended beyond simple identification. "He registers as a mutant, Class Five. What we classify as Omega Level—a designation that represents the theoretical upper limit of human genetic potential."

"Which means?" Harry asked, though something in Xavier's carefully measured tone suggested this wasn't entirely good news. In his experience, phrases like 'theoretical upper limit' and 'unprecedented' were usually followed by complications that involved explosions, government attention, or both.

"It means you're in very exclusive company," Xavier replied with the careful precision of someone delivering information that needed to be absorbed gradually. "Omega Level mutants represent perhaps a dozen confirmed cases worldwide—individuals whose abilities operate on scales that challenge our understanding of physical law. At this school, only two students carry that classification: Jean Grey and Bobby Drake. And now, apparently, you."

"Jean," Harry repeated, and something in his voice—a subtle warming, a note of particular interest—made Sirius glance at him with the sudden alertness of someone who'd spent years learning to recognize the signs of his godson developing complicated feelings about individuals who were likely to complicate their lives in spectacular fashion.

"Miss Grey, yes," Xavier said, his smile holding just a hint of knowing amusement that suggested he'd noticed the way Harry's expression had changed at the mention of her name. "I believe you've already made her acquaintance? Logan mentioned something about early morning encounters involving what he described as 'decorative vegetation and property damage on a scale that suggested either natural disaster or teenage romance.' His words, not mine."

Harry's cheeks reddened slightly, but he met Xavier's gaze with the kind of steady composure that suggested noble breeding combined with years of practice handling embarrassing situations with dignity. "We met briefly during what could generously be described as unusual circumstances. She seems... remarkable. And remarkably patient with individuals who accidentally destroy landscaping while learning to control interdimensional fire powers."

"She is indeed both remarkable and patient," Xavier agreed with paternal warmth. "As are you, apparently. The Phoenix Force has enhanced abilities you already possessed, amplifying them to unprecedented levels while somehow maintaining the essential nature of your mutant gifts. The question now is what you intend to do with those abilities—and whether you'd be interested in learning to use them more effectively."

"Well," Harry said slowly, his tone carrying the careful consideration of someone who'd learned that major life decisions deserved proper thought, "I suppose that depends on whether you'll have me. As a student, I mean. Though I should probably warn you that my academic record is somewhat... unconventional."

Xavier's eyebrows rose with the kind of polite interest that suggested he was accustomed to unconventional academic records and found them more amusing than concerning. "You wish to attend the school?"

"If you'll have him," Sirius interjected, his voice carrying the kind of parental authority that managed to be both protective and supportive simultaneously, "though I should probably mention that Harry's education has been... specialized in ways that don't translate well to standard academic environments. Hogwarts doesn't exactly prepare students for functioning in the real world. No mathematics beyond basic arithmetic, no sciences that don't involve magical creatures or potion brewing, no modern history, no literature that wasn't written by dead wizards with questionable social views. He can tell you seventeen different ways to brew a potion that'll regrow missing bones, recite the complete genealogy of every major wizarding family in Europe, and identify the optimal wand movements for transfiguring a beetle into a button, but ask him about algebra, basic chemistry, or how to balance a checkbook and you'll get a blank stare that could power small cities."

Harry grimaced with the kind of rueful self-awareness that came from years of discovering the gaps in one's education at particularly inconvenient moments. "It's considerably worse than Sirius is making it sound, actually. I can recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood from memory, explain the theoretical framework for human transfiguration, and discuss the political implications of the goblin rebellions with reasonable authority, but I couldn't calculate compound interest if my life depended on it. Wizarding education is remarkably thorough in its own narrow way, but completely useless for functioning in a reality where people expect you to understand things like 'economics' and 'basic scientific principles' and 'why you can't just magic away your problems.'"

"Not entirely useless," Xavier said thoughtfully, his expression suggesting he was already seeing possibilities that hadn't occurred to anyone else in the room. "Your magical education would translate to advanced degrees in several theoretical sciences, if we could find ways to present the knowledge in terms that don't involve mentioning magic explicitly. Transfiguration alone represents mastery of principles that our most advanced physicists are only beginning to explore—molecular manipulation, energy-matter conversion, the theoretical framework for reshaping reality at the subatomic level."

"Try explaining that to a university admissions board," Harry replied with the kind of dry British humor that could cut glass, "'Yes, I know I don't have traditional qualifications, but I can turn a desk into a pig, and the pig will have perfect molecular cohesion and retain the desk's essential properties for up to six hours depending on the phase of the moon. Surely that counts for something in your chemistry program?'"

Logan snorted with amusement, the sound carrying appreciation for both the humor and the underlying frustration. "Kid's got a point. Academia's funny about things like 'accredited institutions' and 'documented coursework.' Bunch of snobs, if you ask me."

"Indeed he does have a point," Xavier agreed with the patient understanding of someone who'd spent decades navigating the intersection of extraordinary abilities and conventional expectations. "Which is why I'm prepared to offer you a place here—not as a traditional student, since you're clearly beyond that level in terms of personal development, practical experience, and the kind of life skills that most of our students won't acquire until they're significantly older, but as someone who can benefit from our educational resources while contributing to the school community in meaningful ways."

"Contributing how?" Sirius asked with the kind of protective suspicion that suggested years of learning to be wary of adults who offered Harry opportunities that sounded too good to be true—a category that had historically included 'tournaments that try to kill you,' 'mysterious professors with hidden agendas,' and 'government positions that involve fighting dark wizards without proper support or legal protection.'

"Teaching, primarily," Xavier replied with the calm assurance of someone who'd already thought through the practical implications. "Harry's combat experience, tactical knowledge, and understanding of defense against hostile forces would be invaluable for our older students—particularly those who are approaching the age where they'll need to make decisions about how to use their abilities in an increasingly complex world. Defense Against the Dark Arts, if you will, adapted for a reality of mutant abilities rather than magical creatures, government persecution rather than dark wizards, and situations where the primary goal is protecting innocent people rather than winning wars."

Harry blinked, his expression shifting to something between surprise and genuine interest. "You want me to teach? At seventeen?"

"You've been teaching for years already," Xavier pointed out with gentle accuracy, "whether you realized it or not. Every time you've led your friends into dangerous situations and brought them out alive, every tactical decision you've made under pressure, every moment when you've had to choose between your own safety and protecting others—that's been teaching, just without the formal classroom structure. Age, Mr. Potter, is considerably less relevant than experience, and your experience in dealing with hostile forces while protecting civilians is more extensive than that of most professional security consultants."

"Besides," Logan added with a grin that suggested he was warming to the idea, "half the staff here started teaching before they were old enough to drink legally. Xavier's got a thing for recruiting people who've learned important lessons the hard way and can pass them on to kids who might not have to learn them quite so hard themselves."

"But first," Xavier continued smoothly, "we need to address the gaps in your conventional education. Storm can help with languages—she speaks six fluently and has an excellent grasp of the cultural contexts that make language learning actually useful rather than just academic. Hank can cover the sciences, mathematics, and anything else that requires actual academic credentials rather than hard-won practical experience."

"And modern history, literature, that sort of thing?" Harry asked, his tone suggesting he was beginning to see the shape of a comprehensive educational plan that might actually prepare him for functioning in this reality.

Xavier's smile widened with the kind of paternal warmth that suggested he'd been looking forward to this particular revelation. "For that, I had someone else in mind." He pressed a button on his desk intercom with the casual efficiency of someone who'd been coordinating complex educational programs for decades. "Jean? Could you join us in my office, please? We have some new arrivals I'd like you to meet."

Harry's enhanced hearing caught the sound of footsteps in the hallway—light, quick, purposeful—and something in his chest tightened with anticipation that had nothing to do with his Phoenix-enhanced abilities and everything to do with the memory of auburn hair, green eyes, and a smile that had made early morning feel like the best possible time to be alive.

When Jean appeared in the doorway, she looked considerably more put-together than she had during their pre-dawn encounter—her auburn hair was brushed to a shine that caught the office lighting and pulled back in a neat ponytail that somehow managed to be both practical and elegant. She'd traded her pajamas for dark jeans that fit well enough to suggest either excellent personal shopping or helpful telepathic insights into what looked good, and a forest green sweater that matched her eyes with the kind of precision that couldn't possibly be accidental.

The overall effect was of someone who'd taken the time to look her best while making it appear completely effortless—a combination that Harry found considerably more devastating than interdimensional travel and government persecution combined.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Her voice carried that warm, slightly musical quality that had made Harry's enhanced physiology feel like both a blessing and a curse during their previous encounter, though now it seemed to resonate in frequencies that were purely pleasant rather than overwhelming.

"Indeed, my dear," Xavier said with the kind of paternal satisfaction that suggested he was about to orchestrate something he'd been planning for some time. "Jean, I'd like you to meet our guests. This is Sirius Black," he gestured to Sirius, who rose from his chair and offered a courtly bow that managed to be both respectful and slightly theatrical—the kind of gesture that suggested aristocratic breeding combined with a healthy appreciation for dramatic effect, "and Harry Potter."

Jean's eyes met Harry's across the office, and her smile carried just a hint of shared conspiracy that made the morning sunlight streaming through Xavier's windows seem considerably brighter than mere photons should have been able to manage. "Harry and I have already met, actually, though I don't think we were properly introduced at the time. Too busy dealing with what Scott rather dramatically described as 'botanical carnage of unprecedented scope and impressive destructive creativity.'"

"No, we were mostly focused on preventing the mansion from being consumed by interdimensional fire," Harry agreed, rising from his chair with the kind of fluid grace that suggested both excellent physical conditioning and years of practice making good impressions under difficult circumstances. "Harry Potter, at your service. Properly this time, and with significantly better control over my tendency to accidentally incinerate landscaping."

"Jean Grey," she replied, stepping forward to accept his offered hand with a smile that could have convinced entire governments to switch to renewable energy sources. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. And don't worry about the landscaping—it needed updating anyway, and your fire was actually quite beautiful once we got past the immediate panic about property destruction."

The handshake lasted perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary for formal introductions, and Harry was acutely aware of details that his enhanced senses processed with the kind of precision that would have been embarrassing if anyone else could have observed the data: the warmth of her palm against his, the way her fingers were long and elegant without being delicate, the faint scent of her shampoo that he'd identified so accurately during their previous encounter, the way her pulse quickened slightly when their skin made contact.

More than that, he was aware of something that felt almost like an electrical current running between them—not the dangerous energy of his Phoenix abilities, but something warmer, more subtle, more fundamentally human despite the extraordinary circumstances that had brought them together.

"Jean," Xavier continued, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents crackling between his students with the intensity of a small lightning storm, "Harry will need extensive tutoring in conventional academic subjects before the new term begins. His previous education was... specialized in ways that don't translate directly to standard curricula. I was hoping you might be willing to help bring him up to speed in areas like modern history, literature, and the kind of cultural knowledge that most students acquire through osmosis rather than formal instruction."

"Of course," Jean said immediately, though her eyes never left Harry's face, as if she was trying to read something there that wasn't immediately obvious to casual observation. "What subjects do you need help with specifically? I mean, besides the obvious gap between magical education and conventional academics."

Harry's smile carried the kind of self-deprecating charm that had once made Hermione declare him 'dangerously likeable when he's not being noble and self-sacrificing about everything.' "Practically everything that doesn't involve waving a wand, memorizing the properties of magical plants, or explaining why certain combinations of ingredients explode when you look at them wrong. Mathematics beyond basic arithmetic, sciences that don't involve magical creatures, modern history that extends beyond wizarding wars, literature that wasn't written by dead wizards with concerning views about blood purity—I'm essentially starting from scratch academically, despite five years of what technically counted as secondary education in an accredited magical institution."

"That's quite a comprehensive challenge," Jean said thoughtfully, and something in her expression suggested she was already making mental lesson plans while simultaneously calculating how much time they'd need to cover the essential basics. "But definitely manageable with the right approach. How much time do we have to work with?"

"The new term begins in six weeks," Xavier replied with the calm efficiency of someone coordinating complex educational schedules. "Enough time to cover the essential basics and identify areas that will need more intensive work throughout the semester."

"Six weeks," Jean repeated, and something in her tone suggested she was viewing this as an interesting puzzle rather than an impossible task. "We'll need to work intensively—probably several hours a day to cover that much ground effectively. Are you prepared for that level of commitment? Because I should warn you, I have a reputation for being thorough when it comes to academic preparation."

Harry met her gaze steadily, aware that they were discussing something considerably more complex than just academic tutoring—something that involved spending extensive time together, getting to know each other's thought processes, and building the kind of intellectual intimacy that could either be wonderfully productive or devastatingly distracting. "Completely prepared. I've never been afraid of hard work, particularly when it involves learning things I should have learned years ago, and I honestly can't think of anyone I'd rather learn from."

The compliment hit its mark with the precision of a well-aimed arrow—Jean's cheeks colored with a soft pink that made her green eyes seem even more luminous, and her smile grew warmer with the kind of genuine pleasure that suggested compliments from attractive young men with green eyes and interdimensional backstories were not an everyday occurrence.

"In that case," she said, her voice carrying a note of anticipation that suggested she was looking forward to the challenge, "I think we'll manage just fine. Though I should probably warn you that my teaching style tends to be... comprehensive. I believe in understanding the context behind information, not just memorizing facts."

"Given that my previous education involved a lot of memorizing facts without much context," Harry replied with that devastating smile that suggested both intelligence and humor, "comprehensive context sounds like exactly what I need. I'm looking forward to discovering what I've been missing."

The exchange carried undercurrents that had nothing to do with academic planning and everything to do with two attractive young people discovering mutual interest under circumstances that were both unusual and potentially complicated. The air in Xavier's office seemed to shimmer with possibility, as if reality itself was adjusting to accommodate the electromagnetic field generated by teenage attraction combined with extraordinary abilities.

Sirius cleared his throat with the delicate precision of someone who'd witnessed this particular dance many times before and was torn between amusement and the protective instincts that came with being responsible for a teenager whose romantic interests had historically involved significant complications. "Well then, that settles the education question rather neatly. What about more practical matters? Living arrangements, legal documentation, that sort of thing?"

"The mansion has extensive guest quarters," Xavier replied with the kind of casual generosity that suggested hosting interdimensional refugees was well within the normal parameters of school operations. "You're both welcome to stay as long as necessary while we arrange your documentation and help you establish yourselves in this reality."

"That's extraordinarily generous," Sirius said, though his tone carried a note of caution that suggested years of learning that generosity often came with hidden costs or unexpected complications, "but Harry and I have never been particularly comfortable accepting charity, even under unusual circumstances. We'd prefer to contribute something meaningful in return for your hospitality."

"As I mentioned, Harry's teaching abilities would be valuable to our older students," Xavier replied smoothly. "As for you, Mr. Black—what particular skills do you bring to the table? I'm assuming your background extends beyond simply being Harry's guardian and financial advisor."

Sirius's smile carried just a hint of the predatory charm that had made him legendary among both allies and enemies during his years as both an Auror and a fugitive—the kind of expression that suggested dangerous competence wrapped in aristocratic manners and a healthy appreciation for controlled chaos. "I was an Auror before circumstances forced an unplanned career change into professional fugitive. Combat training, tactical planning, investigative work, security assessment—the kind of skills that come from years of hunting dark wizards who tend to respond to law enforcement with extreme prejudice. I spent twelve years in Azkaban learning every conceivable method of survival in the most inhospitable environment imaginable, followed by two years on the run as one of Britain's most wanted fugitives, and another year as a member of a paramilitary organization fighting a terrorist insurrection led by a dark wizard with delusions of immortality and a concerning fondness for mass murder."

He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued, "I'm quite good at keeping people alive in hostile situations, identifying security vulnerabilities before they become lethal problems, and planning tactical responses to threats that don't follow conventional rules of engagement. I also have extensive experience with the psychological impact of long-term stress on individuals with extraordinary abilities, and I understand the particular challenges that come with protecting people who are simultaneously powerful enough to reshape reality and young enough to make catastrophically poor decisions about when and how to use those abilities."

"That," Logan said with evident approval and what might have been professional respect, "sounds damned useful. Especially the part about catastrophically poor decisions—we get a lot of those around here."

"I thought you might appreciate it," Sirius replied with a grin that suggested he and Logan were going to get along splendidly, particularly when it came to the shared understanding that came from years of keeping dangerous people alive despite their best efforts to the contrary. "I've had considerable practice with that particular challenge."

Xavier nodded with the kind of thoughtful consideration that suggested he was already seeing how Sirius's skills would integrate into the school's existing security infrastructure. "Security consulting, then, with a particular focus on protecting individuals whose abilities make them targets for hostile organizations. We can always use someone with your expertise—the mansion is well-defended, but it never hurts to have fresh eyes examine our protocols and identify potential vulnerabilities we might have overlooked."

"Sounds perfect," Sirius agreed with the satisfaction of someone who'd found a way to be useful rather than simply grateful. "When do we start?"

"Immediately, if you're ready for it," Xavier replied with the kind of practical efficiency that characterized most of his administrative decisions. "Though I'd suggest you both take today to rest and acclimate to your new circumstances. Tomorrow we can begin in earnest—Jean can start Harry's academic assessment, Logan can show you the practical aspects of converting your gold into more useful currency, and I can begin making the necessary calls to establish your legal existence in this reality."

"Speaking of which," Logan interjected, carefully scooping the scattered galleons back into their mokeskin pouch with the precise movements of someone handling valuable contraband that needed to be kept secure and discrete, "I know a guy in Manhattan who specializes in... unusual acquisitions. Discrete, professional, and he's learned not to ask inconvenient questions about provenance or the theoretical impossibility of medieval currency appearing in modern markets. We can drive down this afternoon if you want to get the process started."

"I'll come with you," Sirius said immediately with the kind of protective instinct that came from decades of learning that family fortunes needed careful supervision, especially when they involved interdimensional currency conversion and potentially federal crimes. "Never wise to let strangers handle the Black family treasury unsupervised, even when it's technically the Black family treasury from another dimension entirely. There are standards to maintain."

"What about you, Harry?" Jean asked, her tone carefully casual in the way that suggested the question was considerably more important to her than she was letting on. "Any interest in a comprehensive tour of the grounds? I could show you around, help you get oriented before classes start, maybe explain some of the local history and architectural significance. Fair warning, though—I have a tendency to get enthusiastic about details that most people find either charmingly educational or insufferably academic."

Harry's smile was brilliant enough to power small cities and probably solve several energy crises simultaneously. "Jean Grey, I have survived five years of Hermione Granger's impromptu lecture series on everything from goblin rebellions to the twelve uses of dragon's blood, delivered with the kind of passionate intensity that most people reserve for religious conversion or political revolution. I think I can handle your enthusiasm for local history and architectural significance." His voice dropped to that warm, intimate register that made hearts flutter and logical thinking become significantly more difficult, "Besides, I suspect I'm going to find everything about you charming rather than insufferable."

Behind them, Sirius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Merlin preserve us all from teenage romance and the property damage that inevitably follows," while Logan just shook his head and wondered when his life had become a combination of interdimensional refugee assistance and relationship counseling.

But as Harry and Jean disappeared through the office doorway, their voices already blending into the kind of easy conversation that suggested the beginning of something significant, both older men had to admit that there were worse problems to have than young people falling in love in spectacular fashion.

After all, at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, 'spectacular' was just another word for 'Tuesday.'

Chapter Text

The drive to Manhattan in Logan's beat-up truck was an education in itself. Sirius found himself pressed against the passenger door, one hand gripping the oh-shit handle while the other clutched his seatbelt with the desperate fervor of a man who'd survived Azkaban only to potentially die in vehicular homicide committed by a Canadian with anger management issues and an apparent death wish.

"Jesus Christ, Logan!" he shouted over the roar of an engine that sounded like it had been maintained with duct tape and stubbornness. "Are we going to a business meeting or attempting to break the land speed record? Because if it's the latter, I should probably mention that I haven't updated my will recently!"

Logan took a corner at a speed that defied several laws of physics and at least two commandments, his cigar clenched between his teeth at an angle that suggested either supreme confidence or complete resignation to whatever fate had in store. "Relax, Black. I've been drivin' these streets since before you were born. Never killed a passenger yet."

"'Yet' being the operative phrase," Sirius muttered, watching the scenery blur past at velocities that made Quidditch look like a leisurely Sunday stroll. "And might I point out that surviving twelve years in Azkaban only to die in a traffic accident would be cosmically unfair, even by the standards of my usually spectacular luck?"

"You'll be fine," Logan grunted, narrowly avoiding a collision with a taxi driver who apparently shared his views on traffic laws being more like friendly suggestions. "Besides, this guy we're meetin'? He doesn't like to be kept waiting. And trust me, you don't want to see Marcus when he's pissed off."

The truck screeched to a halt outside what appeared to be a perfectly respectable antique shop in the Village, its windows displaying the kind of tasteful historical artifacts that suggested either legitimate business or very sophisticated money laundering. The brass nameplate by the door read "Blackwood Acquisitions - Fine Historical Pieces" in elegant script that managed to convey both respectability and discretion.

"Marcus Blackwood," Logan explained as they approached the shop, the mokeskin pouch tucked securely inside Sirius's jacket. "Been in the business for thirty years, got connections from here to Hong Kong, and he's learned not to ask stupid questions about where interesting items come from. Perfect for our needs."

The shop's interior was a testament to the kind of careful curation that came from decades of knowing what wealthy collectors wanted before they knew they wanted it. Medieval weapons hung alongside Renaissance paintings, while display cases showcased everything from ancient coins to what appeared to be genuine Egyptian artifacts. The whole place smelled of old money, older secrets, and the kind of discretion that was purchased by the hour.

Marcus Blackwood himself was a study in contradictions—a man in his sixties with silver hair that belonged in boardrooms and hands that showed the calluses of someone who'd learned his trade through practical experience rather than theoretical study. His suit was Savile Row quality, but his eyes held the sharp awareness of someone who'd spent decades evaluating items that might or might not be entirely legal.

"Logan," he said warmly, rising from behind an antique desk that probably cost more than most people's cars. "Always a pleasure. And this would be your associate?"

"Sirius Black," Sirius replied, offering his hand with the kind of aristocratic charm that had once made him legendary at Ministry social functions. "Logan tells me you specialize in items with... complex provenance histories."

Marcus's handshake was firm, and his smile held the kind of professional appreciation that suggested he'd immediately recognized a kindred spirit. "Indeed I do, Mr. Black. Complex provenance is rather my specialty. Logan mentioned you might have some coins for evaluation?"

Sirius glanced at Logan, who nodded, then withdrew the mokeskin pouch and carefully extracted exactly one hundred galleons, arranging them on Marcus's desk with the precise spacing of someone displaying valuable merchandise. The gold caught the shop's ambient lighting and threw it back transformed, each coin gleaming like a miniature sun.

Marcus's eyebrows rose steadily as he took in the display, his professional composure giving way to something approaching awe. "My word. These are... extraordinary."

He picked up one of the coins, examining it with the kind of focused intensity that came from decades of distinguishing genuine artifacts from elaborate fakes. His fingers traced the intricate designs—the Gringotts seal, the serial numbers, the distinctive weight and balance that spoke to centuries of goblin craftsmanship.

"The goldwork is exceptional," he murmured, producing a jeweler's loupe and examining the coin more closely. "The purity is remarkable—this is easily twenty-two carat, possibly higher. The craftsmanship is unlike anything I've seen from European mints. The styling suggests medieval origin, but the precision of the detail work is extraordinary. Where on earth did you acquire these?"

"Salvage operation in the Caribbean," Logan said smoothly, his voice carrying the kind of casual authority that came from years of practice lying to people with badges and authority. "Family property that went down in a hurricane back in the eighteenth century. Been sitting on the ocean floor for the better part of three hundred years until Mr. Black here decided to invest in some deep-sea recovery work."

"Fascinating," Marcus said, though his tone suggested he was more interested in the coins than their supposed history. In his line of work, interesting stories were often less important than legitimate documentation and marketable provenance. "The preservation is remarkable for items supposedly exposed to salt water for centuries. Usually, we see significant corrosion damage from extended maritime exposure."

"Sealed containers," Sirius replied with the confidence of someone who'd spent years making convincing explanations for impossible circumstances. "Lead-lined chests, properly waterproofed. My ancestors were quite paranoid about protecting family assets. Probably learned the techniques from Dutch merchants who were experts at preserving valuable cargo during long sea voyages."

Marcus nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. "Sensible precautions. And you're looking to sell all one hundred pieces?"

"As a test run," Sirius confirmed. "I want to see how the market responds before committing to larger quantities. No point flooding the market and depressing values."

"Very wise," Marcus agreed, setting the coin back on the desk with the careful reverence due to valuable merchandise. "Based on gold content alone, I could offer you eight hundred per coin—that's considerably above current spot prices, but the historical value and exceptional craftsmanship justify the premium. However..." He paused, his expression growing more speculative. "I believe I could do considerably better if you're willing to be patient."

"How much better?" Logan asked, his tone carrying the kind of interested skepticism that came from years of negotiating deals that existed in legal gray areas.

"I have a client who collects medieval currency," Marcus explained, his fingers steepled as he calculated possibilities. "A private collector who appreciates exceptional pieces and doesn't ask inconvenient questions about documentation. For coins of this quality, with this level of preservation and craftsmanship, I believe he'd pay fifteen hundred per piece. Possibly more if the full collection maintains this standard of quality."

Sirius felt something loosen in his chest. At fifteen hundred per coin, one hundred galleons would net them one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—more than enough to establish themselves comfortably while they waited for Xavier's contacts to arrange their legal documentation.

"That sounds very reasonable," he said carefully. "What kind of timeframe are we looking at?"

"Two weeks, perhaps three," Marcus replied with the confidence of someone who'd made similar arrangements many times before. "Long enough for me to contact my client, arrange authentication through discrete channels, and handle the financial transfers without attracting unwanted attention from individuals who might ask awkward questions about large cash transactions."

"Authentication?" Logan's tone sharpened slightly. "What kind of authentication?"

Marcus waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing invasive or likely to cause complications. Metallurgical analysis to confirm gold purity, comparison with known examples of medieval coinage, that sort of thing. Standard procedures for establishing provenance without requiring extensive documentation. My client prefers to rely on expert evaluation rather than bureaucratic paperwork."

"And if the authentication raises questions we can't answer?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested more curiosity than concern.

"Then we adjust our story accordingly," Marcus replied with the kind of philosophical acceptance that came from decades of creative problem-solving. "Perhaps they're reproductions rather than originals—exceptional reproductions that are valuable in their own right. Or possibly they're from a private mint that was producing commemorative pieces for wealthy collectors. There are always explanations for interesting items, Mr. Black. The key is finding explanations that satisfy everyone's need for plausible deniability."

The three men spent another twenty minutes working out the practical details—how payment would be handled, what kind of documentation would be provided, what story they'd tell if anyone asked inconvenient questions about the sudden appearance of medieval gold coins in the New York antiquities market.

By the time they left Marcus's shop, Sirius felt considerably more optimistic about their prospects for establishing themselves in this reality. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars wouldn't make them wealthy, but it would provide the foundation they needed to build new lives without constantly worrying about basic necessities.

"Good choice, picking Marcus," he told Logan as they walked back toward the truck. "He strikes me as the sort of man who understands that some questions are better left unasked."

"That's why I've been doing business with him for fifteen years," Logan confirmed. "Never had a deal go sideways, never had anyone come asking awkward questions afterward. Professional discretion you can actually rely on."

"Speaking of professional discretion," Sirius said as they reached the truck, "what's the story with Harry and the Grey girl? Because I've seen that look before, and it usually ends with property damage and very awkward conversations about appropriate behavior."

Logan snorted as he started the engine. "Kid's got it bad, that's for sure. And Jean... well, let's just say she's been spendin' a lot more time on her appearance since your boy showed up. Could be interesting."

"Or catastrophic," Sirius muttered, settling back into his seat and preparing for another death-defying journey through New York traffic. "Potter men have a documented tendency toward spectacular romantic complications. James managed to spend six years pursuing Lily before she finally agreed to date him, and their courtship involved more property damage than the Goblin Wars."

"Harry seems a bit smoother than that," Logan observed, taking a corner at what most people would consider a criminally reckless speed.

"That's what worries me," Sirius replied. "James at least had the courtesy to be obviously hopeless for several years before Lily fell for him. Harry's got natural charm, cosmic enhancement, and apparently the kind of face that makes sensible girls forget how to form coherent thoughts. Recipe for disaster, if you ask me."

Logan's grin was visible in the rearview mirror. "Should be fun to watch, then."

"Logan," Sirius said with the weary patience of someone who'd learned that 'fun to watch' and 'likely to end in catastrophe' were often the same thing, "remind me to update my life insurance policy when we get back. Something tells me I'm going to need it."

---

The Xavier Institute's grounds were a masterpiece of landscape architecture that seemed to have been designed by someone who believed that education should take place in surroundings that inspired both intellectual achievement and occasional bouts of poetry. Rolling lawns stretched toward distant tree lines with the kind of pristine perfection that suggested either very dedicated groundskeeping staff or possibly some sort of horticultural magic that didn't technically count as mutation but probably should have.

Jean walked beside Harry with the easy grace of someone completely comfortable in her environment, pointing out various features of the estate with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested genuine pride in her school rather than just polite tour guide obligation. Her ponytail swayed with each step, catching the late morning sunlight and reflecting it back in shades of copper and gold that made Harry wonder if perhaps cosmic enhancement came with side effects that included involuntary poetry composition.

"The mansion itself dates back to 1847," she was explaining as they approached a particularly impressive fountain that featured what appeared to be dolphins engaged in elaborate aquatic choreography, "though Professor Xavier has made extensive modifications over the years. The original structure was built by a railroad baron who apparently believed that having money meant you should spend it on things that made your neighbors feel inadequate."

"Judging by the architecture," Harry replied, his green eyes taking in details with the kind of appreciative attention that suggested both good breeding and genuine interest, "I'd say he succeeded admirably. This place makes Hogwarts look positively understated, and Hogwarts was built by people who thought 'too many staircases' was a myth rather than a design flaw."

Jean laughed, the sound carrying that particular warmth that made Harry's enhanced physiology feel like both a blessing and a curse. "Wait until you see the interior. Professor Xavier's renovations included things like a fully equipped medical bay, advanced computer systems that probably violate several international treaties, and a basement level that's classified at a level I'm not technically cleared to discuss."

"Classified basement levels," Harry repeated with the kind of mock solemnity that had once convinced Hermione he was taking their Defense Against the Dark Arts studies seriously. "Because naturally, every good educational institution needs mysterious underground facilities. It's probably in the accreditation requirements somewhere—'Must provide adequate classroom space, library facilities, and at least one secret level that makes students wonder what exactly they've gotten themselves into.'"

"Something like that," Jean agreed with obvious amusement. "Though I should probably mention that most of the students are home for the summer break. You'll only meet a few people during today's tour, which means you can get oriented without having to deal with the full social dynamics of a school filled with teenagers who can manipulate reality in various creative and occasionally destructive ways."

"How many students are we talking about, normally?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about the scope of Xavier's educational enterprise.

"About sixty, ranging in age from twelve to eighteen," Jean replied as they approached what appeared to be a perfectly manicured garden that probably required its own staff of dedicated horticulturists. "Each with different abilities, different backgrounds, different reasons for being here. Some come because their families can't handle their mutations, others because they need to learn control before they accidentally hurt someone, and a few because they've been identified as potential threats by government agencies that prefer not to discuss their activities in public."

"Government agencies," Harry said, his tone growing more serious. "I take it this reality's approach to people with extraordinary abilities involves considerably more paranoia than support?"

Jean's expression darkened slightly, storm clouds gathering behind her green eyes. "There are registration acts being proposed in Congress, special task forces designed to monitor and control mutant activities, and research programs that are supposedly aimed at 'understanding' mutations but sound suspiciously like weapons development. It's... complicated."

"Complicated," Harry repeated, recognizing the weight behind that particular word. "In my experience, 'complicated' usually means 'people with power are making decisions that affect people without power, and those decisions are rarely in the powerless people's best interests.'"

"Exactly." Jean's voice carried a note of surprised appreciation, as if she hadn't expected someone from another reality to understand the political nuances quite so quickly. "Most people don't grasp the broader implications. They see mutants as either threats to be contained or resources to be exploited, rather than as individuals who just happen to have abilities that don't fit into conventional categories."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, both processing the implications of living in a world where extraordinary abilities were viewed with suspicion rather than wonder. Harry found himself thinking about the wizarding world's approach to secrecy—not perfect, certainly, but at least based on the principle that magical people deserved to live their lives without constant government oversight.

"On a more pleasant note," Jean said, clearly making an effort to shift the conversation back to lighter topics, "let me show you the greenhouse. Dr. McCoy has been working on some fascinating botanical experiments that involve genetic modification and accelerated growth patterns. Nothing dangerous," she added quickly, seeing Harry's expression, "just impressive demonstrations of what's possible when you combine advanced science with mutation-enhanced capabilities."

The greenhouse was a marvel of architectural engineering—a soaring glass structure that seemed to capture and amplify every available photon of sunlight while maintaining precisely controlled environmental conditions through technology that Harry suspected involved considerably more than conventional HVAC systems. Inside, the air was warm and humid with the kind of earthy richness that spoke to serious horticultural dedication.

Plants filled every available space in a riot of colors and textures that suggested either very careful curation or possibly the botanical equivalent of controlled chaos. Harry recognized some species from his Herbology classes at Hogwarts, but others were clearly products of scientific experimentation that produced results Professor Sprout could only dream about.

"Impressive," Harry said, genuinely admiring the scope and sophistication of McCoy's botanical laboratory. "Though I have to ask—after my spectacular encounter with the potted fern this morning, should I be concerned about the possibility of aggressive plant life?"

"These are considerably better behaved than Dr. McCoy's prize-winning orchids," Jean assured him with amusement. "Though I should probably mention that some of them respond to telepathic contact. Nothing dramatic, just... awareness. It's rather like having conversations with very patient, very slow individuals who think in terms of seasons rather than minutes."

"Telepathic plants," Harry mused, running his finger along the leaf of what appeared to be a rose bush with blooms in colors that definitely didn't appear in any conventional gardening catalog. "This reality keeps getting more interesting. In my world, the plants that responded to mental contact usually wanted to eat you, which rather limited the scope of meaningful conversation."

"These are much more civilized," Jean said, though something in her expression suggested there were stories behind that statement. "Though I should warn you that some of them have rather strong opinions about proper care and feeding. Dr. McCoy spent three weeks apologizing to his hybrid tomatoes after accidentally using the wrong fertilizer mixture."

They were examining what appeared to be a vine that was growing in mathematical patterns when Harry heard footsteps approaching through the greenhouse—purposeful, slightly hesitant, carrying the distinctive rhythm of someone who was trying to appear casual while actually conducting reconnaissance.

"Jean?" The voice that called out was young, male, and carried just a hint of nervous energy that suggested its owner was not entirely comfortable with whatever social situation he was about to navigate. "Professor Xavier said you were giving the tour to our new... oh."

The young man who rounded the corner of a display case filled with what appeared to be luminescent orchids was exactly what Harry would have expected if someone had described "the kind of student who takes academic achievement very seriously and probably has strong opinions about proper study habits." He was perhaps sixteen, with the kind of neat brown hair that suggested regular visits to a barber who understood that conservative styling was a virtue, and clothes that were practical without being fashionable—the uniform of someone who prioritized function over form.

But it was his eyes that caught Harry's attention—or rather, the distinctive red-tinted glasses that covered them. The eyewear was clearly specialized equipment rather than a fashion choice, suggesting abilities that required technological assistance to manage safely.

"Scott," Jean said with the kind of warm friendliness that suggested genuine affection without any romantic undertones whatsoever—a distinction that Harry's enhanced senses detected with the precision of a finely tuned instrument, much to his relief, "I'd like you to meet Harry Potter. Harry, this is Scott Summers. He's one of our senior students and probably the most responsible person you'll meet at the school."

Scott stepped forward with the kind of formal precision that suggested either natural courtesy or extensive etiquette training, extending his hand with a smile that was polite, welcoming, and only slightly strained around the edges. "Harry Potter. Jean mentioned you'd be joining us. Welcome to Xavier's School."

Harry accepted the handshake with his most charming smile—the one that had gotten him out of detention with McGonagall exactly zero times but always seemed worth attempting anyway. "Scott Summers. Pleasure to meet you. Jean's been giving me the comprehensive tour, complete with warnings about telepathic plants and classified basement levels. I'm beginning to understand why this place has such an interesting reputation."

"Jean gives excellent tours," Scott replied, his tone carrying what might have been just a hint of something that wasn't quite jealousy but lived in the same neighborhood and probably shared the same postal code. "Very thorough, very... comprehensive."

The pause before 'comprehensive' was tiny—barely noticeable unless you happened to have enhanced senses that picked up subtle variations in vocal stress patterns and the kind of body language that suggested internal conflict between polite social behavior and less charitable emotional responses.

"She's been wonderful," Harry agreed with the kind of genuine enthusiasm that probably made Scott's day considerably more complicated than he'd hoped. "I was just telling her how impressed I am with the facilities here. The greenhouse alone is more sophisticated than anything we had at my previous school, and that place was supposedly one of the premier educational institutions in magical Britain."

"Magical Britain?" Scott repeated, his tone carefully neutral in the way that suggested he was processing information that didn't quite fit into conventional categories.

"Long story involving dimensional travel and cosmic enhancement," Jean explained smoothly, though something in her voice suggested she was enjoying Scott's obvious discomfort with the situation. "Harry's from a reality where magic is real, organized, and taught in formal educational institutions."

"Magic," Scott said slowly, his expression behind the red-tinted glasses impossible to read but his body language suggesting the kind of skepticism that came from years of dealing with individuals whose abilities were extraordinary but still technically within the bounds of advanced physics.

"Would you like a demonstration?" Harry asked with the kind of polite interest that suggested he was completely oblivious to the social undercurrents of the conversation. "Nothing dramatic—I'm still getting used to the whole 'cosmic enhancement' thing, and I'd rather not accidentally destroy Dr. McCoy's botanical experiments during what's supposed to be a friendly introduction."

Before Scott could respond, Harry raised his hand and spoke a single word with the kind of casual authority that belonged in ancient texts and legendary tales: "*Orchideous.*"

A bouquet of flowers materialized in his palm—not the simple conjuration Scott might have expected, but a perfect arrangement of roses, lilies, and exotic blooms in shades that belonged in fairy tales rather than botanical reality. The flowers were flawless, their petals soft as silk and glowing with their own subtle radiance, as if Harry had somehow convinced light itself to take up residence in their cellular structure.

"Merlin's beard," Harry muttered, staring at the bouquet with something approaching wonder. "That's never worked quite like that before. Usually, I get a handful of slightly wilted daisies and a headache. Cosmic enhancement apparently comes with significant improvements to basic conjuration work."

He offered the flowers to Jean with a smile that could have powered small cities and probably solved several energy crises simultaneously. "A small token of appreciation for the excellent tour, even though we're only halfway through it."

Jean accepted the bouquet with the kind of genuine delight that made her face light up like she'd just been handed the solution to world hunger wrapped in perfect gift paper. The flowers seemed to glow brighter in her hands, responding to her Phoenix-enhanced abilities with their own subtle radiance.

"They're beautiful," she said softly, and something in her voice made Harry's enhanced physiology feel like both a blessing and a curse. "Thank you."

Behind his red-tinted glasses, Scott's expression was impossible to read, but his posture had shifted to something that suggested he was recalculating his assessment of Harry Potter and coming up with answers he didn't particularly like. "That's quite a... demonstration," he said carefully, his tone professionally polite in the way that suggested considerable effort was being invested in maintaining social civility.

"Basic conjuration work," Harry replied with the kind of casual modesty that was probably more irritating than outright boasting. "Though the cosmic enhancement seems to have improved my precision considerably. Usually, magical flowers last about twenty minutes before fading back to whatever pocket dimension they came from. These might actually maintain cohesion for several hours, depending on the local magical field strength."

"Local magical field strength," Scott repeated, and something in his tone suggested he was beginning to understand that Harry Potter represented complications that extended considerably beyond simple interdimensional immigration.

"Every reality has its own relationship with what you might call fundamental forces," Harry explained, apparently oblivious to the way Scott's jaw was tightening behind his glasses. "Magic, in my experience, is just another form of energy manipulation—like telekinesis or pyrokinesis, except it operates on frequencies that most scientific instruments can't detect. The Phoenix Force seems to have enhanced my ability to manipulate those frequencies while maintaining the theoretical framework I learned during my wizarding education."

"Fascinating," Scott said, though his tone suggested he found the subject considerably less fascinating than professionally concerning. "And you'll be staying at the school while you... adjust to our reality?"

"For the foreseeable future," Harry confirmed cheerfully. "Professor Xavier has been extraordinarily generous about providing accommodation while we establish ourselves legally. Jean's volunteered to help me catch up on the conventional education I missed—apparently, wizarding schools don't cover subjects like modern history, basic sciences, or anything else that might be useful for functioning in a reality where you can't just magic away your problems."

"Jean's an excellent tutor," Scott said, his voice carrying undertones that suggested personal experience combined with feelings that were probably best left unexplored in polite company. "Very... dedicated to her students' success."

"I'm looking forward to it," Harry replied with a smile that suggested he was entirely sincere about his educational enthusiasm and completely oblivious to the subtext that was making Scott's life significantly more complicated than it had been an hour earlier.

The three of them stood there for a moment, surrounded by genetically modified plants and social dynamics that were becoming increasingly complex by the minute. Jean clutched her conjured bouquet with obvious pleasure, Harry maintained his expression of polite interest and devastating charm, and Scott tried to figure out how his peaceful summer at school had suddenly become a romantic drama that he was apparently losing before he'd even realized he was competing.

"Well," Jean said finally, breaking the silence with the kind of bright enthusiasm that suggested she was either oblivious to the tension or finding it more amusing than problematic, "we should probably continue the tour. Harry still needs to see the library, the computer lab, and the recreational facilities. Plus, I promised to show him where the good coffee is hidden, which is essential information for surviving academic life here."

"The good coffee?" Harry asked with the kind of interest that suggested proper caffeine sources were a matter of genuine concern.

"Professor Xavier keeps a private stash of imported beans in his office," Jean explained with conspiratorial delight. "Ethiopian, hand-roasted, probably worth more per pound than most people's rent. He's very selective about who gets access, but I think interdimensional refugees qualify for special consideration."

"I'll have to remember to express proper gratitude for all these courtesies," Harry said, his tone carrying the kind of formal appreciation that suggested good breeding combined with genuine respect for hospitality. "Professor Xavier has been extraordinarily kind to complete strangers who arrived without warning and immediately began destroying expensive landscaping."

"He's like that," Scott said, and for the first time his voice carried genuine warmth rather than professional politeness. "Professor Xavier believes in helping people who need help, regardless of how complicated their circumstances might be. It's one of the things that makes this place special."

"It shows," Harry replied, and something in his tone suggested he understood the value of sanctuary offered without conditions or expectations. "In my experience, that kind of generosity is remarkably rare. Most people want to know what you can do for them before they'll consider what they might do for you."

The three of them resumed walking, heading toward what Jean identified as the library—a destination that Harry was genuinely looking forward to, given that most of his educational experience had involved libraries that contained books on subjects like 'Advanced Potion-Making' and 'The Dark Arts: A Complete Historical Overview' rather than anything resembling conventional academic materials.

But as they walked, Harry found himself acutely aware of Scott's careful attention to every interaction between himself and Jean. The other young man was polite, helpful, and entirely appropriate in his behavior, but there was something in his posture that suggested the kind of protective vigilance that came from deeper feelings than simple friendship.

Not jealousy, exactly—Scott was too well-mannered for anything so obvious. But definitely the kind of careful observation that suggested Harry Potter had just become a factor in equations that had previously been considerably simpler.

Which, given Harry's track record with interpersonal complications, was probably exactly what should have been expected.

After all, at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, even the simple process of giving tours to new students had a way of becoming significantly more complex than anyone anticipated.

Chapter Text

As they approached the mansion's main entrance—doors that belonged on Westminster Abbey rather than any reasonable educational institution—Scott cleared his throat with the measured precision of someone who'd been rehearsing this moment in his head for the past five minutes and was determined to get it absolutely right.

"Harry," he began, adjusting his ruby quartz glasses with the kind of nervous energy that suggested he was very aware of Jean's presence and trying to project an image of mature responsibility, "I should probably mention that most of the students who are here for summer session are, well, curious about new arrivals. Word travels fast around here, especially when the arrivals involve what Bobby rather dramatically described as 'interdimensional travel with a side of property damage and cosmic fire powers that make Michael Bay films look understated.'"

Harry's eyebrow arched with the kind of aristocratic precision that could have been patented by the British nobility. "Bobby, I take it, is our resident drama critic? And here I thought my entrance was positively restrained. No explosions, minimal architectural damage, and I only destroyed one plant. By Hogwarts standards, that's practically invisible."

"Bobby Drake," Jean explained, her voice carrying the warm fondness of someone describing a beloved but exasperating younger brother, though the way she unconsciously stepped half a step closer to Harry suggested her attention was rather more focused on their new arrival than she might have realized. "One of our other Omega Level students. He manipulates ice and snow, has opinions about everything, and possesses what can only be described as a supernatural gift for being in exactly the wrong place at precisely the right time to witness the most interesting disasters."

Scott's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at Jean's obvious engagement with Harry, though he covered it with what he probably thought was a casual smile. "If chaos is happening anywhere within a five-mile radius, Bobby will not only find it, he'll probably contribute to it, and then spend the next week explaining to anyone who'll listen why it was actually everyone else's fault for not appreciating his creative vision."

"Sounds like the Weasley twins with superpowers," Harry replied, his grin carrying the kind of devastating charm that had made several witches at Hogwarts walk into stationary objects. "Though I have to ask—is 'cosmic fire powers' really how people are describing what happened this morning? Because that makes me sound like I should be wearing a cape and delivering monologues about justice while posing dramatically on rooftops."

Jean laughed—a sound like silver bells being rung by angels with excellent timing—and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners made Harry's enhanced physiology suddenly feel like both a blessing and a significant tactical disadvantage. "You literally materialized wings made of pure psychic energy and started glowing like you'd been personally blessed by the sun god. If that doesn't qualify as 'cosmic fire powers,' I'm not sure what would meet Bobby's standards for dramatic supernatural phenomena."

"Fair point," Harry conceded with the kind of rueful self-awareness that suggested he was beginning to understand the scope of his transformation. "Though in my defense, last week my most impressive supernatural achievement was successfully casting a corporeal Patronus without fainting from magical exhaustion. The learning curve from 'competent teenage wizard' to 'cosmic entity's pet project' has been rather steep."

Scott leaned forward with the earnest intensity of someone who'd spent considerable time studying defensive magic and recognized an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge to Jean. "What's a Patronus? Some kind of protective spell?"

"Defensive magic designed to repel Dementors," Harry replied, his expression growing more serious in a way that made him look older than his seventeen years. "Creatures that feed on happiness, hope, and every positive emotion you've ever experienced. They're rather like depression given physical form, wings, and the ability to perform what amounts to magical lobotomies by sucking your soul out through your mouth."

Jean's bouquet of conjured flowers trembled slightly in her grip, and Harry caught the faint scent of ozone that meant her powers were responding to emotional stimuli. "That's... that sounds absolutely terrifying. And you faced them at thirteen?"

"Not by choice, initially," Harry said with the kind of dry British understatement that made horrific experiences sound like mild inconveniences. "They had an unfortunate tendency to show up wherever I happened to be, usually at the most dramatically inappropriate moments possible. Rather like cosmic entities with poor timing and a concerning interest in teenage psychological trauma."

Scott's expression shifted to something approaching professional respect, though there was still that careful alertness around his eyes that suggested he was cataloguing everything Harry said for later analysis. "How many of these... Dementors... were you dealing with?"

"At various times? Dozens. During the final battle, several hundred," Harry replied with the casual matter-of-factness that came from having survived experiences most people couldn't imagine in their worst nightmares. "Voldemort—that's the dark wizard I mentioned—had remarkable talent for recruiting the most psychologically damaging allies possible. Dementors, werewolves, giants, various dark creatures that specialized in causing maximum trauma with minimum effort. Very efficient operation, really. Terrifying, genocidal, and completely insane, but undeniably efficient."

"Jesus," Scott muttered, his carefully composed facade slipping slightly to reveal genuine concern. "And you were expected to fight them while still in school?"

"Expected, trained, and occasionally lectured about my 'concerning tendency toward heroic stupidity' by professors who somehow managed to combine parental affection with complete bewilderment about why I kept surviving situations that should have killed me," Harry said with a smile that carried undertones of experiences that had aged him considerably beyond his chronological years. "The British approach to child safety in magical education is... rather more flexible than most people would find acceptable."

Jean's grip on her flowers tightened, and this time the scent of ozone was accompanied by a subtle shimmer in the air around her that suggested the Phoenix Force was paying attention to the conversation. "That sounds like adults who cared about you but had no idea how to protect you from things that were too big for any teenager to handle alone."

"Remarkably perceptive, Miss Grey," Harry said, his voice dropping to that warm, intimate register that made hearts flutter and rational thought become significantly more challenging. "Though I suspect you understand the particular challenges that come with having abilities that make you valuable to adults who mean well but sometimes forget that 'valuable' and 'expendable' can become uncomfortably similar concepts."

The look that passed between them carried enough electromagnetic tension to power the mansion's lighting system, and Scott's hands clenched into fists behind his back as he watched Jean's cheeks flush that particular shade of pink that he'd been trying unsuccessfully to inspire for the better part of two years.

"I—" Jean started, then paused, her green eyes searching Harry's face with the kind of intensity that suggested she was seeing something there that resonated with her own experiences. "Yes. I do understand that."

Scott cleared his throat with perhaps slightly more force than was strictly necessary, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand with the kind of determined professionalism that suggested he was working very hard to maintain social civility despite rapidly developing personal complications. "We should probably head inside. I'm sure Professor Xavier will want to know how the tour is progressing."

The mansion's front doors chose that moment to swing open with theatrical timing that would have impressed the Hogwarts house-elves, revealing a young man who looked like he'd been personally designed by someone with very specific ideas about what 'casual perfection' should look like in human form.

Bobby Drake was tall and lean with the kind of athletic build that suggested either dedicated fitness regimens or mutant abilities that included accelerated metabolism. His sandy brown hair managed to achieve that perfect balance between 'effortlessly tousled' and 'ready for a magazine cover,' while his clothes—expensive but casual, stylish but not trying too hard—suggested either natural fashion sense or a trust fund that covered personal styling consultants.

But it was his expression that caught Harry's attention: bright blue eyes dancing with mischief and intelligence, combined with the kind of easy confidence that came from someone who'd learned to find humor in chaos and had developed considerable skill at creating said chaos when life got too boring.

"Well, well, well," Bobby said, his voice carrying the smooth warmth of someone who'd perfected the art of charming his way out of trouble and occasionally into more interesting trouble, "what have we here? Scott actually engaging in voluntary social interaction during summer break—mark your calendars, people, this may never happen again. Jean looking particularly radiant while clutching what appear to be flowers that are literally glowing with their own inner light. And..."

His gaze settled on Harry with the kind of speculative appreciation that suggested he was rapidly cataloguing details and coming up with conclusions that were both accurate and potentially problematic for everyone involved.

"Someone new who either has access to the most sophisticated special effects budget in educational history, or is the interdimensional refugee with cosmic enhancement issues that's been the primary topic of mansion gossip since roughly six-thirty this morning."

Harry stepped forward with a smile that could have convinced entire governments to switch to renewable energy and probably solved several international diplomatic crises through sheer force of charm. "Bobby Drake, I presume? Harry Potter, and yes, technically interdimensional refugee, though I prefer to think of myself as an enthusiastic immigrant with unconventional travel documentation and a tendency toward property damage that I'm working very hard to keep to a minimum."

Bobby's grin widened with the kind of delighted recognition that came from meeting a kindred spirit who understood that life was considerably more interesting when approached with the right combination of humor and strategic chaos. "Oh, I like you already. Anyone who can describe cosmic displacement as 'unconventional travel documentation' clearly has the right attitude for surviving this place."

He gestured grandly at the mansion around them with the theatrical flair of someone conducting a very expensive orchestra. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, where the homework occasionally achieves sentience and attempts to grade itself, the cafeteria food defies at least three laws of thermodynamics on a regular basis, and the student body includes individuals who could probably reshape continental geography if they got sufficiently motivated during finals week."

"Sounds like Hogwarts with better funding and more reasonable safety protocols," Harry replied, his tone carrying just enough dry British humor to make it clear he was being only partially serious. "Though I have to ask—does the homework actually become self-aware, or is that more of a metaphorical academic evolution?"

Scott relaxed slightly now that the conversation had shifted toward the safer territory of shared educational suffering rather than the more dangerous ground of personal backgrounds that made Jean look at Harry like he was simultaneously fascinating and heartbreaking. "Depends on the professor. Dr. McCoy's advanced biochemistry assignments have been known to achieve what can only be described as rudimentary consciousness and attempt to escape from the laboratory. Storm's atmospheric science practicals sometimes involve weather phenomena that she generates specifically for 'authentic educational experiences.' And Professor Xavier's ethics seminars regularly cause existential crises that last well into the following semester."

"Don't forget Logan's approach to combat training," Jean added, though her attention seemed rather more focused on the way Harry's jaw moved when he smiled than on the actual content of their conversation. "He has what he calls a 'practical application philosophy' that involves learning survival skills through direct exposure to situations that test those skills in real-time."

"Most students either love it or develop what the school psychologist diplomatically describes as 'enhanced survival reflexes,'" Bobby continued with obvious fondness. "Sometimes both simultaneously, which makes for very interesting parent-teacher conferences."

"Combat training through practical application," Harry mused, his green eyes brightening with genuine interest. "That actually sounds refreshingly honest. My previous education was rather heavy on theoretical knowledge and somewhat light on practical application until circumstances forced me to develop real-world skills through what could charitably be described as 'trial by fire' and less charitably described as 'criminal negligence disguised as character building.'"

Bobby's expression shifted to something more serious, though his casual demeanor remained unchanged. "Yeah, Professor Xavier mentioned something about dark wizards, actual warfare, and fighting creatures that sound like they escaped from humanity's collective unconscious after a particularly bad night of existential horror. That's quite a resume for someone who's not old enough to legally drink in most jurisdictions."

"Age becomes rather relative when you're dealing with life-or-death situations on a weekly basis," Harry replied with the kind of philosophical acceptance that suggested he'd made peace with experiences that most people would spend decades processing in therapy. "Though I have to say, the cosmic enhancement has made everything considerably easier. Having abilities that don't require external tools, specific incantations, or wands that can be disarmed by sufficiently motivated opponents is remarkably liberating."

Scott leaned forward with the earnest intensity of someone who'd spent considerable time studying tactical applications of supernatural abilities and recognized an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge. "What kind of abilities are we talking about, exactly? Professor Xavier mentioned something about Omega Level classification, but that covers a fairly broad range of theoretical power scales."

"Show him the thing," Jean said suddenly, her eyes bright with enthusiasm that had absolutely nothing to do with academic curiosity and everything to do with wanting to see Harry's abilities again for reasons she probably wasn't entirely ready to examine too closely. "The wings thing. Bobby needs to see the wings thing."

"The wings thing?" Bobby repeated, his tone carrying the kind of interested anticipation that suggested he'd heard descriptions but wanted to see the reality for himself, preferably with enough detail to properly gossip about it later. "Because I have to say, the secondhand reports have been impressively dramatic, but I've learned to take eyewitness accounts of supernatural phenomena with several grains of salt and a healthy dose of skepticism."

Harry glanced around the mansion's entrance hall, noting the soaring ceilings, open architecture, and general absence of expensive objects that could be accidentally incinerated by cosmic fire. "Fair warning—it's somewhat theatrical. I'm still adjusting to the whole 'enhanced by cosmic entities' aesthetic, and subtlety was never my strongest suit even before I started glowing like a very attractive nuclear reactor."

"Theatrical is good," Bobby assured him with obvious delight. "We appreciate proper dramatic presentation around here. Goes with the whole 'gifted youngsters saving the world through superior education and strategically applied property damage' institutional philosophy."

"In that case," Harry said, closing his eyes and reaching for that place inside himself where the Phoenix's gift lived—not the wild, uncontrolled magic he'd grown up with, but something deeper, more magnificent, and infinitely more dangerous, "try not to be too impressed. My ego's already dangerously oversized, and I'd hate to develop delusions of adequacy to go along with my delusions of grandeur."

The transformation began with warmth spreading through his chest like liquid starlight, then flowing outward in waves that seemed to follow the rhythm of his heartbeat. The armor materialized across his skin in patterns that defied conventional understanding of how matter should behave—midnight black scales shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire, each one catching the mansion's interior lighting and throwing it back transformed into something that belonged in fairy tales rather than physics textbooks.

Then came the wings—vast constructs of pure psychic energy that unfurled from his shoulders with the kind of majestic presence that belonged in Renaissance paintings of archangels who'd been personally commissioned by gods with excellent taste in dramatic gestures. They weren't physical in any conventional sense, but rather crystallized thought given form, power made manifest, the kind of thing that made viewers instinctively understand they were witnessing something that existed beyond the normal boundaries of reality.

The light they cast was warm and alive, filling the entrance hall with radiance that made every surface gleam like polished gold. Harry stood there like some ancient deity of war and beauty who'd decided to pay a social call to mortals, simultaneously beautiful and terrible, utterly impossible to ignore, and absolutely devastating to anyone with functioning aesthetic appreciation.

Bobby whistled—a long, low sound that carried genuine awe mixed with professional appreciation and just a hint of competitive interest. "Okay, that is legitimately impressive. And here I thought Scott's precision laser vision was the most visually striking power demonstration in the school's recent history."

Scott's jaw tightened behind his glasses, though he maintained his polite smile with the kind of determined professionalism that suggested he was working very hard to remain gracious despite rapidly developing personal complications involving Jean's obvious fascination with their new arrival.

"They're made of pure psychic energy," Jean explained, her voice carrying breathless enthusiasm that had absolutely nothing to do with academic interest and everything to do with the way Harry looked like he'd been personally carved by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired collaboration with cosmic forces. "Not physical constructs, but crystallized thought given form. The Phoenix Force enhanced his natural mutant abilities while maintaining the essential theoretical framework of his magical education."

"Magic," Bobby said slowly, his tone suggesting he was processing concepts that didn't quite fit into his existing understanding of extraordinary abilities, no matter how broad that understanding might have been. "Actual, literal magic. Not advanced mutation, not sophisticated technology that we don't understand yet, but honest-to-God magic that operates according to rules that probably predate physics as a concept."

"Honest-to-God magic," Harry confirmed, letting the wings fold back into nothingness with the casual ease of someone adjusting a jacket, though he kept the armor because it made Jean's pupils dilate in ways that were extremely distracting and rather flattering. "Though I suspect the distinction between magic and mutation might be more academic than practical. Both involve manipulating reality through will and intent, just using different theoretical frameworks and possibly different energy sources."

Bobby's ice-blue eyes sharpened with the kind of scientific curiosity that suggested he'd spent considerable time thinking about the fundamental nature of supernatural abilities. "Can you do other magic? Besides the flower conjuring that has Jean looking like someone just handed her the Hope Diamond wrapped in personalized poetry?"

Jean's cheeks flushed that particular shade of pink that Scott had been trying unsuccessfully to inspire for two years, but her smile suggested she wasn't particularly embarrassed by Bobby's observation and might, in fact, be rather pleased by it.

Harry's grin turned decidedly mischievous—the expression of someone who'd spent years entertaining friends with abilities that operated outside conventional reality and had never quite outgrown the pleasure of seeing people's reactions to the impossible made casual. "Well, since you asked so nicely..."

He raised his hand with the kind of casual authority that belonged to someone who'd spent years making impossible things happen through sheer determination combined with properly applied magical theory. "*Aguamenti.*"

Water poured from his palm—but not the simple conjuration Bobby might have expected from someone with advanced control over molecular structures. This was water that seemed to have been personally blessed by every mountain stream that had ever existed, crystalline liquid that captured and reflected light like it had been woven from liquid diamonds by artisans who specialized in making the impossible beautiful.

The stream arced through the air in a perfect parabola that would have made mathematics professors weep with aesthetic appreciation, before splashing into one of the mansion's decorative urns with the musical sound of everything pure and clean and perfect about the natural world.

"Water conjuration," Harry explained with the kind of casual modesty that was probably more impressive than outright boasting. "Useful for everything from firefighting to staying hydrated during extended combat operations. Though the cosmic enhancement seems to have improved the aesthetic quality considerably—usually it's just regular water that tastes faintly of magic and disappears after about twenty minutes. This might actually maintain molecular cohesion for several hours."

Bobby extended his hand toward the conjured water, and frost began to form around his fingers with the kind of precision that suggested years of practice combined with natural talent for manipulating thermal dynamics. "Mind if I experiment with this? I'm curious about how my abilities interact with magically created materials."

"By all means," Harry said, his tone carrying genuine scientific interest that suggested he'd retained his intellectual curiosity despite everything that had happened to him. "I'd be fascinated to see how ice manipulation works with water that's been enhanced by cosmic forces. Could lead to some very interesting tactical applications."

Bobby's mutation took hold of Harry's conjured water, transforming it into crystalline sculptures that defied several laws of physics and at least one fundamental principle of chemistry. The ice formed intricate patterns—flowers that looked like they'd been grown in fairy tale gardens, geometric shapes that belonged in advanced mathematics textbooks, and what appeared to be miniature architectural models of buildings that should have been structurally impossible.

All of it maintained the diamond-like clarity and inner radiance of Harry's original conjuration, creating ice sculptures that seemed to glow with their own internal light.

"Fascinating," Bobby murmured, studying his creations with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was seeing possibilities he'd never considered before. "Your magic seems to enhance the fundamental properties of the water at the molecular level. My ice is usually just frozen H2O with whatever structural modifications I can impose through thermal manipulation, but this has crystalline integrity and optical properties that shouldn't be possible with conventional ice formation."

"Magic tends to improve most materials it touches," Harry said, his tone carrying the satisfaction of someone seeing his abilities properly appreciated by individuals who understood the technical implications. "Though I have to admit, I've never seen ice manipulation quite like that. The level of fine detail control you're demonstrating suggests either remarkable natural talent or very intensive training. Possibly both."

"Years of practice with Logan," Bobby replied with the kind of casual modesty that suggested considerable skill taken for granted, "plus some rather creative interpretation of what constitutes 'practical application' of abilities during training sessions. Logan has very direct opinions about the importance of mastering your powers before they master you, and he's remarkably good at creating situations that test the limits of what you think you can do."

Scott stepped forward with the careful precision of someone trying to contribute meaningfully to a conversation that had become rather more technical than he'd anticipated. "Logan's training methods are... comprehensive. He believes in learning through direct experience rather than theoretical study, which means his students tend to develop very practical approaches to ability application."

"Practical experience is invaluable," Harry agreed, though something in his tone suggested he'd had rather more practical experience than most people would consider healthy for someone his age. "My previous education was remarkably heavy on theory and somewhat light on application until circumstances forced me to develop real-world skills through what could diplomatically be described as 'accelerated learning opportunities.'"

"Accelerated learning opportunities," Jean repeated, her voice carrying the kind of gentle understanding that suggested she'd heard enough about Harry's background to recognize understatement when it was being used to make traumatic experiences sound manageable. "That's a very British way of describing what sounds like it was probably terrifying at the time."

"Terrifying, educational, occasionally character-building, and frequently life-threatening," Harry confirmed with the kind of rueful honesty that suggested he'd developed a healthy perspective on experiences that had aged him considerably beyond his chronological years. "Though I have to say, having survived Voldemort's idea of educational curriculum makes most other challenges seem remarkably manageable by comparison."

The four young people stood there in the mansion's elegant entrance hall, surrounded by Bobby's impossible ice sculptures and the lingering radiance from Harry's demonstration, each processing the implications of abilities that operated beyond conventional understanding.

"So," Bobby said with obvious delight at the new social and supernatural dynamics, "what's the plan for the rest of the tour? Because I vote we show him the Danger Room. Nothing says 'welcome to Xavier's Institute' quite like advanced holographic combat simulations that occasionally achieve partial sentience and develop creative interpretations of training objectives."

"The Danger Room occasionally becomes self-aware?" Harry asked with the kind of interested concern that came from extensive experience with educational facilities that had their own unique hazards.

"Only during the most interesting training sessions," Scott assured him, though his slight smile suggested fond memories of near-death experiences that had ultimately proven educational. "Professor Xavier says it builds adaptability and teaches students to think creatively when faced with unexpected parameters."

"Character development through technological malfunction," Harry mused with obvious amusement. "That sounds remarkably similar to my Hogwarts experience, though considerably more sophisticated. Our approach mostly involved releasing dangerous magical creatures in controlled environments and hoping students would develop appropriate survival responses before anyone required extended medical treatment."

"Did anyone actually require extended medical treatment?" Jean asked with the kind of morbid fascination that suggested she was beginning to understand that Harry's previous educational experience had been extraordinary in ways that extended well beyond interdimensional displacement.

"Several students, a few professors, and at least two headmasters over the years," Harry replied with casual matter-of-factness that made their jaws drop. "Though most of the serious casualties were directly related to Voldemort's influence rather than standard educational hazards. Hogwarts' safety record was actually quite good, considering we were essentially running a boarding school in an active war zone while training teenagers to fight dark magic."

Bobby, Scott, and Jean exchanged glances that suggested they were rapidly recalibrating their understanding of what constituted normal academic challenges and coming up with numbers that involved considerably more danger than anyone should reasonably expect from secondary education.

"Right then," Bobby said with the kind of determined cheerfulness that suggested he was choosing to focus on the positive implications rather than the horrifying details, "Danger Room demonstration it is. Nothing like a comprehensive holographic combat simulation to properly welcome our interdimensional refugee to the wonderful world of Xavier Institute educational philosophy."

"Lead the way," Harry said, his grin suggesting he was genuinely looking forward to seeing what passed for advanced combat training in a reality where magic was replaced by mutation and government persecution came with better technology. "Though I should probably warn you that my approach to tactical situations tends to be somewhat... creatively improvisational."

"Improvisational is perfect," Scott said with genuine enthusiasm, finally relaxing as they moved toward safer conversational territory. "Around here, the ability to adapt quickly to changing parameters is considerably more valuable than following predetermined tactical frameworks. Especially when those parameters might involve time travel, telepathic manipulation, reality warping, or Bobby deciding that the simulation would be more interesting with additional dramatic elements."

"I only did that twice," Bobby protested with mock indignation, leading them deeper into the mansion with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly where the most interesting facilities were located. "And in my defense, the standard combat scenarios were boring before I added the ice dragons and the aerial combat sequences."

"Ice dragons?" Harry repeated with obvious delight, his eyes lighting up like Christmas morning. "Please tell me there's video documentation of this, because that sounds like exactly the kind of tactical creativity I can appreciate."

"Several hours of video documentation," Jean confirmed with fond exasperation, though her tone suggested she'd found Bobby's innovations considerably more entertaining than problematic. "Professor Xavier keeps them as examples of what he diplomatically describes as 'creative interpretation of training parameters' and less diplomatically describes as 'why we can't have nice things.'"

"I think I'm going to like it here," Harry declared with obvious satisfaction, letting his armor finally flow back into his skin as they walked deeper into the mansion.

After all, any educational institution that considered ice dragons a reasonable addition to combat training was clearly prepared for the kind of strategic chaos that had defined Harry Potter's academic career.

—

The abandoned warehouse in Queens had seen better decades—probably sometime around the Eisenhower administration, when the industrial complex had hummed with legitimate business instead of serving as headquarters for mutant terrorists with delusions of evolutionary superiority. Now it squatted like a concrete cancer amid the urban decay, its windows boarded over and its loading docks sealed with rust and neglect.

Inside, the Brotherhood of Mutants had created something that was equal parts command center and survivalist compound. Stolen military equipment shared space with jury-rigged electronics, while maps of major metropolitan areas covered walls that hadn't seen fresh paint since Nixon was in office. The air carried the distinctive scent of ozone, metal, and the particular kind of tension that came from dangerous individuals living in close quarters while planning activities that would make federal prosecutors weep with joy.

Mystique sat in what had once been the warehouse foreman's office, her natural blue skin rippling with the kind of restless energy that came from extended periods of enforced inactivity. Her yellow eyes tracked across multiple monitors displaying news feeds, social media streams, and government communications that the Brotherhood had learned to intercept through methods that were technically illegal but undeniably effective.

The secure phone on the desk rang with the particular tone that meant only one person—a sound that made everyone in the Brotherhood immediately pay attention whether they wanted to or not.

"Magneto," she answered, her voice carrying the professional neutrality that came from years of working with individuals whose tempers could reshape local geography when properly motivated.

"Mystique." Erik Lensherr's voice carried across the encrypted connection with the kind of magnetic authority that had convinced entire governments to take him seriously, even when they disagreed with his methods. "I trust you've been monitoring the usual channels for unusual activity?"

"Always," she replied, gesturing for Pyro and Avalanche to continue their current tasks while she focused on whatever had captured their leader's attention. "Though I should mention that 'unusual activity' covers a fairly broad spectrum in our line of work. Government weapons programs, Sentinel development, new legislation targeting mutant rights—we've got seventeen different crises developing simultaneously, as usual."

"This is something rather more immediate," Magneto continued, his tone carrying the weight of information that had strategic implications. "Mastermind contacted me an hour ago with intelligence from his surveillance around the Xavier Institute. They've acquired a new resident—someone who registered on their detection systems as Omega Level."

Mystique straightened in her chair, her attention sharpening with the kind of predatory focus that came from recognizing genuine opportunities amid the usual tactical background noise. "Omega Level? That's significant. How many does that make at Xavier's school?"

"Three, now. Grey, Drake, and this new arrival." Magneto's voice carried a note of calculation that suggested he was already seeing possibilities that extended well beyond simple intelligence gathering. "But here's what makes this particularly interesting—Mastermind says the individual appeared yesterday evening, manifesting abilities that he describes as 'unprecedented in scope and potentially reality-altering in application.'"

"Appeared?" Mystique repeated, her shapeshifting abilities responding to emotional stimuli by shifting her skin tone toward deeper shades of blue. "As in, suddenly showed up at Xavier's doorstep asking for enrollment? Or appeared as in teleportation, dimensional travel, or some other method that bypasses conventional security?"

"The latter, apparently. Witnesses describe what sounds suspiciously like interdimensional manifestation accompanied by what Mastermind's contacts are calling 'cosmic-level energy signatures' and 'pyrotechnics that made the Aurora Borealis look understated.'" There was a pause, during which Mystique could practically hear Erik's tactical mind processing implications and coming up with strategies. "I want you to investigate. Full reconnaissance—identity, abilities, background, potential weaknesses, and whether this individual represents an opportunity or a threat to our operations."

Mystique's yellow eyes narrowed as she considered the parameters of the mission. "What kind of timeline are we working with? Because infiltrating Xavier's institute requires careful preparation, especially if they've upgraded their security systems since our last intelligence gathering operation."

"As quickly as possible without compromising operational security," Magneto replied with the kind of urgency that suggested this was considerably more important than routine surveillance. "If this individual is truly Omega Level with interdimensional capabilities, they represent either a valuable potential recruit or a significant threat to everything we've worked to achieve. I need to know which category they fall into before Xavier has time to fully integrate them into his idealistic delusions about peaceful coexistence."

"Understood," Mystique said, her mind already shifting into operational planning mode. "I'll need cover identities, surveillance equipment, and probably backup extraction protocols in case this turns into something more complicated than simple observation."

"Whatever you need," Magneto confirmed. "Pyro and Avalanche are at your disposal if the situation requires additional tactical support, though I'd prefer to keep this as a reconnaissance mission rather than direct confrontation. We're not ready for open warfare with Xavier's people, especially if they've just acquired someone with potentially cosmic-level abilities."

Mystique glanced toward the warehouse floor, where Pyro was practicing precision fire control by spelling out obscene messages in controlled flame while Avalanche worked on seismic manipulation techniques that made the concrete foundations vibrate with barely contained tectonic force.

"I'll start with solo infiltration," she decided. "Pyro's idea of subtle surveillance involves incendiary devices and property damage, while Avalanche tends to announce his presence through minor earthquakes. Neither approach seems optimal for gathering intelligence without attracting attention."

"Agreed. Keep me informed of your progress, and remember—this individual could be the key to either advancing our cause or destroying everything we've worked for. Treat this mission accordingly."

The line went dead with the decisive finality that characterized all of Magneto's communications, leaving Mystique alone with tactical considerations that were rapidly becoming more complex than simple surveillance operations.

An interdimensional Omega Level mutant with cosmic enhancement capabilities, now residing at Xavier's institute and potentially being recruited into their philosophy of peaceful coexistence and moral restraint. The strategic implications were staggering—such an individual could tip the balance of power between human and mutant populations, assuming they could be properly motivated to choose the right side.

Or, if Xavier's people succeeded in converting them to their cause, they could represent an existential threat to the Brotherhood's goals that would require immediate and decisive countermeasures.

Either way, Mystique had work to do.

She reached for her secure laptop and began accessing the kind of databases that officially didn't exist, searching for any information about unusual energy manifestations, interdimensional phenomena, or government reports of reality disturbances in the New York metropolitan area over the past forty-eight hours.

Because if there was one thing Mystique had learned during her years with the Brotherhood, it was that knowledge was the most valuable weapon in any conflict—and the side that understood their enemies' capabilities first was usually the side that survived to write the history books.

Xavier's Institute was about to receive some very discrete, very professional attention.

And if this new arrival was everything Mastermind's intelligence suggested, the Brotherhood was either about to gain a powerful ally or identify a threat that would require permanent solution.

Time to find out which.

Chapter Text

The Danger Room had been everything Harry expected and considerably more than he'd prepared for—a holographic combat simulation facility that made Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom look like a particularly well-funded community center. The technology was extraordinary, the tactical scenarios were genuinely challenging, and Bobby's creative interpretations of standard training parameters had resulted in what could only be described as "ice dragons with a concerning degree of artificial intelligence and remarkably advanced combat tactics."

By the time they'd finished the demonstration—which had involved Harry learning to coordinate his phoenix wings with Scott's precision optic blasts while Jean provided telepathic battlefield coordination and Bobby created increasingly elaborate frozen obstacles that defied several laws of physics—all four of them were exhausted, exhilarated, and covered in what appeared to be crystalline ice residue that sparkled in the overhead lighting.

"Right," Harry said, brushing ice crystals from his hair while his armor slowly melted back into his skin, "I officially retract any previous complaints about Hogwarts' approach to practical education. This is considerably more sophisticated than 'release a boggart and hope for the best.'"

"Wait until you see what happens when Logan programs the scenarios," Bobby replied with obvious delight, creating small ice sculptures in his palms purely for the therapeutic value of fine motor control after extended combat simulation. "He has very direct opinions about the importance of learning to fight dirty when your life depends on it."

Jean was examining the holographic readouts with the kind of focused intensity that suggested both scientific curiosity and professional concern. "Your energy output readings are extraordinary, Harry. The Phoenix enhancement isn't just amplifying your existing abilities—it's fundamentally changing how you process and channel power. These numbers are... well, they're unprecedented in our database."

"Is that good unprecedented or 'call in federal authorities because we're dealing with potential doomsday scenarios' unprecedented?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested he was only partially joking about the possibility of government intervention.

"Depends on how you choose to use them," Scott replied with the kind of measured consideration that came from years of learning that power without responsibility was just destruction waiting to happen. "Omega Level abilities always carry significant risk-benefit ratios. The question is whether the individual wielding them has the judgment and self-control necessary to avoid catastrophic mistakes."

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps—multiple sets, moving with the purposeful stride of people who had specific destinations and important information to share. Harry's enhanced senses identified the approaching individuals before they came into view: Logan's distinctive heavy tread, Sirius's lighter but equally confident pace, and Storm's graceful movement that seemed to flow like controlled weather patterns.

"There you are," Sirius called out as the three adults appeared in the Danger Room's entrance, his aristocratic features carrying the kind of satisfied expression that suggested successful completion of unpleasant but necessary business. "We've been looking everywhere for you lot. Harry, we need to talk—the financial conversion went better than expected, and there are some developments you should know about."

Logan looked distinctly rumpled in the way that suggested several hours spent dealing with New York traffic, underground antiquities dealers, and bureaucratic complications that involved creative interpretation of federal regulations. His flannel shirt was wrinkled, his hair was even more ridiculous than usual, and he carried the faint scent of cigar smoke and urban exhaust that clung to anyone who'd spent extended time navigating the city's transportation infrastructure.

"The meeting with Marcus went smoothly," he continued, settling against the Danger Room's wall with the casual ownership of someone who'd bled on enough surfaces to claim territorial rights. "Professional, discrete, and he's got a buyer lined up who's willing to pay premium prices for coins with 'complex provenance histories.' Exact quote, by the way."

Storm appeared beside them with the kind of serene elegance that made even casual conversation seem like important diplomatic negotiations, her white hair shifting with breezes that seemed to follow her personal weather patterns. "Professor Xavier has also made significant progress with his government contacts regarding your documentation requirements. He's currently speaking with someone he describes as 'an old friend with access to the kind of resources that officially don't exist but are remarkably effective at solving problems that technically shouldn't be possible to solve.'"

Harry raised an eyebrow with aristocratic precision. "Government contacts with access to resources that officially don't exist? That sounds either very reassuring or profoundly concerning, depending on what kind of government we're talking about."

"The kind that deals with situations involving individuals whose abilities operate outside conventional reality," Storm replied with the diplomatic precision that came from years of navigating political complexities that involved supernatural abilities and international security concerns. "Professor Xavier has cultivated relationships with people who understand that sometimes conventional solutions are inadequate for unconventional problems."

"Such as interdimensional refugees with cosmic enhancement and a documented tendency toward property damage?" Sirius asked with dry humor that suggested he was beginning to appreciate the scope of the bureaucratic challenges they faced.

"Among other things," Storm confirmed with what might have been amusement. "Charles has been dealing with extraordinary situations for decades—individuals whose circumstances don't fit into standard categories and who need assistance that extends beyond conventional social services."

Jean stepped forward with the kind of eager curiosity that suggested she'd been wondering about the practical logistics of their situation. "What kind of timeline are we looking at for the documentation? Because Harry's academic tutoring schedule depends partly on how long you'll be staying as guests versus becoming permanent residents."

The question carried undertones that had nothing to do with administrative planning and everything to do with someone who'd just spent several hours discovering that she very much enjoyed Harry Potter's company and was hoping that enjoyment wouldn't be limited to a temporary arrangement.

"Six months, possibly less if the documentation process goes smoothly," Logan replied, though his keen senses picked up the electromagnetic tension between Jean and Harry and his expression suggested he was filing that information under 'interesting developments that will probably become complicated later.' "Long enough to establish comprehensive backgrounds, educational records, employment histories—everything needed to function as legal residents rather than mysterious individuals with no documented existence."

Bobby's ice-blue eyes sharpened with sudden interest. "Six months? That means you'll be here for the entire academic year. Both semesters, all the major social events, probably the spring tactical exercises that Logan uses to determine which students are ready for advanced combat training."

"Spring tactical exercises?" Harry repeated with the kind of interested concern that came from extensive experience with educational activities that sounded deceptively innocent but usually involved significant risk of bodily harm.

"Logan's version of comprehensive final examinations," Scott explained with fond exasperation. "Survival scenarios, tactical problem-solving under pressure, team coordination exercises, and what he diplomatically describes as 'character development through controlled adversity' and less diplomatically describes as 'learning to think clearly when people are trying to kill you.'"

"Sounds remarkably similar to my Hogwarts experience," Harry replied with obvious anticipation rather than concern. "Though I suspect the technology here is considerably more sophisticated than 'release dangerous magical creatures and hope the students develop appropriate survival responses before anyone requires extended medical treatment.'"

Logan's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Kid's got the right attitude. Most students spend at least three weeks complaining about the difficulty level before they start appreciating the practical applications."

"Speaking of practical applications," Storm interjected with the kind of gentle authority that suggested she was steering the conversation toward more immediate concerns, "Professor Xavier would like to see both of you in his office. His contact is still on the secure line, and there are some details about your legal status that need to be discussed sooner rather than later."

Sirius straightened with the kind of alert attention that came from years of learning that conversations involving government contacts and legal documentation could have implications that extended well beyond simple paperwork. "Official details or the kind of details that require security clearances and plausible deniability?"

"Both, probably," Logan said with the casual acceptance that came from decades of dealing with individuals whose job descriptions included phrases like 'national security' and 'need to know basis.' "The guy Xavier's talking to—Nick Fury, Director of an organization called S.H.I.E.L.D.—specializes in situations that fall through the cracks between conventional law enforcement and cosmic-level threats to planetary security."

Harry and Sirius exchanged glances that carried the weight of shared experience with authority figures who operated in gray areas between official policy and practical necessity.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.," Harry repeated thoughtfully. "Strategic something-or-other involving individuals with extraordinary abilities and threats that require unconventional responses?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," Storm confirmed with the precision of someone who'd memorized official titles and understood their implications. "They handle situations involving enhanced individuals, extraterrestrial contact, advanced technology that exceeds current scientific understanding, and what their mission briefings diplomatically describe as 'anomalous phenomena requiring immediate containment or evaluation.'"

"Anomalous phenomena," Sirius said with the kind of dry appreciation that suggested he was recognizing familiar bureaucratic euphemisms. "Let me guess—interdimensional refugees with cosmic enhancement probably qualify as 'anomalous phenomena requiring immediate evaluation.'"

"Among other classifications," Logan confirmed. "But Fury's good people. Pragmatic, professional, and he understands the difference between containing genuine threats and helping people who need assistance navigating systems that weren't designed for their particular circumstances."

Jean moved closer to Harry with the kind of subtle possessiveness that suggested she was reluctant to see him disappear into administrative discussions that might involve complications beyond simple documentation processing. "How long do you think the meeting will take? Because we still haven't finished the campus tour, and I wanted to show you the library before dinner."

The invitation carried enough electromagnetic warmth to power the mansion's heating system, and Harry's enhanced senses picked up details that his teenage physiology processed with the kind of precision that was both flattering and tactically disadvantageous: the way her pulse quickened when she stood close to him, the faint scent of her shampoo that he was beginning to recognize as uniquely hers, the subtle shift in her posture that suggested she was very aware of him as someone considerably more interesting than just another student requiring academic assistance.

"Shouldn't take too long," Harry replied, his voice dropping to that warm, intimate register that made hearts flutter and logical thinking become significantly more difficult. "Government contacts usually want practical information rather than extended philosophical discussions. Basic background, capability assessment, assurance that I'm not planning to accidentally incinerate major population centers—standard bureaucratic checklist for anomalous phenomena."

"And after that," Sirius added with the kind of paternal authority that suggested he was taking his guardianship responsibilities seriously despite their unusual circumstances, "Harry needs to get properly settled in his quarters and probably review the academic materials Jean's prepared for tomorrow's tutoring session."

Jean's smile could have convinced entire governments to switch to renewable energy sources and probably solved several international diplomatic crises through sheer force of charm. "I've put together a comprehensive reading list covering modern history, basic sciences, and cultural context materials that should help bridge the gap between magical education and conventional academic expectations. Fair warning—it's quite extensive, but I think you'll find it interesting rather than overwhelming."

"I'm looking forward to it," Harry said, his green eyes holding depths that hadn't been there before the Phoenix enhancement but were rapidly becoming one of his most devastatingly attractive features. "It's been years since I've had the opportunity to learn things simply because they were interesting rather than because they might keep me alive during the next crisis involving dark wizards and government incompetence."

Bobby cleared his throat with theatrical timing that suggested he was enjoying the romantic undercurrents considerably more than Scott, who'd been growing progressively quieter as the conversation developed. "Well, this has been educational and emotionally complex in equal measure. Should we head up to Professor Xavier's office, or are we going to stand here discussing academic schedules while government agents with security clearances wait on secure phone lines?"

"Bobby's got a point," Logan said, pushing off from the wall with fluid grace that belied his apparent casualness. "Fury doesn't like to be kept waiting, and he's got the kind of schedule that involves national security briefings and congressional oversight committees that ask pointed questions about how taxpayer money gets spent on classified operations."

The group began moving toward the mansion's main levels, with Storm leading the way through corridors that showcased the kind of architectural sophistication that came from combining historical preservation with cutting-edge technology. Jean walked beside Harry with the kind of easy companionship that suggested they'd known each other considerably longer than twelve hours, while Scott maintained polite conversation that barely concealed his growing awareness that his romantic prospects had become significantly more complicated since yesterday evening.

"One more thing," Sirius said as they approached Xavier's office, his tone carrying the weight of information that had strategic implications. "Marcus—our antiquities contact—mentioned that there's been some unusual interest in the New York collectibles market lately. People asking questions about medieval coins, interdimensional artifacts, that sort of thing. Could be coincidence, could be government monitoring, or could be something else entirely."

Logan's expression sharpened with predatory awareness. "What kind of people?"

"The kind who pay well for information and don't ask for receipts," Sirius replied grimly. "Marcus has been in the business long enough to recognize when inquiries move beyond academic interest toward the sort of professional curiosity that involves federal badges or worse."

Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach—the familiar sensation that came from learning that peaceful interludes were temporary and complications were inevitable. "How much worse are we talking about? Government surveillance, criminal organizations, or the kind of 'worse' that involves people with abilities and questionable moral standards?"

"Unknown at this point," Storm said with the kind of diplomatic precision that suggested she was already considering tactical implications. "But Professor Xavier's security protocols include monitoring for exactly this sort of unusual attention. If there are individuals or organizations showing interest in our new arrivals, we'll identify them soon enough."

"And then?" Jean asked, though something in her voice suggested she was already calculating protective strategies that might involve considerable property damage and creative applications of Phoenix-enhanced telepathy.

Logan's grin was sharp enough to draw blood. "Then we find out exactly what they want and explain why they should want something else instead. Usually in terms that don't require extended diplomatic negotiations."

Harry's smile carried undertones that suggested the cosmic enhancement had included improvements to his tactical instincts as well as his raw power levels. "Well, that sounds familiar. Though I have to say, it'll be refreshing to face hostile organizations that use conventional weapons and straightforward motivations instead of dark magic, political manipulation, and schemes that require flow charts to understand properly."

"Kid," Logan said with something approaching paternal affection, "you're gonna fit right in around here."

As they approached Xavier's office, Harry found himself thinking that Logan was probably right—though given his track record with fitting in, that probably meant their peaceful morning was about to become considerably more interesting than anyone had planned.

After all, in Harry Potter's experience, the moment life started feeling manageable was usually when it decided to remind him that 'manageable' was a temporary condition that existed primarily to make the subsequent chaos more educational.

---

**Xavier's Office - Simultaneously**

The secure communication array built into Charles Xavier's desk represented technology that officially didn't exist, had never been manufactured, and certainly hadn't been installed by contractors who possessed security clearances requiring congressional oversight and presidential authorization. The encryption protocols alone would have made NSA cryptographers weep with professional envy, while the quantum entanglement communication systems that ensured absolute privacy probably violated several international treaties that Nick Fury had personally helped write.

Director Fury's voice carried across the connection with the kind of authority that came from decades of making decisions that affected global security while maintaining plausible deniability about methods that congressional oversight committees would find deeply troubling. "So let me make sure I understand the situation correctly, Charles. Two individuals from another dimension, one of whom registers as Omega Level with cosmic enhancement capabilities, materialized on your doorstep yesterday evening with enough gold to fund a small military coup and background stories that involve dark wizards, interdimensional warfare, and what sounds suspiciously like child soldier programs disguised as educational initiatives."

Xavier leaned back in his wheelchair, his fingers steepled as he considered the most diplomatic way to present information that was extraordinary even by S.H.I.E.L.D.'s generous standards for unusual circumstances. "That's a remarkably succinct summary, though I'd characterize their educational experience as 'specialized training under extreme circumstances' rather than child soldier programs. The distinction may seem academic, but it's important for understanding their psychological profiles and integration requirements."

"Charles," Fury's voice carried the kind of weary patience that came from years of dealing with individuals who had doctorates in making simple situations unnecessarily complex, "when you say 'specialized training under extreme circumstances,' are you talking about advanced tactical education or are you talking about teenagers being expected to fight actual wars against opponents who were actively trying to kill them?"

"The latter, unfortunately," Xavier admitted with the kind of careful honesty that came from recognizing that euphemisms would be counterproductive in this context. "Harry Potter, in particular, spent approximately five years as the primary target of what can only be described as a genocidal terrorist organization led by an individual whose abilities and methods would qualify him as a Class Five threat under our current assessment protocols."

There was a pause during which Xavier could practically hear Fury processing implications and coming up with tactical assessments that involved considerable resources and potential complications extending well beyond simple documentation fraud.

"Class Five," Fury repeated slowly. "You're telling me this kid survived five years being hunted by someone who rates at the same threat level as galactic conquerors, cosmic entities, and individuals who can reshape continental geography through force of will?"

"Not only survived, but ultimately defeated," Xavier confirmed. "Along with the associated terrorist organization, their government allies, and a variety of supernatural entities that were allied with their cause. The final battle involved several adult and teenage combatants and resulted in what their historical records describe as the decisive end of their reality's second wizarding war."

"Wizarding war," Fury said with the kind of tone that suggested he was adding new categories to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s threat assessment databases. "Actual magic, not advanced science that we don't understand yet, not genetic mutation that produces reality-altering effects, but honest-to-God magic involving spells, potions, and presumably flying broomsticks and pointy hats?"

"Flying broomsticks, certainly, though the pointy hats appear to be more ceremonial than practical," Xavier replied with gentle humor that barely concealed his fascination with the subject. "Their magical system appears to operate according to principles that are both internally consistent and completely independent of our understanding of physics, chemistry, or any other conventional science. It's rather like discovering that an entire parallel system of natural laws has been operating alongside conventional reality."

"And now this kid—this Harry Potter—has been cosmically enhanced by entities that you describe as fundamental forces of creation and destruction, giving him abilities that register as Omega Level on your detection systems while maintaining access to magical techniques that can apparently conjure matter from theoretical nothing and manipulate reality through applied willpower."

"That's an accurate assessment," Xavier confirmed, though his tone suggested there were additional complexities that couldn't be adequately summarized in simple threat evaluations. "However, I should emphasize that both individuals appear to be psychologically stable, morally committed to protecting innocent people, and genuinely interested in integrating peacefully into this reality rather than attempting to impose their will upon it."

"Charles," Fury's voice carried the kind of sharp attention that meant he was shifting into operational planning mode, "I've been doing this job long enough to know that 'psychologically stable' and 'morally committed' are conditions that can change rapidly when individuals with cosmic-level abilities are faced with circumstances that challenge their existing belief systems or threaten people they care about."

"I'm aware of the risks," Xavier replied with the careful precision of someone who'd spent decades managing individuals whose abilities could accidentally destroy cities during particularly emotional moments. "However, I'm also aware that attempting to contain or control individuals with these capabilities would likely prove counterproductive and potentially catastrophic. Our best option is integration, education, and providing them with the social support necessary to maintain their current psychological equilibrium."

"Integration," Fury repeated thoughtfully. "Which brings us to the practical question of documentation. Creating legal identities comprehensive enough to withstand federal scrutiny for individuals whose backgrounds involve interdimensional travel and cosmic enhancement isn't exactly standard operating procedure, even for S.H.I.E.L.D."

Xavier's expression grew more serious as they moved into the specific details that would determine whether Harry and Sirius could build new lives in this reality or would be forced to exist as permanent fugitives from bureaucratic systems that couldn't accommodate their circumstances.

"I'm not asking for anything that would compromise S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operational security or violate your protocols regarding enhanced individuals," Xavier said carefully. "Simply documentation that allows them to function as legal residents—social security numbers, birth certificates that reference destroyed records, educational histories that explain their unconventional knowledge base without mentioning interdimensional travel or magical education."

"And if congressional oversight committees start asking pointed questions about why two individuals with no documented existence prior to this week suddenly possess comprehensive federal identification?"

"Then we provide them with cover stories that are both truthful and sufficiently mundane to discourage extended investigation," Xavier replied smoothly. "Refugees from conflict zones where record-keeping was disrupted by warfare, individuals whose families maintained privacy through legal but unconventional methods, people whose documentation was lost due to natural disasters or administrative failures—there are dozens of plausible explanations that don't require mentioning cosmic entities or interdimensional displacement."

Fury was quiet for several moments, during which Xavier could hear the distinctive sound of secure keyboards and multiple electronic systems that suggested the S.H.I.E.L.D. director was accessing databases and running preliminary assessments in real-time.

"The financial aspect is going to be the most problematic element," Fury said finally. "Large quantities of precious metals with complex provenance histories tend to attract attention from federal agencies that specialize in money laundering, tax evasion, and international smuggling operations. We'll need to establish legitimate sources for their wealth that can withstand audit-level scrutiny."

"Logan has contacts in the antiquities market who specialize in discrete transactions involving items with 'interesting' histories," Xavier replied diplomatically. "Professional, established, and experienced in handling materials that require creative documentation for legal purposes."

"Marcus Blackwood," Fury said immediately, his tone suggesting access to information that confirmed S.H.I.E.L.D.'s monitoring capabilities extended into areas that most people would consider private business transactions. "Good choice. He's been on our watch list for fifteen years as a person of interest, but never for anything that threatened national security. Professional discretion, legitimate business practices, clientele that includes several individuals who require privacy for reasons that don't involve criminal activity."

Xavier raised an eyebrow at the casual demonstration of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intelligence capabilities, though his expression suggested more interest than concern. "I take it you're familiar with most of the players in markets that cater to individuals with unconventional needs?"

"Charles, I'm familiar with every individual in North America who has the resources and inclination to help enhanced persons establish legal identities, convert unusual assets into conventional currency, or provide services that exist in the gray areas between legal and necessary," Fury replied with matter-of-fact precision. "It's part of the job description when you're responsible for maintaining national security in a world where enhanced individuals are becoming increasingly common and their circumstances are becoming increasingly complex."

"And your assessment of our situation?"

"Manageable, assuming both individuals continue to demonstrate the psychological stability and cooperative attitude you've described," Fury said, though his tone suggested he was already implementing monitoring protocols that would track their integration progress. "S.H.I.E.L.D. can provide the documentation they need, establish financial histories that explain their assets, and create educational records that account for their knowledge base without raising suspicious questions."

"What kind of oversight will be involved?" Xavier asked, recognizing that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s assistance would come with conditions that needed to be clearly understood by everyone involved.

"Standard enhanced individual monitoring—periodic check-ins, assessment of ability development and psychological status, notification protocols if their threat level changes significantly," Fury replied with professional neutrality. "Nothing invasive, nothing that restricts their freedom or privacy, but enough oversight to ensure early warning if circumstances change in ways that could affect public safety."

"That seems reasonable," Xavier agreed, though his tone suggested he was filing away details that would need to be discussed with Harry and Sirius before any formal agreements were reached. "What kind of timeline are we looking at for the documentation process?"

"Four to six months for comprehensive backgrounds that can withstand audit-level scrutiny," Fury said with the confidence that came from extensive experience managing similar operations. "Less time if you're willing to accept documentation that's adequate for routine purposes but might not survive intensive federal investigation."

"Comprehensive backgrounds," Xavier decided immediately. "These individuals are planning to build permanent lives in this reality, which means their documentation needs to be capable of withstanding whatever scrutiny they might encounter over the decades to come."

"Understood. I'll have my people begin the process immediately. Financial integration, educational records, employment histories—everything needed to function as legal residents with legitimate reasons for possessing their knowledge and resources." Fury paused, and when he continued, his voice carried a note that suggested personal interest beyond simple professional duty. "Charles, I want to meet them. Both of them, but especially the Potter kid."

"Professional curiosity or security concerns?"

"Both," Fury admitted with characteristic honesty. "Anyone who survived what you've described while maintaining psychological stability and moral clarity represents either a valuable potential asset or a threat that needs to be properly understood. Either way, I want to make my own assessment before we commit S.H.I.E.L.D. resources to their integration."

Xavier nodded, though Fury couldn't see the gesture through their audio-only connection. "I'll arrange a meeting. Though I should warn you that Harry Potter has considerable experience with government officials whose interest in his abilities exceeded their concern for his welfare. He's likely to be suspicious of federal attention until proven otherwise."

"Can't blame him for that," Fury said with dry humor. "In my experience, individuals with cosmic-level abilities who trust government officials without reservation tend to end up in situations that serve everyone's interests except their own. A little healthy skepticism is probably a survival trait."

"Indeed. When did you want to schedule this meeting?"

"As soon as possible. Today, if they're available and willing. Tomorrow at the latest." Fury's tone suggested urgency that went beyond routine bureaucratic processing. "Charles, if this kid is everything you've described, he represents capabilities that could tip the balance in conflicts involving enhanced individuals, extraterrestrial threats, or any number of scenarios that keep me awake at night planning contingency responses."

"You want to recruit him," Xavier said, his voice carrying a note of protective concern that suggested he was already calculating the psychological impact of government attention on someone who'd spent years being manipulated by adults with agenda.

"I want to understand him," Fury corrected with precision that suggested important distinctions were being made. "Recruitment would be premature until we know more about his goals, his psychological profile, and whether his moral framework is compatible with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mission parameters. But if he's looking for ways to use his abilities in service of protecting innocent people, we might have common interests that could benefit everyone involved."

Xavier was quiet for a moment, considering implications that extended beyond simple documentation assistance. "I'll discuss it with both of them and let you know their response. Though I should mention that Harry is currently adjusting to this reality through academic tutoring, social integration at the school, and what appears to be a developing relationship with one of our students. His priorities at the moment seem focused on building a normal life rather than seeking opportunities for additional conflict resolution."

"Understood. And Charles? I appreciate you bringing this to me directly instead of trying to handle it internally. Situations like this can become complicated very quickly if they're not properly managed from the beginning."

"Professional courtesy," Xavier replied with warm formality. "You've been helpful with unusual situations in the past, and I trust your judgment about when federal involvement is necessary versus when it creates more problems than it solves."

"I'll have preliminary documentation ready within forty-eight hours," Fury said, shifting back into operational mode. "Basic identity packages that will allow them to function while we work on comprehensive backgrounds. And Charles? Keep me informed if their circumstances change or if they demonstrate any new abilities that might affect our threat assessments."

"Of course. And Nick? Thank you. This assistance means more than I can adequately express."

"Don't mention it. Literally—this conversation never happened, and if anyone asks how two interdimensional refugees acquired federal documentation, the answer involves lost records, administrative errors, and bureaucratic incompetence rather than classified assistance from individuals who officially don't exist."

The connection ended with the decisive finality that characterized all of Fury's communications, leaving Xavier alone with tactical considerations that were rapidly becoming more complex than simple immigration assistance.

Harry Potter and Sirius Black were about to become persons of interest to one of the most powerful intelligence organizations on the planet—an organization that specialized in enhanced individuals, cosmic-level threats, and situations that required solutions existing outside conventional legal frameworks.

The question now was whether that interest would prove beneficial or whether it represented the beginning of complications that would make their interdimensional displacement seem like a minor inconvenience by comparison.

Time to find out what Harry and Sirius thought about government attention from individuals whose job descriptions included phrases like "national security" and "enhanced asset management."

This was either going to go very smoothly or very badly.

In Xavier's experience, the distinction usually depended on factors that were impossible to predict until circumstances forced everyone to show their cards.

Chapter Text

# Brotherhood Warehouse – Queens

The Brotherhood's latest "base of operations" looked less like a secret lair and more like the aftermath of a particularly creative demolition gone wrong. Rusted I-beams hung at angles that would make structural engineers weep openly, their orange decay creating abstract art across concrete floors that had clearly given up on life sometime during the Carter administration. Busted skylights leaked more than light—they leaked ambition, casting jagged shadows that danced with dust motes and the occasional pigeon who'd obviously made some spectacularly poor real estate decisions.

Graffiti sprawled across every vertical surface like a multilingual argument between dozen different crews, creating a Jackson Pollock of urban decay that somehow managed to be both chaotic and oddly beautiful. In the rafters, enough pigeons had established permanent residence to qualify for their own electoral district, their constant cooing providing a soundtrack of organized chaos that felt strangely appropriate for what was about to unfold.

But to Mystique, standing in the center of it all like she'd personally invented the concept of dangerous elegance, it was absolutely perfect.

She moved with the liquid grace of a predator who'd spent years perfecting the art of making her presence felt in any room she entered. Every gesture was calculated, every tilt of her head designed to project exactly the right blend of maternal authority and barely contained violence that made teenagers want to simultaneously impress her and avoid making her angry. Her blue skin gleamed under the humming fluorescents, and those yellow eyes—sharp as broken glass and twice as cutting—missed absolutely nothing.

The massive wall-mounted map of New York looked like it had been liberated from some defunct military installation, probably during a heist that nobody talked about but everyone remembered fondly. Colored pins dotted the boroughs like a connect-the-dots puzzle designed by someone with a PhD in Creative Urban Warfare Theory. Mystique studied it with the focused intensity of a chess grandmaster contemplating her next seventeen moves, all of which would probably involve explosions.

Her team of teenage chaos agents had distributed themselves around the warehouse in various states of controlled restlessness. Pietro Maximoff vibrated against a concrete pillar like a tuning fork struck by lightning, his silver hair catching the light as his fingers drummed against his thigh fast enough to blur. John Allerdyce sprawled across a salvaged couch, twirling his lighter with the unconscious skill of a street performer, red hair falling into eyes that suggested he was perpetually three seconds away from testing whether something was flammable. Fred Dukes occupied his specially reinforced throne—part furniture, part architectural marvel, part monument to the fact that some problems required custom engineering solutions—looking like he'd rather be anywhere with better snack options. And Dominikos sat hunched over structural diagrams with the intense focus of someone who found earthquake mathematics more comfortable than eye contact.

They were all pretending they weren't hanging on her every word while absolutely, completely hanging on her every word.

"Alright, children," Mystique purred, her voice rolling through the warehouse with that particular combination of silk and steel that could convince a fire marshal to approve a gasoline storage facility. The word 'children' came out with just enough maternal condescension to remind them who was in charge, wrapped in just enough genuine affection to make them want to prove themselves worthy of her attention. "Field trip time."

Pietro snorted from his position against the pillar, his entire body practically humming with suppressed kinetic energy. "Oh fantastic," he said, words tumbling out faster than most people could process them, "please tell me this isn't another 'go intimidate some investment bankers' gig because last time Fred ate their entire catered lunch spread before we even extracted a single piece of useful intelligence."

His grin was pure manic energy, the kind of expression that suggested he'd been specifically engineered by nature to cause problems and then solve them through the liberal application of ridiculous speed. "I'm talking everything, Mystique. The mini quiches with the fancy cheese. The little triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off like we're at some demented tea party. Even the decorative parsley that nobody actually eats but everyone pretends is sophisticated."

"Hey now," Fred rumbled from his reinforced throne, his voice carrying that particular mix of wounded dignity and complete lack of shame that came with being caught red-handed doing exactly what everyone knew he'd done. "They had sliders, man. Like, actual miniature cheeseburgers with real beef and those little pickle chips and everything. That's basically my kryptonite right there."

He shifted in his chair—a custom masterpiece that had required consultation with actual structural engineers and possibly a prayer to whatever gods governed furniture—and the entire warehouse seemed to settle slightly under his weight. "You can't just put sliders in front of me and expect me to maintain professional composure. It's cruel and unusual punishment."

"You don't have kryptonite," Pietro shot back, practically bouncing on his heels now, his whole body language screaming barely contained chaos. "You have high cholesterol, type-two diabetes, and probably several other medical conditions that could be solved by occasionally eating something that isn't fried or covered in cheese or both."

Pietro's grin sharpened to something that could cut glass. "Also, they weren't that good. I tried one after you demolished the entire tray, and it was basically cafeteria food dressed up with fancy toothpicks."

Fred's glare could've melted reinforced steel, but coming from someone currently occupying what amounted to a throne designed to support small aircraft, it lost some of its intimidation factor. "Says the guy who burns through three thousand calories an hour just standing still. Your metabolism is basically a garbage disposal with legs."

"At least I don't require architectural consultation every time I want to sit somewhere," Pietro fired back, silver hair flashing as he zipped to the other side of the warehouse and back again in the time it took Fred to blink. "Remember that coffee shop in Brooklyn? The one where you—"

"Focus, children," Mystique interrupted smoothly, her voice cutting through the developing food fight with surgical precision. She moved between them like liquid mercury, somehow managing to defuse the tension while simultaneously cranking it up to eleven through sheer presence alone. "Save the body-shaming and dietary analysis for after we've successfully committed several federal crimes."

She tapped one perfectly manicured nail against the map, the clicking sound somehow managing to command absolute attention despite the ongoing pigeon commentary from the rafters. The green pin stuck dead center in Westchester County seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights.

"Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," she announced with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested she'd been practicing this speech in mirrors. "Our favorite cult of do-gooders and their never-ending crusade to make the world a better place through the power of friendship, feelings, and grossly irresponsible amounts of property damage."

That got everyone's attention faster than a fire alarm in a fireworks factory. Even Dominikos looked up from his engineering diagrams, dark eyes reflecting the warehouse's uncertain lighting as he processed the implications. At sixteen, he had that particular combination of pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and perpetual intensity that suggested he'd either grow up to be a brilliant scientist or a supervillain with excellent architectural taste. Currently, the smart money was on supervillain, though he approached the job with the methodical precision of someone who'd rather be calculating load-bearing tolerances than making small talk.

"Xavier picked up a new stray last week," Mystique continued, her voice taking on that particular tone of someone sharing gossip that was about to ruin everyone's day in the most entertaining way possible. She moved closer to the map, hips swaying with predatory grace that somehow made even walking look like a carefully choreographed threat. "Big one. Omega-class power levels. Cosmic-tier enhancement potential. The kind of mutant that makes government classification files spontaneously combust just from being mentioned in the same sentence."

John perked up instantly like a bloodhound catching a particularly interesting scent, his Australian drawl sliding into the conversation like gasoline poured on hot pavement. "Cosmic, eh? Right, well now you've got my full attention, love." He sat up straighter, lighter dancing between his fingers with the casual dexterity of someone who'd been playing with fire since before he could properly walk. "What exactly are we talking about here? Can he shoot starfire lasers from his eyes like some kind of cosmic Superman? Does he keep a black hole in his back pocket for emergencies and awkward social situations?"

His grin was pure pyromaniacal enthusiasm, the expression of someone who'd found his true calling in life and that calling happened to involve setting things on fire in creative and artistically satisfying ways. "Can he, like, make the moon his personal pet rock and teach it adorable little tricks? Because that would be simultaneously terrifying and absolutely brilliant."

Mystique fixed him with a look that could've performed surgery without anesthesia. "Wings made of pure psychic energy that can slice through diamond like it's warm butter. Armor like dragon scales that treats armor-piercing rounds as a minor inconvenience. Fire that burns hotter than the core of a star and responds to his emotional state like a mood ring designed by a vengeful god with serious anger management issues."

She paused for dramatic effect, yellow eyes sweeping across her audience to ensure she had their complete and undivided attention. "Oh, and magic. Actual, honest-to-whatever-deities-you-personally-believe-in magic. The kind that makes physics professors cry into their textbooks."

The warehouse fell silent except for the distant cooing of pigeons and the electrical hum of lights that had probably been installed during the Eisenhower administration. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded either religious revelation or complete existential terror, and in this case, it was definitely leaning toward the latter.

John's grin somehow managed to get even wider, which should've been physically impossible but John had never let minor things like physics stop him from expressing enthusiasm. "So basically," he said slowly, savoring each word like fine wine, "he's me, yeah? But with all the extra spicy sauce, a side of cosmic horror, and probably a significantly better health insurance plan."

"Spicy?" Pietro barked out a laugh that was equal parts amusement and disbelief, his whole body shaking with barely contained kinetic energy. "Mate, you set your own hair on fire last week trying to toast a Pop-Tart because you were too impatient to wait the full two minutes for the toaster to do its job properly."

Pietro zipped around the warehouse in a silver blur, reappearing behind John's couch with his arms crossed and an expression of pure fraternal mockery. "Don't compare yourself to cosmic-level powers when you can't handle breakfast pastries without requiring medical intervention and possibly a hazmat team."

"Oi, that was experimental cooking," John protested, his accent getting thicker with indignation as he twisted around to glare at Pietro. "That was science, mate. Culinary innovation at its finest. I was exploring the delicate intersection between controlled combustion and breakfast pastry preparation."

He flicked his lighter open and closed in rapid succession, each click emphasizing his words like a percussion instrument operated by someone with serious impulse control issues. "It was practically Nobel Prize-worthy research into alternative food preparation methodologies."

"You nearly burned down half the kitchen," Dominikos spoke up quietly from his corner, not bothering to look up from his diagrams but somehow managing to make his disapproval felt across the entire warehouse. "I had to reinforce the entire east wall because the fire damage compromised the structural integrity of the support beams."

"Details," John waved dismissively, though his lighter clicking increased in tempo. "Minor setbacks in the name of scientific advancement. Thomas Edison failed thousands of times before inventing the light bulb."

"Thomas Edison didn't set himself on fire," Fred groaned from his throne, the sound carrying all the weight of someone who'd witnessed too many of John's "experiments" and lived to regret the experience. "Please, for the love of all that's holy and several things that definitely aren't, never use the words 'culinary innovation' and 'uncontrolled combustion' in the same sentence again. My insurance premiums are already higher than most people's mortgages."

The reinforced chair creaked ominously, as if providing editorial commentary on both John's cooking skills and the general state of everyone's life choices.

Dominikos finally looked up from his structural diagrams, pale fingers still tracing stress calculations as his dark eyes fixed on Mystique with laser focus. "If this guy is really that powerful," he said in that low, even tone that suggested he'd been thinking about this problem from seventeen different angles while everyone else was arguing about breakfast foods, "why are we even having this conversation? He could probably turn us into a fine paste without breaking a sweat or messing up his hair. This seems like a job for people who don't bruise easily and have significantly better life insurance policies."

His pale face was set in that expression of calm calculation that suggested he was already running structural analyses on exactly how much damage a cosmic-level mutant could do to various buildings throughout New York, and the results weren't particularly encouraging.

Mystique's smile was sharp enough to perform delicate surgery and twice as dangerous, the kind of expression that suggested she'd been hoping someone would ask exactly that question so she could deliver what was obviously going to be a spectacular answer.

"Because, my dear little seismologist," she purred, moving closer to the group with the fluid grace of a predator who'd spent years perfecting the art of making her presence felt, "power is only as dangerous as the hands that wield it. And right now, Charles Xavier's sticky little fingers want this cosmic-level weapon playing for Team Sunshine and Rainbow Hugs, learning to control his abilities through the power of friendship, feelings, and probably group therapy sessions."

She reached the map and tapped the Westchester pin again, her nail clicking against the metal with metronomic precision. "Erik wants to know if we can... persuade our new friend to consider alternative career paths. Ones that don't involve saving puppies, helping old ladies cross the street, and making the world a better place through the power of positive thinking."

"Recruit or remove," Pietro translated, his words coming out almost faster than human speech could process as he bounced on his heels like a racehorse at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby. "Classic Magneto operation. I love it already. So what's the play here, boss? You want me to zip in there at Mach-stupid, grab this cosmic kid before he knows what's happening, and then run laps around New Jersey until he's too dizzy to remember his own name?"

His grin was pure manic energy, the expression of someone who'd been specifically designed by evolution to cause problems and then solve them through the liberal application of physics-defying speed.

"Please don't subject anyone to New Jersey," Fred muttered with genuine horror, shuddering hard enough to make his reinforced chair groan in sympathy. "Nobody deserves that kind of psychological trauma. It's probably illegal under the Geneva Convention and definitely cruel and unusual punishment by any reasonable definition."

Mystique snapped her fingers with theatrical flair, and the warehouse's lighting shifted dramatically as a holographic display materialized above the map like something out of the world's most expensive science fiction movie. New York City rendered in perfect three-dimensional detail, complete with target points blinking like a video game mission screen designed by someone with a PhD in Urban Chaos Theory and a minor in Dramatic Lighting Effects.

The projection bathed everything in blue light that made the warehouse look even more like the set of a cyberpunk thriller with a particularly pessimistic view of humanity's future, while somehow making Mystique look even more dangerous and impossibly elegant.

"Not grab," she said, her voice taking on that particular tone of someone explaining a particularly brilliant solution to an impossibly complex problem. "Distract. We're going to create enough coordinated chaos throughout the city to drag Xavier's entire A-team away from their precious school like moths to very expensive, very destructive flames."

Her yellow eyes gleamed as she gestured to the holographic display, where red zones pulsed ominously across Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx like a heartbeat made of pure chaos. "Storm will be handling mysterious weather emergencies that definitely weren't caused by climate change. Beast will be analyzing unexplained seismic disturbances that make absolutely no geological sense. Logan will be tracking down reports of impossible thefts and fires that burn in patterns that shouldn't exist in nature."

She moved around the display like a dancer performing for an audience of one, each gesture calculated to maximum dramatic effect. "The whole superhero cavalry will be spread thinner than butter on toast across five boroughs, running around like headless chickens trying to put out fires that keep multiplying faster than they can solve them."

John sat up straighter, practically vibrating with excitement that had absolutely nothing to do with Pietro's mutant abilities and everything to do with the promise of professionally orchestrated pyromania. "So basically," he said, lighter clicking open and shut in rapid succession, "you want us to coordinate a city-wide festival of beautiful, artistic mayhem while you go have a friendly conversation with the new kid about career opportunities and alternative lifestyle choices."

His grin was bright enough to power several city blocks. "You should've just said 'controlled chaos with maximum artistic flair' at the beginning—that's like Christmas morning, my birthday, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one glorious package of destructive creativity."

"That leaves me," Mystique continued, ignoring John's enthusiasm with the practiced ease of someone who'd been managing teenage pyromaniacs for longer than was probably healthy for anyone's sanity, "with approximately two uninterrupted hours to slip into Xavier's mansion, have a nice long chat with our cosmic friend, and find out absolutely everything there is to know about this new resident."

Her smile could've cut through titanium with surgical precision. "His psychological profile, his power limitations, his friends, his fears, his favorite breakfast cereal if that happens to be somehow relevant to manipulating him later, and most importantly, whether Erik can use him or whether we need to find creative ways to neutralize him before he becomes a problem that requires significantly more explosives to solve."

Pietro vanished into a silver blur and reappeared by the warehouse's main entrance so fast that the air displacement ruffled everyone's hair and scattered several pigeons who'd been contemplating whether humans were worth the trouble they caused.

"So essentially," he said, grinning like he'd just been offered the keys to every sports car in Manhattan, "this is a group project designed by someone with a beautifully twisted sense of humor, and we're the kids who didn't bother reading the assignment details but are planning to wing it anyway and somehow still get an A-plus with extra credit."

His silver hair caught the holographic light as he practically bounced in place. "I can work with that. Should I leave calling cards? Little autographs? Maybe some artistic speed-trails spelled out in a language only I can write fast enough to be legible?"

"Pietro," Mystique said, her voice carrying just enough warning to remind him that artistic license had limits, even in their line of work, "you'll be handling speed-based emergencies throughout Manhattan. Mysterious thefts from locations that should be impossible to break into, blurred sightings that make security guards question their career choices, maybe give a few NYPD patrol units something interesting to chase that they'll never quite catch up with no matter how hard they try."

Pietro's grin could've powered the entire electrical grid. "So basically a normal Tuesday for me, except with better planning, more style, and significantly higher stakes. I love it. Should I focus on any particular type of theft, or are we going for general 'impossible things happening too fast to explain' chaos?"

"Focus on high-value targets that will definitely make the news but won't actually hurt anyone," Mystique replied smoothly. "Art galleries, jewelry stores, banks if you can manage it without triggering any actual security systems. Make them work for their insurance payouts."

She turned to their immovable object, who was still occupying his throne with the dignity of someone who'd learned to make architectural compromises look like royal privileges. "Fred, I need you handling structural problems throughout Brooklyn and Queens. Gas main 'accidents' that require immediate attention, bridges mysteriously blocked by a very cooperative and completely immovable obstacle, maybe a few subway tunnels that suddenly develop unexpected traffic jams that can't be explained by traditional transportation logistics."

Fred shrugged with the easy confidence of someone whose superpower was literally being too heavy and durable for the world to move him when he didn't feel like cooperating with basic physics.

"I sit somewhere inconvenient," he said with the matter-of-fact tone of someone describing quantum mechanics, "I become everyone else's problem, and then I win by default. It's like chess, except I'm simultaneously the king, the entire board, and the laws of physics that govern how pieces are allowed to move."

His reinforced chair groaned again, as if applauding his tactical analysis.

"Just remember," Mystique added with a pointed look, "no sitting on anything that can't support your weight without catastrophic structural failure. We want delays and diversions, not actual building collapses that require disaster relief funding."

"I'm a professional," Fred replied with wounded dignity. "I've been doing this for years. I know exactly how much pressure every major bridge in New York can handle before it starts making those concerning creaking sounds that make engineers nervous."

"John," Mystique continued, and the pyromaniac's attention snapped to her like a compass needle finding true magnetic north, "fires throughout Manhattan and the Bronx. Multiple locations, carefully controlled burns that look spectacular enough to pull fire departments and emergency responders away from anything else they might be doing, but artistic enough to make the evening news without actually hurting anyone."

John saluted with his lighter, the small flame dancing between his fingers in what could've been interpreted as either enthusiasm or barely controlled mania. "Ma'am, yes ma'am," he said with mock military precision. "Controlled burns with maximum visual impact and minimum actual property damage. I can do theatrical without doing homicidal."

His grin suggested he was already mentally cataloguing every flammable surface in New York and ranking them by artistic potential. "Should I sign my work? Maybe leave little calling cards? Spell out messages in carefully controlled scorch marks that firefighters will spend weeks trying to decode?"

"Nothing traceable back to us," Mystique warned, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely opposed to artistic flair as long as it didn't compromise operational security. "But if you happen to create some... visually interesting burn patterns that keep forensics experts busy for a few months, I certainly won't complain."

Finally, she turned to their resident earth-mover, who had been following the entire conversation while simultaneously running structural calculations in his head with the focused intensity of someone who found earthquake mathematics significantly more straightforward than human social interaction.

"Dominikos," she said, and his dark eyes lifted from his diagrams to meet hers with laser focus, "seismic anomalies throughout Brooklyn and Queens. Cracks in the ground that follow geometrically impossible patterns, minor tremors that register on equipment but don't match any known geological activity, maybe make a few buildings sway just enough to scare structural engineers but not enough to actually require evacuation procedures."

Dominikos raised one dark eyebrow, his pale fingers still tracing over stress calculations with unconscious precision. "So essentially," he said in that quiet, thoughtful tone that suggested he was already running complex mathematical models in his head, "performance art with tectonic plates. Controlled geological chaos that looks natural enough to fool casual observers but weird enough to require expert analysis."

His slight smile was the first genuine expression of enthusiasm he'd shown all afternoon. "I can work with that. Should I aim for specific Richter scale readings, or are we going for more of a 'vaguely ominous geological activity that makes scientists nervous' vibe?"

"Exactly that vibe," Mystique purred, her satisfaction evident in every syllable as she surveyed her team of teenage chaos agents with the pride of someone who'd assembled exactly the right tools for exactly the right job. "Mysterious enough to require investigation, concerning enough to demand immediate attention, but subtle enough that nobody can prove it's artificial until long after we're finished."

She moved back to the center of the group, presence somehow managing to fill the entire warehouse despite being just one person in a space designed to hold significantly larger things. "Now, before anyone gets carried away with artistic ambitions or creative interpretations of the mission parameters," her eyes swept over them with laser precision, "everybody repeat after me: no casualties."

"No casualties," the four chorused in unison, though John immediately muttered under his breath with obvious disappointment, "Aw, come on, that takes half the fun out of the whole exercise."

Mystique's gaze snapped to him like a heat-seeking missile finding its target, yellow eyes flashing with just enough warning to remind him that some lines existed for very good reasons. "John. What did we discuss at length about collateral damage and its various complications?"

"That it's expensive, legally complicated, attracts unwanted government attention, and bad for our public relations with both law enforcement and potential future recruitment targets," he recited dutifully, though his expression suggested he was still mentally calculating exactly how many things he could set on fire without technically crossing any lines that would result in paperwork nobody wanted to fill out.

"Good boy." Mystique stepped closer to the group, all sharp angles and predatory grace that somehow made even simple movement look like a carefully choreographed threat assessment. "Remember, this entire operation revolves around Harry Potter. I want everything about him—psychological profile, power limitations, emotional triggers, social connections, personal fears, favorite foods, preferred music, sleep patterns, study habits, and his breakfast cereal preferences if that happens to be somehow relevant to future manipulation strategies."

She tapped the map again, her nail clicking against the green pin with metronomic precision that somehow managed to sound like a countdown timer. "I want to know if he's vulnerable to persuasion, intimidation, bribery, emotional manipulation, or good old-fashioned psychological pressure. I want to know if he's the type to crack under stress or if stress just makes him more dangerous and less predictable."

Her yellow eyes swept over the group again, taking in Pietro's barely contained kinetic energy, John's pyromaniacal anticipation, Fred's comfortable confidence, and Dominikos's quiet intensity. "Most importantly, I want to know if Erik can use him as an asset or if we need to start developing contingency plans to neutralize him before he becomes a problem that requires significantly more resources and explosives to solve."

She straightened up, her form already beginning to ripple and shift as her mutation kicked into gear with the fluid precision of water finding its natural level. Blue skin faded to healthy pink, yellow eyes shifted to warm brown, dark hair lightened to professional blonde, and her entire bone structure rearranged itself with the casual grace of someone changing clothes.

Within seconds, she'd transformed from an exotic blue-skinned shapeshifter into a perfectly ordinary-looking blonde woman in a sharp business suit—the kind of person who could walk through Xavier's front door with a clipboard and a confident smile and convince everyone she not only belonged there but probably had important paperwork that needed immediate attention.

"I don't want heroics from any of you," she continued, her voice now carrying a completely different accent and inflection while maintaining that underlying current of absolute authority that suggested questioning her decisions would be both unwise and potentially hazardous to your health. "I don't want improvisation. I don't want anyone deciding they know better than the plan we've spent three weeks developing, refining, and testing against every possible contingency we could imagine."

Her gaze swept over them again, somehow managing to make eye contact with each of them simultaneously despite the basic laws of physics suggesting that should be impossible. "I want professional-grade chaos executed with surgical precision, and I want all of you back here in one piece with no new entries on your criminal records and no additional medical expenses that weren't already budgeted into our operational costs."

"And if this cosmic kid catches us in the act?" Pietro asked, his voice maintaining that light, casual tone that somehow managed to contain an undercurrent of genuine concern despite his general approach to life being 'run first, ask questions while running faster.' "What if he decides to, you know, demonstrate exactly why the government classifies him as Omega-level by turning one or more of us into component atoms?"

Mystique leaned in closer, her presence suddenly filling the space between them like smoke from a fire that was definitely about to get much, much bigger and significantly more dangerous. Her eyes—now brown but somehow still carrying that predatory gleam—seemed to glow with their own internal light source.

"Then you run," she said softly, each word carrying the weight of absolute certainty and years of experience keeping teenagers alive in situations that should've killed them several times over. "Fast. Faster than you've ever run before. Faster than you think is physically possible, even for you, Pietro."

Her smile was sharp enough to perform delicate surgery without anesthesia. "And I'll make sure he never knows your faces, never learns your names, never connects any of you to this operation, and never has any reason to come looking for you afterward. That's my job—keeping you safe while you play with matches, explosives, and forces of nature that could level city blocks if handled incorrectly."

She straightened up, blonde hair catching the warehouse's uncertain lighting as her new face settled into an expression of calm professional confidence. "Your job is to create enough coordinated noise to wake the dead without actually killing anyone in the process. Think of it as a group project where failure results in federal prison sentences, international incidents, and possibly having to explain to Erik why his carefully laid plans went sideways because someone couldn't resist adding their own creative touches to a perfectly functional strategy."

John grinned like Christmas morning had arrived early and brought him everything he'd ever wanted plus several things he hadn't known he wanted until just this moment, his lighter flicking open with a sharp metallic click that somehow sounded like enthusiastic applause.

"Hell yeah," he said with the kind of pure joy that suggested he'd found his true calling in life and that calling involved setting multiple things on fire simultaneously in patterns that would confuse forensics experts for months. "Time to give the X-Men a night they'll never forget, assuming they survive it with their sanity and most of their property values intact."

"More like a group project designed by someone with a beautifully twisted sense of humor and a doctorate in Applied Chaos Theory," Pietro quipped, vanishing into a silver blur and reappearing by the warehouse door so fast that several more pigeons decided they had urgent business elsewhere and left in what could charitably be called an organized retreat.

"And we're the overachieving students who didn't bother reading the assignment requirements but are planning to wing it anyway through pure talent, natural ability, and probably several minor violations of the laws of physics," he continued, grinning like he'd just been handed the keys to every sports car in Manhattan along with written permission to ignore traffic laws for the next six hours.

Fred heaved himself out of his reinforced chair with the deliberate care of someone who'd learned that sudden movements tended to have architectural consequences that required explanation to insurance adjusters. "Just promise me we're not doing this during lunch hour," he said with the serious tone of someone discussing matters of national security. "I get cranky when I'm hungry, and absolutely nobody wants to see me cranky while I'm sitting on something that can't move until I decide to let it move."

The warehouse seemed to settle slightly as his weight redistributed, reminding everyone present that Fred's participation in any plan automatically upgraded it from 'coordinated chaos' to 'geological event requiring professional structural assessment.'

Dominikos rolled up his engineering diagrams with methodical precision, dark eyes reflecting the holographic display as he calculated load-bearing capacities, stress distributions, and probably seventeen different ways to make the ground crack in patterns that would spell out words visible from low-orbit satellites.

"I'll try to keep my earthquakes aesthetically pleasing," he said in that quiet, thoughtful tone that suggested he was already composing geological poetry in his head. "Maybe spell out some messages in crack patterns. 'Brotherhood was here,' that sort of thing. Or possibly something more subtle that requires advanced mathematics to decode properly."

His slight smile suggested he was already looking forward to reading the scientific papers that would inevitably be published about his work, probably with titles like "Impossible Seismic Patterns: A Study in Applied Geological Anomalies" and "When the Earth Speaks: Decoding Messages in Tectonic Activity."

Mystique's smile—even filtered through her perfectly ordinary new face—said everything that needed to be said about their chances of success, the entertainment value of watching New York's emergency services try to cope with simultaneous crises across five boroughs, and her complete confidence that her team of teenage chaos agents could pull off something that would be discussed in tactical analysis courses for the next twenty years.

The Brotherhood was officially in motion: five teenagers with apocalyptic powers, a carefully crafted plan designed to cause just enough trouble to change the world, and absolutely no adult supervision worth mentioning.

New York City had absolutely no idea what was about to hit it, but it was definitely going to be spectacular, precisely orchestrated, and probably visible from space.

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

The X-Mansion's state-of-the-art monitoring system—a technological marvel that made NASA's mission control look like a child's walkie-talkie set—suddenly erupted into a symphony of alerts, warnings, and electronic protests that would have made a smoke detector jealous. Every screen in Professor Xavier's office blazed to life simultaneously, displaying emergency feeds from across New York City with the kind of coordinated precision that suggested either the most spectacular series of coincidences in recorded history or someone with a very sophisticated understanding of urban chaos theory.

Hank McCoy materialized in the doorway with the kind of barely controlled academic panic that came from watching his carefully calibrated monitoring systems register impossible readings across seventeen different sensors. His blue fur was practically standing on end, and his usually precise diction had deteriorated into the kind of rapid-fire technical jargon that only emerged when reality decided to ignore several fundamental laws of physics simultaneously.

"Charles," he said, his cultured voice carrying that particular tone of scientific bewilderment mixed with professional concern, each syllable precisely enunciated despite the crisis, "we have what can only be described as a most extraordinary situation. Multiple situations, in fact. Seventeen distinct emergency scenarios, to be absolutely precise, all occurring simultaneously across five boroughs in patterns that suggest either coordinated terrorist action of remarkable sophistication, or the fundamental laws of probability having what I can only characterize as a complete nervous breakdown of statistical significance."

Xavier's wheelchair spun toward the displays with mechanical precision, his keen eyes—sharp as a blade despite his years—immediately cataloguing the cascade of emergency reports flowing across the screens like digital waterfalls of urban catastrophe. The weight of command settled across his shoulders like a familiar coat.

"Show me everything, old friend," he said, his voice carrying that unique combination of authority and compassion that had guided the X-Men through countless crises. "Leave nothing out."

The largest monitor displayed a real-time map of New York City that looked like it had been designed by someone with a doctorate in Applied Disaster Theory and a minor in Artistic Chaos. Red warning indicators pulsed across Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx like a heartbeat made of pure crisis, each one representing an emergency that should have been statistically impossible to occur simultaneously.

"Good Lord," Hank muttered, his massive fingers dancing across holographic interfaces with the delicate precision of a concert pianist performing surgery. "Gas main explosions in Brooklyn—three separate locations, all following identical patterns that don't match any known industrial accident profiles in my extensive database. The precision is... well, it's rather artistic, actually, if one can appreciate the technical sophistication required for such coordinated urban disruption."

The display zoomed in on Manhattan, where additional alerts bloomed like digital flowers of catastrophe. "Furthermore, we have high-value thefts across the financial district—jewelry stores, art galleries, banks—all reporting items missing with absolutely no signs of forced entry, no triggered security systems, and witnesses describing what they term 'silver blurs' that moved far too quickly for human perception to track with any meaningful accuracy."

Harry stepped forward, his aristocratic features settling into an expression of amused recognition that would have made his Slytherin classmates proud. The enhanced awareness granted by his cosmic transformation allowed him to see patterns that others might miss—patterns that spoke of professional criminal enterprise on a scale that was both impressive and deeply insulting to anyone with actual standards.

"Oh, how delightfully pedestrian," he drawled, his voice carrying that particular brand of upper-class British disdain that could freeze champagne at fifty paces. "Someone's coordinated a proper distraction operation. Seventeen simultaneous crises, each one carefully calibrated to stretch emergency response capabilities beyond their operational limits while creating enough chaos to mask whatever they're actually after." 

He turned to regard the assembled X-Men with the kind of smile that had once convinced a basilisk to stare directly into a mirror. "Rather like setting seventeen small fires in a theater to ensure no one notices you've made off with the crown jewels. Effective, if somewhat lacking in imagination."

Jean Grey moved beside him with that fluid grace that seemed to make the air itself pay attention, her auburn hair catching the light from the displays in ways that suggested she existed in a state of perpetual readiness for action. Her green eyes—intelligent, determined, and carrying depths that spoke of power carefully controlled—fixed on the tactical displays with professional assessment.

"The coordination required for this level of simultaneous operation suggests either a very large organization or individuals with supernatural abilities," she observed, her voice carrying that unique combination of warmth and steel that made her such an effective leader. "But Harry's right about the distraction element—this is too elaborate, too precisely timed to be random criminal activity."

Storm glided into the room with the kind of serene confidence that came from someone who could summon hurricanes with the same casual ease that others might whistle for a taxi. Her white hair moved in nonexistent breezes, and her dark eyes held the calm intensity of gathering storm clouds preparing to demonstrate why weather was the planet's most powerful natural force.

"The atmospheric disturbances accompanying these events are... unusual," she said, her voice carrying traces of the accent that spoke of African skies and winds that had traveled continents to reach her. "Pressure changes that don't match natural weather patterns, electromagnetic fluctuations that suggest artificial weather manipulation. Someone is using abilities similar to mine, but with less... finesse."

"And the fires?" Xavier asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer would be both impressive and deeply concerning.

Hank pulled up footage that showed flames dancing in patterns that belonged in art galleries rather than arson investigations. "Seventeen controlled burns throughout Manhattan and the Bronx, each one precisely contained, artistically arranged, and burning at temperatures that create light shows visible from orbit while somehow managing to cause minimal actual property damage. It's really quite remarkable from a thermodynamic perspective, though deeply troubling from a public safety standpoint."

Harry examined the footage with the kind of critical assessment that spoke of someone who'd survived more than his fair share of creative attempts at property destruction. His enhanced senses could detect nuances in the flame patterns that suggested professional pyrokinetic abilities being used with theatrical flair rather than genuine destructive intent.

"Professional distraction operation," he confirmed, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent years analyzing coordinated attacks by individuals with supernatural abilities and questionable moral standards. "Multiple simultaneous crises designed to overwhelm response capabilities while the real objective proceeds unmolested. Classic misdirection—give them more problems than they can solve simultaneously."

Sirius stepped into the room with that particular combination of casual confidence and predatory alertness that came from years of navigating political intrigue, criminal enterprises, and family dynamics that made international espionage look like afternoon tea. His dark hair was perfectly styled despite the developing crisis, and his grey eyes held the sharp intelligence of someone who'd learned to recognize dangerous patterns developing.

"The question, dear godson," Sirius said with that trademark grin that had once charmed half the witches in London and thoroughly scandalized the other half, "is what our mysterious coordinators are actually after. Because seventeen simultaneous emergencies across five boroughs represents the kind of resource investment that suggests either governmental backing or someone with access to supernatural abilities and a very specific objective."

His expression grew more serious, taking on the weight of someone who'd spent considerable time studying both criminal psychology and tactical planning from multiple perspectives. "This level of coordination requires either extensive advance planning or real-time tactical coordination that suggests military-grade intelligence capabilities."

Xavier's expression shifted from concern to something approaching grim certainty as the implications crystallized with the clarity that came from decades of experience dealing with threats that operated beyond conventional understanding.

"They're after Harry," he said, the words carrying weight that made everyone in the room straighten with sudden alertness. "The timing is far too convenient to be coincidental."

The statement hung in the air like smoke from a fire that was definitely about to get much larger, while the monitoring systems continued their electronic symphony of urban catastrophe with the persistent enthusiasm of machines that had never learned the virtue of quiet desperation.

"Our new resident with Omega-level cosmic enhancement capabilities arrives," Xavier continued, his voice taking on that particular tone of someone connecting dots that formed an extremely unpleasant picture, "and less than twenty-four hours later, New York experiences the most coordinated series of supernatural emergencies in recorded history. Either we're dealing with coincidence on a scale that would make statisticians require extensive therapy, or someone is very interested in ensuring our attention is focused elsewhere while they conduct private business."

Harry's eyebrows rose with aristocratic amusement, his expression settling into the kind of politely dangerous smile that had once made Voldemort reconsider his life choices. "How flattering. I do so enjoy being the center of attention, though I must say their approach lacks a certain... subtlety. Seventeen emergencies to distract from one conversation? Rather like using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut, wouldn't you say?"

Logan chose that moment to stride into the office with the kind of focused alertness that suggested his enhanced senses had been picking up concerning information from multiple sources. His hazel eyes held that particular intensity that came from someone who'd learned to trust his instincts in situations where conventional wisdom got people killed, and his Canadian accent carried just a hint of the kind of professional concern that made smart people start looking for exits.

"Got a problem, Chuck," he announced with characteristic directness, his gravelly voice cutting through the electronic chaos like a hot knife through butter. "Perimeter sensors are detecting someone approaching the grounds—single individual, moving real careful-like, trying to avoid the main security systems but not quite managing to fool enhanced senses and motion detectors that were calibrated specifically for supernatural intrusion attempts."

His nostrils flared as he tested the air, yellow eyes sharpening with that predatory awareness that suggested someone was about to have a very educational experience about why approaching the X-Mansion uninvited was generally considered poor form.

"Scent profile suggests shapeshifter," he continued, his tone growing grimmer. "Too many different pheromone signatures layered together, like someone wearing a dozen different people's cologne simultaneously. Professional grade masking, but not quite good enough to fool someone with actually enhanced olfactory capabilities."

Scott Summers entered behind Logan with that particular brand of tactical precision that came from someone who'd learned to coordinate superhero operations while managing responsibilities that would make military commanders develop stress-related medical conditions. His dark hair was perfectly styled despite the developing crisis, and his ruby quartz glasses reflected the monitor displays in ways that suggested he was already calculating optimal response protocols.

"Mystique," he said immediately, the name carrying weight that made everyone in the room straighten with sudden alertness. His voice held that combination of professional respect and personal wariness that came from experience dealing with individuals whose abilities made them extremely dangerous in close quarters. "Blue skin, yellow eyes, shapeshifting abilities that allow her to impersonate anyone with perfect physical accuracy, and a documented history of infiltration operations targeting individuals with extraordinary abilities."

Logan nodded grimly, his expression settling into the kind of professional assessment that suggested he was already calculating tactical responses to multiple potential scenarios. "Brotherhood of Mutants. Magneto's personal intelligence operative and easily one of the most dangerous infiltration specialists on the planet. If she's here, it means they've identified our boy Harry as either a potential recruitment target or a threat that requires immediate assessment."

Bobby Drake materialized in the doorway with that particular combination of youthful energy and ice-cold precision that came from someone who'd learned to generate sub-zero temperatures while maintaining the kind of enthusiasm that made federal oversight committees nervous about proper superhero training protocols. His ice-blue eyes sparkled with interest despite the developing crisis, and his perfectly tousled blond hair somehow managed to look casually elegant even in the middle of a tactical briefing.

"Wait, wait, wait," he said, his voice carrying that unique blend of academic curiosity and barely contained excitement that suggested he was about to ask questions that would make everyone's day significantly more complicated. "Are we talking about the Mystique? The legendary shapeshifter who once impersonated a sitting U.S. Senator for six months without anyone noticing? The same Mystique who allegedly seduced three different heads of state while gathering intelligence for operations that are still classified?"

His grin was bright enough to power several city blocks while somehow managing to convey both genuine admiration and professional concern. "Because if we are, then this is either going to be the most sophisticated intelligence operation in X-Men history or the most educational afternoon any of us have had since Professor Xavier decided to start accepting students with cosmic-level enhancement capabilities."

Xavier's hands moved to the wheels of his chair with decisive precision, his expression settling into that combination of tactical awareness and paternal concern that had guided the X-Men through situations that regularly defied both conventional wisdom and several fundamental laws of physics.

"Logan, how much time do we have before she reaches the mansion?"

"Ten minutes, maybe fifteen if she maintains her current approach pattern," Logan replied, already shifting into the kind of tactical mode that had kept him alive through conflicts spanning multiple centuries. "She's being professional about it—careful, methodical, probably has extraction protocols planned if this goes sideways. But Charles..."

He paused, his expression carrying the weight of information that was about to complicate everyone's day significantly while potentially endangering civilian lives across multiple boroughs.

"Those emergency calls across the city? They're legitimate. Real people in actual danger, buildings genuinely on fire, and the NYPD is requesting superhero assistance through official channels. We can't just ignore seventeen actual crises to protect one kid, no matter how cosmically enhanced he happens to be. That's not what we do."

The office fell silent except for the continued electronic protests of monitoring systems that were having difficulty processing the scope of coordinated chaos developing across New York City. It was the kind of silence that preceded either brilliant strategic decisions or spectacular disasters, and everyone present understood that the next few minutes would determine which category their response fell into.

Harry regarded the assembled group with that particular expression of aristocratic amusement that suggested he was about to propose something that would either demonstrate tactical brilliance or spectacular recklessness, depending on one's perspective regarding appropriate responses to professional espionage operations.

"Right then," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive combination of upper-class British confidence and dangerous competence that had once convinced a dragon to let him ride it into battle. "I believe I have a rather elegant solution to our tactical dilemma."

His green eyes blazed with inner fire that suggested the Phoenix enhancement had included significant improvements to his strategic thinking capabilities along with his raw power levels. "Instead of scurrying about like mice trying to address seventeen different crises while hoping our uninvited guest doesn't notice we're desperately understaffed, why don't we take control of the situation entirely?"

Sirius straightened with sudden interest, his grey eyes sharpening with recognition of a pattern he'd seen before. "You're planning something magnificently reckless, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as 'strategically audacious,'" Harry replied with that particular smile that had once convinced the Sorting Hat that Slytherin might not be entirely inappropriate after all. "But yes, I'm suggesting we invite Mystique in for tea and a proper conversation."

The silence that greeted this suggestion was profound enough to perform surgery without anesthesia.

"Kid," Logan said slowly, his tone suggesting he was rapidly recalculating his assessment of Harry Potter's sanity levels and coming up with numbers that were both impressive and deeply concerning, "are you actually suggesting we voluntarily sit down for a friendly chat with one of the most dangerous intelligence operatives on the planet while her team systematically terrorizes New York City?"

"Oh, I'm suggesting considerably more than that," Harry replied with the kind of calm confidence that belonged to someone who'd survived worse odds through careful planning and strategic audacity. "I'm proposing we transform this entire operation from a crisis response into a counter-intelligence opportunity."

His armor began to flow across his skin like liquid starlight, each scale catching the office lighting and transforming it into something that belonged in fairy tales rather than tactical briefings. The transformation was utterly mesmerizing—watching reality bend around him as cosmic forces reshaped mundane physics into something considerably more impressive.

"Think about it logically," he continued, his voice taking on undertones of power that made the air itself seem to pay attention. "Mystique is here to gather intelligence about Harry Potter—my abilities, psychological profile, potential vulnerabilities, and possible recruitment prospects. The most efficient approach would be to ask me directly rather than conducting elaborate espionage operations that endanger innocent civilians."

Jean stepped forward with that fluid grace that suggested she was already calculating the tactical implications while simultaneously preparing for the possibility that this conversation would become considerably more energetic than anyone planned.

"You want to turn her intelligence gathering operation into a recruitment pitch," she observed, her voice carrying that unique combination of admiration and professional concern that came from recognizing both tactical brilliance and spectacular risk-taking. "Feed her information that leads to incorrect conclusions about your capabilities while learning everything she's willing to reveal about the Brotherhood's assessment of the situation."

"Precisely," Harry confirmed, his smile taking on that particularly dangerous quality that had once convinced a basilisk to look directly into a pair of reflected eyes. "Information warfare conducted over afternoon tea. Very civilized, completely deniable, and considerably safer than letting her conduct unsupervised reconnaissance while we're scattered across five boroughs handling emergency responses that may or may not be entirely legitimate."

Storm moved beside Jean with that serene confidence that came from someone who controlled forces of nature with the same casual ease that others might adjust thermostats. Her dark eyes held the calm intensity of gathering storm systems preparing to demonstrate why weather was not something to be taken lightly.

"The atmospheric disturbances accompanying these emergencies could be maintained or dispersed at will," she observed thoughtfully, her accent adding musical notes to tactical assessment. "If these are artificial weather manipulations designed for distraction purposes, they can be countered without endangering civilian populations."

Hank's massive form shifted with academic excitement that suggested he was beginning to appreciate the intellectual elegance of the proposed solution. His blue fur practically vibrated with scholarly enthusiasm as he processed the tactical implications.

"The mathematical precision required for seventeen simultaneous coordinated events suggests either extensive advance planning or real-time coordination capabilities," he mused, his cultured voice carrying undertones of professional admiration despite the circumstances. "But if the coordination is being maintained through supernatural means rather than technological, then disrupting the primary operator could theoretically cascade through the entire operation, resolving all seventeen crises simultaneously."

Bobby's grin was bright enough to power entire cities while somehow managing to convey both genuine excitement and the kind of professional respect that came from recognizing tactical brilliance when he encountered it.

"So instead of playing defense against a coordinated attack designed to overwhelm our capabilities," he said, his voice carrying that unique blend of academic analysis and barely contained enthusiasm, "we're going to flip the entire operation and put them on the defensive by forcing them to respond to our initiatives rather than pursuing their original objectives."

"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his wings beginning to unfurl with magnificent precision that filled the office with warm, living light. The display was utterly spectacular—watching cosmic forces made manifest through someone who'd been personally enhanced by entities that existed beyond normal understanding of power, mortality, and appropriate responses to professional espionage operations.

"Besides," he added with that particular brand of aristocratic confidence that suggested he'd already calculated several moves ahead, "I'm genuinely curious about what the Brotherhood thinks they can offer me that Professor Xavier's school cannot. It should be an educational conversation for everyone involved."

Xavier was quiet for a long moment, his telepathic abilities undoubtedly processing implications and calculating probabilities at superhuman speed. His keen eyes held depths that spoke of decades spent making impossible decisions under circumstances that regularly challenged both conventional wisdom and basic assumptions about what was possible when dealing with individuals whose capabilities transcended normal human limitations.

Finally, his expression settled into something that might have been either brilliant strategic thinking or the kind of calculated risk-taking that made government oversight committees develop stress-related medical conditions requiring extensive therapy and possibly early retirement.

"It's audacious," he said carefully, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd learned to recognize both tactical brilliance and magnificent insanity when they occupied the same strategic proposal. "Potentially brilliant, almost certainly the most dangerous conversation any of us will have this year, and quite possibly the most sophisticated counter-intelligence operation the X-Men have ever attempted."

He paused, considering factors that involved cosmic-level abilities, professional shapeshifters, teenage psychology that had been forged in circumstances most adults couldn't survive, and the kind of tactical complexity that made military strategists require prescription medication for stress-related medical conditions.

"Yes," he decided with that combination of authority and paternal pride that had guided countless young mutants through situations that challenged both their abilities and their understanding of what it meant to be heroic. "We'll try it your way, Harry. But with modifications designed to ensure everyone survives this educational experience."

His keen eyes swept over the assembled group, already calculating optimal positioning and contingency protocols for a situation that existed somewhere beyond the normal boundaries of tactical planning and diplomatic protocol.

"Scott, Logan—Manhattan fires and theft operations," he decided with decisive authority. "Your precision optics and combat experience should be sufficient to handle speed-based criminals and artistic arsonists without excessive property damage or international incidents."

Scott straightened with that particular brand of focused attention that came from years of tactical training and leadership responsibility under circumstances that regularly defied both military doctrine and basic assumptions about appropriate superhero response protocols.

"Understood, Professor," he replied, his voice carrying that unique combination of professional competence and carefully controlled concern. "Rules of engagement for dealing with potentially supernatural criminals conducting coordinated distraction operations?"

"Minimum force necessary to neutralize threats and protect civilians," Xavier replied smoothly, his tone carrying decades of experience dealing with situations that required both tactical precision and diplomatic sensitivity. "These appear to be professional criminals rather than genocidal terrorists. Contain and capture if possible, but prioritize civilian safety over property concerns or intelligence gathering opportunities."

Logan's expression settled into the kind of grim satisfaction that came from finally having clear tactical objectives in a situation that had been rapidly approaching the boundaries of his patience for elaborate strategic complications.

"Got it, Chuck," he said with characteristic directness. "Keep the pretty boy from getting too creative with the laser vision, neutralize the speed demons, and make sure nobody's grandmother gets caught in the crossfire while we're demonstrating why professional criminals should consider alternative career paths."

Scott's expression suggested he was about to object to being characterized as a 'pretty boy,' then apparently decided that tactical coordination took precedence over defending his masculinity against Logan's commentary.

"Jean, Storm—Brooklyn gas emergencies and Queens seismic problems," Xavier continued, his tactical planning shifting into high gear with the kind of precision that came from decades of coordinating complex operations under impossible circumstances. "Your telekinetic abilities and weather control should be ideal for managing industrial accidents and geological instabilities without requiring extensive structural engineering or federal emergency assistance."

Storm nodded with that serene confidence that came from someone who'd learned to coordinate natural forces with the same precision that others might use to conduct symphony orchestras, assuming symphony orchestras regularly involved controlling atmospheric pressure changes and electromagnetic field fluctuations across multiple boroughs simultaneously.

"The weather patterns will help contain any gas dispersal while Jean handles the heavier structural stabilization requirements," she agreed, her voice carrying that musical accent that somehow made tactical planning sound like poetry. "We can coordinate atmospheric pressure changes with telekinetic support to prevent cascade failures and secondary explosions."

Jean's expression settled into that combination of professional competence and carefully controlled power that suggested she was already calculating the precise application of telekinetic forces required to prevent industrial accidents from becoming geological disasters requiring federal intervention and extensive paperwork.

"Understood," she confirmed, her voice carrying undertones of cosmic forces carefully held in check. "Prioritize civilian safety, minimize property damage, and try not to let anyone realize that we're dealing with artificial emergencies designed for tactical distraction rather than genuine natural disasters."

"Hank, Bobby—monitoring, coordination, and rapid response backup," Xavier decided, turning to address the remaining team members. "Your analytical capabilities and ice generation abilities will be valuable for unexpected complications, communication coordination, and providing tactical support if our diplomatic approach to intelligence gathering becomes more energetic than anticipated."

Hank straightened with obvious scholarly excitement that suggested he was already calculating the intellectual challenge of coordinating multiple simultaneous operations while monitoring a counter-intelligence conversation that existed somewhere beyond the normal boundaries of diplomatic protocol.

"Understood, Charles," he replied, his cultured voice practically vibrating with academic enthusiasm. "Monitor all tactical situations, maintain communication protocols, coordinate with emergency services, and prepare for the possibility that our afternoon tea with a legendary shapeshifter may require immediate backup support and possibly extensive damage control."

Bobby's grin suggested he was genuinely excited about being included in what was shaping up to be either the most sophisticated tactical operation in X-Men history or a spectacular disaster that would require extensive explanation to federal oversight committees and possibly international diplomatic services.

"What about field names?" he asked suddenly, his ice-blue eyes brightening with genuine curiosity despite the developing crisis. "I mean, if we're doing this professionally with legendary intelligence operatives and coordinated urban emergencies, shouldn't we establish proper tactical identification protocols? I'm Iceman, obviously. Jean's Phoenix. Storm's Storm. Logan's Wolverine. Scott's Cyclops."

He paused, his expression taking on that particular blend of curiosity and anticipation that suggested he'd been looking forward to this specific conversation since Harry had first demonstrated his cosmic enhancements in ways that defied several fundamental laws of physics.

"But what do we call you? Because 'Harry' doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of professional criminals and international terrorists. No offense intended, but tactical psychology suggests that field names should convey both capability and appropriate levels of professional concern for anyone considering hostile action."

Harry's armor completed its transformation with spectacular precision, leaving him standing like some ancient god of war who'd decided to pay a social call to mortals who needed reminding about proper respect for cosmic forces. His wings unfurled with magnificent grace, filling the office with warm, living light that made everyone present understand they were witnessing something that existed beyond normal boundaries of reality, tactical planning, and appropriate responses to afternoon social calls.

When he spoke, his voice carried the resonance of forces that had reshaped him from the ground up, transforming a teenage wizard into something considerably more dangerous, infinitely more magnificent, and absolutely determined to demonstrate why underestimating Harry Potter had always been a tactical error of the highest magnitude.

"Dragon-Born," he said simply, and the words seemed to hang in the air like smoke from fires that burned hotter than stars and carried implications that made reality itself pay attention. "That's what Death called me when she and the Phoenix Force finished their work. That's what I am now—not entirely human, not entirely dragon, but something new that carries the best qualities of both while transcending the limitations of either."

His green eyes blazed with inner fire that suggested cosmic enhancement had included improvements to his strategic thinking capabilities along with power levels that could reshape continental geography according to his whims and philosophical preferences.

"It seemed appropriately descriptive," he continued with that particular brand of understated British confidence that could freeze champagne at fifty paces while somehow managing to convey both warmth and the kind of friendly menace that suggested crossing him would be unwise and potentially hazardous to local architecture. "After all, one should be honest in one's professional presentations, don't you think?"

The monitoring systems' electronic protests seemed to fade into background noise as everyone present absorbed the implications of a field name that suggested power levels that could reshape geological features and philosophical frameworks that operated beyond conventional understanding of heroism, villainy, and appropriate responses to individuals whose capabilities transcended normal boundaries of what was possible when cosmic forces decided to take personal interest in teenage character development.

"Dragon-Born," Bobby repeated slowly, his voice carrying that mixture of awe, professional appreciation, and barely contained excitement that suggested he was already calculating the tactical psychology implications. "That's... that's actually perfect. Intimidating enough to make enemies reconsider their life choices, mysterious enough to keep them guessing about your actual capabilities, and magnificent enough to make government file clerks nervous about what kind of paperwork they're supposed to fill out when cosmic forces start taking field names and conducting diplomatic negotiations with legendary intelligence operatives."

Sirius stepped forward with that combination of paternal pride and amused recognition that came from watching his godson demonstrate exactly why the Black family had always produced individuals who made conventional society nervous about appropriate responses to complex social situations.

"Right then, Dragon-Born," he said, his voice carrying that particular blend of affection and professional respect that suggested he was genuinely proud of watching Harry transform from a traumatized teenager into something that existed beyond normal categories of power, responsibility, and tactical capability. "Let's go have tea with one of the most dangerous women on the planet and see what the Brotherhood of Mutants thinks they can teach Harry Potter about power, moral flexibility, and career advancement opportunities that don't involve federal oversight committees."

Logan's expression suggested he was torn between professional admiration for the tactical audacity and genuine concern about the potential consequences of conducting diplomatic negotiations with individuals whose capabilities included perfect impersonation, extensive criminal experience, and personal loyalty to someone who could manipulate magnetic fields with enough precision to disassemble nuclear weapons while having a casual conversation.

"Kid—Dragon-Born," he corrected himself with that particular tone that suggested he was rapidly adjusting his assessment of Harry Potter's tactical capabilities and coming up with numbers that were both impressive and slightly terrifying, "you realize that if this goes sideways, we're going to be explaining to federal oversight committees how an afternoon tea conversation with a legendary shapeshifter turned into an international incident requiring extensive damage control and possibly diplomatic intervention?"

Harry's smile was brilliant enough to power entire cities while somehow managing to convey both warmth and the kind of confident competence that suggested he'd already calculated several moves ahead and found them all equally entertaining.

"Logan," he replied with that distinctive combination of aristocratic confidence and dangerous capability that had once convinced Voldemort to reconsider his strategic priorities, "I've been having conversations that required diplomatic intervention since I was eleven years old. Trust me when I say that afternoon tea with a professional shapeshifter is considerably less complicated than explaining to the Minister of Magic why the Hogwarts Express needed extensive repairs after an encounter with flying Ford Anglia and a very irritated Whomping Willow."

The X-Men deployment continued around them, but now with a different energy—less desperate response to coordinated crisis, more coordinated tactical operation designed to demonstrate exactly why the Xavier Institute produced graduates who could handle situations that would make federal emergency management agencies require extensive therapy, prescription medication, and possibly early retirement with full psychological benefits.

As Scott and Logan headed for the equipment lockers with practiced efficiency, and Storm and Jean began coordinating flight patterns that would get them to their assigned crisis zones in minimum time, Harry Potter—now officially Dragon-Born—settled in to wait for a conversation that would either establish his reputation as a tactical genius capable of conducting counter-intelligence operations while having afternoon tea, or demonstrate that cosmic enhancement didn't automatically come with improved diplomatic capabilities when dealing with legendary criminals who specialized in impersonation and information gathering.

Either way, it was definitely going to be memorable.

And in the distance, monitoring systems continued tracking seventeen simultaneous emergencies across New York City while a professional shapeshifter approached the Xavier Institute with careful stealth, completely unaware that her infiltration operation had just been transformed into an afternoon social call with someone who'd been personally enhanced by entities that existed beyond normal understanding of power, mortality, and the appropriate response to uninvited guests who specialized in professional espionage and tactical misdirection.

This was either going to be the most sophisticated intelligence operation in Brotherhood history, the most educational conversation Mystique had ever experienced, or a spectacular demonstration of why underestimating Harry Potter—Dragon-Born—had always been a mistake of the highest tactical magnitude.

Quite possibly all three simultaneously.

Chapter Text

The Xavier Institute's front doors were masterpieces of architectural intimidation—heavy oak panels reinforced with steel that could probably stop a small artillery barrage, set within a frame that suggested the person who'd commissioned them believed that education should take place behind barriers that could withstand both teenage rebellion and the occasional supervillain with property damage issues. Brass fixtures gleamed with the kind of militant polish that spoke to maintenance staff who took their duties very seriously indeed.

When the doorbell chimed with Westminster Cathedral precision through the mansion's corridors, it found Harry Potter in the entrance hall, having shed his cosmic armor in favor of perfectly ordinary clothes that somehow managed to make him look like he'd stepped off a magazine cover despite their mundane origins. 

At six-foot-two with shoulders that belonged in architectural textbooks, Harry possessed the kind of bone structure that made the Greek gods weep with professional inadequacy. His jaw could have been used as a blueprint for heroic statuary, while his emerald eyes held depths that suggested intelligence sharpened by experiences most people couldn't survive with their sanity intact. Dark hair that defied every attempt at proper styling fell in waves that suggested he'd been personally attended to by stylists who specialized in making "effortlessly perfect" look actually effortless.

The Phoenix enhancement hadn't just improved his abilities—it had transformed him into something that belonged on movie posters advertising the concept of masculine perfection, assuming those posters came with warning labels about potential cardiac episodes in susceptible viewers.

He'd been expecting this particular visitor for exactly thirteen minutes—long enough for his enhanced senses to track her approach through the grounds while she navigated security systems with professional competence and just enough caution to suggest respect for Xavier's defensive capabilities without actual fear of discovery.

The woman who stood on the mansion's threshold when Harry opened the door was a masterpiece of calculated perfection that would have made suburban casting directors weep with joy. Mid-forties with the kind of polished attractiveness that suggested she'd been personally designed by committee to embody "Trustworthy Authority Figure" while maintaining just enough approachable warmth to make people want to confide their deepest secrets.

Her blonde hair was styled with that particular brand of conservative elegance that spoke to expensive salon appointments and professionals who understood that "natural-looking" actually required considerable artificial assistance. The business suit was perfectly tailored—charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes that suggested serious financial success without threatening anyone's masculinity—while her makeup had been applied with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker who specialized in making perfection look effortless.

She radiated the kind of maternal competence that made parents automatically trust her with their children's futures, school administrators defer to her obvious expertise, and insurance salesmen start calculating premium adjustments based on her obvious respectability and sound judgment.

She was also, quite obviously to anyone with enhanced senses, completely and utterly not human.

The scent was wrong—too many different pheromone signatures layered together like a perfume counter that had exploded in a department store dedicated to identity crisis management. Her heartbeat carried subtle irregularities that suggested cardiovascular systems rebuilt by someone who understood anatomy better than evolution. Most telling of all, her pupils dilated and contracted in response to light changes with mechanical precision rather than biological reflexes.

To anyone without supernatural perception enhancement, she would have appeared as the platonic ideal of concerned parenthood. To Harry Potter, she was as obviously artificial as a neon sign advertising "Professional Shapeshifter Here for Intelligence Gathering Operations—Inquire Within."

"Good afternoon," she said with that particular blend of maternal authority and professional warmth that suggested someone who'd spent considerable time perfecting the art of being instantly trustworthy while maintaining just enough edge to remind people she wasn't someone to be trifled with. Her voice carried the kind of confident competence that could convince school boards to approve questionable budget allocations while making them feel grateful for her guidance.

Think Julie Bowen delivering a parent-teacher conference presentation, but with the underlying steel of someone who absolutely would not be accepting "no" as a final answer and the kind of smile that suggested she'd eaten lesser authority figures for breakfast and found them disappointingly lacking in proper seasoning.

"I'm Margaret Richardson. I believe I called earlier about scheduling a tour for my daughter? She's been having some rather... unique experiences lately, and I was hoping to speak with Professor Xavier about enrollment possibilities." Her smile was calibrated with Swiss precision—exactly the right blend of parental hope, cautious optimism, and just enough vulnerability to make any reasonable person want to help her while feeling slightly protective of her obvious investment in her child's welfare.

Harry's own smile was equally perfect, but carried that particular quality of masculine confidence that suggested he was genuinely delighted to meet her while being completely comfortable with the fact that his presence tended to make intelligent women temporarily forget how to form coherent sentences.

"Mrs. Richardson," he replied with that distinctive combination of upper-class British courtesy and genuine warmth that could convince heads of state to reconsider their foreign policy while making them feel personally complimented by his attention. His voice carried undertones that suggested vocal cords enhanced by cosmic forces—creating resonances that were simultaneously soothing and subtly commanding, like listening to expensive whiskey if it could speak and had attended Oxford.

"How absolutely delightful to meet you. I'm Harry Potter—I'm one of the more recent additions to our little academic community here at the Institute. Please, do come in. The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you."

He stepped aside with fluid grace that suggested either extensive etiquette training or physical capabilities that transcended normal human coordination limitations, gesturing her into the mansion's impressive entrance hall with movement that was pure masculine elegance wrapped in perfect manners.

"I'm afraid Professor Xavier is currently attending to what one might diplomatically describe as rather urgent business throughout the city," he continued smoothly, his tone carrying just the right note of apologetic concern while his emerald eyes held depths that suggested he was perfectly aware of exactly what that "urgent business" actually entailed and found it rather amusing.

"Several of our esteemed faculty members are dealing with emergency situations that required their immediate attention. You know how it is in New York—always some crisis or another that needs people with rather specialized capabilities to resolve matters that make ordinary emergency services require extensive therapy and possibly career counseling."

His smile widened with just a hint of something that might have been wickedly knowing amusement. "Though between you and me, I suspect today's particular emergencies are proving rather more... educational than our faculty initially anticipated."

Mystique's perfectly ordinary brown eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly as she processed this information, while her maternal smile never wavered from its calculated perfection. The timing was either remarkably coincidental or suggested that her carefully coordinated distraction operation was proceeding exactly as planned—though something in this young man's tone suggested he might be considerably more informed about current events than his casual demeanor indicated.

"Oh my goodness," she said with exactly the right blend of concern and understanding, her voice taking on that particular tone of maternal worry that could convince school administrators to implement safety protocols while making them feel personally responsible for protecting her obvious investment in proper educational standards.

"I do hope everyone remains safe during these... challenging situations. These days, with all the unusual events happening throughout the city, well, one simply can't be too careful about these things, can one? Especially when dealing with young people who have such extraordinary potential."

She paused in the entrance hall, taking in architectural details with the kind of appreciative attention that managed to seem both genuinely impressed and professionally thorough. Her gaze lingered on various features—reinforced structural elements disguised as decorative choices, subtle security camera placements that suggested surveillance capabilities extending well beyond normal institutional requirements, artwork that probably concealed monitoring equipment sophisticated enough to make federal agencies jealous.

"The mansion is absolutely breathtaking," she continued with perfectly calibrated maternal enthusiasm, her voice carrying that blend of appreciation and careful assessment that suggested someone evaluating whether this environment would provide appropriate opportunities for her precious daughter's development.

"The architecture alone suggests an institution with truly serious commitment to providing students with genuinely inspiring educational environments. The historical significance, the obvious attention to both aesthetic beauty and practical functionality—my Sarah would be absolutely enchanted by the academic prestige and intellectual atmosphere."

Harry's smile widened with the kind of genuine warmth that made his emerald eyes practically luminescent, while something in his expression suggested he was finding this conversation considerably more entertaining than most educational consultations typically provided.

"Professor Xavier has certainly created something rather extraordinary here," he agreed, his voice carrying genuine appreciation while maintaining that undertone of aristocratic confidence that suggested he was perfectly comfortable being the center of attention in any room he entered, whether that room contained suburban parents, heads of state, or legendary shapeshifters conducting intelligence operations disguised as educational inquiry.

"Though I must say, Mrs. Richardson, the real magic of this place lies not in the architecture—impressive as it undoubtedly is—but in the remarkable people who've chosen to make it their home. The faculty, the students, even the occasional unexpected visitor... everyone brings something quite unique to our little academic community."

He began walking toward the sitting room with that casual confidence that suggested he owned every space he occupied, his movement pure controlled power wrapped in effortless elegance. Every step was economical and precisely measured, like watching a master swordsman demonstrate proper form while making it look like casual stroll.

"The grounds are quite extensive, as you might imagine," he continued conversationally, his tone carrying that particular brand of British enthusiasm that could make even mundane subjects sound absolutely fascinating while somehow managing to convey multiple layers of meaning that required careful consideration to fully appreciate.

"We have laboratories that would make university research departments weep with inadequacy, training facilities specifically designed to accommodate students with rather... energetic capabilities, library resources that rival the combined collections of Cambridge and Oxford, and recreational areas thoughtfully planned to help students develop both individual talents and the sort of teamwork skills that prove invaluable when handling situations requiring coordinated supernatural responses."

He paused at the sitting room entrance, turning to regard her with that devastating smile that could stop traffic in major metropolitan areas while causing minor diplomatic incidents.

"Though I suspect you're rather more interested in our educational philosophy than our architectural amenities, aren't you, Mrs. Richardson? After all, any parent considering enrollment at an institution like ours presumably has questions that extend considerably beyond standard academic concerns."

Mystique followed with perfect maternal interest, her professional attention cataloguing every detail while maintaining the kind of impressed curiosity that suggested someone genuinely excited about discovering educational opportunities that could properly serve her gifted child's unique requirements.

"You're absolutely perceptive, Harry," she replied with that combination of maternal appreciation and pleased surprise that suggested someone delighted to encounter a young person with such obvious intelligence and social sophistication. "Most teenagers I meet are so focused on their immediate concerns that they don't demonstrate this level of awareness about adult motivations and complex decision-making processes."

Her voice took on that particular tone of someone recognizing exceptional potential while maintaining appropriate boundaries. "Sarah has been struggling to find educational environments that can accommodate not just her academic capabilities, but the rather more... complex challenges that come with having abilities that extend beyond normal parameters. Traditional institutions simply aren't equipped to provide the kind of guidance and support that extraordinary young people require."

They settled into the sitting room—a space that managed to be simultaneously elegant and comfortable, furnished with pieces that suggested both historical significance and practical durability for institutional use by individuals whose capabilities might occasionally exceed normal parameters for appropriate indoor behavior. Afternoon sunlight streamed through windows that were definitely reinforced beyond standard residential specifications, creating golden patterns on Persian rugs that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries and had almost certainly been selected for their resistance to various forms of supernatural damage.

Harry moved to the sideboard with practiced hospitality, his movements carrying that natural grace that suggested someone completely comfortable in his own skin while being acutely aware of exactly how devastatingly attractive he was and perfectly prepared to use that fact to his tactical advantage when circumstances warranted such approaches.

"Would you care for tea?" he asked with perfectly appropriate British courtesy, though his voice carried undertones that suggested he was genuinely pleased to have company for what might prove to be a rather fascinating conversation about educational philosophy, parental concerns, and possibly several other subjects that weren't typically covered during standard institutional tours.

"I find it helps immeasurably with the initial nervousness that most parents experience when visiting specialized educational institutions. The whole process can be rather overwhelming until one becomes properly oriented to how we approach things here. Plus, I happen to make rather exceptional tea—it's one of those essential British skills that we're required to master before being allowed to leave the country unsupervised."

"That would be absolutely divine," Mystique replied with exactly the right level of grateful acceptance, settling into her chair with movements that appeared casual but positioned her with optimal sight lines to all entrances while keeping her back protected against potential complications.

"You're extraordinarily thoughtful to take time from your day to speak with me, especially with the faculty occupied with these emergency situations. I hope I'm not keeping you from important studies or activities that require your attention."

Her smile carried that particular blend of maternal gratitude and impressed appreciation that suggested someone genuinely charmed by encountering a young man with such obvious breeding, intelligence, and social competence.

"Not in the slightest," Harry assured her with that particular brand of charm that could convince parliaments to change legislation while making representatives feel personally honored by his attention. His emerald eyes held depths that suggested genuine pleasure in her company combined with something that might have been carefully controlled amusement at circumstances that were proving rather more entertaining than typical afternoon social interactions.

"I actually arrived at the Institute quite recently myself, so I understand completely how overwhelming the initial adjustment process can prove to be. The Xavier Institute has what one might diplomatically describe as a rather... unique institutional culture, and it requires considerable time to fully appreciate the educational philosophy, social dynamics, and the rather specialized approaches to student development that make this place so remarkably effective."

His hands moved with fluid efficiency as he prepared the tea service, each gesture economical and precisely controlled in ways that suggested either extensive training in proper service or supernatural coordination enhancement that made even mundane tasks appear like demonstrations of controlled artistry.

But despite his obvious physical capabilities and the kind of presence that made rooms seem smaller simply by virtue of his occupying them, his conversation remained perfectly charming and appropriately focused on their educational discussion.

"Recently?" Mystique inquired with exactly the right note of polite interest, her professional instincts immediately focusing while her maternal persona maintained perfect curiosity about meeting another parent navigating complex educational decisions for exceptionally gifted children.

"From another institution, perhaps? Or were you receiving private tutoring? You have such lovely manners and obvious social sophistication—someone clearly invested considerable effort in your personal development and cultural education."

Her voice carried that particular tone of someone recognizing quality when she encountered it, combined with just enough maternal appreciation to suggest she was impressed by meeting a young person who'd been properly prepared for adult social interaction.

Harry paused in his tea preparation, turning to regard her with that smile that could cause traffic accidents in major metropolitan areas while making insurance adjusters question their career choices. His emerald eyes met hers with direct attention that suggested someone perfectly comfortable sharing personal information while maintaining just enough mystery to keep conversations interesting.

"Rather more complicated than traditional educational transitions, actually," he replied with that particular brand of British understatement that could make interdimensional travel sound like minor scheduling inconveniences requiring modest adjustments to one's social calendar.

"I'm what you might generously describe as a transfer student with rather extraordinary circumstances. My previous educational experience was... shall we say, specialized in ways that don't typically translate to conventional academic environments or standard approaches to adolescent development."

He resumed tea preparation with fluid precision that made even simple domestic tasks appear like demonstrations of controlled artistry, his movements suggesting someone who'd learned to find comfort in routine while maintaining constant situational awareness.

"I spent several years at what you might diplomatically characterize as a rather intensive boarding school," he continued with casual honesty, his voice carrying undertones that suggested experiences considerably more complex than typical academic challenges or standard institutional discipline policies.

"The curriculum was quite traditional in certain respects—literature, history, advanced sciences, that sort of thing—but with rather more emphasis on practical applications than most institutions typically provide. Defense against actively hostile forces with genuine homicidal intentions, advanced chemistry focusing on substances that could either preserve life or terminate it rather decisively, leadership development under the sort of extreme pressure that tends to separate individuals with genuine character from those who merely possess attractive theoretical qualifications."

His emerald eyes held depths that spoke to experiences that would have required most people to seek extensive therapeutic intervention and possibly pharmaceutical assistance.

"The educational philosophy emphasized learning through direct application rather than theoretical study," he added with that particular tone of someone describing experiences that had been simultaneously formative and occasionally life-threatening. "Students were expected to demonstrate practical mastery of complex subjects while handling real-world situations that most adults would find... challenging."

Mystique's maternal interest sharpened with laser precision, though her expression remained perfectly appropriate for someone processing information about another parent's educational choices and their obvious impact on character development.

"My word," she said with exactly the right blend of impressed concern and maternal understanding, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone recognizing the challenges of finding appropriate educational resources for children with exceptional capabilities and unique requirements.

"That sounds like quite an extraordinary program. Military academy, perhaps? Or one of those exclusive preparatory institutions that specialize in developing leadership qualities through controlled adversity and structured character-building experiences?"

Her eyes reflected that combination of curiosity and careful assessment that suggested someone genuinely interested in understanding how such intensive educational approaches affected long-term personal development and social adjustment capabilities.

Harry finished tea preparation and approached with service that would have made professional butlers weep with envy, moving with that distinctive combination of natural grace and carefully controlled power that suggested someone who'd learned to navigate social situations while maintaining abilities that could accidentally reshape local geography if not properly managed.

"Something rather like that," he agreed with that easy charm that had once convinced magical creatures to reconsider their dietary preferences regarding teenage wizards, his smile carrying warmth that spoke to genuine appreciation for intelligent conversation with perceptive adults.

"Though the institution had what one might charitably describe as a unique approach to educational methodology. Students were expected to apply theoretical learning in decidedly real-world situations from quite an early age—often in circumstances that required immediate practical mastery or faced consequences that could prove permanently disadvantageous to one's continued existence."

He settled into his chair with fluid precision that made even casual movement appear choreographed, his emerald eyes meeting hers with the kind of direct attention that suggested genuine interest in her responses while maintaining that underlying awareness that marked someone who'd learned to evaluate people's motivations through considerable practical experience.

"The transition to Professor Xavier's approach has been quite... illuminating," he continued with obvious satisfaction, his voice carrying warmth that spoke to genuine gratitude combined with relief at discovering educational environments that prioritized student welfare over institutional objectives.

"Much more emphasis on collaborative learning within supportive community structures, personal development that doesn't require constant threat of mortal peril, and using one's capabilities to benefit others rather than simply surviving increasingly creative attempts at character development through educational methodology that would make child welfare advocates require extensive psychiatric treatment."

His smile took on a distinctly sharper edge as he added with perfectly controlled British wit, "I must say, it's remarkably refreshing to attend an institution where the primary educational objective doesn't involve preparing students to face genocidal maniacs with delusions of racial superiority, unhealthy obsessions with teenage mortality rates, and the sort of creative approaches to mass murder that would make professional military strategists require therapeutic intervention and possibly early retirement."

Mystique accepted her tea with exactly appropriate gratitude, using the pause to process information that painted a comprehensive picture of someone who'd received extensive combat training, possessed experience with real-world application of dangerous capabilities under extreme pressure, and had developed the kind of psychological framework that came from surviving circumstances that would permanently traumatize most individuals.

All of which made him either ideal recruitment material for organizations that appreciated tactical experience and proven capability under life-threatening conditions, or a potential threat who'd been specifically trained to identify and neutralize hostile approaches disguised as friendly social interaction.

"That sounds like quite an extraordinary transition," she observed with warm maternal understanding, her voice carrying exactly the right blend of sympathy and genuine interest in the psychological complexities involved in adapting between such dramatically different educational philosophies and institutional expectations.

She leaned forward slightly with calculated concern, her expression suggesting someone genuinely invested in understanding how such intensive experiences affected long-term emotional development and social integration capabilities.

"The psychological adaptation alone must have been tremendously challenging. Going from such a competitive, survival-oriented environment where individual achievement was prioritized over community cooperation, to something focused on collaborative learning and mutual support—I imagine it requires significant mental and emotional adjustments."

Her voice took on that particular tone of professional understanding as she continued, "How are you finding the social dynamics here? It must be quite difficult to form normal peer relationships when your previous experience involved such high-stakes competition and constant evaluation of potential threats to personal safety."

Harry's expression brightened with genuine enthusiasm that would have made marketing executives weep with envy, though something in his emerald eyes suggested he was processing her questions with considerably more analytical precision than his casual demeanor initially indicated.

"Oh, it's been absolutely remarkable," he said with obvious sincerity that carried no trace of defensive awareness while his body language suggested someone completely comfortable discussing personal psychological development with sympathetic adults who demonstrated genuine interest in his welfare.

"The students here have been extraordinarily welcoming, despite my rather unconventional background and complete lack of preparation for social interactions that don't involve constant assessment of whether one's conversation partners might attempt homicide before the conclusion of afternoon tea service."

He paused with that particular expression that suggested someone processing formative experiences while maintaining perfect social courtesy and appropriate gratitude for improved circumstances.

"My previous educational environment was rather... intensive," he continued with careful British precision that could make genocidal warfare sound like minor academic challenges requiring modest adjustments to study habits.

"Students were expected to master both theoretical knowledge and practical defensive applications quite rapidly, or face consequences that could prove permanently disadvantageous to one's continued participation in activities requiring vital signs. The institutional atmosphere was competitive to the point where collaboration was often viewed as potential weakness that enemies could exploit, and everyone was essentially engaged in individual survival rather than working toward collective educational objectives or community development."

His voice took on that particular tone of someone who'd learned to find humor in experiences that should have required extensive therapeutic intervention, "Rather like attending university during active warfare, except the other students might be working for the opposing forces, the professors occasionally turned out to be homicidal maniacs with identity issues, and final examinations involved genuine life-or-death scenarios that made standard academic pressure seem like relaxing recreational activities."

Mystique leaned forward with calculated maternal concern, her professional instincts recognizing precisely the opening she'd been maneuvering toward through careful application of sympathy, understanding, and strategically directed resentment toward authority figures who'd clearly failed in their protective responsibilities.

"That sounds absolutely unconscionable," she said with convincing parental outrage, her voice carrying exactly the right level of indignation while her eyes flashed with protective fury that suggested someone genuinely horrified by educational malpractice and systematic child endangerment.

"No young person should ever be subjected to that kind of psychological pressure and physical danger, regardless of their individual capabilities or whatever institutional objectives supposedly justified such appalling treatment. It's completely unacceptable."

Her voice took on that particular tone of righteous maternal anger that resonated with anyone who'd experienced systematic mistreatment by adults claiming to act in their best interests while pursuing agenda that prioritized institutional survival over individual welfare.

"Those people failed you completely, Harry," she continued with increasing conviction, her maternal persona radiating protective fury that seemed genuinely invested in his wellbeing. "Using children as weapons, forcing them into life-threatening situations, prioritizing institutional objectives over basic human decency and child welfare—that's not education, that's criminal exploitation disguised as character building."

Her expression grew more intense as she added with conviction that suggested personal experience with institutional betrayal, "Anyone responsible for subjecting students to those conditions should be held accountable for their systematic abuse of authority and complete disregard for the psychological and physical welfare of the children entrusted to their care."

Harry nodded with apparent agreement, though something in his expression suggested he was evaluating her emotional response with the kind of strategic assessment that came from extensive experience reading people's motivations under pressure and distinguishing between genuine concern and calculated manipulation designed to elicit specific psychological responses.

His emerald eyes held depths that spoke to intelligence honed by circumstances that required constant evaluation of potential threats, hidden agenda, and the complex motivations that drove adult behavior when dealing with individuals who possessed valuable capabilities.

"The adults in charge certainly had their particular priorities," he agreed carefully, his tone carrying just enough diplomatic ambiguity to suggest complex feelings about authority figures whose methods had been questionable but whose objectives might have been defensible given external circumstances that required unconventional responses to existential threats.

"Though I suppose they would argue—if one were inclined toward charitable interpretation of their educational philosophy—that the existential threats we faced required rather unconventional approaches to student preparation and character development that wouldn't have been necessary under normal circumstances."

His voice took on a slightly sharper edge as he continued with precisely controlled British wit, "After all, when confronted with organized terrorist movements dedicated to systematic genocide and racial purification, traditional educational methodologies tend to prove somewhat inadequate for producing graduates capable of effective community defense and strategic response to supernatural warfare."

He paused, his smile carrying that particular quality of someone who'd learned to find dark humor in experiences that would have traumatized most individuals, "Rather difficult to argue with survival rates as a measure of educational effectiveness, even when the methodological approaches would make child welfare advocates require extensive therapeutic intervention and possibly early retirement with full psychiatric benefits."

"Terrorist movements?" Mystique repeated with exactly the right note of horrified fascination, her professional instincts immediately focusing while maintaining perfect maternal concern for the obvious trauma this young man had endured during his formative years.

"What kind of organized threats could possibly justify subjecting children to that level of responsibility and physical danger? Surely there were proper authorities—military specialists, law enforcement agencies, trained professionals who should have been handling those situations instead of expecting students to risk their lives?"

Her voice carried that combination of protective outrage and genuine curiosity that suggested someone struggling to understand how any rational adult could justify placing such enormous burdens on adolescents, regardless of their capabilities or the external circumstances involved.

Harry's expression grew more serious, taking on the weight of someone who'd learned hard lessons about the nature of evil, the inadequacy of institutional responses to existential threats, and the uncomfortable reality that sometimes extraordinary circumstances required extraordinary measures that couldn't be justified through normal ethical frameworks.

"Groups dedicated to establishing racial supremacy through systematic elimination of individuals they considered genetically inferior," he replied with matter-of-fact precision that made genocidal warfare sound like routine criminal activity requiring appropriate law enforcement response rather than the kind of existential horror that challenged fundamental assumptions about civilized society.

His emerald eyes held depths that spoke to experiences most people couldn't survive without permanent psychological damage and extensive therapeutic intervention.

"Rather like your more extreme political movements," he continued with dry British humor that carried undertones of experiences that had been simultaneously educational and occasionally life-threatening, "but with supernatural capabilities that made conventional military responses completely inadequate, considerably less concern for civilian casualties or international legal constraints, and rather more creative approaches to mass murder than most people could imagine in their worst nightmares."

He settled back in his chair with fluid grace, his expression taking on that distant quality that suggested someone processing memories that had been formative in ways most people couldn't comprehend.

"They specialized in psychological warfare, systematic corruption of governmental institutions, recruitment of supernatural entities that treated human suffering as recreational entertainment, and what one might diplomatically describe as innovative approaches to establishing their vision of proper social order through methods that would make professional military strategists require psychiatric medication and possibly career counseling."

Mystique's perfectly ordinary features maintained their expression of maternal horror while her professional mind began calculating implications with laser precision and growing excitement. Someone who'd received combat training specifically designed for countering organized supremacist terrorism with supernatural capabilities represented either invaluable tactical experience that could prove enormously beneficial to Brotherhood strategic planning, or extreme danger that required immediate assessment and possible neutralization.

"That's absolutely horrifying," she said with convincing parental shock, her voice carrying appropriate outrage while her analytical mind processed intelligence about opposition forces that operated with capabilities and methods that could prove extremely relevant to understanding current political dynamics and strategic opportunities.

"How could any responsible adult expect teenagers to handle that level of systematic evil and organized violence? Surely there were governmental agencies, military specialists, trained professionals with appropriate resources and legal authority who should have been addressing those threats instead of abandoning children to face such enormous responsibilities?"

Harry's smile took on a distinctly sardonic edge that could have cut through reinforced steel, his emerald eyes flashing with something that might have been bitter amusement at the naivety of assuming governmental competence in crisis situations or institutional reliability when facing challenges that required actual moral courage and effective action.

"Oh, there were authorities," he replied with that particular brand of British wit that could perform surgery without anesthesia while making the patient feel grateful for the educational experience, his voice carrying decades worth of cynicism compressed into teenage vocal cords that had been enhanced by cosmic forces specifically designed to make every word carry weight and precision.

"Government agencies with impressively official titles, substantial budgets that could fund small countries, and a truly remarkable talent for being either completely ineffective when decisive action was required, thoroughly corrupted by the same ideological forces they were supposedly fighting, or actively working for the opposition when crisis situations required actual competence rather than bureaucratic procedure."

His tone grew more pointed as he continued with perfectly controlled intellectual savagery, "Rather like expecting the fire department to handle a conflagration when half the firefighters have been systematically replaced by arsonists with advanced degrees in accelerant application, the equipment has been sabotaged by individuals with strong philosophical objections to water as a firefighting medium, and the municipal water supply has been mysteriously redirected to filling swimming pools for people who believe fire is actually quite beneficial for urban renewal and property value adjustment."

He paused to sip his tea with perfect British composure while delivering what amounted to a comprehensive indictment of institutional failure, "The official response to genocidal terrorism was rather like watching a masterclass in how not to handle existential threats to civilian populations, assuming one had the luxury of observing from a safe distance rather than being personally targeted for elimination based on genetic characteristics beyond one's control."

Mystique found herself genuinely impressed despite her professional objectives—the young man's analytical assessment of governmental failure was both devastatingly accurate and expressed with the kind of sophisticated cynicism that demonstrated strategic thinking capabilities and bitter experience with institutional betrayal that could prove extremely valuable for Brotherhood recruitment purposes.

"So you were essentially abandoned by every adult authority figure who should have protected you," she observed with warm sympathy that carried just enough personal bitterness to suggest shared experience with institutional betrayal and systematic failure by people who claimed protective responsibility while pursuing their own agenda.

Her voice took on that particular tone of someone sharing understanding based on similar disappointments with official promises and governmental reliability.

"Left to handle existential threats that should have been addressed by trained professionals with appropriate resources and legal authority, while the people with official responsibility either failed to act decisively or actively undermined your efforts through incompetence, corruption, or deliberate sabotage."

She leaned forward with increased intensity, her brown eyes—perfectly ordinary and completely artificial—holding exactly the right combination of maternal concern and carefully controlled anger that suggested someone who'd learned hard lessons about trusting institutional promises.

"That kind of systematic abandonment by authority figures leaves permanent scars, doesn't it, Harry? Learning that the institutions you're supposed to trust, the adults who claim protective responsibility, the governmental agencies that exist specifically to handle these situations—learning that they'll fail you completely when you need them most."

Her voice grew more passionate as she continued, "It fundamentally changes how you evaluate authority, how you assess official promises, how you decide who actually deserves your loyalty and respect. Because once you've seen behind the curtain, once you understand how these systems really operate when tested by genuine crisis, you can never quite trust them the same way again."

Harry studied her with increasing attention, his emerald eyes sharpening with the kind of focused assessment that suggested he was beginning to recognize patterns in their conversation that extended considerably beyond simple maternal concern for educational philosophy and adolescent psychological development.

Something in his posture shifted subtly—maintaining perfect social courtesy while increasing his alertness to potential complications that might require immediate tactical response and strategic repositioning. His smile remained devastatingly charming and appropriately engaged, but carried undertones that suggested he was evaluating her comments for implications that went significantly deeper than surface sympathy.

"Indeed it does, Mrs. Richardson," he agreed carefully, his voice maintaining perfect courtesy while carrying depths that suggested he was examining her motivations with the kind of strategic precision that came from surviving circumstances where misreading adult intentions could prove permanently disadvantageous to one's continued existence.

"I've discovered that understanding people's actual priorities requires looking considerably beyond their official rhetoric and public presentations, then examining what their actions reveal about their true objectives when faced with situations that test their stated principles against practical considerations and personal interests."

His emerald eyes met hers with direct intensity that suggested someone perfectly comfortable with whatever direction their conversation might take, while his tone carried just enough edge to indicate that he was considerably more aware of subtext and hidden agenda than his casual demeanor had initially suggested.

"Most individuals and institutions, I've found, have rather more complex motivations than their public presentations would suggest," he continued with that particular brand of British understatement that could make devastating insights sound like casual observations about weather patterns.

"The gap between stated objectives and actual behavior can be quite... illuminating, especially when circumstances require people to choose between their proclaimed values and their practical interests. Rather educational, really, from a strategic perspective."

The statement hung in the air between them like smoke from a fire that was definitely about to become considerably more interesting and potentially dangerous, while afternoon sunlight continued streaming through reinforced windows and expensive tea remained perfectly prepared for a conversation that had clearly moved well beyond the boundaries of normal educational consultation.

Mystique's smile remained perfectly maternal and appropriately concerned, while her professional assessment underwent rapid and comprehensive revision. Harry Potter was demonstrating considerably more tactical awareness, strategic thinking capabilities, and sophisticated understanding of complex motivations than his initial presentation had suggested.

This meant their intelligence gathering operation had just transformed into something significantly more complex than simple information extraction from an unsuspecting target who could be manipulated through standard approaches involving sympathy, understanding, and carefully directed resentment toward authority figures.

This was either about to become the most educational and strategically valuable conversation she'd had in years, or a spectacular demonstration of exactly why underestimating individuals with cosmic enhancement capabilities was always a tactical error of the highest magnitude that could result in operational failure and potentially dangerous exposure.

"You know, Harry," she said carefully, her voice maintaining warm maternal interest while testing the boundaries of how much direct approach their obviously intelligent target would tolerate before abandoning social courtesy for more decisive responses that could complicate her mission objectives, "listening to your experiences with institutional failure and systematic betrayal by authority figures, I can't help but think that someone with your background, your proven capabilities under extreme pressure, your sophisticated understanding of how power structures really function when tested by genuine crisis..."

She paused for calculated effect, her brown eyes holding exactly the right blend of maternal concern and carefully controlled excitement that suggested someone who'd discovered a potential solution to complex problems involving exceptional young people and inadequate institutional support.

"Someone like you might benefit tremendously from educational opportunities that don't come with the same kind of restrictive limitations that traditional institutions impose on personal development and the full realization of individual potential."

Her voice took on that particular tone of maternal conspiracy that suggested shared understanding between adults who'd learned to think strategically about complex problems and unconventional solutions.

"Sarah has mentioned feeling quite isolated by her extraordinary abilities," she continued, her maternal persona radiating concern that seemed genuinely invested in the wellbeing of gifted young people who faced unique challenges. "She worries constantly about fitting in with normal students who couldn't possibly understand her experiences, but she also worries about finding peers who could truly comprehend the unique challenges that come with capabilities that extend far beyond conventional parameters."

She leaned forward with increased intensity, her expression suggesting someone about to share information that could prove genuinely valuable for his personal development and future opportunities.

"The kind of challenges that require... unconventional solutions and educational approaches that aren't constrained by traditional institutional limitations or conventional thinking about appropriate methods for developing exceptional potential."

Harry's expression shifted into something that might have been polite interest or might have been the beginning of very sophisticated tactical assessment, while his emerald eyes began to hold depths that suggested cosmic enhancement had included significant improvements to pattern recognition and threat evaluation capabilities.

"Unconventional solutions," he repeated thoughtfully, his tone carrying exactly the right note of curious interest while maintaining perfect social courtesy and that underlying awareness that marked someone who'd learned to recognize when conversations were approaching potentially dangerous territory.

"I must say, Mrs. Richardson, that's quite an intriguing way to phrase it. What sort of alternative educational opportunities did you have in mind? Because I have to admit, after my experiences with institutions that specialized in unconventional approaches to student development, I've developed rather specific standards regarding what constitutes appropriate educational methodology versus what might more accurately be described as elaborate recruitment operations disguised as concerned parental inquiry."

His smile was perfectly charming and absolutely devastating, but carried undertones that suggested he was considerably more aware of this conversation's actual nature than he'd initially let on.

"Not that I'm suggesting anything inappropriate about your inquiry, of course," he added with that particular brand of British courtesy that could deliver mortal insults while maintaining perfect politeness. "I'm simply noting that individuals with my background tend to develop rather finely calibrated detection systems for distinguishing between genuine educational opportunities and approaches that might have rather more complex objectives than traditional academic enrollment."

Chapter Text

The silence stretched between them like a wire drawn taut, pregnant with possibilities and unspoken understanding. Harry's emerald eyes—sharp as cut glass and twice as dangerous—never left her face, reading micro-expressions with the enhanced perception of someone who'd learned to survive by recognizing deception in all its forms. The cosmic enhancement hadn't just improved his magical abilities; it had sharpened every sense, including the one that detected when conversations had moved from social pleasantries into the realm of recruitment pitches delivered by professionals who'd clearly done their homework.

He took another sip of his tea—Earl Grey, naturally, because some things were sacred—and let the moment breathe. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that particular tone of someone who'd decided to stop pretending the elephant in the room didn't exist, wrapped in enough posh British accent to make even the Queen herself take notice.

"You know," he said, setting down his cup with the precise control that suggested supernatural coordination beneath civilized gestures, "it's rather refreshing to meet someone who approaches these matters with such... artistic subtlety. Most people who want something from me tend to be considerably less elegant in their methodology."

Mrs. Richardson—who wasn't really Mrs. Richardson at all, was she?—maintained her perfect maternal composure, but Harry caught the microscopic tightening around her eyes. Amateur mistake. Well, perhaps not amateur—she was clearly a professional—but she was dealing with someone whose survival had depended on reading tells that would make a poker player weep.

"I'm not entirely sure I follow," she replied with that masterfully crafted combination of confusion and gentle concern that probably worked brilliantly on actual teenagers. Unfortunately for her, Harry Potter had stopped being an actual teenager somewhere around his third near-death experience, and that was *years* ago.

Harry leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth that could have powered small cities while causing diplomatic incidents. The kind of smile that had once made Hermione mutter about "insufferable, arrogant toerag genetics" after he'd dismantled a Ministry official's argument using nothing but impeccable logic and devastating politeness.

"Oh, I think you follow splendidly," he said with the sort of aristocratic drawl that suggested expensive education and generational confidence. "The concerned mother persona is absolutely flawless, by the way. The right blend of protective instinct and maternal authority, combined with just enough personal bitterness about institutional failure to establish common ground with someone who's had rather... complicated relationships with authority figures."

He paused to take another sip of tea, letting her process while his enhanced senses catalogued the minute shifts in her posture, breathing pattern, and micro-expressions. Fascinating. She was good—really good—but she was also recalculating in real-time, which meant he'd surprised her.

"The timing is particularly inspired," Harry continued conversationally, as if discussing the weather rather than dismantling what was clearly an intelligence operation. "Arriving just as I'm settling into Xavier's charming establishment, presenting yourself as exactly the sort of concerned parent who might provide alternative perspective on mutant education and social integration. Someone who understands the challenges of navigating systems designed by baseline humans for baseline humans."

Mrs. Richardson's perfectly crafted maternal expression flickered for just an instant—barely a heartbeat—but long enough for Harry's enhanced senses to catch the momentary shift as her professional assessment underwent rapid recalculation. Her smile remained warm and concerned, but there was something new behind those artificial brown eyes. Something sharper. More... calculating.

"I'm afraid I'm not following your implication, Harry," she said carefully, her tone maintaining perfect maternal bewilderment while her posture shifted almost imperceptibly toward better defensive positioning. Professional training showing through the suburban disguise. "I'm simply a mother concerned about finding appropriate educational opportunities for my daughter's unique needs. Surely you understand the challenges of finding institutions that can properly support gifted children?"

"Oh, absolutely," Harry agreed with devastating politeness, his smile bright enough to power the Manhattan electrical grid. "And I'm simply a recent transfer student with cosmic enhancement capabilities who happened to arrive at Xavier's Institute less than twenty-four hours before New York City experienced the most coordinated series of supernatural emergencies in recorded history."

He set down his teacup with the kind of precise control that made the simple gesture seem vaguely threatening. "What remarkable timing we're all experiencing today. Almost as if someone had planned it that way. But surely that's just coincidence, isn't it, Mrs. Richardson?"

The admission hung in the air like smoke from a fire that had just revealed it was considerably larger and more dangerous than initially apparent. Mrs. Richardson's brown eyes—artificial but expressive—sharpened with recognition that their conversation had crossed into territory where pretense became counterproductive.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Harry, radiating that particular brand of English superiority that could make royalty feel inadequate, and Mrs. Richardson, her maternal mask beginning to slip as something far more dangerous showed through the cracks.

"You're considerably more perceptive than my intelligence suggested," she said finally, her voice shifting subtly as the maternal warmth gave way to something cooler, more professional, though still maintaining perfect courtesy. The accent was changing too—less Connecticut soccer mom, more something indefinably cosmopolitan. "Most individuals your age can be managed through conventional approaches involving sympathy, understanding, and carefully applied emotional manipulation."

Harry's laugh was pure aristocratic amusement, rich and warm and completely terrifying in its implications. "Oh, my dear woman, you really haven't done your homework, have you? Most individuals my age haven't spent five years being systematically hunted by a genocidal terrorist organization led by someone whose manipulation skills could convince water to flow uphill."

He stood with fluid precision that made the movement appear choreographed, his enhanced physique managing to convey both casual elegance and barely contained power. Like a predator stretching, all controlled grace and implied threat.

"It tends to provide rather intensive training in recognizing when adults are attempting to influence one's decision-making through strategic application of psychological pressure and manufactured emotional connection," he continued, brushing an imaginary speck of lint from his perfectly pressed shirt. "Voldemort was particularly fond of the caring authority figure approach, actually. Though I must say, your execution is considerably more sophisticated than his. He always had a tendency toward melodrama that rather gave the game away."

The casual mention of facing down Dark Lords made Mrs. Richardson's professional composure slip another notch. Her assessment was clearly undergoing major revisions.

"Though I must say," Harry continued with that devastating smile, "your coordination with whatever colleagues are currently creating havoc throughout the city is quite impressive from a tactical perspective. Seventeen simultaneous emergencies require either extensive advance planning or real-time coordination capabilities that extend well beyond normal criminal enterprise."

He moved to examine one of Xavier's expensive bookshelves, his enhanced senses tracking every micro-movement she made while appearing completely absorbed in leather-bound volumes on mutation theory and social integration. "The emergencies themselves are rather cleverly designed as well. Serious enough to demand immediate X-Men response, but structured in ways that split their forces and play to individual weaknesses rather than team strengths. Someone's done their homework on superhero psychology."

Mrs. Richardson rose as well, maintaining perfect grace while her professional mind rapidly calculated tactical options that ranged from attempting to continue her original intelligence gathering mission to considering whether extraction protocols needed immediate implementation. The young man before her was clearly operating on multiple levels she hadn't anticipated.

"The emergencies are quite real," she said with that precision that suggested someone delivering accurate information while maintaining operational security. The maternal act was essentially abandoned now, replaced by something far more competent and dangerous. "My associates are professionals who understand the importance of creating genuine crises that require immediate superhero response while avoiding actual civilian casualties that could complicate our strategic objectives."

"How remarkably civilized of them," Harry observed with aristocratic appreciation, turning from the bookshelf to fix her with those unnervingly perceptive emerald eyes. "Most terrorist organizations I've encountered have considerably less concern for collateral damage and public relations management. Your people show admirable restraint in their approach to coordinated urban disruption."

The compliment was delivered with perfect sincerity, as if tactical appreciation of professional competence transcended minor inconveniences like criminal activity and attempted manipulation. Very British, really.

"Though I find myself curious," he continued, settling back into his chair with the casual confidence of someone completely comfortable with the tactical situation, "about what objectives could justify this level of resource investment and tactical sophistication. Seventeen simultaneous operations across five boroughs represents the kind of coordination that usually indicates either governmental backing or access to supernatural capabilities on a scale that suggests organizational depth considerably beyond standard criminal enterprise."

His tone was perfectly conversational, as if he were inquiring about her favorite restaurant rather than conducting what was essentially an intelligence debriefing of an enemy operative. "The logistics alone must be nightmarish. Real-time coordination, contingency planning for superhero response patterns, maintaining operational security across multiple teams while ensuring civilian safety protocols... Someone in your organization has genuinely impressive management capabilities."

The question was delivered with perfect politeness, but carried the weight of someone who'd learned to evaluate threats through comprehensive strategic assessment rather than simple pattern recognition. Harry Potter—Dragon-Born—was clearly interested in understanding exactly what kind of organization he was dealing with and what their actual capabilities might prove to be under circumstances requiring more decisive responses than afternoon conversation.

Mrs. Richardson studied him for a long moment, her artificial features processing information with the kind of careful consideration that came from decades of intelligence work involving individuals whose capabilities could reshape local geography if handled incorrectly. Something in her assessment appeared to reach a decision point.

"You know," she said with what might have been genuine amusement, "this is refreshing. Most people your age either run screaming or start making speeches about justice and righteousness. You're actually analyzing the operational framework."

"Well," Harry replied with that devastating smile, "I find operational competence rather more interesting than moral posturing. Besides, righteous speeches are terribly gauche. Much better to understand what one's dealing with before making judgments about appropriate responses."

She laughed—actually laughed—and something fundamental shifted in the dynamic between them. Still adversarial, perhaps, but with a layer of professional respect that hadn't existed before.

"The Brotherhood of Mutants," she said simply, abandoning the last pretense of suburban maternal concern in favor of professional honesty that recognized when continued deception would prove counterproductive. "We represent an alternative perspective on how individuals with extraordinary abilities should relate to baseline human society and governmental authority structures that seek to control, contain, or exploit us for their political and economic benefit."

Her voice took on the weight of conviction that spoke to genuine ideological commitment rather than simple criminal motivation. The maternal mask was completely gone now, replaced by something sharper, more focused, infinitely more dangerous.

"Our leader believes that mutants—individuals with genetic gifts that represent the next step in human evolution—deserve considerably more than tolerance from lesser beings who fear what they cannot understand or control. We advocate for recognition of our natural superiority and the political authority that should rightfully accompany advanced capabilities."

Harry's eyebrows rose with aristocratic interest, his expression settling into something that might have been impressed recognition of sophisticated philosophical frameworks or might have been the beginning of strategic evaluation regarding dangerous ideological systems that required careful handling.

"Genetic superiority and natural authority," he repeated thoughtfully, his tone carrying the kind of careful neutrality that suggested someone processing complex political theory while maintaining tactical awareness. "That's quite an ambitious philosophical position. Rather reminds me of some individuals I've encountered who had similar views about magical blood purity and natural hierarchies."

He paused, considering. "Though I suspect your approach is rather more sophisticated than simply attempting to murder everyone who disagreed with the assessment of appropriate social hierarchy and genetic destiny. The coordination and restraint suggest someone who's learned from the obvious mistakes of cruder supremacist movements."

"What should I call you now that we've moved beyond the concerned parent charade?" he asked with genuine curiosity. "Mrs. Richardson was charming, but clearly we're operating in different conversational territory now."

"Mystique," she replied with that particular pride that came from individuals who'd earned reputations based on professional competence and personal capability rather than institutional authority or inherited position. "Raven Darkholme, when operating in legal contexts that require documented identity, but among peers and professional associates, simply Mystique."

Her artificial features began to ripple and shift with the fluid precision of water finding its natural level, blonde hair darkening to midnight black while her bone structure rearranged itself with casual elegance that defied several fundamental assumptions about anatomy, biology, and the appropriate relationship between consciousness and physical form.

The transformation was mesmerizing—not just the physical changes, but the way her entire presence shifted. Gone was the anxious suburban mother; in her place stood something alien and magnificent, utterly confident in her own skin—literally and figuratively.

Within moments, she stood before him in her natural form—exotic blue skin that seemed to possess its own internal luminescence, yellow eyes that held depths suggesting intelligence honed by decades of experience navigating complex political and social situations, and features that managed to be both beautiful and utterly alien in ways that reminded observers they were encountering something that transcended normal human categories.

"Much better," Harry said with genuine appreciation, his smile carrying warmth that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with respect for someone who'd chosen authenticity over comfortable deception. "You're considerably more impressive without the suburban disguise. The level of detailed control you demonstrated suggests either extraordinary natural talent or extensive training in applications that extend well beyond simple cosmetic alteration."

Mystique's yellow eyes flashed with something that might have been surprised pleasure at encountering someone who appreciated technical competence rather than reacting with fear or disgust to her obviously non-human appearance.

"You're remarkably composed for someone meeting their first professional shapeshifter," she observed with that combination of professional interest and genuine curiosity. "Most individuals require considerable time to adjust to beings whose physical forms don't conform to standard human expectations. You're not even staring."

"I attended school with werewolves, half-giants, and individuals whose family trees included various magical creatures with decidedly non-human characteristics," Harry replied with casual matter-of-factness, as if discussing the weather. "Plus, I've recently been cosmically enhanced by entities that exist beyond normal understanding of physical form or biological limitation. Shape-changing abilities seem rather straightforward by comparison."

He gestured elegantly toward her new form. "Besides, you're rather magnificent like this. The suburban mother look was professionally competent, but this is genuinely impressive. You should be proud of what you are rather than hiding behind baseline human expectations."

Something flickered in Mystique's expression—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. When was the last time someone had called her magnificent without wanting something from her?

"Though I'm considerably more interested in your philosophical framework than your biological capabilities, impressive as they undoubtedly are," Harry continued, settling back in his chair as if they were discussing academic theory rather than revolutionary politics. "This concept of genetic superiority and natural authority—I assume your organization has specific ideas about how such superiority should be demonstrated and what kind of authority structures would properly reflect advanced capabilities?"

The question carried depths that suggested someone who'd learned to evaluate political movements through comprehensive analysis of their practical applications rather than simply accepting ideological rhetoric at face value. Harry's emerald eyes held that particular intensity that came from experience with organizations whose stated principles often diverged significantly from their actual methods when pursuing power and influence.

Mystique's smile was sharp enough to perform surgery, recognizing someone who understood the importance of examining ideological systems for their practical implications rather than their theoretical appeal to individuals seeking validation for their exceptional capabilities.

"Erik—our leader—believes that the current political structure represents a fundamentally unsustainable inversion of natural order," she explained with conviction that spoke to genuine intellectual commitment rather than simple loyalty or professional obligation. "Baseline humans fear mutants because they recognize, on some instinctual level, that we represent evolutionary advancement that makes their continued dominance increasingly untenable."

Her voice took on the cadence of someone delivering carefully developed political theory that had been refined through extensive debate and practical testing. She moved with predatory grace to the window, her blue skin catching afternoon sunlight in ways that suggested alien beauty operating according to principles that transcended normal human aesthetics.

"Rather than accepting their obsolescence gracefully, they attempt to maintain control through legislative restrictions, government surveillance programs, and what they euphemistically describe as 'mutant registration' but which represents systematic cataloguing of potential threats to their political and economic supremacy."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, processing the information with analytical precision. "Mutant registration. Yes, I can see how that might be problematic. Rather like requiring magical individuals to register with the Ministry of Magic—ostensibly for their own protection and public safety, but actually creating comprehensive databases for potential future persecution."

"Exactly," Mystique said with satisfaction at encountering someone who grasped the implications immediately. "You understand the parallels. They create systems that appear reasonable on the surface but serve to isolate and control populations they fear."

"Erik advocates for direct action designed to demonstrate mutant superiority while forcing baseline humans to acknowledge the fundamental power imbalance that currently exists beneath their comfortable illusions about democratic equality and representative government," she continued, her yellow eyes blazing with conviction. "The Brotherhood represents practical preparation for inevitable conflict between evolutionary advancement and obsolete social structures that cannot accommodate our capabilities through peaceful integration or gradual political reform."

Harry absorbed this information with the kind of careful attention that suggested someone evaluating complex strategic implications while maintaining perfect social courtesy and genuine intellectual interest in alternative political philosophies, regardless of their practical feasibility or moral implications.

"Inevitable conflict," he repeated thoughtfully, his tone carrying that particular British precision that could examine controversial concepts without necessarily endorsing or condemning them. "That's quite a definitive assessment of political dynamics and social evolution. I assume Erik has specific evidence supporting his conclusions about the impossibility of peaceful coexistence and gradual reform?"

His emerald eyes took on that dangerous gleam that suggested cosmic enhancement had included improvements to strategic analysis capabilities. "Because in my experience, individuals who describe conflict as 'inevitable' often have particular investments in ensuring that inevitability rather than exploring alternative approaches that might prove less dramatically satisfying but more practically sustainable."

The observation carried just enough edge to suggest someone who'd learned to distinguish between political analysis based on objective assessment and ideological frameworks designed to justify predetermined conclusions about appropriate responses to complex social challenges.

Mystique's expression sharpened with recognition of someone who possessed both intellectual sophistication and personal experience with organizations whose stated principles sometimes concealed more problematic motivations and methods.

"You speak like someone who's encountered similar ideological movements," she observed with professional interest that carried undertones of strategic assessment. "Have you had experience with groups advocating for... direct approaches to social change and political reorganization based on demonstrated superiority rather than democratic consensus?"

Her tone suggested someone fishing for information about his background while simultaneously evaluating whether his obvious analytical capabilities made him a valuable potential recruit or a dangerous opponent whose strategic thinking abilities could prove problematic for Brotherhood operational planning.

Harry's smile carried that particular quality of someone who'd learned to recognize when conversations had moved into territory where complete honesty could prove either diplomatically valuable or tactically disadvantageous, depending on the motivations of one's conversational partners.

"Oh, my dear Mystique," he said with that devastating British understatement that could make genocidal warfare sound like minor disagreements about municipal planning policies, "I've had rather extensive experience with individuals convinced of their natural superiority and entitled to reshape society according to their vision of proper order."

He took a sip of tea, as if the topic were no more significant than cricket scores. "The results were... educational, from a perspective involving the practical applications of ideological conviction combined with supernatural capabilities and genuine political authority derived through violence rather than democratic consent."

His emerald eyes took on depths that spoke to memories involving experiences most people couldn't survive without extensive therapeutic intervention. "There was this particular fellow—claimed pure-blood supremacy, believed muggle-born wizards were naturally inferior, advocated for systematic elimination of 'undesirable' magical bloodlines. Quite convinced he was serving natural order and evolutionary destiny."

Mystique leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "And what happened to him?"

Harry's smile could have frozen the Thames. "Well, let's just say his assessment of natural superiority proved rather less accurate than he'd calculated. Turns out ideology and actual capability don't always align as neatly as supremacist leaders prefer to believe."

"You killed him," Mystique said with professional interest rather than moral judgment.

"Eventually, yes," Harry confirmed with matter-of-fact precision. "Though he was remarkably persistent about coming back from the dead. Made quite the hobby of it, actually. Rather tedious after the first few resurrections."

The casual mention of repeatedly killing Dark Lords who wouldn't stay properly dead made Mystique reassess her entire evaluation of the young man before her. Clearly, there were layers to Harry Potter that extended well beyond cosmic enhancement and aristocratic mannerisms.

"Though I suspect your Erik's approach might prove rather more sophisticated than simply attempting to murder everyone who disagreed with his assessment of appropriate social hierarchy and genetic destiny," Harry continued conversationally. "The coordination and restraint you've described suggest someone who's learned important lessons about the difference between effective revolutionary methodology and self-defeating terrorist approaches that generate opposition rather than compliance."

The statement hung in the air like smoke from a fire that had just revealed its true scope and potential for expansion beyond manageable parameters, while afternoon sunlight continued streaming through reinforced windows and expensive tea grew cold in cups that had been temporarily abandoned for more pressing considerations involving political philosophy, organizational assessment, and the strategic implications of recruiting individuals with cosmic enhancement capabilities into movements advocating systematic social transformation through direct action.

Mystique's yellow eyes flashed with something that might have been impressed recognition of someone who understood the practical complexities of revolutionary political movements while maintaining enough analytical distance to evaluate their methodological approaches without being overwhelmed by ideological enthusiasm or personal commitment to particular outcomes.

"It seems you're describing someone who wronged you personally," she said with careful precision, recognizing patterns that suggested experience with exactly the kind of supremacist organization that could provide valuable perspective on Brotherhood strategic planning and tactical effectiveness. "A leader convinced of natural superiority, advocating systematic elimination of inferior beings, using violence to achieve political authority rather than working within democratic systems—that represents precisely the kind of crude, unsophisticated approach that Erik has specifically rejected in favor of methods that could actually succeed in establishing sustainable mutant advancement."

Her voice took on that tone of professional educator explaining important distinctions between superficially similar but fundamentally different strategic frameworks. "The Brotherhood's approach involves demonstrating mutant superiority through precision operations that showcase our capabilities while minimizing civilian casualties that could generate sympathy for governmental oppression. We're building toward eventual political authority based on proven competence rather than attempting immediate conquest through terroristic mass murder."

She moved closer with predatory grace, her blue skin seeming to glow with inner light that suggested excitement at finally encountering someone who could appreciate sophisticated political strategy rather than requiring education in basic concepts about power, authority, and appropriate responses to systematic discrimination.

"Erik believes someone with your background—combat experience against supremacist terrorism, proven leadership capabilities under extreme pressure, sophisticated understanding of how political movements can succeed or fail based on their methodological choices—someone like you could provide invaluable strategic consultation for developing approaches that avoid the obvious mistakes that doomed your previous opponents."

Her yellow eyes held depths that suggested genuine strategic thinking rather than simple recruitment pressure. "The Brotherhood needs individuals who understand both the necessity of direct action and the importance of tactical precision that serves long-term objectives rather than immediate emotional satisfaction."

The pitch was sophisticated, professionally delivered, and demonstrated genuine understanding of his background while appealing to strategic thinking capabilities that had been proven through practical experience rather than theoretical education.

Harry was quiet for a long moment, processing implications with the kind of careful consideration that suggested someone evaluating complex strategic propositions while maintaining awareness of personal values, practical limitations, and the potential consequences of associating with organizations whose methods might prove problematic regardless of their intellectual sophistication.

Finally, he looked up at Mystique with that devastating smile that suggested he'd reached conclusions about their conversation that might prove either diplomatically productive or tactically decisive, depending on factors that extended beyond simple political agreement or ideological compatibility.

"You know, Mystique," he said with aristocratic appreciation that carried genuine warmth, "that's actually quite compelling from a strategic perspective. Erik sounds like someone who's learned important lessons about the difference between effective revolutionary methodology and self-defeating terrorist approaches that generate opposition rather than compliance."

His emerald eyes held depths that suggested cosmic enhancement had included improvements to his ability to evaluate complex political situations involving multiple competing interests and strategic considerations.

"I find myself genuinely curious about meeting him and discussing his assessment of current political dynamics, potential approaches to mutant advancement that could prove sustainable rather than simply dramatic, and whether the Brotherhood might benefit from perspective gained through experience with supremacist organizations that failed due to tactical shortsightedness and strategic incompetence."

He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued with that particular precision that suggested someone delivering important information that required careful consideration.

"Though I should probably mention that any such conversation would need to include rather frank discussion about my current commitments to Xavier's Institute, my personal relationships with individuals who might not appreciate my involvement with organizations advocating direct action against governmental authority structures, and whether Erik's strategic framework includes provisions for associates who maintain independent judgment about appropriate responses to specific tactical situations."

The response was simultaneously promising and carefully qualified, suggesting someone genuinely interested in intellectual exchange while maintaining clear boundaries about personal autonomy and existing obligations that couldn't be abandoned without careful consideration of ethical implications and practical consequences.

Mystique's expression suggested someone who'd just discovered an unexpectedly rich vein of tactical gold in what had started as routine intelligence gathering. "You're actually considering it."

"I'm considering a conversation," Harry corrected with precision. "I find ideological frameworks interesting, particularly when they're supported by strategic thinking rather than simple emotional commitment. Erik sounds like someone worth meeting, if only to evaluate whether his approach represents genuine advancement over the crude supremacist movements I've encountered previously."

"Though I should warn you," he added with that dangerous smile, "I have rather high standards for revolutionary competence. If Erik's strategic thinking doesn't exceed that of the average terrorist organization, I'm afraid I'll be quite disappointed."

Before Mystique could respond to what might have been either encouragement or a challenge, a subtle shimmer in the air near the sitting room entrance began to resolve into something more substantial. Harry's enhanced senses had detected the intrusion several minutes earlier, but he'd been curious to see how long his godfather would maintain concealment while gathering intelligence.

Sirius Black allowed the Disillusionment Charm to fade with elegant precision that suggested years of practice with advanced concealment magic, his aristocratic features set in an expression of amused recognition as he stepped into visibility.

"Well," he said with that devastating Black family charm that had once scandalized half of magical Britain while thoroughly enchanting the other half, "this has been absolutely fascinating to observe. Though I think we've learned everything we're likely to extract through diplomatic conversation, don't you, Dragon-Born?"

His grey eyes held that particular gleam that suggested someone who'd been anticipating this moment for quite some time and was thoroughly enjoying the tactical precision with which it was being executed.

Mystique spun toward him with predatory alertness, her professional instincts immediately shifting into combat assessment mode while her mind rapidly calculated tactical options involving multiple opponents with unknown capabilities in an environment designed to contain individuals with supernatural abilities. The maternal mask was long gone; this was pure professional threat evaluation.

"Sirius Orion Black," Harry said conversationally, his tone carrying that casual authority that suggested someone completely comfortable with dramatic revelations and tactical complications that required immediate strategic adjustment. "My godfather, fellow interdimensional refugee, and someone with rather extensive experience in intelligence gathering, strategic deception, and handling situations involving professional criminals with shapeshifting abilities and questionable political affiliations."

He gestured elegantly toward the new arrival, as if introducing someone at a dinner party rather than revealing elaborate counter-intelligence operations. "He's been listening to our entire conversation through concealment charms that would make your organization's surveillance capabilities look like children's toys, which means we now have rather comprehensive intelligence about Brotherhood strategic objectives, tactical methodologies, and your personal assessment of my potential value as either an asset or a threat requiring neutralization."

The admission was delivered with perfect British courtesy, as if revealing elaborate counter-intelligence operations was simply another aspect of proper afternoon social interaction between individuals with supernatural capabilities and complex political affiliations.

Sirius moved with the fluid precision of someone who'd spent years as an Auror followed by additional years developing tactical capabilities under circumstances that had refined his combat skills to professional standards that exceeded most Ministry training programs. His wand appeared in his hand with casual elegance that suggested the movement was purely automatic.

"Excellent performance, by the way," he told Mystique with genuine appreciation. "The suburban mother persona was quite convincing. Though you might want to work on maintaining micro-expressions during strategic reassessment. Harry caught the tells immediately, but then, he's had rather specialized training in recognizing deception."

Mystique's yellow eyes flashed between them, calculating odds and tactical options with professional precision while recognizing that her intelligence gathering mission had become significantly more complicated.

"*Stupefy.*"

The stunner caught Mystique before she could fully react, Sirius's wandwork demonstrating the precise control that came from years as an Auror followed by additional years of tactical experience under circumstances that had refined his magical combat capabilities to professional standards that exceeded most Ministry training programs.

The blue-skinned shapeshifter collapsed with elegant precision, her artificial brown eyes closing as the spell took effect with the kind of surgical accuracy that left her unconscious but completely unharmed—a professional courtesy between individuals who respected each other's competence despite their conflicting organizational loyalties.

"Excellent timing," Harry observed with genuine appreciation, moving to ensure Mystique's position was comfortable despite her unconscious state. "Though I was rather enjoying the philosophical discussion about evolutionary superiority and inevitable political conflict. She's considerably more intellectually sophisticated than most terrorists I've encountered."

"I noticed," Sirius agreed with paternal satisfaction, examining their unconscious guest with the kind of professional assessment that came from years of handling dangerous individuals with supernatural capabilities. "Quite the recruitment pitch she was building toward. Though I suspect she wasn't expecting to encounter someone who's already had extensive experience with supremacist organizations."

He glanced at Harry with that combination of pride and exasperation that characterized their relationship. "Did you have to be quite so encouraging? For a moment there, I thought you might actually be considering joining their merry band of genetic supremacists."

"Intellectual curiosity," Harry replied with aristocratic dignity. "Besides, she was providing excellent intelligence about their organizational structure and strategic methodologies. Much more efficient than attempting to extract information through interrogation."

"True," Sirius conceded. "Though I suspect Professor Xavier will want to speak with her directly before we decide whether she represents ongoing tactical complications or simply requires memory modification and careful release back to her associates."

The office door opened with perfect timing as Charles Xavier wheeled himself into the sitting room, his keen eyes immediately assessing the tactical situation with the kind of rapid comprehension that came from decades of handling crises involving enhanced individuals and complex political organizations.

"Gentlemen," he said with that combination of authority and paternal concern that had guided countless operations involving students whose capabilities regularly exceeded conventional boundaries for appropriate superhero methodology, "I trust your intelligence gathering proved successful?"

"Remarkably so," Harry confirmed, his expression shifting into something more serious as he processed information that had strategic implications extending well beyond simple organizational assessment. "Though I'm afraid we have rather more pressing concerns than debriefing our unconscious guest."

His enhanced senses had been monitoring electronic communications throughout their conversation, tracking emergency response frequencies and tactical coordination channels that suggested the X-Men were encountering complications that required immediate attention and possibly direct intervention by individuals with capabilities that exceeded standard superhero response protocols.

"The teams are having significant difficulties with coordinated opposition that appears to have been specifically designed to counter their individual capabilities," he continued with growing concern. "Scott and Logan are dealing with opponents who've clearly studied their tactical approaches and developed specific countermeasures. Jean and Storm are encountering situations that require coordination between telekinetic and atmospheric manipulation that suggests advance intelligence about their operational methodologies."

His emerald eyes blazed with inner fire that spoke to cosmic enhancement responding to the emotional stimulus of friends and allies facing danger that could prove beyond their ability to handle without additional support.

"The Brotherhood has done their homework," he said with grim appreciation for professional competence, even when deployed by opposition forces. "Seventeen simultaneous operations, each one designed to exploit specific weaknesses in X-Men tactical doctrine. It's actually rather brilliant from a strategic perspective."

Professor Xavier's expression grew grave as he processed the implications. "How serious is the situation?"

"Serious enough that I believe it's time for Dragon-Born to make his public debut," Harry said with that particular combination of tactical certainty and protective determination that had once convinced a phoenix to carry him into battle against impossible odds.

Sirius nodded with satisfaction. "About bloody time. You've been holding back long enough. Time to show these Brotherhood terrorists what happens when they threaten your friends."

Professor Xavier studied Harry for a moment, recognizing the shift from curious student to determined protector. He nodded with the kind of decisive authority that came from recognizing when circumstances required escalation beyond standard operational parameters and careful consideration of long-term consequences needed to be balanced against immediate tactical necessity.

"Go," he said simply, his voice carrying decades of experience making difficult decisions under impossible circumstances. "Bring them home safely."

Harry moved toward the mansion's entrance with fluid precision that made his enhanced physique appear like controlled lightning wrapped in human form, his casual clothes already beginning to shift and flow as cosmic forces responded to his tactical requirements and strategic intentions.

"Try not to completely terrify the local authorities," Sirius called after him with parental concern disguised as casual advice. "We're trying to maintain good relationships with law enforcement."

"No promises," Harry replied with that devastating smile, his voice already carrying harmonics that suggested fundamental changes in the nature of reality around him. "The Brotherhood wanted to see what happens when enhanced individuals stop holding back. They're about to receive a rather comprehensive education in the subject."

The transformation began before he reached the front door—midnight black scales flowing across his skin like liquid starlight, each one catching interior lighting and transforming it into something that belonged in legends rather than tactical operations. The armor materialized with organic precision that defied conventional understanding of how matter should behave when subjected to conscious will combined with cosmic enhancement capabilities.

By the time his hand touched the door handle, he was no longer Harry Potter, recent transfer student with extraordinary circumstances and complicated educational background.

He was Dragon-Born—cosmic forces made manifest, power and purpose unified in service of protecting those who'd shown him kindness, belonging, and the possibility of building something better than endless cycles of conflict and strategic necessity.

The front door opened with decisive authority, afternoon sunlight streaming across armor that seemed to generate its own internal radiance while psychic wings unfurled with magnificent precision that filled the entrance hall with warm, living light that made reality itself seem to pay attention to forces that existed beyond normal boundaries of possibility and appropriate response to crisis situations.

Dragon-Born stepped onto Xavier Institute grounds with movement that suggested barely contained power held in perfect control, emerald eyes blazing with determination that could reshape continental geography according to tactical requirements and moral imperatives that had been forged in circumstances most people couldn't survive intact.

The wings spread wide—vast constructs of crystallized thought and cosmic fire that caught every photon of available sunlight and transformed it into something magnificent and terrible that spoke to capabilities that could protect or destroy according to the conscious choice of someone who'd learned to wield power in service of principles that transcended personal interest or organizational loyalty.

With a sound like reality folding in on itself to accommodate forces that operated beyond conventional physics, Dragon-Born launched himself into the New York sky with acceleration that turned him into a streak of living light moving faster than human perception could track—heading toward coordinates where his friends faced dangers that were about to discover exactly why underestimating individuals with cosmic enhancement capabilities was always a tactical error of the highest magnitude.

The Brotherhood had planned for many contingencies.

They had not planned for Dragon-Born.

Chapter Text

BROOKLYN – INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT – MIDDAY

The first thing anyone within a three-block radius noticed wasn't the sight of him—it was the *sound*. Not an explosion, not the whistle of something plummeting from orbit at terminal velocity, but something far more unsettling: the sharp, surgical crack of reality itself developing stress fractures it had absolutely no business developing.

The sky didn't just tear—it *ripped*, like expensive fabric caught on a nail, revealing a brief glimpse of cosmic fire that belonged in creation myths rather than municipal emergency response protocols. The air itself seemed to recoil, making room for forces that operated according to principles that made local physics look like polite suggestions.

Then he materialized.

Dragon-Born hung suspended above Brooklyn's industrial chaos with the kind of theatrical presence that would make Shakespearean actors weep with professional inadequacy. Wings of pure psychic energy unfurled with magnificent precision—vast constructs of crystallized thought that caught every photon of available sunlight and transformed it into something that belonged in religious artwork rather than urban crisis management.

His armor blazed like liquid starlight given form and purpose, midnight black scales shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire that pulsed in rhythm with forces that existed beyond normal understanding of appropriate relationships between consciousness and reality. Each scale caught the afternoon sun and threw it back transformed, creating patterns of light that hurt to look at directly but were impossible to ignore.

For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, he simply existed there—a living icon suspended between heaven and earth, making both seem suddenly inadequate by comparison. The sun itself appeared to bend around him, as if even stellar fusion had decided to take notes on proper dramatic presentation.

Then gravity remembered it had a job to do, and Dragon-Born descended with the kind of controlled precision that made the concept of "falling" seem quaint.

---

Jean Grey crouched behind an overturned delivery truck, her auburn hair whipping in artificial winds as she pressed both hands against her temples with the kind of focused desperation that suggested someone fighting a battle on multiple fronts simultaneously. Sweat carved tracks down her cheeks despite the October chill, and her green eyes blazed with Phoenix fire carefully held in check while her telekinesis strained against seismic distortions that twisted her psychic reach like a knife.

"Come on, come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice carrying that particular note of frustrated determination that Holland Roden had perfected—equal parts stubborn intelligence and barely contained power. "Every time I stabilize the substrate, he shifts the frequency. It's like trying to build a house of cards during an earthquake that keeps changing the rules of architecture."

Fifty feet above, Storm floated with the serene grace of someone who'd learned to dance with atmospheric pressure and make hurricanes beg for permission. Her white hair moved in breezes that existed independently of local weather patterns, each strand catching light like spun silver while her dark eyes—Halle Berry's eyes, sharp with intelligence and barely contained elemental fury—tracked the chaos below with strategic precision.

"Jean," she called, her voice carrying across the industrial din with that musical accent that made even tactical communications sound like poetry, "he's not just countering us—he's predicting us. Every atmospheric adjustment I make, every pressure differential I establish, he's already compensating before I complete the manipulation."

Lightning cracked overhead in patterns that followed Storm's emotional state rather than meteorological logic, while the air around her shimmered with barely contained electrical potential that made every metal surface within a hundred yards hum with sympathetic resonance.

Their opponent stood at the intersection's center like some pale prophet of geological apocalypse, his thin frame belying the raw power that flowed through every gesture. Dominikos Petros looked exactly like David Mazouz would if someone had given him the ability to reshape continental foundations through conscious will—young, intense, with dark eyes that held the kind of calculating intelligence that came from understanding complex systems and finding joy in making them dance to his personal rhythm.

"You still don't understand, do you?" he called out with the particular brand of teenage arrogance that managed to sound both intellectually superior and emotionally fragile simultaneously. His voice cracked slightly on the higher notes—sixteen years old and trying to sound like he commanded tectonic plates rather than just borrowing their power for the afternoon.

Every movement of his pale hands sent tremors rippling through Brooklyn's substrate like he was conducting an orchestra of seismic forces. Asphalt buckled in geometric patterns that would make chaos theorists require therapeutic intervention. Buildings groaned in harmonics that suggested structural engineering principles were more like gentle guidelines. Water mains burst three blocks away, creating geysers that formed rainbow arcs in the afternoon sun.

"This isn't about beating you in some comic book showdown," Dominikos continued, his youthful features twisted with the kind of ideological fervor that made concerned parents schedule appointments with school counselors. "You're fighting me on your terms—telekinesis, weather control, all that superhero nonsense that depends on stability and predictable physics."

He gestured, and a crack opened in the street that spelled out "BROTHERHOOD" in letters twenty feet long, just in case anyone had missed the point about his organizational affiliations.

"But this city?" His smile carried that particular combination of intellectual pride and emotional instability that characterized teenagers who'd discovered they could reshape reality according to their personal grievances. "Brooklyn sits on bedrock that's been here longer than your entire species. It listens to me now. Every foundation, every support beam, every assumption about solid ground—all of it bends to geological authority that transcends your pathetic attempts at psychic control."

Jean snarled with frustration, her telekinetic shields flaring as another seismic wave tried to knock her off balance. "Smug little—" she started, then caught herself. Professional superhero behavior. Right. Even when dealing with teenagers whose understanding of property damage seemed limited to "other people's problem."

Storm's eyes flashed with literal lightning as atmospheric pressure shifted in response to her emotional state. "You sound remarkably proud of endangering thousands of innocent lives, child," she observed with that particular tone of maternal disappointment that could make seasoned criminals reconsider their life choices. "Does your cause truly justify such callous disregard for civilian welfare?"

Dominikos's expression darkened, his pale features shifting into something that suggested wounded pride and defensive anger. "Better than being Xavier's obedient little mutant pets, pretending baseline humans will ever accept us as anything more than useful freaks to be tolerated when convenient and eliminated when threatening!"

The ground beneath Storm's position suddenly liquefied, forcing her to adjust altitude while maintaining atmospheric coherence—exactly the kind of multi-tasking that made precision weather control nearly impossible under optimal conditions, much less during active geological warfare.

"You want to know what I'm really proud of?" Dominikos shouted, his young voice carrying across the chaos with the kind of desperate conviction that suggested someone trying to convince himself as much as his audience. "I'm proud that we're finally doing something instead of sitting in classrooms learning about peaceful coexistence while politicians draft registration laws and build Sentinel factories!"

That's when the sky cracked open like an egg, and everything changed.

---

Dragon-Born's landing was a masterclass in controlled devastation. He touched down at the intersection's exact center—not with the earth-shattering impact that most flying individuals produced when they forgot to account for momentum conservation and architectural courtesy, but with surgical precision that made gravity itself seem negotiable rather than mandatory.

The asphalt didn't crack, buckle, or explode into expensive repair bills that would haunt municipal budgets for years. Instead, it *reorganized*—a perfect circle of compressed earth radiating outward from the point of contact like Brooklyn's infrastructure had politely decided to make room for something that operated according to principles that transcended normal relationships between mass, velocity, and basic courtesy toward public works departments.

The seismic chaos stopped.

Not gradually. Not with the kind of slow stabilization that suggested natural processes returning to equilibrium. *Immediately*, as if the geological forces Dominikos had been orchestrating with such artistic precision had suddenly encountered something that made them remember their place in the cosmic hierarchy of Things That Should Not Be Casually Manipulated by Teenagers With Attitude Problems.

Dominikos froze mid-gesture, his smugness faltering as the aura hit him like a physical force.

It wasn't energy in any conventional sense. Not visible radiation, not psychic pressure that could be detected by scientific instruments or deflected through tactical applications of enhanced mental shielding. This was something deeper, older, infinitely more fundamental—the distilled essence of someone who'd stood before cosmic entities and negotiated terms, faced down genocidal maniacs as a hobby, and emerged from experiences that would traumatize lesser beings with nothing more than improved sarcasm and a documented tendency toward property damage.

The psychological impact was immediate and comprehensive. Every survival instinct Dominikos possessed triggered simultaneously, flooding his nervous system with chemical cascades that bypassed conscious thought and went straight to the parts of his brain responsible for recognizing when something existed so far beyond his operational parameters that resistance was not just futile but cosmically irrelevant.

His knees hit pavement with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested voluntary muscle control had become a secondary concern to the more pressing issue of not dying from proximity to something that treated reality like a set of guidelines rather than immutable laws.

"Bloody—" Dominikos whispered, the words torn from him by terror so primal it predated language, "bloody hell."

Jean blinked, her telekinetic struggles forgotten as she watched their opposition collapse like a marionette whose strings had been not just cut but incinerated by forces that made puppetry seem quaint. "What—what did you just *do*?"

Dragon-Born straightened with fluid grace that suggested every movement was choreographed by someone who understood that presence was just as important as power when it came to making lasting impressions on individuals whose career choices required immediate reconsideration.

His wings folded back with deliberate theatricality that would make Broadway directors weep with professional inadequacy, while his armor continued to blaze with inner light that transformed ordinary afternoon sunlight into something that belonged in religious iconography rather than urban emergency response.

When he spoke, his voice carried harmonics that made the air itself pay attention—not because of volume or artificial amplification, but because of the fundamental certainty that these words *mattered* in ways that transcended normal conversational priorities.

"Oh, nothing particularly dramatic," he said with the kind of casual understatement that could make interdimensional warfare sound like minor scheduling inconveniences, his British accent carrying just enough aristocratic precision to remind everyone present that they were dealing with someone whose educational background included both classical literature and advanced applications of cosmic horror management. "I simply provided our young geologist with a proper introduction to the concept of appropriate power scaling."

His emerald eyes—Henry Cavill's eyes, holding depths that suggested intelligence honed by experiences most people couldn't survive with their sanity intact—fixed on Dominikos with laser precision that made the boy flinch without any additional intimidation required.

"Good afternoon," Dragon-Born continued with perfectly polite courtesy, as if conducting social introductions rather than dominating teenage terrorists through applications of cosmic-level presence. "I'm Dragon-Born, recently of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, currently enrolled at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters, and professionally specialized in handling individuals who mistake seismic manipulation for genuine tactical advantage."

He tilted his head with the kind of aristocratic curiosity that suggested someone examining an interesting specimen that might prove educational if handled correctly. "And you are... dramatically over your head, I believe."

---

Dominikos tried to look away, but his gaze snapped back to Dragon-Born with the inevitability of iron filings drawn to an electromagnetic field that operated according to principles that made conventional physics look like amateur hour at the local community college.

His lips parted, words stumbling out with the kind of desperate honesty that bypassed all conscious filters and went straight to whatever parts of his brain were still functioning under the weight of cosmic-level intimidation. "I—I can't—how are you—"

"Correct on all counts," Dragon-Born interrupted with devastating politeness, his smile carrying that particular quality of British superiority that could make heads of state feel inadequate about their diplomatic credentials. "Though personally, I've always preferred complete sentences when conducting civilized conversation. They're rather more effective for communication purposes than stammering fragments that trail off into existential bewilderment."

He took a step closer—not threatening, just casual movement that somehow managed to make the space between them seem like a vast chasm that Dominikos would need several evolutionary leaps to successfully navigate.

"Though I suppose 'bloody hell' does capture the essential spirit of your current tactical situation with admirable economy of expression," Dragon-Born continued conversationally, as if discussing literature rather than psychological dominance through superior presence. "Very British, really. I approve of the linguistic influence, even if the delivery could use some work in the area of confident articulation."

Dominikos whimpered—actually *whimpered*—and the sound carried across Brooklyn's industrial landscape like a small animal discovering that apex predators existed and one of them had taken personal interest in his career choices.

Storm drifted down from her atmospheric command position with the kind of elemental grace that made weather patterns seem like extensions of her personal will, white hair shifting in breezes that carried the scent of ozone and controlled lightning. Her dark eyes—Halle Berry's eyes, sharp with intelligence and barely contained power—examined the tableau with professional assessment that carried undertones of impressed concern.

"That aura of yours," she observed with diplomatic precision, her musical accent adding harmonic depth to tactical evaluation, "it feels like standing in the eye of a hurricane that's considering whether to remain calm or demonstrate why meteorologists require extensive psychological counseling when dealing with weather phenomena that operate beyond conventional atmospheric physics."

Dragon-Born's expression brightened with the kind of pleased satisfaction that suggested someone receiving professional recognition for technical excellence in specialized fields that most people couldn't properly appreciate without advanced degrees in Applied Cosmic Horror Theory.

"How perceptive of you, Ororo," he replied with genuine warmth that somehow managed to maintain undertones of barely controlled forces that could reshape continental geography according to personal preference and tactical requirements. "It's all very carefully calibrated, I assure you. Think of it as... psychological aromatherapy with aggressive clinical applications."

His smile took on a sharper edge as he added with perfectly controlled British wit, "Therapeutic terror, if you will. Frightening in the immediate term, but ultimately beneficial for long-term behavioral modification and career planning consultation."

Jean approached with telekinetic assistance that made her movement appear effortlessly graceful, her auburn hair catching sunlight while her green eyes—Holland Roden's eyes, intelligent and determined with depths that spoke to Phoenix enhancement carefully held in check—sparkled with the kind of amusement that suggested someone discovering unexpected entertainment in what had been a thoroughly frustrating afternoon of geological warfare.

"Therapeutic?" she repeated with obvious skepticism, though her tone carried appreciation for creative approaches to conflict resolution that didn't require extensive property damage or insurance paperwork. "He looks like a rabbit that's just discovered pythons exist and one of them has developed personal interest in his continued existence."

She crouched slightly, examining Dominikos with telekinetic senses that painted comprehensive pictures of his psychological state, physiological stress responses, and immediate prospects for voluntary cooperation with reasonable requests regarding information sharing and behavioral modification.

"Complete systemic shutdown," she reported with clinical fascination. "Every fear response he possesses is active simultaneously. Fight, flight, freeze, fawn—all of them are firing at once, creating a feedback loop that's essentially locked his conscious decision-making capabilities in protective stasis."

Dragon-Born nodded with satisfaction that suggested someone whose professional competence in specialized fields had been properly recognized by qualified experts with appropriate educational credentials for psychological assessment under extreme circumstances.

"Rabbits can be rehabilitated," he observed with the kind of philosophical optimism that managed to sound both compassionate and vaguely threatening, depending on one's perspective regarding appropriate responses to systematic urban terrorism and creative infrastructure manipulation. "Provided they demonstrate sufficient intelligence to stop burrowing under other people's homes and threatening to bring down entire neighborhoods for the sake of dramatic political demonstrations and adolescent rebellion against authority figures who've never actually harmed them personally."

He stepped closer to Dominikos, movement casual but laden with implications that made the boy's survival instincts scream warnings about appropriate social distances when dealing with individuals whose presence could induce existential crisis and immediate reconsideration of fundamental assumptions about reality, power, and personal career planning.

"The key," Dragon-Born continued conversationally, "is helping them understand that there are more productive ways to express frustration with systematic oppression than causing geological emergencies that endanger thousands of innocent civilians who've never participated in mutant registration debates or Sentinel construction projects."

---

Dominikos managed a strangled protest that barely qualified as human speech, his young voice cracking with the kind of desperate defiance that characterized teenagers who'd discovered their rebellious gestures had attracted attention from forces that operated well beyond their understanding of appropriate power scaling and tactical engagement protocols.

"Y-you can't just—" he began, then stopped as Dragon-Born's emerald eyes fixed on him with laser precision that made finishing the sentence seem like a potentially hazardous undertaking.

"I can't just what?" Dragon-Born inquired with perfect politeness, crouching slightly to meet the boy at eye level while maintaining the kind of aristocratic composure that suggested someone conducting academic consultation rather than psychological warfare through strategic applications of cosmic-level intimidation. "Arrive in Brooklyn without filing proper flight plans with municipal aviation authorities? Demonstrate superior tactical capabilities while maintaining appropriate concern for civilian safety and property damage minimization?"

His tone carried that particular brand of British intellectual superiority that could make university professors feel inadequate about their doctoral dissertations while somehow managing to sound genuinely interested in the educational value of their current conversation.

"Perhaps you meant to suggest I can't neutralize systematic urban terrorism through applications of cosmically enhanced presence while maintaining perfect courtesy and appropriate respect for due process?" Dragon-Born continued with devastating reasonableness. "Because I rather think I just did exactly that, with considerably more style and significantly less collateral damage than your geological temper tantrum was producing."

He paused, tilting his head with the kind of curious expression that suggested someone examining a particularly interesting academic problem that might yield valuable insights if approached with proper intellectual rigor.

"Or possibly you were going to object that I can't read your tactical methodology like it's the Sunday crossword puzzle?" Dragon-Born added with obvious satisfaction at his own analytical capabilities. "Because my dear boy, your entire approach to seismic manipulation follows patterns that would make military strategists require extensive therapeutic intervention. Predictable frequency modulation, compensatory resonance techniques that depend on environmental stability, and emotional regulation issues that make your geological control directly proportional to your psychological state."

Dominikos's eyes widened with the kind of horrified recognition that came from discovering that professionals in specialized fields possessed analytical capabilities that extended well beyond what textbooks typically covered in introductory courses on Advanced Supervillain Methodology.

"You—you studied me?" he whispered with the kind of wounded pride that suggested someone whose self-image as a tactical genius was undergoing rapid and comprehensive revision based on educational experiences that exceeded his preparation for real-world applications of criminal enterprise.

Dragon-Born's smile could have powered several city blocks while simultaneously causing diplomatic incidents through sheer radiative charm. "Studied? My dear child, I *diagnosed* you. Complete psychological profile, tactical assessment, capability limitations, and recommended therapeutic interventions for addressing the underlying emotional issues that led to your association with organizations whose approach to social change prioritizes dramatic gestures over sustainable political methodology."

He stood with fluid grace that made the simple movement appear choreographed by someone who understood that physical presence was just as important as intellectual superiority when it came to making lasting impressions on individuals whose worldviews required immediate adjustment.

"Abandonment issues stemming from parental rejection of mutant abilities, inadequate social integration due to geographical isolation in communities that lack appropriate support systems for enhanced individuals, and academic frustration based on educational environments that couldn't accommodate your intellectual capabilities or provide appropriate outlets for your technical interests in geological engineering," Dragon-Born continued with clinical precision that would make psychiatrists weep with professional envy.

"Combined with adolescent rebellion against authority figures who never learned to distinguish between legitimate grievances and systematic criminal behavior, ideological vulnerability to recruitment by organizations that validate your sense of specialness while providing structured outlets for antisocial tendencies, and tactical overconfidence based on limited exposure to individuals whose capabilities operate beyond conventional superhero power scaling."

Jean whistled with obvious appreciation for comprehensive psychological assessment conducted under field conditions while maintaining tactical superiority over opposition forces. "That's... remarkably thorough for someone you met thirty seconds ago."

"Phoenix enhancement includes certain analytical advantages," Dragon-Born explained with modest pride in professional competence, his emerald eyes still tracking Dominikos's physiological responses while processing additional data through methods that operated beyond conventional observation and into territory requiring cosmic-level perception enhancement. "Pattern recognition, psychological profiling, tactical assessment, and comprehensive threat evaluation—all available in real-time through sensory capabilities that make standard intelligence gathering look like guesswork conducted by enthusiastic amateurs."

Storm nodded with that combination of elemental grace and strategic appreciation that characterized her approach to complex tactical situations involving individuals whose capabilities required careful management to prevent atmospheric disturbances and potential weather-related civilian casualties.

"The question now," she observed with diplomatic precision, "is whether our young geologist would prefer to provide information about Brotherhood operational planning through voluntary cooperation, or whether he requires additional educational experiences involving cosmic-level intimidation and systematic demonstration of why challenging individuals with stellar-class capabilities is generally considered poor tactical planning by anyone with survival instincts and basic pattern recognition abilities."

Her voice carried just enough electrical potential to make the air around them hum with barely contained lightning, while her dark eyes suggested someone who'd learned to balance maternal concern with tactical necessity when dealing with enhanced individuals whose choices could affect civilian safety and municipal infrastructure stability.

Dominikos looked between them with the kind of desperate calculation that characterized cornered animals evaluating escape routes while gradually recognizing that all available options involved significant personal risk and probable failure to achieve desired outcomes.

"I—" he started, then stopped as Dragon-Born raised one eyebrow with aristocratic precision that somehow managed to convey both curiosity and polite threat assessment in a single facial expression.

"Yes?" Dragon-Born prompted with encouraging courtesy, as if conducting academic discussion rather than extracting intelligence from teenage terrorists through strategic applications of psychological pressure and cosmic-level presence. "Please, continue. I find myself genuinely curious about your perspective on current tactical circumstances and potential approaches to resolving this situation through methods that prioritize everyone's continued wellbeing and appropriate respect for municipal property values."

---

Jean folded her arms across her chest with telekinetic assistance that made even casual gestures appear coordinated and purposeful, her auburn hair catching afternoon light while her expression settled into something that Holland Roden would have recognized as intelligent amusement tinged with protective concern for individuals whose circumstances had become more complicated than they'd probably anticipated when making career choices regarding adolescent rebellion and systematic urban disruption.

"He does have a point about the geological tantrum," she observed with that particular combination of academic assessment and friendly mockery that characterized her approach to educational discussions involving enhanced individuals and creative applications of supernatural capabilities for antisocial purposes. "Very dramatic, lots of visual impact, certainly made an impression on local emergency response systems and municipal engineering departments."

Her green eyes sparkled with Phoenix fire carefully held in check as she continued, "Though I have to say, the execution showed some serious gaps in strategic planning. All that seismic manipulation, and you didn't consider that someone might arrive whose capabilities operate outside normal parameters for superhero power scaling and conventional approaches to geological warfare?"

Dominikos shot her a glare that would have been significantly more effective if it hadn't been immediately undermined by the fact that he was still kneeling on Brooklyn asphalt while experiencing the kind of existential terror that made career counseling seem like an urgent priority rather than optional educational service.

"Easy for you to say," he managed with wounded pride that carried undertones of teenage frustration at being lectured by individuals whose tactical competence exceeded his own despite their obvious allegiance to institutional authority and peaceful coexistence initiatives that he'd been taught to regard as naive collaboration with systematic oppression.

"You're Phoenix," he continued with growing defiance that suggested either admirable courage or spectacular failure to properly assess his current tactical circumstances. "Omega-level telekinetic with cosmic enhancement and enough raw power to reshape continental geography if you ever stop holding back for moral reasons and civilian safety protocols."

His voice took on that particular tone of intellectual challenge that teenagers used when they'd discovered academic concepts that made them feel superior to adult authority figures who obviously hadn't considered all the implications of complex philosophical positions regarding appropriate responses to systematic discrimination and governmental overreach.

"Of course seismic manipulation looks primitive to someone who can manipulate matter at the molecular level and generate forces that operate beyond conventional physics," Dominikos added with the kind of bitter recognition that came from discovering that impressive abilities were always relative to the opposition one encountered during practical applications of criminal enterprise and systematic infrastructure disruption.

Storm's eyebrows rose with elemental grace that made even subtle facial expressions appear coordinated with atmospheric pressure changes and electromagnetic field fluctuations that suggested her emotional state was directly connected to weather patterns across several zip codes.

"Sophisticated tactical analysis," she observed with diplomatic appreciation for intellectual capabilities that transcended simple criminal motivation and suggested educational potential that could be redirected toward more constructive applications given appropriate guidance and institutional support. "You've clearly studied our operational capabilities and individual limitations with considerable attention to detail."

Her musical accent added depth to strategic assessment as she continued, "Though your research appears to have significant gaps regarding individuals whose capabilities operate outside standard X-Men tactical doctrine and conventional approaches to enhanced individual management during crisis situations involving systematic urban terrorism."

Dragon-Born straightened with aristocratic satisfaction that suggested someone whose professional competence had been properly recognized by qualified experts with appropriate credentials for evaluating tactical methodology and strategic planning under circumstances that regularly challenged conventional understanding of superhero operational protocols.

"Rather flattering, actually," he said with obvious pleasure at receiving comprehensive threat assessment from opposition forces, his British accent carrying just enough pride to make academic recognition of his capabilities seem like validation of educational achievements and cosmic enhancement rather than simple intimidation through superior presence. "It's always gratifying to discover that one's reputation has preceded one's actual arrival on the tactical scene."

He moved with fluid precision that made casual gestures appear choreographed for maximum dramatic impact while maintaining perfect courtesy and appropriate concern for the psychological wellbeing of individuals whose circumstances had become significantly more complicated than their organizational training had probably covered in standard Brotherhood recruitment and indoctrination programs.

"Though I must point out that your intelligence gathering appears to have been conducted by individuals whose understanding of cosmic enhancement and interdimensional education operates within rather limited parameters," Dragon-Born continued conversationally, as if discussing academic research methodologies rather than addressing systematic failures in enemy reconnaissance and threat assessment protocols.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he explained with the kind of casual reference that made magical education sound like standard curriculum rather than specialized training in reality manipulation and systematic preparation for warfare against genocidal maniacs with delusions of racial superiority. "Five years of intensive education in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Advanced Combat Transfiguration, and Practical Applications of Lethal Magic Under Extreme Pressure."

His emerald eyes took on depths that spoke to experiences most people couldn't survive without extensive therapeutic intervention and possibly pharmaceutical assistance for managing post-traumatic stress responses to systematic attempts at teenage mortality by individuals whose creative approaches to mass murder would make military strategists require career counseling.

"Followed by recent cosmic enhancement by entities whose names include 'Death' and 'Phoenix Force,' resulting in abilities that operate beyond normal mutant classifications and into territory requiring entirely new assessment categories for individuals whose capabilities transcend conventional understanding of appropriate power scaling and tactical engagement protocols."

The casual mention of being personally educated by anthropomorphic concepts and cosmic entities made Dominikos's psychological stress responses undergo additional deterioration as he processed information suggesting that his current tactical situation involved individuals whose background experiences operated outside any reasonable preparation for criminal enterprise or adolescent rebellion against institutional authority.

"So to summarize," Dragon-Born continued with devastating politeness, "your seismic manipulation—impressive though it undoubtedly is from a technical perspective—represents exactly the kind of specialized capability that my educational background was specifically designed to counter through comprehensive training in neutralizing individuals whose supernatural abilities pose systematic threats to civilian safety and governmental stability."

He crouched again, meeting Dominikos at eye level while maintaining the kind of aristocratic courtesy that suggested someone conducting academic consultation rather than psychological warfare through strategic applications of cosmic-level intimidation and reality-altering presence.

"The question now, my dear young geologist," Dragon-Born said with warm reasonableness that somehow managed to carry undertones of forces that could reshape local geography according to personal preference and tactical necessity, "is whether you'd prefer to discuss Brotherhood operational planning through civilized conversation over afternoon tea, or whether you require additional demonstrations of why challenging individuals with stellar-class capabilities is generally considered a strategic error of the highest magnitude by anyone with survival instincts and basic understanding of appropriate risk assessment methodologies."

---

Jean approached with telekinetic grace that made her movement appear effortless while her enhanced senses painted comprehensive pictures of psychological stress patterns, physiological responses, and immediate prospects for voluntary cooperation from individuals whose tactical circumstances had deteriorated beyond all reasonable parameters for successful criminal enterprise.

"His terror responses are actually stabilizing now," she reported with clinical fascination that carried undertones of professional appreciation for psychological techniques that achieved tactical objectives without requiring extensive medical intervention or federal incident reporting procedures. "Complete submission, but not traumatic breakdown. Whatever you're projecting, it's calibrated to ensure compliance without permanent psychological damage."

Her green eyes—Holland Roden's eyes, intelligent and determined with depths that spoke to Phoenix enhancement carefully controlled for therapeutic rather than destructive applications—examined Dominikos with the kind of comprehensive assessment that suggested someone evaluating rehabilitation potential rather than simply cataloguing enemy capabilities for future tactical planning.

"Impressive precision," Jean continued with genuine admiration for technical excellence in specialized fields that most superhero training programs didn't cover in standard curriculum regarding appropriate responses to enhanced individuals with criminal backgrounds and ideological commitments to systematic social transformation through direct action. "Most intimidation techniques produce either insufficient compliance or excessive psychological trauma requiring extensive therapeutic intervention."

Dragon-Born's expression brightened with pleased satisfaction at receiving professional recognition from qualified experts whose credentials in psychological evaluation and enhanced individual management were well-established through years of practical experience and successful tactical applications under circumstances that regularly challenged conventional understanding of appropriate superhero methodology.

"One of the more useful enhancements I received during cosmic remodeling," he explained with modest pride in technical competence, his voice carrying harmonics that suggested supernatural capabilities held in careful check for educational rather than destructive purposes. "Rather like having a weaponized Dementor for a housepet, except with better behavioral controls and significantly fewer complications regarding legal authorization for psychological manipulation of hostile individuals."

Storm's white hair shifted in breezes that carried the scent of approaching weather changes and controlled electromagnetic phenomena as she examined their tactical situation with elemental grace and strategic awareness that encompassed both immediate concerns and long-term implications for civilian safety and municipal infrastructure stability.

"The atmospheric distortions have completely settled," she observed with professional satisfaction at efficient crisis resolution, her musical accent adding harmonic depth to tactical assessment. "No residual seismic activity, no geological instability, no secondary effects that would require federal emergency management coordination or extensive insurance paperwork for property damage claims."

Her dark eyes reflected afternoon sunlight while processing implications that extended beyond simple conflict resolution into territory requiring careful consideration of individual rehabilitation potential and appropriate institutional responses to enhanced individuals whose circumstances had become complicated through association with organizations advocating systematic challenge to governmental authority and peaceful coexistence initiatives.

"Though I suspect," Storm added thoughtfully, "that local emergency response systems will require comprehensive briefing regarding the appearance of Dragon-Born and his tactical capabilities, assuming we want to avoid federal incident reports that classify today's events as potential extraterrestrial contact or cosmic-level threat assessment requiring international coordination and extensive oversight committee involvement."

Dragon-Born nodded with aristocratic appreciation for strategic thinking that encompassed both immediate tactical concerns and long-term implications for institutional relationships with government agencies whose interest in enhanced individuals often exceeded their respect for constitutional protections and civil liberties.

"Quite right," he agreed with obvious satisfaction at working with individuals whose professional competence extended beyond simple superhero methodology into comprehensive crisis management and diplomatic coordination with authorities whose motivations required careful evaluation and strategic management.

His emerald eyes blazed with inner fire that spoke to cosmic forces carefully held in check while his wings began to unfurl with magnificent precision that filled Brooklyn's industrial landscape with warm, living light that made observers instinctively understand they were witnessing something that operated beyond normal boundaries of possibility and appropriate municipal emergency response protocols.

"Jean, Storm," he continued with perfectly coordinated authority and genuine appreciation for tactical partnership, "I trust you can handle extraction procedures and coordinate with local authorities regarding our young friend's immediate future and potential educational opportunities that might prove more constructive than systematic urban terrorism and creative geological manipulation for political demonstration purposes?"

He gestured elegantly toward Dominikos, who remained kneeling in his circle of perfectly reorganized asphalt while processing career choices that might prove less likely to result in encounters with individuals whose casual presence could induce existential terror and immediate reconsideration of fundamental assumptions about power, authority, and appropriate responses to adolescent rebellion against systematic oppression.

"I believe Mr. Petros will prove remarkably cooperative regarding intelligence about Brotherhood strategic planning and organizational capabilities," Dragon-Born added with obvious confidence in his psychological assessment and tactical methodology for ensuring voluntary compliance from individuals whose circumstances had become significantly more complicated than their recruitment training had probably covered. "Particularly if approached through educational consultation rather than interrogation procedures that might complicate his potential rehabilitation and future integration into institutional environments that prioritize peaceful coexistence over systematic social transformation through direct action."

Storm's smile carried that combination of elemental grace and maternal warmth that characterized her approach to enhanced individuals whose capabilities required careful guidance rather than simple containment or punitive response to criminal behavior involving supernatural abilities and creative infrastructure manipulation.

"Of course," she agreed with musical precision, atmospheric pressure changes reflecting her emotional satisfaction at efficient crisis resolution and comprehensive tactical victory that minimized civilian casualties while maximizing intelligence gathering opportunities and potential rehabilitation outcomes. "Local authorities will appreciate having clear parameters for processing individuals whose abilities operate beyond conventional law enforcement capabilities and standard judicial procedures for handling criminal behavior involving enhanced individuals."

Jean nodded with telekinetic assistance that made even casual gestures appear coordinated and purposeful, her Phoenix enhancement carefully held in check while her strategic thinking encompassed both immediate tactical requirements and long-term implications for individual welfare and institutional relationships with government agencies whose oversight responsibilities often conflicted with educational mission and constitutional protections.

"The psychological advantage should maintain his cooperation for several hours," she observed with clinical precision, "assuming he doesn't decide to test whether Dragon-Born maintains ongoing surveillance of local Brotherhood activity through methods that extend beyond conventional monitoring and into territory requiring cosmic-level perception enhancement and systematic threat assessment capabilities."

Dragon-Born spread his wings to full magnificent extension, psychic energy catching every photon of available sunlight and transforming it into radiance that made reality itself seem to pay attention to forces that operated according to principles that transcended normal understanding of appropriate relationships between consciousness, power, and municipal crisis management.

"Excellent," he said with obvious satisfaction at comprehensive tactical coordination and professional competence that exceeded standard superhero operational protocols through superior planning, individual capability assessment, and strategic thinking that encompassed both immediate objectives and long-term implications for civilian safety and institutional relationships with federal oversight agencies.

With fluid precision that made gravity appear negotiable rather than mandatory, Dragon-Born lifted off from Brooklyn's industrial landscape with acceleration that turned him into a streak of living light moving faster than human perception could track while maintaining perfect control and appropriate concern for atmospheric disturbance that might affect local weather patterns or civilian aircraft operating under standard municipal aviation regulations.

"Two more locations requiring attention," he called back as he curved toward Manhattan airspace with velocity that defied several fundamental assumptions about appropriate relationships between mass, acceleration, and basic courtesy toward sound barriers in populated urban areas. "Try not to let our young geologist recover his confidence before backup arrives. Educational experiences involving cosmic-level intimidation tend to be more effective when reinforced through consistent institutional messaging rather than allowing individuals to rationalize their encounters as temporary psychological aberrations rather than permanent adjustments to their understanding of appropriate power hierarchies."

The sound of his passage tore through Brooklyn's industrial atmosphere with harmonics that suggested cosmic forces learning to appreciate urban aerodynamics while maintaining consideration for civilian populations and municipal noise ordinances

Chapter Text

MANHATTAN – FINANCIAL DISTRICT – DAY

The Financial District looked like Salvador Dalí had collaborated with a demolitions expert who'd majored in abstract expressionism. Spiraling flames danced across marble facades in perfect mathematical sequences, spelling out increasingly creative profanities in at least six dead languages. Security shutters hung in twisted ribbons of metal, as if someone had decided bank vaults were merely suggestions. Priceless artifacts, cutting-edge technology, and enough jewelry to make Tiffany's weep had vanished into silver streaks that made cheetahs look like they were moving through molasses.

Scott Summers crouched behind an overturned NYPD cruiser, his ruby quartz visor gleaming as he tracked movement through the chaos. The task was proving monumentally difficult, considering his target seemed to exist in approximately seventeen different locations simultaneously, each one more smugly Australian than the last.

High above the carnage, a voice rang out with the cocky drawl of someone who'd clearly never met a consequence he couldn't outrun:

"Bloody hell, mate! You move slower than my gran after she's had her Sunday roast and three pints! And she's been dead for fifteen years!"

Scott's jaw tightened with the kind of precision that suggested years of practice. "He's deliberately taunting us. Psychological warfare."

From across the street, crouched behind a fire hydrant that had been transformed into what could generously be called a "flame sculpture" (and more accurately described as "artistic arson"), Logan bared his teeth in a grin that promised violence. His enhanced senses were working overtime, nostrils flaring as his adamantium claws extended with their signature *snikkt* sound—a noise that had become the last thing many unfortunate souls ever heard.

"Kid's paintin' targets all over downtown, and you're sittin' there doin' math homework, Summers," Logan growled, jabbing a claw toward the fresh scorch mark where Scott's latest optic blast had carved a perfectly straight line through a marble bank facade. "Keep carvin' up the architecture like that, and Charles is gonna get a bill that'll make the national debt look reasonable."

"I'm calculating trajectory vectors and accounting for his acceleration patterns," Scott replied with the patience of a man explaining quantum physics to a particularly stubborn toddler. "Unlike some people, I don't solve problems by stabbing them."

Logan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Hey, stabbin' works. It's reliable. It's simple. And it doesn't leave fancy laser graffiti all over historic landmarks."

"That's not how optic blasts work, Logan."

"Whatever, boy scout."

Another silver blur tore through the intersection with the subtlety of a hurricane, whipping up debris, scattered papers, and what appeared to be someone's expensive briefcase. Pietro Maximoff materialized for exactly 0.3 seconds—long enough to flash an insufferably cocky grin, shout something that was definitely not suitable for daytime television in what sounded like Romanian, and vanish again before the sound waves had even finished propagating.

His laughter echoed off the glass canyon walls of Wall Street like some demented pinball.

"Laser-eyes!" Pietro's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Twenty-three minutes now, mate, and the best you've managed is what—one cracked sidewalk tile and a very confused pigeon? Meanwhile, I've literally spelled out my entire Wikipedia page in light trails across the Stock Exchange building! Check the security cameras—I even included footnotes!"

Scott tracked left, fired a precise beam, and watched it pass harmlessly through empty air. Again.

Logan winced visibly. "Kid's faster than Kurt, and at least Elf has the common courtesy to smell like sulfur before he teleports behind ya and scares the crap outta you."

"I'm adapting to his movement patterns," Scott insisted, though his voice carried the edge of someone whose confidence was beginning to develop hairline cracks. "He has tells. Behavioral predictabilities."

"Patterns?" Pietro's voice burst from somewhere near the top of a sixty-story office building, followed immediately by the sound of every window in the structure rattling in harmonic resonance. "Oh, laser-brain, the only pattern here is you missing me by entire city blocks while I turn your insurance premiums into a mathematical impossibility!"

Before Scott could formulate a sufficiently withering response, the fires suddenly flared higher—brilliant reds bleeding into molten golds and impossible blues that burned in spirals defying at least three laws of thermodynamics. From his perch in a shattered office window forty floors up, John Allerdyce leaned out with the expression of a kid who'd just discovered that the family Christmas tree was surprisingly flammable.

"Getting a bit bored down there, boys!" John called out, his Australian accent thick with amusement. "Thought we'd spice things up a notch! How about a proper race? Laser beams versus Speedy Gonzales here breaking the sound barrier! Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!"

A controlled explosion bloomed across three building facades—carefully calculated to avoid casualties but produce maximum dramatic effect. The skyline shimmered like a Pink Floyd concert designed by a physicist with delusions of grandeur.

Logan's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "They've been choreographin' this whole damn thing. Every counter-move, every dodge, every smart-ass comment. This ain't random chaos—this is a performance."

Scott nodded grimly, his tactical mind finally piecing together the broader picture. "Reconnaissance operation. They're mapping our response patterns, testing our capabilities. This has Magneto's fingerprints all over it."

"Ding ding ding!" Pietro shouted gleefully as he zipped by close enough to ruffle Scott's hair. "Congratulations, cyclops! You win tonight's grand prize—total humiliation broadcast in glorious 4K resolution across seventeen different social media platforms!"

And then—

The sky cracked.

Reality folded in on itself with the sound of thunder being personally offended and the cosmic sigh of a divine being who'd grown thoroughly tired of watching teenagers show off.

---

Dragon-Born appeared above the chaos like an avenging angel who'd been briefed by both MI6 and the Archangel Gabriel on how to make an entrance that would be remembered until the heat death of the universe. His armor caught the afternoon sunlight streaming between Manhattan's glass towers and transformed it into something that existed in the space between divine radiance and an intimidation tactic stolen directly from God's personal playbook.

He didn't descend gracefully. He didn't float down with measured control.

He dropped like a meteor with a British accent and a personal vendetta against gravity.

The impact cratered Wall Street in a perfect circle of mathematical precision. Concrete rippled outward in neat, concentric rings as if Manhattan had politely decided to rearrange its molecular structure to accommodate his boots. Glass facades sang in harmonic resonance, skyscrapers humming like tuning forks struck by a titan. Somewhere in the distance, an entire flock of pigeons voiced their objections in what could only be described as avian profanity.

But nobody was looking at the crater.

Everyone was staring at Pietro.

---

Pietro had been in the middle of another arrogant blur, darting forward with the cocky confidence of someone who'd spent his entire life being literally untouchable. His smirk promised the kind of devastation that came with superhuman speed and an ego to match. He'd outmaneuvered Cyclops, made Wolverine look slow, and turned the entire Financial District into his personal playground.

He tried to dash past Dragon-Born.

And stopped.

Not slowed. Not redirected. Not diverted by some clever tactical maneuver.

Just... stopped. Suspended in mid-air like a cartoon character who'd run off a cliff and was taking a moment to contemplate the fundamental unfairness of physics.

His face cycled through a fascinating array of expressions—confusion, disbelief, dawning horror, and finally pure, undiluted panic as his legs continued twitching with residual momentum while reality calmly informed him that Dragon-Born's presence had apparently overruled several important laws of physics.

He dropped like a stone. Hard.

Flat on his back, arms and legs splayed at undignified angles, staring up at the sky with the expression of someone whose entire worldview had just been introduced to a sledgehammer.

"What the actual fuck," Pietro gasped, his voice cracking with disbelief. His accent thickened as shock crashed through his system like a bucket of ice water. "What—what did you—that's not—that's not bloody possible!"

Dragon-Born stood over him, completely unruffled, adjusting one gauntlet with the casual precision of a gentleman fixing his cufflinks before an important meeting. He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, then let his emerald gaze sweep across the devastated skyline with the bored expression of a building inspector who'd seen it all before.

Finally—finally—he looked down at the speedster sprawled at his feet.

"Language," he said in that devastatingly smooth British baritone that could have made tax law sound seductive. "There are impressionable children watching this unfold, undoubtedly streaming our little performance on seventeen different social media platforms. We must set an example."

The silence stretched for a moment before Pietro found his voice again. "But... but I'm fast. I'm really, really fast. That's literally my entire thing!"

Dragon-Born's mouth curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile—the kind of expression that made strong men reconsider their life choices. "Yes, I imagine you are. Relatively speaking."

---

From his elevated perch, John Allerdyce whistled appreciatively. "Well, that's definitely not in any of our intelligence reports. Pietro, mate—you still breathing down there?"

Pietro raised one trembling hand in what might have been a thumbs up or possibly a desperate plea for medical attention. "I'm... I'm reconsidering my career choices."

Dragon-Born turned his attention to the pyrokinetic, his emerald gaze fixing on John's fiery perch with the intensity of a laser guidance system. His tone remained conversational, almost warm—which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying.

"John Allerdyce," he said, pronouncing each syllable with the precision of someone reading from a particularly comprehensive dossier. "Born in Adelaide, South Australia. Demonstrated pyrokinetic abilities at age fourteen after an unfortunate incident involving the school chemistry lab. Creative tendencies, questionable taste in shirts, and a disturbing habit of mistaking arson for artistic expression."

John's flames flickered uncertainly. "How do you—"

"I do so admire your work," Dragon-Born continued, his voice carrying that distinctly British talent for making compliments sound like elegant insults. "The Fibonacci sequence rendered in flame jets was particularly inspired. Though I must say, the overall execution was rather... quaint."

John's face flushed red beneath his shock of blonde hair. "Quaint?! I just turned half of Wall Street into my personal canvas!"

Dragon-Born tilted his head with the kind of polite interest one might show to a child's crayon drawing. "Darling, I've stood in the nuclear furnace of stars and watched galaxies being born. What you've accomplished here is essentially waving a scented candle at a supernova."

Logan barked out a laugh, cigar smoke curling from the corner of his mouth in lazy spirals. "Oh, I definitely like this one."

Scott, still crouched behind the police cruiser, shook his head in exasperation. "Could we perhaps focus on the tactical situation?"

"Scott," Logan replied without taking his eyes off Dragon-Born, "sometimes you gotta appreciate artistry when you see it."

Dragon-Born spread his wings just enough to create a subtle change in air pressure, every piece of glass in a three-block radius humming in sympathetic vibration. When he spoke again, his voice carried with the authority of natural law itself.

"Now then, gentlemen. We find ourselves at what you might call a crossroads. We can proceed down one of two paths." His smile was dazzling, terrible, and absolutely sincere. "Path one: you cooperate fully, share all relevant Brotherhood operational intelligence over what I'm told is quite excellent tea at a lovely little café I know in SoHo."

John swallowed hard. "And path two?"

Dragon-Born's smile widened, and for a moment, the air around him shimmered with barely contained power. "Path two involves me demonstrating just how creatively I can interpret the phrase 'enhanced interrogation techniques' when dealing with individuals who've decided to waste my perfectly good afternoon."

Pietro's hand shot up from ground level like a student desperate to answer a question before the teacher could call on someone else. "Path one! Path one sounds brilliant! Absolutely fantastic! Ten out of ten, would recommend to friends!"

"Excellent choice," Dragon-Born said, his tone shifting back to warm approval. "I do so appreciate reasonable people."

---

Scott emerged from behind the overturned cruiser, his tactical mind already processing the implications. "Dragon-Born, this wasn't random. They've been systematically testing our response patterns, mapping our capabilities and weaknesses."

Logan nodded, his claws sliding back into his hands with their characteristic metallic whisper. "Brotherhood intelligence operation. Magneto's making a statement—seeing how we handle their new recruits, testing response times."

"More than that," Dragon-Born said, his expression growing serious as he studied the patterns of destruction around them. "They wanted to observe my response specifically. How I engage, what methods I employ, what limitations I might have." His emerald eyes flashed with something that might have been amusement or might have been danger. "They've just learned that I have very few limitations indeed."

John, still perched in his window but now conspicuously flame-free, called down nervously. "Look, we were just following orders, yeah? Nobody said anything about... whatever you are."

"I'm exactly what I appear to be," Dragon-Born replied, his voice carrying undertones of ancient power. "A dragon who's decided that your particular brand of chaos is bad for property values and worse for civilian morale."

Pietro struggled to sit up, his usually perfect silver hair now disheveled and sticking up at odd angles. "Dragon? Like, actual dragon? I thought that was just a code name!"

"Oh, it's quite literal, I'm afraid." Dragon-Born's wings rustled slightly, golden fire dancing along their edges. "Though I do appreciate the dramatic irony of a speedster being stopped in his tracks by someone whose species is typically associated with sitting on treasure hoards for centuries at a time."

Logan chuckled, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "Kid's got a point there, Quicksilver. Maybe consider a career change."

"I'm having an existential crisis here," Pietro muttered, staring at his hands as if they'd personally betrayed him. "Everything I thought I knew about physics is apparently wrong."

"Physics," Dragon-Born said with the tone of someone explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student, "is more of a guideline than a rule when you operate at my level. Think of it as... cosmic suggestions."

Scott adjusted his visor, his tactical brain filing away every detail for later analysis. "What's Magneto planning? This level of coordination, the specific targeting of Manhattan's financial sector..."

"Erik's always had a flair for the theatrical," Dragon-Born mused, then looked directly at John. "I believe our pyrokinetic friend here was about to share some insights into Brotherhood operational planning. Weren't you, John?"

John glanced down at Pietro, who was nodding frantically from his position on the cratered pavement, then back at Dragon-Born's expectant expression. The flames around his hands flickered and died completely.

"Right, well, when you put it like that..."

---

Twenty minutes later, after John had provided a surprisingly comprehensive overview of Brotherhood reconnaissance protocols and Pietro had confirmed details about their coordination with Magneto's larger strategic objectives, Dragon-Born stood at the edge of his impact crater like a general surveying a successful campaign.

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing Scott and Logan with the kind of professional respect reserved for fellow warriors, "I leave our talkative friends in your capable hands. Do try not to let them wander off—they have a distressing tendency to disappear when one's attention is elsewhere."

Scott nodded formally. "We'll handle the extraction and debriefing. Professor Xavier will want to analyze this intelligence personally."

"Give Charles my regards," Dragon-Born said, then turned his attention skyward. "And do tell him that his chess game has improved considerably since our last match. I actually had to think for three entire moves."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "You know Chuck?"

"We've had occasion to discuss matters of mutual interest," Dragon-Born replied diplomatically. "Brilliant mind. Terrible taste in tea, but nobody's perfect."

With that, he spread his wings wide, golden fire igniting along their length like controlled lightning. The air itself seemed to bend around him as he lifted off, rising into the Manhattan sky with the grace of something that had never quite agreed with gravity in the first place.

Pietro lay on the pavement, staring upward at the rapidly diminishing figure, his worldview in complete tatters around him. "That... that was definitely not in our tactical briefing."

John sighed deeply, running his hands through his blonde hair in frustration. "Mate, I think we might have seriously underestimated the opposition here."

Scott stood up, straightening his uniform with military precision. "That's the first accurate assessment either of you has made all day."

Logan just chuckled, pulling out a fresh cigar and lighting it with a theatrical flourish. "Welcome to the big leagues, kids. Population: everyone who ain't fast enough to outrun a dragon."

High above them, Dragon-Born's laughter echoed off the glass towers of Manhattan—warm, rich, and utterly confident. In the distance, sirens wailed as emergency services began the long process of explaining to their insurance companies exactly how one quantifies "dragon-related infrastructure damage."

It was, by all accounts, just another Tuesday in the life of the X-Men.

Except for the dragon.

That was definitely new.

---

QUEENSBORO BRIDGE – AFTERNOON

The Queensboro Bridge had been transformed from a functional piece of civil engineering into what could charitably be described as "abstract expressionism meets catastrophic structural failure." Steel girders twisted into impossible geometries that would have made M.C. Escher weep with either admiration or existential terror. Suspension cables draped across the East River like the world's most expensive wind chimes, and the asphalt deck now featured a ripple pattern that strongly suggested the laws of physics had taken an unauthorized coffee break.

Urban planning committees would later debate whether to classify it as "revolutionary commentary on transportation infrastructure" or "compelling evidence for mandatory mental health evaluations in the engineering profession."

At the epicenter of this architectural apocalypse sat Frederick J. Dukes—better known to law enforcement databases, insurance adjusters, and anyone unfortunate enough to share a subway car with him as "The Blob." His immense bulk radiated the kind of geological permanence usually reserved for continental drift. He'd arranged himself against a twisted support beam with the satisfied air of a man who'd found the perfect spot to ruin everyone's day, arms crossed over his massive chest, grinning like a kid who'd just figured out how to break every toy in the store simultaneously.

The bridge groaned beneath him with the resignation of steel that had clearly been considering a career change.

"Bloody magnificent, innit?" Fred bellowed cheerfully, his voice carrying with the authority of a stadium announcer who'd recently discovered the joys of public disruption. "Prime real estate, this! Got meself a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, a free symphony of car horns in B-flat minor, and I'm personally responsible for ruining the commute of roughly three hundred thousand wage slaves!" 

He thumped his chest with one meaty fist, the sound reverberating through the suspension cables like a tuning fork designed by a sadist. "Living the absolute dream, I am!"

---

On the Queens side of the bridge, Bobby Drake stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, cold mist curling around his fingers like ghostly serpents. His pale blue eyes—the color of winter mornings and bad decisions—flicked over the scene with an expression caught somewhere between grudging admiration and impending doom.

"Okay, I gotta hand it to him," Bobby said slowly, his breath forming small clouds in the afternoon air despite the temperate weather. "This is genuinely artistic. He's turned rush hour gridlock into a multimedia performance piece. There's probably some gallery in SoHo that would pay millions for this."

Ice crystals began forming spontaneously across his palms, spreading in delicate fractal patterns that suggested his powers responded to emotional state as much as conscious control. "The problem is, all my best moves involve making things colder, slipperier, or temporarily frozen solid. And relocating someone who weighs roughly the same as a naval destroyer..." He gestured helplessly. "Not exactly in my wheelhouse."

From the Manhattan approach, Dr. Henry "Hank" McCoy padded forward with the fluid grace of someone who'd long since accepted that his massive blue-furred form made stealth impossible but dignity optional. His scholarly baritone carried easily over the cacophony of trapped commuters expressing their feelings through automotive percussion.

"Indeed, Robert," Hank said, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles with one carefully controlled claw. "Frederick represents a fascinating confluence of mutation and tactical acumen. His ability to manipulate his molecular density while maintaining immovable mass creates what is essentially a human-shaped violation of several fundamental laws of physics."

His blue fur bristled slightly in the river breeze, giving him the appearance of an enormous, erudite teddy bear who'd spent too much time in graduate school. "It's a remarkably effective application of civil disruption theory combined with practical engineering sabotage. I should very much like to reference this incident in my next lecture series—assuming, naturally, that we manage to resolve the situation before the bridge collapses and crushes us all beneath several thousand tons of twisted metal."

Bobby shot him a look. "That's incredibly reassuring, Hank. Really. Your optimism is infectious."

"I do try to maintain perspective in crisis situations."

Fred cupped his massive hands around his mouth and bellowed across the span with the subtlety of a foghorn having an emotional breakdown:

"Oi! Ice-boy! Professor Furbucket! Nothing personal, yeah? Just following me Brotherhood marching orders! You want me shifted from this lovely spot, you're gonna need a tow truck the size of bloody New Jersey and maybe a forklift blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury!"

He delivered a thunderous slap to his prodigious belly, the resulting *thoom* reverberating through every cable, strut, and rivet in the bridge's superstructure. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm began wailing in harmony.

"Go on then—give it your best shot! I haven't had a proper belly laugh since me last performance review!"

Bobby winced visibly. "He wants us to try. He's literally daring us to prove we can't move him. It's psychological warfare disguised as a carnival attraction."

"Precisely," Hank agreed, tail flicking with the kind of academic excitement that suggested he was already composing footnotes. "A textbook example of an immovable object actively taunting potential unstoppable forces. How delightfully classical. Quite Greek, really."

"Please don't start quoting mythology at me right now."

"But the parallels to Sisyphus are—"

"Hank."

"—quite illuminating in terms of—"

"HANK."

---

Before Hank could launch into what was undoubtedly going to be a comprehensive analysis of Greek mythological parallels in modern superhuman conflict resolution, the air itself seemed to shift. Not a breeze, not a sound wave, but something far more fundamental—the kind of cosmic adjustment that made reality itself pause to reconsider its options.

Light began to fracture above the bridge, refracting through dimensions that shouldn't have existed. A figure descended through the prismatic distortion, wings of what appeared to be materialized thought spreading wide against the afternoon sky. His armor caught the sunlight and transformed it into something that made the East River look positively drab by comparison.

Every groan of overstressed steel fell silent as if the bridge itself had suddenly remembered its manners in the presence of something far more important than mere structural engineering.

Dragon-Born had arrived.

He touched down on the twisted asphalt with the kind of precise, controlled impact that suggested gravity was more of a polite suggestion than an inviolable law. The crater that formed beneath his boots was perfectly circular, geometrically flawless, and somehow made the surrounding chaos look intentionally artistic.

The silence that followed was absolute—broken only by the indignant squawk of a particularly opinionated pigeon abandoning ship for safer airspace.

---

Fred squinted at the newcomer through eyes that had suddenly developed the survival instincts his mouth had apparently never learned. His characteristic grin began to falter as some primitive part of his brain—the part that had kept his ancestors alive when saber-toothed tigers were having a bad day—started sending urgent messages about reconsidering his current life choices.

"Oh," Fred muttered, his voice dropping several octaves and about fifteen decibels. Then, with the clarity that comes from genuine existential terror: "Oh, fuck me sideways."

Dragon-Born tilted his head with the kind of polite interest typically reserved for examining particularly fascinating insects. His emerald eyes—the color of deep forest shadows and ancient secrets—took in every detail of the scene with the methodical precision of someone conducting a comprehensive structural assessment.

When he spoke, his voice rolled out with the kind of smooth, devastating authority that could have convinced entire nations to voluntarily surrender their nuclear arsenals just to hear him say "please."

"Frederick James Dukes," he began, pronouncing each syllable with the care of someone reading from an exceptionally comprehensive dossier. "Age sixteen. Born in Lubbock, Texas, to parents who, I imagine, were somewhat surprised by the direction your development would eventually take. Self-designated as 'The Blob'—a nom de guerre that, while lacking in imagination, certainly demonstrates admirable truth in advertising."

He gestured with one gauntleted hand at the surrounding destruction, the motion somehow encompassing the entire scope of architectural chaos while maintaining perfect elegance.

"Known for your rather... enthusiastic demonstrations of civil disobedience, combined with mass manipulation abilities that would make Newton weep and a thoroughly inventive application of load distribution theory that has, I suspect, given the Department of Transportation's entire accounting department a collective nervous breakdown."

Fred's mouth opened and closed several times without producing sound, like a fish who'd suddenly discovered he was out of water and wasn't entirely sure how that had happened.

Bobby leaned toward Hank, whispering: "Does he always talk like he's narrating a David Attenborough documentary about supervillains?"

Hank's whiskers twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "Shh. Observe the master at work."

---

Fred finally managed to gather enough of his scattered wits to attempt something resembling defiance. He straightened as much as a man of his considerable circumference could manage, which was roughly equivalent to a small mountain deciding it wanted better posture.

"Yeah, that's me," he declared with the kind of forced bravado typically associated with small dogs barking at garbage trucks. "The Blob. Nobody shifts me. Nothing moves me. That's the whole bloody point of the exercise, innit? Immovable object and all that."

Dragon-Born's smile widened with the warmth of summer sunshine and the promise of approaching thunderstorms. "Yes, indeed. I've had the pleasure of reviewing your marketing materials. 'Unstoppable force meets immovable object'—quite the compelling brand identity. Splendidly alliterative, really. Your PR department should be commended."

He took a step closer, and somehow the simple act of walking seemed to bend the very fabric of space around him. Every motion was precise, inevitable, carrying the weight of cosmic authority wrapped in impeccable manners.

"But tell me, Frederick," he continued, his voice dropping into the kind of conversational register that made hardened criminals suddenly remember they had pressing appointments elsewhere, "have you ever given serious consideration to what precisely occurs when your famous immovability encounters my considerably less famous but infinitely more comprehensive inevitability?"

Fred's face went through several interesting color changes, settling on a shade that could charitably be described as "existential crisis pale." "Er... what exactly do you mean by that?"

Dragon-Born extended one perfectly controlled hand, and reality seemed to take a deep breath and hold it. The twisted metal around them began to straighten with the quiet dignity of steel remembering its proper purpose. The bridge itself appeared to relax, as if Dragon-Born's presence had reassured it that someone competent was finally handling the situation.

Then, with the casual grace of someone rearranging furniture in a particularly well-appointed sitting room, Fred Dukes began to rise.

Not against his will. Not with visible effort or strain. But with the smooth, inevitable progression of an object whose relationship with gravity had just been politely but firmly renegotiated by a higher authority.

Fred's eyes went wide enough to serve as satellite dishes. "Wait—wait a bloody minute—this isn't how this works! I'm not supposed to—I can't even feel me own weight anymore! This is completely against the rules!"

Dragon-Born cocked his head with the expression of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow student. "Yes, well. Physics and I have what you might call a working relationship. I enforce the fundamental principles of reality. You... creatively interpret them. Today, Frederick, I'm afraid you're losing the argument rather decisively."

---

Bobby stood with his mouth hanging open, ice crystals unconsciously forming perfect geometric patterns around his feet. "He's... he's moving him like he's rearranging throw pillows. Fred weighs more than a city bus, and this guy's handling him like he's made of helium."

Hank folded his massive arms across his chest, his tail flicking with the kind of academic excitement usually reserved for discovering new fundamental particles. "Fascinating. Dragon-Born appears to be exerting what can only be described as gravitational override at the molecular level. Observe how the bridge has ceased its structural complaints—it now recognizes him as the superior load-bearing authority."

Bobby stared at his furry companion. "Did you just say the bridge recognizes him?"

Hank's spectacles caught the afternoon light as he nodded seriously. "When dealing with entities who operate beyond conventional physics, Robert, one learns not to quibble with cosmic metaphysics. The bridge knows its place in the hierarchy now."

"That's either the most terrifying thing I've ever heard or the most awesome."

"Why not both?"

---

Hovering Fred approximately eighteen inches above the asphalt with the casual precision of someone who'd clearly done this before, Dragon-Born fixed him with that devastatingly polite emerald gaze that had probably ended more arguments than most people's entire vocabulary.

"Now then, Frederick," he said with the kind of reasonable tone typically used for discussing weather or weekend plans, "we find ourselves at something of a crossroads. We can continue this charming display of mulish obstinacy until I begin to explore more... creative applications of persuasion—which, for your reference, tends to involve non-Euclidean geometry and a level of psychological intimidation that usually results in hardened criminals requesting their mothers and comfort blankets."

His smile shifted into something that managed to be both dazzling and absolutely terrifying, like watching a supernova decide to be polite about vaporizing solar systems.

"Alternatively," he continued with the air of someone offering a truly generous compromise, "you might choose the considerably more civilized option. Voluntary relocation to a secure facility, followed by a comprehensive debriefing over what I'm reliably informed is quite excellent tea. Perhaps some biscuits. I know a lovely little place in Greenwich Village that does remarkable scones."

Fred's massive shoulders sagged with the weight of inevitable defeat. "Option two. Definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent option two. With extra tea. And those scones you mentioned. Please."

"Splendid choice." Dragon-Born lowered him to the bridge surface with the gentle care of someone placing a priceless vase on a mantelpiece. "I do so appreciate reasonable individuals who can adapt their perspective when presented with compelling arguments."

He turned toward Bobby and Hank, his wings fanning wide enough to cast shadows that somehow seemed warmer than the actual sunlight. "Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to coordinate civilian evacuation and traffic management, I shall handle our friend's transportation to more appropriate accommodations. I do prefer my afternoons free of catastrophic infrastructure failures and the subsequent paperwork nightmares they invariably generate."

---

With a gesture that made relativity itself seem negotiable, Dragon-Born lifted Fred telekinetically while simultaneously beginning to repair the bridge's structural damage. Steel straightened, cables restrung themselves, and asphalt smoothed out like water finding its level.

As they rose into the afternoon sky, Dragon-Born's voice carried down with perfect clarity: "I trust this experience has been educational, Frederick. Do give my regards to Erik when you see him next. Tell him his recruitment standards could use some refinement."

Fred, dangling in mid-air with the dignity of a very large, very confused balloon, managed a weak wave toward the bridge. "Right then. Message delivered. Thanks for not dropping me in the river!"

"Think nothing of it. Professional courtesy."

---

Traffic began moving again with the tentative optimism of commuters who weren't entirely sure they hadn't just hallucinated the entire incident. Civilians emerged from their cars to stare upward at the rapidly diminishing golden figure carrying what appeared to be a small mountain through the sky.

Bobby exhaled slowly, watching ice crystals melt around his feet as his subconscious finally accepted that the crisis was over. "Okay, serious question—do you think he practices those speeches in front of a mirror? 'Have you considered my inevitability?' That's pure movie trailer material right there."

Hank smiled with the satisfaction of someone whose academic theories had just been spectacularly validated by empirical evidence. "When one possesses that degree of natural gravitas, Robert, every moment becomes a trailer for one's own legend. It's rather like watching a Shakespearean actor order coffee—the medium may be mundane, but the delivery transforms it into art."

Bobby chuckled, shaking his head as emergency vehicles began arriving to assess the bridge's condition. "Yeah, but I gotta admit—when he does it, it actually works. I mean, Fred went from 'immovable object' to 'polite passenger' in about thirty seconds."

"The power of proper elocution combined with cosmic authority," Hank observed sagely. "A formidable combination indeed."

High above them, Dragon-Born disappeared into the Manhattan skyline like a golden comet that had decided superheroics might be an interesting career change. Fred's protests grew fainter and fainter until they were lost in the general urban symphony of car horns, construction noise, and the satisfied hum of a city that had just witnessed something genuinely extraordinary.

And in a certain underground facility where Brotherhood meetings were conducted with the kind of security protocols usually reserved for nuclear launch codes, alarm systems would very soon be activated, emergency meetings would be called, and someone was going to have a very unpleasant conversation about the strategic wisdom of challenging entities who treated the laws of physics as polite suggestions rather than absolute requirements.

It was, by all accounts, just another afternoon in the life of New York's finest protectors.

Except for the part where someone had just made the impossible look effortless.

That was definitely going in the report.

Chapter Text

# Xavier's Office – Late Afternoon

The sun dipped low over Westchester County, throwing molten light across the Xavier Institute’s sprawling estate. Dragon-Born landed with the kind of precision that made it look like he’d been rehearsing in front of critics. His psychic wings folded in on themselves, dissolving into nothingness, while the starlit armor rippled away like liquid constellations peeling off skin.

What was left behind could hardly be called “only Harry Potter.” He moved through the mansion’s oak doors with the ease of someone born to stride through history, all broad shoulders, leonine grace, and eyes bright enough to make Renaissance painters weep with professional jealousy.

From the upper floor, voices drifted down. The familiar blend of tones told him exactly what was happening: a mission debrief. Jean’s warm, honeyed contralto. Ororo’s measured, melodic cadence. Logan’s gravel poured over gravel. Scott’s clipped military crispness. And beneath it all, that soft, resonant authority that could only belong to Charles Xavier.

Harry smirked faintly. The X-Men’s brand of post-mission group therapy always sounded like someone was simultaneously writing field reports, solving a murder mystery, and auditioning for a particularly tense radio drama.

“—Pietro’s psychological profile suggests profound abandonment trauma compounded by manipulative validation—”

“—molecular restructuring of the bridge took seventeen minutes, including evacuation protocols—”

“—kid was crying by the end. Don’t know if that was therapy or mild war crime—”

Harry rapped once on the doorframe, leaning in with aristocratic nonchalance, the very picture of a man who had absolutely not been eavesdropping with delight.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Please tell me everyone returned alive, preferably without reducing Manhattan to smoldering rubble or creating an international scandal I’ll be forced to explain over tea with the Prime Minister?”

Every head turned.

Charles Xavier’s wheelchair rotated toward him, the Professor’s sharp blue eyes warming with paternal fondness. Patrick Stewart incarnate, the man radiated gravitas even while sitting still. “Harry,” Xavier said, smiling. “Your timing is impeccable, as always. We were just reviewing the rather... efficient conclusion of today’s Brotherhood encounter. Please—join us.”

Harry strolled in and collapsed into one of the armchairs with theatrical elegance, sprawling like a cat who’d just claimed ownership of expensive furniture.

Jean’s smile hit him first. Bright, brilliant, and just dangerous enough to suggest she could juggle your mind like a Rubik’s Cube while still managing to look like the friendliest person alive. “You didn’t exactly leave much to debrief, you know,” she teased. “We showed up, you broke three operations in under an hour, and Pietro looked two seconds away from curling up with a blanket and hot cocoa.”

Harry gave her a look equal parts mock innocence and smug artistry. “Therapeutic intimidation, darling. Think of it as aromatherapy—only with fewer scented candles and a slightly higher risk of someone needing trousers with reinforced stitching.”

Ororo arched an elegant brow, regal as ever, every inch the goddess in human form. “You have an... interesting definition of therapy.”

Harry inclined his head with mock solemnity. “Oh, I assure you, Ororo, my bedside manner is impeccable. I simply find that fear, properly administered, has remarkable curative properties. Especially when applied to individuals who think collapsing bridges is a valid form of social commentary.”

Scott, arms folded with military stiffness, couldn’t resist the faintest curve of a smirk. “I’ve seen a lot of decisive takedowns. But I’ve never seen that. They didn’t even fight. They just—surrendered. In stereo.”

Harry gestured lazily with one hand. “Ah, but you see, Scott, the art of victory isn’t in the fight itself. It’s in convincing your opponent that fighting is a career path best left unexplored. Why waste energy trading blows when you can dismantle their resolve with a few well-chosen words and a glare polished to perfection?”

Logan, leaning against the wall like it was his personal property, let out a low chuckle and bit the end of his cigar. “Kid’s not wrong. Scared the living hell outta ‘em. One guy actually asked if he could call his mom. I haven’t seen grown men beg like that since Nam.” He gave Harry a long, appraising glance. “Got style, bub. Gotta admit, I thought you’d be more cape-and-corny one-liners. But no, you went full ‘nightmare fuel meets motivational speech.’”

Harry shot him a lazy grin. “Thank you, Logan. Coming from a man whose idea of diplomacy involves claw marks and whiskey fumes, I’ll take that as a glowing review.”

Jean laughed, her hand brushing across her temple like she might need to shield herself from the sheer force of Harry’s ego radiating into the psychic plane. “Honestly, it’s terrifying how much fun you’re having with this.”

“Oh, Jean,” Harry said, leaning forward conspiratorially, emerald eyes gleaming, “the day I stop enjoying myself is the day I’ve gone entirely mad. Until then, I fully intend to weaponize wit, intimidation, and cheekbones in equal measure.”

Professor Xavier steepled his fingers, his expression somewhere between fond pride and thoughtful analysis. “What you project, Harry, isn’t merely intimidation. It’s something far more sophisticated—calibrated precisely to dismantle resistance without inflicting lasting harm. Quite extraordinary. Not unlike... performance art.”

Harry raised his brows. “So you’re saying I’m less ‘superhero’ and more ‘psychological theater’? Perfect. Next time, I’ll bring a spotlight and a fog machine.”

Logan barked out a laugh. Ororo shook her head, hiding her smile. Jean rolled her eyes affectionately. Even Scott’s lips twitched like he was fighting down the urge to grin.

Xavier, unbothered, simply inclined his head. “Whatever the medium, Harry, you’re proving remarkably effective.”

Harry leaned back, hands steepled behind his head, radiating satisfaction. “Well, Professor, as I always say: why settle for saving the world when you can save it with panache?”

Before Harry’s quip could fully register—somewhere between “strategic analysis” and “deadpan stand-up routine for gods and generals”—the office door swung open.

Bobby Drake all but bounced into the room, his grin wide enough to suggest either recent exposure to hard drugs or the fact that he’d just seen something so extraordinary his brain hadn’t quite processed it yet. His eyes, ice-blue and glinting with mischief, immediately locked onto Harry.

“Okay, official announcement,” Bobby declared, hands in the air like he was about to lead a game show. “I nominate Dragon-Born for the Most Stylish Problem Resolution award. No contest. I’ve seen Jean literally move mountains—” he gestured with mock reverence toward Jean, who rolled her eyes with a grin, “—I’ve seen Storm redirect a hurricane like she was conducting an orchestra, and I once saw Logan dismantle a Sentinel squad with nothing but claws, attitude, and sheer refusal to die. But watching Fred get lifted into the air like a party balloon while Harry here calmly rewired his entire worldview with polite conversation? That was art. Michelangelo wishes he had your brushwork, man.”

Jean gave Harry a sly smile, her voice warm and teasing. “He’s not wrong. I mean, I’ve seen you terrify hardened criminals into therapy before, but today? You practically gave a TED Talk while holding a man fifteen feet in the air.”

Harry arched a brow, leaning back in his chair with languid grace. “Darling, I was planning to submit it for continuing education credit. ‘How to dismantle criminal intent with strategic banter and aggressive eyebrow deployment.’ The syllabus practically writes itself.”

Logan snorted, biting down on his cigar. “Hell, kid, you should charge admission. I’d pay good money to watch you scare grown men into callin’ their moms.”

“Careful, Logan,” Harry said smoothly, his voice a velvet blade, “that sounded dangerously like a compliment. I wouldn’t want to give anyone here the impression you’ve grown fond of me.”

Logan growled low in his throat but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t push your luck, bub.”

The growl was drowned out by Hank McCoy’s entrance. The Beast padded in with his usual blend of scholarly enthusiasm and faintly amused dignity, adjusting his spectacles in that way that suggested he was already drafting three journal articles in his head.

“Quite extraordinary,” Hank began, voice rich with professorial gravitas. “The biomechanical implications alone demand extensive study. Dragon-Born not only demonstrated gravitational manipulation at the molecular level, but also executed structural reinforcement repairs to the Williamsburg Bridge that frankly put the Department of Transportation to shame. I daresay it is now stronger than when first constructed.”

Harry gave a theatrical little bow from his chair. “You’re welcome, New York City. Feel free to name the improved structure after me. The Harry Potter Memorial Bridge has a certain ring to it.”

“Memorial?” Jean said, her brow lifting. “You planning on dying soon?”

“Not at all,” Harry replied cheerfully. “I simply think every monument sounds more dignified when the word ‘memorial’ is attached. Adds gravitas. Gravitas is important.”

Ororo let out a low, melodic laugh, shaking her head with goddess-like serenity. “And modesty, I see, remains entirely optional.”

Scott finally spoke, his tone clipped but respectful. “Bridge is stronger. Brotherhood down. Zero civilian casualties. That’s a win in my book. Whatever Harry’s methods are—” his gaze flicked to Harry, sharp but impressed, “—they’re effective. I can’t argue with results.”

“High praise indeed,” Harry murmured, smirking. “Scott Summers, the man who counts collateral damage like accountants count beans, has declared me efficient. Someone write this day down.”

Scott’s jaw tightened, but Jean’s smirk betrayed her amusement.

Meanwhile, Xavier leaned forward, eyes sharpening with the particular intensity that meant his mind was running on ten different planes of analysis. “The psychology fascinates me most of all. Your aura didn’t simply intimidate. It restructured perception itself—altered their very understanding of power hierarchies and acceptable behavior. One of our detainees even referred to the experience as—” Xavier allowed himself the faintest smile, “—‘therapeutic terror.’”

Harry spread his hands modestly, though the glint in his emerald eyes betrayed him. “Therapeutic terror. Now that’s a brand I can put on a business card. ‘Harry Potter: He scares you better.’”

Bobby laughed so hard he nearly choked. “No, no, better: ‘Harry Potter, Emotional Support Scarecrow.’”

Hank, without missing a beat: “I suspect the clinical community would prefer ‘Psychological Motivator Utilizing Controlled Fear Response.’”

Logan puffed on his cigar. “I prefer ‘British Pain in the Ass.’”

Harry leaned forward, smile slow and devastating. “Call me what you like, gentlemen. The important thing is—they’ll never call me late to a battlefield.”

That earned a low rumble of approval from Ororo, a reluctant chuckle from Scott, Jean’s headshake of fond exasperation, Hank’s murmured “delightful,” Bobby’s delighted “that’s going on a T-shirt,” and Logan’s muttered, “Cocky bastard.”

Xavier’s calm voice cut through the laughter, warm and steady as ever. “Whatever terminology we settle on, Harry, you’ve given us all much to think about.”

Harry tipped an imaginary hat. “That’s what I do, Professor. Save the day, terrify the enemy, and leave my friends questioning whether they’re at a tactical debrief or a comedy club.”

The conversation was still humming with laughter and analysis when the office door opened again—this time with the kind of theatrical timing that would’ve made Shakespeare himself throw down his quill in despair.

Sirius Black leaned casually against the doorway, all broad shoulders, aristocratic angles, and that wolfish grin that could sell sin in bulk. His dark eyes gleamed with paternal pride, the kind that made Harry want to roll his eyes even as he secretly basked in it.

“I do hope I haven’t missed the victory celebration,” Sirius drawled, strolling in like the room had been waiting all day for his entrance. He dropped into a chair with noble ease, one leg draping over the armrest in utter disregard for decorum. “Because what my godson accomplished today was nothing short of magnificent. Three separate operations neutralized, intelligence gathered, and not a single civilian casualty—or, more impressively, a single insurance claim. A miracle in itself, given this lot’s track record.”

Logan grunted. “Hey.”

Sirius waved dismissively, his grin widening. “Don’t take it personally, Wolverine. I’ve read your files. The phrase ‘property damage incident’ is practically your middle name.”

Logan’s cigar bobbed dangerously as his teeth clenched. “Careful, Black.”

“Or what?” Sirius countered silkily. “You’ll growl at me until I surrender? Terrifying.”

The tension in the room spiked—then broke into laughter when Harry chuckled low in his throat. He tipped his head at Sirius. “You’ve been rehearsing that, haven’t you?”

Sirius smirked. “Of course. Delivery is everything.”

Bobby practically vibrated with delight. “No, but he’s right! Harry, you did the whole ‘gentleman supervillain whisperer’ thing. Polite as tea with the Queen, but every word made them reconsider their entire life. It was like watching Mary Poppins stage an intervention—with laser eyes.”

Jean gave Bobby a fond swat on the arm, then moved toward Harry with that quiet grace of hers—part ballet, part subtle telekinesis smoothing her steps. Her green eyes softened, worry leaking through the tactical calm. “Any injuries?” she asked, her hand hovering just shy of his arm, as if she might examine him by touch alone. “Projecting at that level, holding that kind of presence—there are usually feedback effects. Strain. Headaches. Anything?”

Harry tilted his head toward her, his smile dazzling enough to make Logan mutter something profane under his breath. “Nothing I couldn’t handle with proper breathing exercises and strategic ego management.” His tone dropped to something softer, meant for her ears even if the room caught it anyway. “But I appreciate the concern. Truly.”

Jean’s lips curved, both fond and exasperated. “You’re insufferable.”

“Utterly,” Harry agreed with a wink.

Sirius clapped his hands together, delighted. “See? That’s the Black family influence. The Potter stubbornness gave him the power, but we gave him the panache.” He gestured grandly toward Harry. “Watching him dismantle hardened criminals with British courtesy—it was like seeing a finishing school run by cosmic entities with excellent taste in drama.”

Ororo arched a regal brow, her voice silk over steel. “Or like watching a man thoroughly enjoying his own reflection.”

Harry placed a hand on his chest with mock offense. “Ororo, I’ll have you know I never enjoy my own reflection. That would be narcissistic. I simply admire the craftsmanship.”

That got a laugh from Bobby, a reluctant smirk from Scott, and a quiet, “Good lord,” from Hank as he polished his glasses.

Scott, however, regained his composure quickly. “You realize, Potter, that you’re setting a precedent. The team will expect every mission to go this cleanly now.”

Harry’s smirk widened into something positively dangerous. “Then I’ll just have to keep surpassing myself, won’t I?”

Logan growled again, though there was grudging admiration in it. “Cocky bastard.”

“Accurate,” Harry said smoothly.

Sirius leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, utterly relaxed. “That’s my boy.”

Xavier, who had been watching the entire exchange with that serene smile of his, finally spoke again, his voice warm yet weighty enough to anchor the room. “Gentlemen, ladies—if I may. What Harry accomplished today was not merely efficient. It was a demonstration of restraint, creativity, and a remarkable understanding of psychology. This is not just power. It is discipline. It is growth. And I, for one, am proud.”

The room quieted at that, the weight of Xavier’s words settling in like the closing notes of a symphony.

Harry inclined his head in genuine respect. “Thank you, Professor. Coming from you, that means more than I can adequately put into words.” He let the silence hang for a beat—then ruined it with a grin. “But feel free to keep trying. I never tire of praise.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. Jean groaned. Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. Ororo hid a smile behind her hand. Hank muttered something about “egos of mythological proportions.” Bobby threw up his hands and declared, “I’m starting a fan club.”

And Logan, with perfect timing, muttered around his cigar, “You’re all idiots.”

Xavier’s fingers steepled, his gaze distant in that unnerving way telepaths got when they were clearly sifting through ideas they didn’t entirely want to voice. The silence stretched, deliberate, until Harry finally arched a brow.

“Charles, old man, I know that look,” Harry drawled, leaning back in his chair with the relaxed arrogance of someone who could fight a god in the morning and be late for brunch in Paris by noon. “That’s the ‘I’m about to hand you something wrapped in classified red tape and existential dread’ face. Do get on with it before Logan decides to light a cigar indoors again.”

“Already lit, bub,” Logan grunted from the corner, smoke curling around his head. “And I don’t see a no-smoking sign.”

“Because civilized people don’t need them,” Harry shot back smoothly. “You light one more in my vicinity, and I’ll transfigure it into a tutu.”

Logan barked a laugh. “Try it, pretty boy.”

Ororo intervened with the calm patience of a goddess among squabbling mortals. “Children. Please.” Her accent turned the word into judgment itself.

Harry smirked but gestured toward Xavier. “All right, Professor. Hit me. Who needs the Harry Potter Special: wit, wisdom, and wildly inappropriate but strangely effective therapeutic intervention?”

Xavier’s mouth quirked in that dry, knowing way of his. “Your… unique approach to calibrated psychological intervention has inspired a possibility. There is someone—a young woman—whose circumstances have proven… resistant to all conventional forms of help.”

“Translation,” Sirius rumbled from his spot against the wall, arms crossed, looking every inch the dangerous godfather your mother warned you about, “Charles is out of ideas and is about to recruit my godson to clean up the mess.”

“Not a mess,” Xavier corrected calmly, rolling his chair toward a secured filing cabinet that looked like it had more clearance than the Pentagon. “A life. One worth salvaging.”

The drawer slid open with mechanical precision. He withdrew a file thicker than most novels, the cover stamped with classifications that practically screamed touch this without clearance and you’ll vanish into a CIA black site faster than you can say habeas corpus.

“Her name,” Xavier said, opening it with care, “is Wanda Maximoff.”

Harry leaned forward, interest sharpening into something predatory. The photo showed a girl with dark brown hair, striking features, and eyes that could’ve cut glass with their intensity. But behind them—pain, isolation, and the kind of trauma you couldn’t bottle up without the cork exploding spectacularly.

“Pretty,” Sirius noted, deadpan. “And haunted. A bit of a family theme, eh, pup?”

“Age sixteen,” Xavier continued. “Twin sister to Pietro Maximoff. Whom you met earlier, during his… ah… enthusiastic reinterpretation of Manhattan’s traffic patterns.”

“Enthusiastic?” Harry scoffed, lips twitching. “Charles, the lad turned rush hour into the bloody pod race from The Phantom Menace. I half-expected him to yell ‘now this is podracing!’ before he took out a taxi.”

Bobby snorted, trying to hide it. “Kind of did, though.”

Scott shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Not funny. He endangered lives.”

Harry tilted his head, mocking Scott’s stiffness. “Yes, Summers, we all know you’ve got the emotional range of a granite countertop, but perhaps unclench for thirty seconds? Might improve circulation.”

Jean’s lips curved, though she pretended to study the file. “Harry.”

“What?” He gestured at Scott. “It’s true. The man frowns like it’s a superpower.”

“Focus,” Xavier said gently, though his eyes twinkled. “Wanda’s abilities are… extraordinary. Her mutation manifests as reality alteration on a quantum level. She manipulates probability fields, reshapes matter at the subatomic scale, and—if theoretical models are correct—may be capable of rewriting localized reality itself if her emotional stability falters.”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered, whistling low. “That’s not a mutation, Charles. That’s a weapon governments would sell their souls to control.”

“They’ve tried,” Xavier admitted, tone grave. “Which is why she is currently housed in a facility that is… less than ideal. Designed for containment, not healing.”

Jean leaned forward, her voice thoughtful but tinged with empathy. “Her powers are tied to emotion, then. Trauma feeds instability. Therapy won’t work if her subconscious is rewriting molecules to match her nightmares.”

“Exactly.” Xavier inclined his head in respect.

Hank adjusted his glasses, peering at the data with professorial gravitas. “Traditional psychopharmacology would be useless—the medication itself could be altered at ingestion. Even telepathic stabilization is compromised if the subject’s subconscious perception reshapes consciousness itself. Fascinating… and profoundly dangerous.”

Harry exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then he smirked. “So, let me see if I’ve got this right. You want me—me—to stroll into a maximum security facility, have a chat with a traumatised teenager who can accidentally turn Manhattan into a Picasso painting if she sneezes, and… what? Charm her into balance?”

“Something like that,” Xavier said smoothly, though his eyes betrayed his concern.

Ororo’s voice was quiet, steady, and commanding. “She needs trust. Compassion. A guide who will not fear her.”

“And you,” Sirius added with a crooked grin, “are reckless, arrogant, and too damn stubborn to be afraid of anyone. Sounds perfect.”

Logan snorted smoke. “Or suicidal.”

Harry leaned back, flashing that devastating Cavill smile. “Suicidal? No, Logan. I just make suicide look stylish.”

Harry’s easy smirk faded, replaced by a look of sharp calculation. His jaw flexed, aristocratic features hardening as he processed what Xavier was laying out: a life brutalized by trauma, powers that could bend existence itself, and the state’s half-hearted solution of “lock her up and hope reality doesn’t unravel on visiting hours.”

“Where exactly is she being kept?” Harry asked, voice clipped, calm, dangerous. The kind of tone that meant he was already judging the ethics of the answer.

“The Ravencroft Institute,” Xavier said with measured diplomacy, though his eyes betrayed disdain. “A federal facility designed for enhanced individuals whose psychological conditions render them potentially dangerous. It is intended for treatment rather than incarceration.”

“Intended,” Sirius muttered darkly from his corner, arms folded, posture radiating skepticism. “Which usually means it’s actually a polite word for ‘cage.’”

The name hung in the air like smoke from one of Logan’s cigars—acrid, heavy, carrying the stench of institutional compromise.

Logan straightened from his post at the wall, nostrils flaring, the predator in him already recognizing the stink of something rotten. “Ravencroft.” His voice was a low growl. “That place plays fast and loose with words like ‘therapy’ and ‘rights.’ Ask ten people in there what they do, you’ll get eleven different answers, and none of ’em clean.”

“Indeed,” Xavier admitted, grim. “Which is precisely why I have hesitated to involve them further. Wanda requires care, not containment. But she also requires… someone singular. Someone who can engage her without fear.”

His gaze cut to Harry like a surgeon’s scalpel. The weight of it was unmistakable.

Harry exhaled, leaning back in his chair, long frame relaxed but eyes sharp as a drawn blade. “Let me guess, Charles. You want me to stroll into Ravencroft—armed with nothing but my charm, wit, and devastating jawline—and play reality-whisperer to a teenager who could turn Times Square into a Salvador Dalí painting if she has a bad day?”

Scott bristled, arms crossing. “This isn’t a game, Potter. She’s dangerous.”

Harry tilted his head, lips quirking. “Oh, thank you, Summers. I was under the impression she was merely misunderstood. Good thing you’re here to remind us all that nuclear bombs are, in fact, explosive.”

Bobby choked on a laugh. “Oh my God—”

Scott’s jaw flexed, but Jean touched his arm before he could fire back. Her voice was soft, precise, tinged with empathy. “Harry… Xavier’s right. Wanda doesn’t need more walls or soldiers. She needs someone who won’t flinch when reality bends around her. Someone who can see her.”

Harry studied her for a long moment before turning back to Xavier. “And you’re saying you think I’m that someone?”

“Your aura today demonstrated remarkable calibration,” Xavier said, voice steady but eyes burning with conviction. “Intimidation without cruelty. Authority without oppression. You established order without breaking spirit. Wanda may respond to that balance in ways she has not with others.”

Hank adjusted his spectacles, peering at the thick file. “To be clear, any conventional methodology has failed. Pharmaceutical intervention is meaningless when compounds alter molecularly upon ingestion. Telepathic stabilization risks destabilizing the telepath themselves if her subconscious reshapes the framework of thought. Even physical restraints are… unwise.”

“In other words,” Sirius interjected smoothly, “they’ve tried everything civilized, nothing stuck, and now we’re talking about Plan Potter.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Catchy. Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

“Sounds like a suicide mission,” Logan grunted, chewing his cigar.

“Correction,” Harry said, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “It only sounds like one when you describe it. When I describe it, it sounds like a Tuesday.”

Ororo’s voice cut through the banter, low and regal. “She needs more than strength. She needs compassion. She must know someone sees her pain, not just her power.”

Harry inclined his head toward her, something unspoken passing between them. Respect. Agreement.

Sirius leaned forward, eyes glinting with memory. “This isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with a ‘hopeless case,’ pup. Remember Buckbeak? Everyone said he was unapproachable. You gave him dignity, respect, and walked away with his loyalty. This is the same—just… scaled up from talons and beaks to reality-warping probability fields.”

Harry chuckled darkly. “So, what you’re saying is… approach with respect, avoid sudden movements, and don’t piss her off?”

“Exactly,” Sirius said with a wolfish grin.

Logan muttered around his cigar, “Kid, if you can talk down a pissed-off animal, maybe you can handle a reality bomb in pigtails.”

Harry’s smirk returned, slow and dangerous. “Good. Then it’s settled. Someone’s got to untangle this mess, and it looks like the honor’s mine. Ravencroft won’t know what hit them.”

He rose to his feet, coat falling around him like the wings of some dark, impossibly charming angel. “Now, Charles—be honest. You’ve been planning this little pitch since the moment you saw me break up Summers’ training session with three words and a smile, haven’t you?”

Xavier’s lips curved into that faint, maddeningly calm smile. “Perhaps.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass. The silence in the office stretched taut, filled only by the faint tick of Xavier’s grandfather clock and Logan’s faint, disgruntled chewing of his cigar.

“There’s one factor we’ve all conveniently danced around,” Harry said at last, voice silk over steel, eyes glittering with that dangerous gleam that meant he’d spotted the elephant in the room and was about to name it.

Xavier’s brow arched, dignified curiosity in every line of his face. “Which would be, my boy?”

Harry’s smirk curved, aristocratic and devastating, like a man who knew he was about to detonate a conversational landmine. “That Pietro and Wanda Maximoff—” he paused for dramatic effect “—are Erik Lensherr’s children.”

The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold as a weapon of mass destruction. You could practically hear Jean’s brain stutter, Scott’s mental whiteboard erase itself, and Hank’s doctoral thesis drafts combust spontaneously.

“Bloody hell,” Bobby blurted, eyes wide. “That would’ve been useful information about ten minutes ago!”

“Indeed,” Xavier said at last, voice calm but eyes narrowing with scholarly weight. “That revelation does rather… complicate matters.”

Jean pressed her lips together, green eyes troubled. “Magneto’s children,” she whispered. “That means any intervention we attempt isn’t just about Wanda—it’s about family loyalty. About legacy.”

Scott’s jaw clenched. “So, what? We go in, try to help her, and Magneto decides it’s another excuse to pick a fight with humanity?”

Logan snorted, smoke curling from his cigar. “Kid, it ain’t ‘another excuse.’ With Magneto, breathing is an excuse. This just gives him a personal one.”

Ororo tilted her head, voice cool but weighted with quiet authority. “If Harry is correct, then leaving Wanda in Ravencroft is far more dangerous. Erik would not leave his daughter in chains if he discovered where she is.”

“Which,” Sirius interjected smoothly from his chair, leaning back with that Black family elegance that could make lounging look like a throne pose, “begs the very obvious question, pup: how do you know Pietro and Wanda’s parentage? I don’t recall any of Xavier’s briefing packets mentioning bedtime stories from the House of M.”

Harry’s smile was pure sin, the kind that said oh, you’re going to love this answer. He tapped the spot where his lightning bolt scar used to sit, casual as a man pointing out a watch. “Turns out, dear godfather, Voldemort left me more than a charming forehead accessory. Bit of knowledge came with the package. Useful stuff. None of the genocidal megalomania, thankfully.”

Sirius blinked, then leaned forward with a grin that was equal parts pride and disbelief. “Wait—you’re telling me you picked up Legilimency from him? You—who couldn’t Occlude your way out of a paper bag?”

Harry gave him a deadpan look that could have withered stone. “Yes, Sirius. Irony is alive and well, and apparently squatting in my brain. I’m still rubbish at Occlumency, but ask me to skim the surface of someone else’s thoughts, and suddenly I’m Merlin’s gift to clandestine intelligence gathering.”

Bobby let out a low whistle. “So… Pietro didn’t just accidentally tell you Magneto’s his dad. You just—what—downloaded it straight from his head like a human USB drive?”

Harry shrugged, elegant and infuriating. “Rummaged around a bit, yes. Honestly, the boy’s mental defenses are about as subtle as his fashion choices. I barely had to nudge.”

Scott glared. “You invaded his mind?”

“Don’t pout, Summers,” Harry drawled, leaning forward with that Cavill-level smirk. “You’re acting like I broke into his diary and underlined all the embarrassing bits. I just confirmed what we all suspected but didn’t want to say out loud.”

Jean folded her arms, half exasperated, half amused. “You’re impossible.”

Harry winked. “And yet, so very useful.”

Hank cleared his throat, clearly recalibrating the conversation back to academic analysis. “The ethical complications notwithstanding, Harry is correct. The parental connection exponentially increases both the stakes and the probability of intervention by Magneto himself. If Wanda’s powers spiral, she will not only be dangerous on her own merit—she could also become a rallying point for her father’s broader ideology.”

“Which,” Sirius said, spreading his hands with dramatic flair, “makes helping her not just a matter of compassion, but strategy. Because the last thing the world needs is a reality-warping teenager bonding with Daddy Dearest over shared trauma and revolutionary politics.”

“Rather,” Harry said, with that devastating British understatement that made everyone else groan.

Logan growled, “You’re enjoying this.”

Harry smirked. “Of course I am. We’re discussing breaking into Ravencroft to liberate a reality-warping witch before Magneto uses her to redecorate the planet. If that doesn’t sound like my kind of Tuesday, what does?”

The implications hung heavy in the room, the kind of silence that meant everyone was already imagining the fallout. But Harry’s expression had settled into something serious, steady, the weight of it cutting through the banter.

“Make no mistake,” he said quietly. “If we don’t get to her first, Magneto will. And if she chooses him, reality itself may not survive the family reunion.”

Chapter Text

# Helheim – The Throne of the Dead

The throne room of Hela Odinsdottir was architecture distilled from nightmares and refined by millennia of divine cruelty. It stretched beyond comprehension, a cathedral carved not from stone but from the ossified remains of forgotten titans, their femurs rising as pillars thick as ancient trees, their ribcages forming Gothic arches that disappeared into a ceiling lost to perpetual night. The floor beneath was worse than any mortal hell could conceive—a mosaic of souls, thousands upon thousands, pressed into black glass so perfect it reflected not light but anguish. Their faces, forever frozen mid-scream, created patterns that would drive mortals mad with a single glance. Some still moved, lips parting soundlessly, eyes tracking visitors with the desperate hunger of the eternally damned.

Suspended braziers cast no warmth, only that peculiar green fire that seemed to devour light rather than create it. The flames danced without fuel, without mercy, their glow deepening shadows instead of banishing them, creating pockets of darkness so complete they felt solid, tangible, alive.

And upon her throne—carved from the skull of something that had never been entirely mortal—Hela reclined with the languid grace of a panther who had never known hunger, never known want, never known anything resembling defeat.

She was devastating.

Not beautiful in the soft, ephemeral way of mortals, but beautiful the way a blade is beautiful—perfect in its lethality, mesmerizing in its capacity for destruction. Her bone structure belonged in museums, carved by entities with exquisite taste and no patience for imperfection. High cheekbones that could cut glass, a jawline sharp enough to slice through lies, lips that curved in perpetual suggestion of secrets worth dying to hear. Her skin was marble given warmth, pale as moonlight but luminous, as though lit from within by something that had never known the sun yet surpassed it entirely.

Her hair was liquid shadow, cascading in waves so dark they seemed to absorb reality itself, each strand catching the green firelight and transforming it into something more dangerous, more seductive. It spilled over her shoulders like a waterfall of midnight, framing a face that could launch a thousand ships or sink them with equal ease.

But it was her eyes that truly captured—and condemned. Emerald fire, phosphorescent and ancient, the color of malachite burning in the heart of a star. They held depths that spoke of millennia, of power that could reshape reality with a thought, of intelligence so sharp it could dissect souls from across dimensions. When those eyes fixed on something—or someone—the universe itself seemed to hold its breath.

Her crown was a masterpiece of intimidation: not gold or silver, but living shadow shaped into antlers that branched and twisted like a spider's web of darkness across the vaulted ceiling. Each tine dripped with condensed night, and within their depths, stars died and were reborn, galaxies wheeled through abbreviated lifetimes, entire civilizations rose and fell in the space between her heartbeats.

Her armor was sin given form. Black as the void between stars but fitted with the precision of haute couture, it clung to every curve, every line, enhancing rather than concealing. The material shifted like liquid metal, breathing with her movements, promising violence that would be not merely efficient but breathtakingly elegant. Each plate was etched with runes that hurt to look at directly, symbols that rewrote the laws of physics in their immediate vicinity.

She didn't merely sit upon her throne—she owned it, commanded it, made it an extension of her divine will. One leg draped carelessly over the armrest, fingers trailing along carved bone with the absent possessiveness of someone for whom eternity was just another Tuesday. Her posture suggested utter relaxation, but her eyes—those burning, consuming eyes—missed nothing.

"Next," she commanded, her voice a symphony of velvet and steel that made the very air shiver with anticipation.

The soul that stepped forward was predictably tedious: a Viking warrior, still gripping the ghostly remnant of his axe with the desperate intensity of someone who had never learned that death rendered such props meaningless. His spectral chest puffed out in a display of masculine theater that would have been charming if it weren't so pathetically predictable. Translucent muscles flexed as though they could still pump blood that no longer existed, and his chin jutted at an angle that screamed of too many tavern tales told to increasingly drunk audiences.

Hela's fingers paused in their idle tracing of bone, her attention focusing on him with the surgical precision of a predator calculating exactly how many ways she could end this conversation.

"Lady Hela," he began, his voice booming with the sort of volume mortals mistook for authority, "I died in glorious battle! My axe tasted the blood of twelve enemies before—"

"Before you were gutted like a fish by a farmer's boy wielding a pitchfork," Hela interrupted, her tone carrying all the warmth of arctic wind. She didn't raise her voice—she didn't need to. The words fell into the silence like stones into still water, creating ripples that made the very foundations of Helheim tremble with suppressed laughter.

She leaned forward slightly, one perfectly manicured hand supporting her chin in a gesture that managed to be both regal and dismissive. Her lips curved in a smile that could have melted steel or frozen blood, depending on her mood. "Would you like me to replay it for you? Because I can. It's become one of my favorite comedies. The expression on your face when you realized that twelve-year-old knew which end of the pitchfork to use? *Priceless.*"

The warrior sputtered, his spectral form flickering with the embarrassment that transcended death. "But—but the songs! The sagas speak of my—"

"The songs," Hela cut him off with surgical precision, her voice dropping to a purr that somehow made the interruption more devastating than any shout, "were composed by drunken skalds who couldn't differentiate between courage and spectacular stupidity. They sang of your 'heroism' the way mortals sing of fires—with admiration right up until those flames consume everything they hold dear."

She tapped one finger against the armrest, the sound echoing through the chamber like a funeral drum. Each nail gleamed like polished obsidian, sharp enough to carve reality itself. "Your so-called 'glory' consisted of leaving livestock confused, neighbors inconvenienced, and your widow—oh, this is truly my favorite part—*desperately* eager to remarry your considerably more intelligent younger brother."

The warrior's form began to tremble, wounded pride manifesting as visible distortion in his spectral essence. "My—my brother?!"

Hela's smile widened, slow and devastating as a sunrise over a battlefield. "Oh yes, darling. He bedded your grieving widow before your corpse had even begun to smell. Apparently, she found his conversation more stimulating, his technique more... thorough, and his complete lack of an inflated ego absolutely *refreshing*." She paused, letting the words sink in like poison through skin. "She also mentioned he doesn't snore. Apparently, that was a significant improvement in her quality of life."

With a casual flick of her wrist—the sort of gesture one might use to dismiss a servant or swat an irritating insect—the warrior dissolved into green mist, his protests scattering like autumn leaves in a hurricane.

"Next."

The line shuffled forward with the resigned efficiency of the eternally damned: a merchant who had built his fortune on the tears of widows and orphans, a priest whose sermons on compassion dripped from lips permanently stained with wine stolen from church coffers, a mother who had loved her children with fierce devotion while systematically poisoning her neighbors' wells out of petty spite. Each soul was dissected by Hela's wit with surgical precision, weighed, measured, and dispatched with the sort of elegant cruelty that transformed judgment into performance art.

She was magnificent in her ruthlessness, every word chosen for maximum psychological impact, every gesture calculated to remind all present exactly who held dominion over death itself. Her verdicts fell like benedictions wrapped in razor wire, beautiful and lethal in equal measure.

Routine. Efficient. Eternal.

Until something extraordinary shattered her divine attention like a lightning bolt through cathedral windows.

---

The sensation struck her with the intimacy of a blade sliding between ribs—not pain, not pleasure, but recognition so profound it bypassed conscious thought entirely and carved itself directly into the marrow of her divine essence. It awakened parts of her nature that had slumbered since the last time something genuinely unexpected had occurred in the Nine Realms, which, for the record, predated the birth of most currently burning stars.

Hela froze mid-gesture, one pale hand suspended in the air like a conductor's baton caught between movements. The entire throne room held its breath—green fires guttered, the endless procession of souls stilled, even the damned pressed into her floor ceased their eternal whispering. In Helheim, when the goddess of death went quiet, reality itself had the good sense to listen.

Her realm trembled in sympathy with her sudden focus: shadows tightened like drawn bowstrings, bone pillars groaned with anticipation, the obsidian floor sang with voices of the long-dead as her awareness sharpened to a point fine enough to pierce dimensions.

Death.

But not the mundane finality she had been drowning in for millennia, not the flat note of existence simply... stopping. No. This was death as threshold, as transformation, as the space between one breath and the next where anything might happen. Death as teacher, trickster, and—on those vanishingly rare occasions when mortals proved clever enough to hear the music—dance partner to souls bold enough to lead.

"Impossible," she breathed, rising from her throne.

The movement was liquid poetry, serpentine grace distilled into physical form. She didn't stand so much as uncoil, a predator stretching before the hunt, every line of her body promising violence so aesthetically perfect it would be indistinguishable from art. Her armor whispered against itself with the sound of a thousand blades being drawn in unison. The vast antlered crown shifted above her, shadows crawling across chamber walls like eager familiars anticipating their mistress's next command.

And beneath the resonant note of death, she tasted something else threading through the cosmic symphony.

Fire.

Not the crude, belching heat of Muspelheim's volcanic forges. Not the desperate, sweaty passion of mortals coupling in dark corners. This was something infinitely older, more refined, more dangerous. Fire balanced on the razor's edge between annihilation and genesis, destruction and rebirth, ending and beginning. It sang in frequencies that made her divine senses sing in harmonic response.

Phoenix fire.

A smile curved Hela's lips, slow and sinuous and sharp enough to cut souls. Her emerald eyes glittered with the sort of hunger that could strip a man bare—body, mind, and spirit—before he even realized he was being devoured. "Now *that*," she purred, her voice carrying harmonics that made the very air shiver with anticipation, "is interesting."

She raised one hand, fingers tracing patterns that made reality flinch. The air fractured with a sound like the universe sighing in resignation. Ancient treaties signed in blood and starlight trembled on their celestial shelves as she carved a window into existence with all the casual effort of a bored hostess parting curtains.

The vision crystallized with perfect clarity.

Midgard. That noisy, chaotic little realm her father had once obsessed over with the sort of inexplicable fondness usually reserved for particularly clever pets. Specifically, a sprawling estate in the mortal metropolis of New York, all glass and steel and arrogant architecture, gilded by late afternoon sunlight that made mortals believe their constructions mattered to the cosmos.

And there he stood.

Harry Potter.

Dragon-born. Kissed by Death. Baptized in Phoenix fire. A walking contradiction, a living paradox, a creature who balanced impossibilities like a juggler balances flames, carrying power that hummed in perfect counterpoint to her own deadly symphony. The sort of being who could unmake reality or reshape it entirely, depending on his mood when he woke up that morning and whether he'd had proper coffee.

The aura surrounding him shimmered like a personal aurora, light bending toward him as though the universe had collectively decided he deserved better illumination than the standard offering. Even the souls pressed into her throne room floor began to stir, whispering in languages that predated mortal speech, their eternal torment momentarily forgotten in the face of something that sang to their deepest understanding of power and possibility.

Hela leaned forward, predatory interest sharpening every flawless line of her face until she resembled nothing so much as a blade given human form. The throne beneath her creaked ominously, recognizing that she would not be sitting still much longer.

"Well, well," she breathed, words flowing through the portal like honey laced with poison. She studied the figure with the patient intensity of a cat watching a particularly intriguing bird—one she fully intended to catch, but only after she had thoroughly enjoyed the anticipation. "What have we here?"

Her tongue traced her lower lip in a gesture that was both thoughtful and predatory. "A mortal... no, not quite mortal anymore, are you? Half-claimed by my domain, half-baptized in fire that doesn't burn out but burns *through*. How deliciously... complex."

She tilted her head, the crown casting barbed shadows that danced across her perfect cheekbones like living tattoos. Her eyes narrowed to glowing slits as she dissected him with her gaze, cataloging power levels, analyzing the interplay of forces that made him possible, appreciating the sheer artistry of whatever cosmic process had forged him.

"Harry Potter," she said his name like a wine connoisseur sampling a vintage that might be worth starting wars over. Then her smile bloomed into something both wicked and delighted, a expression that could have inspired poets to madness or saints to sin. "Oh, my darling little paradox... you might just make eternity fun again."

---

He was beautiful in the way that broke things.

Not the soft, temporal beauty of mortals—faces destined to wrinkle, bodies programmed for decay, attractiveness measured in seasons and extinguished by time's inevitable march. No. This was beauty forged by entities with impeccable taste in drama and absolutely no patience for anything resembling subtlety. He stood tall, shoulders carved from marble by someone who understood that the human form could be improved upon when one had access to cosmic forces and a complete disregard for natural limitations.

His posture whispered of aristocracy while the coiled tension in his movements betrayed violence barely held in check. Power moved beneath his skin like a living thing, a predator pacing just beneath the surface, contained but never truly tamed. Every gesture was economical, precise, loaded with the sort of casual authority that made gods pause mid-sentence.

His hair was black glass, each strand catching light and transforming it into something more dangerous, more seductive than mere illumination had any right to be. It fell across his forehead with the sort of artful casualness that suggested even his messy moments were aesthetically superior to most people's best efforts.

But his eyes—*Christ*, his eyes. Emerald depths that could drown armies, the sort of gaze that carried histories mortals weren't meant to survive without extensive therapy, pharmaceutical intervention, or both. They held intelligence sharp enough to cut, compassion deep enough to drown in, and underneath it all, a darkness that spoke of power exercised and terrible choices made with full knowledge of their consequences.

That bone structure was architecture that could start wars, topple dynasties, inspire renaissance sculptors to weep with inadequacy, and make angels reconsider their life choices. Cheekbones sharp enough to serve as weapons, a jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone who took geometry very personally, and lips that suggested he could speak words capable of reshaping reality—or kissing it into submission with equal facility.

But Hela's divine senses reached deeper than mere physical perfection, tasting the intricate layers beneath that flawless surface. She felt it immediately: trauma refined into steel, grief distilled into strength, morality honed to a edge sharp enough to be both devastatingly attractive and utterly insufferable. He was a man forged in fires that would have destroyed lesser beings, tempered by losses that should have broken him, and somehow emerged not bitter, not cruel, not mad—but *kind*.

The contradiction was intoxicating.

"Death was... thorough in her attentions," Hela purred, her voice dropping to registers that made shadows shiver with anticipation. She leaned closer to the vision, eyes tracking his every movement with the sort of attention usually reserved for analyzing potential threats or exceptionally promising prey. "But then, she always did have exquisite taste in projects."

He moved among others—mutants, enhanced individuals, genetic anomalies wearing their deviations like badges of honor. Interesting enough in their limited ways, but beside him they were background music. A chorus of mortals singing in the presence of something that transcended their understanding of what evolution could accomplish when guided by forces beyond natural selection.

"Surrounded by fascinating toys," she murmured, eyes glittering like emerald stars gone supernova. "And yet you shine brighter than all of them combined. How perfectly... predictable. And how utterly magnetic."

Her gaze lingered with the intensity of a predator that had found something worth hunting, something that might actually provide a challenge worthy of her attention. The kind of gaze that promised if she chose to step into his world, she would not simply arrive—she would *claim*.

"And what," Hela whispered to the portal, her voice silk stretched over razor wire, each word a caress and a threat in equal measure, "are you planning to do with all that carefully contained power, my beautiful dragon?"

Her smile sharpened into something that could have cut diamonds. "Because I can promise you this—sooner or later, you'll have to choose whether you wield it like a weapon... or let it consume you like the perfect lover. And when that moment comes..." She traced one finger along the armrest of her throne, a gesture somehow both sensual and menacing. "I fully intend to be there to witness every exquisite moment of your decision."

---

As if summoned by her whispered promise, the vision shifted focus. The portal no longer showed Harry in solitary magnificence but surrounded by a gathering of mortals who had convinced themselves they were extraordinary. The X-Men—mutants carrying the stamp of genetic deviance like designer labels, each one blessed with some trick, some quirk, some deviation from the mundane human template.

Flashes of fire that danced without burning the wielder. Ice that froze according to will rather than physics. Storms contained in human flesh, metal that bent to desire rather than tools, minds that could touch other minds across impossible distances. Interesting enough in their own limited ways, she supposed, but beside him they were candles flickering in the presence of a supernova. Background singers in the choir of existence, necessary perhaps, but hardly noteworthy.

And their current subject of discussion? A girl.

Wanda Maximoff. Reality manipulator. Power born from pain, trauma crystallized into the ability to rewrite the fundamental laws of existence when her emotions ran high enough. A creature whose subconscious could reshape physics during particularly vivid nightmares, whose despair might spill into catastrophe with nothing more than a moment's loss of control.

Currently imprisoned—though they called it protective custody—in a government facility designed by people who understood her potential for destruction but had absolutely no grasp of how to help her control it. Bureaucrats and scientists treating a walking nuclear weapon like a problem to be contained rather than a person to be saved.

Hela's divine attention sharpened to a point fine enough to pierce souls.

"A rescue mission," she murmured, lips curving as though the very concept were both amusing and arousing. She studied Harry's expression with the scrutiny of a jeweler appraising a stone that might be worth more than kingdoms. Determination without obsession. Focus without tunnel vision. And—oh, this was absolutely delicious—genuine concern for someone he had never met, someone who owed him nothing, someone whose salvation would bring him no material benefit whatsoever.

"How perfectly... noble."

The word dripped from her lips like honey laced with the finest poison, admiration and mockery blended so seamlessly they became indistinguishable. Nobility was a charming affectation for poets and martyrs, rarely suitable for survivors and absolutely inappropriate for beings capable of casual genocide. Yet there it was, written across his features like a signature: actual, genuine, uncalculated nobility.

And despite millennia of cynicism, despite eons of disappointed expectations, despite every lesson learned through endless encounters with the corrupt, the weak, and the self-serving...

Hela's heart—that blackened, calcified organ that had not beat with genuine interest since the last great war—betrayed her completely.

It skipped.

"Compassion," she breathed, tasting the word as though it were something exotic, forbidden, dangerous beyond measure. Her voice dropped to a whisper that could have seduced angels into falling or convinced devils to repent. "Not the practiced pantomime of politicians, not the empty gestures of would-be saviors, not the calculated kindness of those who trade mercy for power. Actual compassion. Genuine concern for another's welfare despite personal risk, despite political complications, despite the very real possibility of unmaking yourself in the process."

Her laugh rippled through the chamber like dark music, a sound that made even the damned pause in their eternal torments to listen. "How terribly inconvenient. How wonderfully... dangerous."

In her extensive experience cataloging the souls of the powerful, beings of his caliber inevitably fell into one of two categories: messiahs swollen with their own righteousness, suffocating lesser beings under the crushing weight of their moral certainty, or monsters who regarded other sentient creatures the way farmers might regard livestock—useful resources to be managed, exploited, or consumed as circumstances dictated.

Both were predictable. Both were boring. Both could be manipulated, controlled, or destroyed through well-established protocols.

But this? This paradox of strength and softness, this creature who could rewrite the laws of physics with his bare hands yet still bled for strangers he had never met? This beautiful impossibility who balanced cosmic power with human empathy?

This was something new. Something unprecedented. Something that made her pulse quicken with the sort of anticipation she hadn't felt since mortals had first learned to make fire and decided to see what would happen if they pointed it at their gods.

"You're going to attempt this rescue," she said, voice rich with certainty that came from reading probability streams like other beings read books. "Despite the obvious dangers. Despite the political minefield. Despite the fact that failure could mean not just your death, but the complete dissolution of everything you are into component particles scattered across multiple dimensions."

Her smile bloomed like a flower carved from midnight and blessed by starlight, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. "How wonderfully reckless. How perfectly... you."

She laughed again, the sound making the very foundations of Helheim tremble with something dangerously close to joy. "Oh, my magnificent dragon," she whispered, voice coiling through the portal like smoke made seductive. "Do you even realize how much more dangerous compassion makes you? Power and empathy combined into a single package... now *that* is a cocktail worth savoring drop by precious drop."

---

The portal continued to flicker with images of Harry's strategic discussion, but Hela's attention had evolved beyond mere observation. She was cataloging now, analyzing with the sort of obsessive detail usually reserved for enemies worth destroying or treasures worth claiming. Every micro-expression was filed away, every gesture dissected, every inflection analyzed for the wealth of information it contained about character, capability, and potential.

The casual confidence that radiated from him like heat from a forge—not arrogance, not the swaggering insecurity of lesser beings compensating for their inadequacies, but the sort of quiet certainty that came from knowing one could dominate any situation without needing to prove it. He moved with aristocratic precision, each gesture measured and deliberate, yet flowing like mercury over obsidian—perfectly executed, yet without a trace of artifice or performance.

His voice carried authority the way other people carried breathing: effortlessly, unconsciously, as natural as gravity. Even in casual conversation, in the company of peers and fellow enhanced individuals, his opinions were heard, his suggestions considered, his occasional commands absorbed without resistance or resentment. He was, in every sense that mattered, the sort of presence that made mortals and gods alike pause mid-breath and recalibrate their understanding of what leadership actually looked like.

But the most intriguing aspect—the detail that made Hela's pulse quicken with something beyond mere interest—was the restraint. His body radiated the capacity for unfathomable destruction, his aura sang with power that could reshape continents, yet he applied that force with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel rather than a warhammer. Protection over conquest. Construction over annihilation. Every decision, every action, carefully calibrated for maximum benefit with minimum collateral damage.

"A warrior who fights for others rather than for glory," she purred, divine approval threading through every syllable like gold wire through silk. "A king who serves rather than rules. A god who remembers what it felt like to be mortal. How deliriously... rare."

Her grin widened by degrees, sharp enough to cut reality and twice as dangerous. In her extensive catalog of powerful beings—cosmic entities, elder gods, cosmic forces wearing mortal flesh like borrowed clothing—they almost always fell into predictable patterns. The saviors, drunk on their own righteousness, crushing everyone around them under the weight of their moral certainty. The conquerors, bloated with god-complexes and casual cruelty, treating lesser beings as entertainment or resources.

Harry had somehow avoided both extremes. He wielded power that could casually violate several laws of physics simultaneously, yet he had retained not just the capacity to care for those weaker than himself, but the wisdom to respect them as equals, the humility to listen to their counsel, the strength to protect without patronizing.

The combination was more than merely attractive. It was intoxicating.

"You would be... interesting to fight," she said slowly, each word silk wrapped around steel, tracing his image like a physical caress. Her tone suggested far more than idle curiosity—this was seduction disguised as assessment, foreplay wrapped in philosophical discussion. "To test. To push. To explore exactly how far that careful control extends before the dragon underneath remembers why ancient mortals used to sacrifice virgins to appease winged death incarnate."

A thrill slid through her nervous system, slow and deliberate as honey, igniting pathways that hadn't fired in centuries. Not fear—she was incapable of that particular emotion—and not desire in any conventional sense, but something far more dangerous: the exhilaration of challenge. Intellectual, physical, existential. The promise of an opponent who might actually require her full attention, her complete arsenal, her absolute best effort.

She had not experienced anything comparable since the last time someone had been sufficiently foolish—or sufficiently brave—to declare war on Asgard with genuine hope of victory rather than simple suicidal spite.

Her emerald eyes narrowed to glowing slits, shadows writhing around her antlers like eager familiars anticipating bloodshed. "How curious," she whispered, voice dropping to registers that made the very air vibrate with potential. "How absolutely... delicious."

She tilted her head, studying him with the sort of attention usually reserved for intricate puzzles or exotic predators—things that required careful analysis before one decided whether to solve them or be devoured by them. "And yet," she added softly, almost to herself, "I find myself wondering... how long before that careful control develops stress fractures? How long before external pressure or internal conflict forces you to choose between restraint and effectiveness? How long before you remember that dragons, no matter how civilized, how noble, how beautifully controlled... are still apex predators designed by evolution to burn entire kingdoms into ash and memory?"

The thought sent electricity racing through her divine essence, a thrill that transcended simple cruelty or basic lust and became something both cosmic and wickedly, dangerously alive.

---

In the portal, Harry rose from his chair with the sort of fluid grace that suggested each movement had been choreographed by entities with impeccable taste in aesthetic intimidation. Every gesture flowed into the next like water over obsidian, economical and precise yet beautiful enough to inspire lesser beings to poetry, sculpture, or simple worship. The mundane act of standing became performance art when executed with that degree of unconscious perfection.

Midgard's late afternoon sunlight caught him just so, transforming ordinary illumination into something that belonged in Renaissance paintings or divine iconography. Light gilded his dark hair and cast shadows across those impossible cheekbones with the sort of precision that suggested the universe itself was taking extra care with his presentation. Even the subtle shift of his shoulders as he prepared to leave radiated readiness—power coiled but controlled, violence restrained but instantly accessible.

Around him, his colleagues began the process of concluding their strategic session. Mutants and enhanced individuals, each carrying their own unique deviation from baseline humanity, discussing contingency protocols and risk matrices with the sort of methodical professionalism that marked them as experienced in the business of impossible rescues. Tactical analysis, civilian evacuation procedures, fallback options arranged like a house of cards—all the careful planning that separated heroes from well-intentioned corpses.

But Hela's attention remained fixed exclusively on him, cataloging details that others would miss, analyzing patterns that revealed character more clearly than any psychological evaluation ever could.

Determination lined his expression without hardening it into obsession. Confidence radiated from every pore without crossing the line into arrogance. Awareness of risk sat alongside unwavering commitment, creating that rare blend of clear-sighted pragmatism and unshakeable moral resolve that marked true leaders rather than mere commanders.

Here was someone who could tip the scales of any conflict with a casual gesture, yet chose measured responses over overwhelming force. Someone whose moral compass hadn't been warped by power but sharpened by it, honed into an instrument capable of navigating even the most complex ethical terrain.

"You're going to succeed," she murmured, a low purr that rolled through Helheim's shadows like distant thunder. Her divine senses analyzed probability streams with the casual ease of someone reading tomorrow's weather, weaving through potential futures as effortlessly as a spider constructs silk. The patterns were clear: not just success, but extraordinary success achieved through methods that would only enhance his already considerable reputation.

That girl—Wanda Maximoff, reality manipulator trapped in her cage of government-sponsored terror and bureaucratic incompetence—would respond to him. She would trust him in ways she had trusted no one since her brother's death. Because he would not approach her as a weapon to be controlled, a problem to be solved, or a resource to be exploited. He would see her as a person deserving of aid, of understanding, of recognition as something more than the sum of her traumatic experiences and dangerous abilities.

Hela's smile sharpened like a blade being stropped. Intriguing. And profoundly dangerous to her carefully maintained cosmic equilibrium.

In her role as arbiter of the dead, she had processed millions of souls, parsing character from choices, weighing intentions against outcomes, dissecting morality through the harsh calculus of consequence and result. Rarely—so rarely it qualified as statistically insignificant—had she encountered someone whose ethical framework was simultaneously flexible enough to adapt to changing circumstances, strong enough to withstand extreme pressure, and sophisticated enough to guide effective action even when cold logic might have dictated self-preservation or expedient brutality.

And yet Harry's psychological profile radiated exactly that: a moral structure forged in suffering but refined through connection, capable of providing guidance even in situations where traditional ethics became not just useless but actively harmful.

Attractive didn't begin to encompass the reality of what she was observing.

"You're magnificent," she breathed, voice dropping to whispers that could seduce galaxies or damn solar systems depending on her mood. Her eyes drank in the way light seemed to bend around him, as though reality itself recognized his fundamental importance and adjusted its behavior accordingly. "Power restrained by wisdom, strength tempered by compassion, capabilities that could reshape the cosmic order... yet you wield them to protect the defenseless, to shelter the broken, to offer hope to those who have every reason to despair."

Her gaze sharpened, emerald fire focusing to a point intense enough to burn through dimensions. This was divine appraisal at its most concentrated, predatory hunger refined by eons of experience into something approaching art form, recognition blazing between equals across the vast gulf of space and circumstance.

Someone complex enough to match her intellect. Formidable enough to challenge her power. Beautiful enough to capture her aesthetic appreciation. And—most dangerous of all—principled enough to earn her respect.

"I believe," she murmured, leaning forward in her throne until shadows coiled around her like living things, fingers trailing along carved bone with the grace of liquid darkness itself, "my magnificent dragon, that we need to meet."

Her smile widened into something that could have inspired saints to sin or convinced devils to consider redemption, predatory and indulgent and absolutely inevitable. The portal pulsed in response, as though even the fabric of reality acknowledged the weight of her intent.

"Not because the cosmic order demands it," she added, voice dropping to a whisper that could cut through steel and slice souls into component particles. "Not because ancient prophecies require it. Not because the balance of power needs adjustment. But because I want to discover exactly what makes you so... deliciously... unprecedented."

Her laugh rippled through dimensions, beautiful and terrible and alive with possibilities that could reshape the Nine Realms or destroy them entirely.

"Because, my darling paradox," she purred, eyes glowing with anticipation that had been building for millennia, "I suspect you might just be worth the wait."

---

Hela rose from her throne with movement so fluid it seemed choreographed by forces that understood drama on a cosmic scale. Every muscle, every bone, every atom of her divine essence moved in perfect harmony, creating the sort of motion that made lesser beings forget to breathe. Helheim itself responded to her intent—the green flames roared higher, shadows deepened until they became almost solid, and the very foundations groaned as though recognizing that change was coming whether they approved or not.

The endless procession of souls waiting for judgment froze like insects caught in amber, their eternal queue suddenly insignificant compared to the magnetic pull of their judge's newfound obsession. Even the damned pressed into her floors ceased their eternal whispering, sensing something alive and dangerous stirring in the cosmic depths of their tormentor's attention.

"Continue processing standard cases according to established protocols," she commanded, her voice carrying the weight of inevitability itself. Each word was precisely chosen, perfectly enunciated, and loaded with enough divine authority to rewrite local reality. "I have... research to conduct."

Her words carried the weight of inevitability; the souls obeyed, shuffling into the machinery of their eternal bureaucracy as though compelled by instinct. Hela allowed herself a thin, predatory smile.

She stepped forward, antlers casting sprawling, jagged shadows across the obsidian floor. Her eyes—emerald and phosphorescent, the color of burning malachite—fixed on the portal. The faint shimmer of interdimensional energy bent toward her, drawn by her attention as though recognizing a force capable of bending even cosmic laws.

“Harry Potter,” she said, voice low, deliberate, each syllable a precise incision into reality. “Dragon-Born. Touched by Death… baptized in Phoenix fire… enhanced by cosmic forces beyond even my most indulgent calculations. And yet, inexplicably… committed to rescuing traumatized young women from government facilities. Despite the risks, despite the political complications, despite the fact that failure could—”

She let the sentence trail, a teasing caress of inevitability. “—end you.”

Her smile sharpened, a crescent of knife-like elegance. “We have… much to discuss.”

Fingers extended, tracing patterns in the air that bypassed half a dozen interdimensional treaties and every law of physics that governed travel between realms. Helheim hummed in response, resonating with power that vibrated through bones and shadow alike. Magic coalesced around her, weaving a conduit that would allow her to manifest on Midgard without triggering any of the monitoring systems designed to detect cosmic-level incursions. The portals and wards of mortals and gods alike would be blind to her approach.

*Educational*, she mused, the word curling through her mind with the heat of a predator savoring a fresh hunt. Not conquest. Not domination. But observation, challenge, and the intoxicating possibility of meeting someone whose complexity might actually rival her own.

Her gaze lingered on Harry, watching him move through preparations with calm efficiency and subtle displays of power restrained by wisdom. The thought sent a thrill coursing through her, slow, deliberate, electric—the kind of anticipation she had not experienced in centuries.

“Soon,” she promised, her voice silk wrapped around steel, carrying across realms and through the portal as her laughter rippled behind it like dark music. It made even the damned pause, shivering in fascination. “Very soon, my dragon. Soon we will discuss power, responsibility, and the proper applications of cosmic enhancement—especially when handling traumatized mortals and the inconvenient incompetence of governmental oversight.”

The flames around her throne roared in approval, shadows writhing as if alive. Every pillar of bone, every mosaic of pressed souls, seemed to lean closer, eager to witness what would come next.

Change was coming to the Nine Realms.

And it was going to be *glorious*.