"Right then," Harry said, adjusting the hood of his dramatically enhanced superhero ensemble with the kind of careful precision that suggested he was still calibrating his new reflexes and didn't fancy accidentally turning high-quality alien fabric into expensive confetti. His voice carried that familiar dry wit, though now it resonated with new depths that seemed to echo off the crystal walls with harmonics that belonged in cathedrals rather than conversations. "Before I go gallivanting off to surprise my dearest friends with news of my cosmic promotion to 'magical alien superhero with reality-editing privileges and a wardrobe that would make kings weep with envy,' I suppose I should inquire about this mysterious son of El you mentioned earlier."
He paused in his examination of the gauntlets—which were still doing that fascinating thing where the symbols shifted between Kryptonian script and familiar runic magic depending on his viewing angle—and fixed Pev with the kind of steady gaze that had unnerved professors, dark wizards, and occasionally dragons.
"You did promise me a comprehensive briefing when I emerged from my month-long beauty sleep in your alien spa pod," Harry continued with the sort of conversational precision that could cut glass. "And I find myself rather keenly interested in knowing exactly what I'm dealing with before I accidentally encounter him while he's having his own superhero awakening in whatever pastoral American setting destiny has deemed appropriate for Kryptonian farm boys with commitment issues regarding proper secret identity management."
Pev-Rell's ageless features arranged themselves into the expression of someone who had spent considerable time researching a particularly intricate puzzle, the kind of look that suggested both satisfaction with his detective work and mild concern about the implications of what he'd discovered. His silver eyes held that particular quality of ancient wisdom mixed with genuine paternal pride that somehow managed to make him look both impossibly dignified and surprisingly approachable—like a classical statue that had learned to be genuinely fond of people.
"Actually," Pev said, his voice carrying the resonant authority of someone who had made good use of twenty-eight days of research time, "during your rather comprehensive physical and mystical renovation, I took the liberty of conducting what you might call an extensive investigation into that very matter. Twenty-eight days provided more than adequate opportunity to scan global communications networks, intercept news reports, and generally eavesdrop on the digital conversations of an entire planet in search of unusual phenomena that might indicate Kryptonian activity."
His smile carried the satisfaction of someone who had solved a particularly challenging crossword puzzle, if crossword puzzles involved alien inheritance patterns and the careful analysis of impossible rescue reports from rural American farming communities.
"Naturally you did," Harry replied with the kind of dry appreciation that had been honed through seven years of dealing with mentors who planned seventeen moves ahead and considered 'comprehensive preparation' to be a basic life skill. "Because sitting around reading alien technical manuals while waiting for your descendant to finish his cosmic makeover would have been far too mundane for the founder of House Rell. What exactly did your month of interplanetary espionage reveal about our Kansas-dwelling colleague?"
"Stories," Pev said, his voice taking on the tone of someone who had found exactly what he'd been looking for and wasn't entirely pleased about the implications. "Rather remarkable stories, actually. Reports of impossible rescues in a small farming community called Smallville. A child pulled from a burning building by someone who moved too quickly to be clearly identified by witnesses. A family saved from an overturned vehicle that was lifted—according to several independent accounts—with what local newspapers described as 'impossible strength demonstrated by an unidentified good Samaritan.'"
He gestured with the fluid grace of classical sculpture come to life, and suddenly the air between them filled with what appeared to be floating newspaper clippings, each one glowing softly with captured text that rearranged itself for easy reading.
"There's also," Pev continued with the air of someone presenting particularly compelling evidence, "the rather charming account of a dog rescued from a frozen pond by someone who apparently didn't notice that the ice was far too thin to support normal human weight, followed by several reports of 'unusual weather phenomena' that coincidentally occurred whenever young people were in danger from natural disasters."
Harry paused in his contemplation of the floating news reports, his enhanced hearing detecting something in Pev's tone that suggested there were additional layers to this story. When he spoke, his voice carried that particular quality of resigned amusement that had gotten him through seven years of discovering that his offhand comments had an alarming tendency toward prophetic accuracy.
"Kansas," he said slowly, each word delivered with the precision of someone who had just realized that the universe possessed both a sense of humor and strong opinions about irony. "You're actually telling me—with complete seriousness and presumably a straight face—that my casual jest about some farm boy in Kansas discovering he's bulletproof and can bench press tractors was not only accurate but embarrassingly specific?"
"Remarkably so," Pev confirmed, and his smile held the kind of amused pride that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying his descendant's reaction to cosmic coincidence. "The town is indeed called Smallville, which I believe demonstrates either destiny's commitment to obvious symbolism or the universe's rather heavy-handed approach to narrative convenience. Based on the pattern of reported incidents—and there have been quite a few over the past several years—I'm confident that the son of El is not only living there but has been raised by local farmers who almost certainly found his ship eighteen years ago and made the admirably human decision to simply get on with raising an alien child as their own."
Harry ran both hands through his dramatically improved hair—which was still catching light from sources that didn't technically exist and doing things that defied both gravity and reasonable expectations about what hair should accomplish in terms of dramatic presentation. His expression carried the kind of weary acceptance that came from a lifetime of discovering that reality had very strong opinions about his personal schedule.
"Of course he is," Harry said with the philosophical calm of someone whose life had long since moved beyond the realm of ordinary coincidence and into territory that could generously be described as 'cosmically vindictive.' "Because the universe clearly maintains detailed files on my casual observations and takes them as binding commitments to future plot development. What else did you discover during your month-long investigation into inexplicable Kansas-based heroics? Please tell me there's more, because at this point I'm rather invested in finding out exactly how thorough destiny's sense of irony can be."
Pev's expression shifted into something that suggested he was about to deliver news that would be either wonderful or deeply complicated, and quite possibly both simultaneously. His smile carried that particular edge of anticipation that belonged to people who had been saving their best revelations for exactly the right dramatic moment.
"Something rather extraordinary about your own family history, actually," Pev said, his voice carrying the satisfaction of someone who had spent considerable time in genealogical research and discovered connections that were almost too convenient to be believable. "It seems your ties to Smallville extend considerably beyond cosmic coincidence and into territory that suggests destiny has been planning this particular convergence for rather longer than either of us initially suspected."
Harry's eyebrows rose with the kind of wary interest that had been carefully cultivated through years of learning that family revelations usually arrived with significant complications, occasionally homicidal relatives, and almost always some form of ancient curse or inherited responsibility that no reasonable person would want.
"Do tell," he said, settling into the stance that had served him well through countless conversations that began with phrases like 'there's something about your family you should know' and ended with him having to save the world again. "Though I feel compelled to warn you that my family tree has demonstrated remarkable thoroughness when it comes to producing unexpected branches that somehow manage to involve mortal peril, dark magic, or at minimum some very awkward social obligations."
"A branch of the Potter family emigrated to America in the early nineteenth century," Pev explained, his voice taking on the measured cadence of someone who had spent considerable time verifying historical records and wanted to be absolutely certain of his facts. "Squibs, fleeing the social stigma of being magicless in a family renowned for their magical abilities. They settled in Kansas Territory, purchased farmland with what gold they'd managed to bring from Britain, and have been there ever since, quietly building successful lives away from the magical community that had never quite known what to do with them."
He gestured again, and the floating newspaper clippings were replaced by what appeared to be a detailed family tree that stretched across several centuries, complete with birth certificates, land deeds, and marriage records that glowed softly in the crystal-lit air.
"The Potter Farm," Pev continued with obvious satisfaction at having solved this particular genealogical puzzle, "sits on prime agricultural land just outside Smallville proper. It's currently managed by your cousin Elizabeth Potter—though she's gone by 'Nell' for most of her adult life—and her niece, Lana Lang, whose mother was a Potter before her marriage."
Harry was very still for a moment, processing this information with the kind of careful attention he usually reserved for potentially explosive magical artifacts or Hermione's more ambitious academic theories. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the particular tone of someone who had just realized that coincidence had given way to something that looked suspiciously like cosmic intervention.
"Are you telling me," he said slowly, each word delivered with the precision of someone testing the structural integrity of reality itself, "that I have American relatives—actual blood relatives who share my rather distinctive family name—living in the exact same small Kansas farming community where my fellow Kryptonian heir is apparently learning to use his superpowers to rescue livestock and perform agricultural miracles?"
"That would be an entirely accurate assessment of the situation," Pev confirmed with the cheerful tone of someone who found cosmic coincidences deeply entertaining rather than mildly terrifying. "According to public records, local newspapers, and what appears to be a rather charming community newsletter that covers topics ranging from harvest festivals to 'unusual weather patterns that seem to occur whenever someone's in trouble,' they're well-regarded members of Smallville society. Known for their kindness, their remarkably successful organic farming methods, and their tendency to take in stray animals with what neighbors describe as 'almost supernatural dedication to helping creatures in need.'"
Harry let out a laugh that managed to combine genuine humor with the kind of resigned acceptance that came from years of discovering that the universe maintained very detailed opinions about his social calendar and wasn't shy about expressing them through increasingly elaborate coincidences.
"Brilliant," he said, his voice carrying the kind of appreciation usually reserved for particularly well-executed practical jokes or Hermione's more impressive displays of academic brilliance. "Absolutely bloody brilliant. So not only do I have a mysterious Kryptonian counterpart living in Kansas—Kansas, of all places—but I also have long-lost family members who happen to be running a successful farm in the precise geographic location where my cosmic destiny is most likely to intersect with his cosmic destiny, presumably while we're both trying to figure out how to be superheroes without accidentally demolishing important infrastructure."
He began pacing with the kind of controlled energy that suggested enhanced strength was going to take some getting used to, particularly in enclosed spaces filled with delicate crystal architecture. Each step carried unconscious power and grace, as if he'd been born to inhabit a body designed for heroic action but was still learning to calibrate movements that could accidentally put holes in walls.
"What are the mathematical odds of that particular convergence?" Harry continued, his tone suggesting he suspected the answer would be either astronomically small or suspiciously convenient. "Because at this point, I'm fairly certain we've moved beyond the realm of coincidence and into territory that suggests destiny has been planning this particular meeting for considerably longer than either of us has been alive."
"Considering your typical relationship with fate and its tendency to arrange dramatically appropriate encounters," Pev observed with the dry humor of someone who had spent centuries watching the universe arrange itself around particularly stubborn individuals, "I'd estimate the probability at roughly one hundred percent, with a margin of error that accounts for destiny occasionally developing a sense of humor about timing."
"True enough," Harry admitted, pausing in his pacing to examine his reflection in one of the crystal surfaces. Even without conscious effort, he somehow managed to look like he was posing for a statue commemorating heroic virtue and excellent bone structure—an effect that was either deeply gratifying or mildly alarming, depending on one's perspective on accidental dramatic presentation.
"Though I suppose it does solve the rather pressing question of where to begin looking for this son of El," he continued with the tone of someone working through a particularly complex strategy. "Can't exactly knock on every door in Kansas asking if they've adopted any unusually strong children who fell from the sky with their own spaceship. But I can visit long-lost family members who undoubtedly have local knowledge about mysterious rescues and unexplained agricultural improvements, all while conducting casual investigations into reports of impossible strength and weather-related heroics."
"A remarkably sound plan," Pev agreed with the approval of someone watching a beloved student work through complex problems with admirable logic. "Though you mentioned wanting to surprise your friends first. Ron and Hermione, if I recall correctly?"
"Right, yes," Harry said, refocusing his attention on more immediate concerns while trying not to think too hard about the logistics of explaining his transformation to people who had known him since he was eleven and scrawny. "Need to let them know I'm not dead, just dramatically transformed by alien inheritance and cosmic destiny into someone who looks like he was designed by committee to be impossibly attractive and supernaturally competent. They're probably worried sick, assuming they've managed to stop being furious with me for disappearing in a flash of mysterious light immediately after defeating the darkest wizard in recent history."
He paused, running one hand through hair that continued to catch light in ways that violated several principles of basic physics, his expression shifting to something that might have been mild embarrassment if it weren't so clearly mixed with anticipation.
"Actually," he said, his voice carrying the particular tone of someone who had just realized they might have overlooked something rather fundamental, "I've just realized that in all our extensive discussions of cosmic inheritance, reality-editing capabilities, and dramatically improved wardrobes that would make Renaissance princes weep with envy, I never bothered to ask the most basic question about our current circumstances."
Pev raised one eyebrow with the patient expression of someone who had been waiting for this particular realization and was prepared to be amused by its implications.
"Where exactly are we?" Harry continued, his tone suggesting he suspected the answer might be either perfectly reasonable or completely ridiculous. "I mean, I understand we're in your Fortress of Remembrance, which is clearly the sort of secret base that belongs in adventure stories and probably violates several laws of architecture. But where on Earth—and please tell me we're still on Earth—is your Fortress of Remembrance actually located? Because if my friends are at the Burrow worrying about my continued existence, I should probably know whether reaching them requires a pleasant flight across London or an intercontinental journey that involves breaking the sound barrier and possibly several international aviation laws."
Pev's expression shifted into that particular mixture of amusement and mild apology that suggested Harry wasn't going to be entirely pleased with the geographical realities of his cosmic inheritance. His smile carried the defensive quality of someone who had made certain architectural decisions four centuries ago and was now being asked to justify them to someone with distinctly modern expectations about convenience and accessibility.
"Well," Pev said with the careful tone of someone preparing to deliver news that would be either perfectly reasonable or deeply inconvenient, depending on one's perspective about commuting distances, "you see, the Fortress isn't exactly situated anywhere that would appear on conventional maps used by traditional human navigation systems. I constructed it in an extensive cave system deep beneath the polar ice at Earth's southernmost point."
Harry stared at him with the expression of someone who had just been informed that their cosmic inheritance came with more logistical complications than anticipated, and possibly a few geographical challenges that hadn't been covered in the orientation materials.
"The South Pole," he said flatly, his voice carrying the particular quality of resigned disbelief that had gotten him through numerous conversations with Dumbledore about inconvenient magical locations. "You built your secret alien fortress at the South Pole. The actual South Pole, as in Antarctica, as in the continent that's covered in ice and exists at the bottom of the world where no reasonable person would think to build anything more substantial than a research station."
"It seemed like an entirely sensible location for a secret base when I was making architectural decisions," Pev replied with the mildly defensive tone of someone who had spent four centuries in stasis and was now having his real estate choices questioned by someone with strong opinions about practical accessibility. "Remote enough to avoid accidental discovery, climatically stable, unlikely to be disturbed by human expansion or development. Very traditional for this sort of installation, really. Most advanced civilizations put their secret bases in places that require significant effort to reach."
"Of course it did," Harry said with the kind of weary acceptance that came from a lifetime of learning that simple solutions were apparently not compatible with his particular destiny. "Because why would my cosmic alien ancestor build his fortress somewhere convenient, like the Scottish Highlands or a nice cave system beneath Wales? No, much better to choose the one place on Earth that requires either a scientific expedition or supernatural flight capabilities just to reach."
He gestured with unconscious dramatic flair—an effect that was considerably more impressive now that his movements carried the kind of controlled power that belonged in classical sculpture—toward the ceiling and, presumably, the thousands of miles of ice, ocean, and continental landmass that lay between their current location and anywhere that could reasonably be described as 'home.'
"So when I fly off to surprise Ron and Hermione with demonstrations of my new abilities and explanations of my cosmic promotion," Harry continued with the tone of someone working through the practical implications of superhero logistics, "I'll be starting from Antarctica. Brilliant. That's not at all an excessive distance for my inaugural flight as a magically enhanced Kryptonian with more power than sense and a tendency to get overexcited about testing new abilities."
"Consider it an excellent learning opportunity," Pev suggested with the helpful tone of someone who had clearly given this matter some thought. "Long-distance flight at superhuman speeds, navigation using enhanced senses and planetary magnetic fields, the educational experience of breaking the sound barrier while maintaining perfect control over your trajectory and velocity. Very character-building, really. Most Kryptonians don't get the chance to test their abilities over such dramatically varied terrain and climate zones."
Harry sighed with the particular quality of resignation that came from years of accepting that his life would never involve simple solutions or convenient geography, but there was anticipation building in his voice despite the logistical complaints.
"Right then," he said, his tone shifting toward the kind of determined enthusiasm that had gotten him through seven years of magical education and several encounters with dark wizards who had strong opinions about his continued existence. "I suppose there's no time like the present to discover whether my new abilities are as impressive in reality as they were in that remarkably comprehensive mindspace tutorial you provided. Though if I accidentally end up in Scotland because I misjudged the navigation while flying at superhuman speeds, I'm holding you personally responsible for the geographical confusion."
"I have complete confidence in your natural navigation abilities," Pev said with the fond pride of someone watching a particularly promising student prepare for their final examination. "After all, you spent six years playing Quidditch, which requires three-dimensional spatial awareness and the ability to track multiple moving objects while traveling at high speeds. How different can intercontinental flight be?"
"Famous last words," Harry muttered, but his expression was shifting toward something that looked suspiciously like excitement mixed with the kind of anticipation that had always preceded his best flying experiences. "Though I suppose we're about to find out exactly how different it is."
Pev gestured with the fluid grace that made every movement look like it had been choreographed by someone with advanced degrees in both classical sculpture and practical elegance. In response to his gesture, a section of the crystalline ceiling began to iris open with mechanical precision that belonged in engineering textbooks, revealing a shaft that led upward through solid bedrock, compressed ice, and what appeared to be several geological layers that probably had names in academic disciplines Harry had never studied.
The opening expanded until it formed a perfect circle perhaps ten feet in diameter, through which pale Antarctic sunlight filtered downward like liquid gold mixed with crystallized possibility. The light carried with it the promise of open sky, unlimited space, and the kind of freedom that Harry had only ever experienced on a broomstick but was about to discover in an entirely new context.
"Your chariot awaits, young heir," Pev said with the satisfied air of someone who had been anticipating this exact moment for considerably longer than the average human lifetime. "Though I suspect you'll find it rather more responsive than any broomstick you've ever flown."
Harry approached the opening with the kind of careful confidence that came from years of making dramatic exits from complicated situations, though he suspected this particular exit was going to exceed all previous standards for both drama and logistical complexity. His enhanced senses were already cataloguing information with efficiency that bordered on the supernatural—wind patterns that suggested weather systems moving across continents, air pressure variations that spoke of altitude and atmospheric density, temperature gradients that painted a three-dimensional map of the polar environment above them.
Most remarkably, he could feel the planet itself humming beneath his awareness like a vast musical instrument playing notes too deep for ordinary human perception. The magnetic field of Earth sang through his enhanced consciousness like a cosmic GPS system that had learned to communicate through intuition rather than digital displays, while the rotation of the planet created subtle sensations of orientation that were better than any traditional compass.
"Right," he said, settling his cloak around his shoulders with the kind of unconscious dramatic presentation that suggested superhero posturing was already becoming second nature. The crimson fabric caught light from the opening above and seemed to glow with its own inner fire, creating visual effects that would have been impossible to achieve with ordinary textile technology. "Time to discover whether reality can possibly live up to the standards set by that remarkably comprehensive training simulation you put me through."
Without further preamble—because Harry Potter had never been one for extensive preparation when immediate action was available—he launched himself upward with a burst of controlled power that sent him rocketing through the shaft with fluid grace that belonged in poetry rather than physics textbooks.
The sensation was immediately, dramatically different from anything he'd ever experienced, even during his most ambitious broomstick flights. Instead of riding an external object through the air, he was simply moving through three-dimensional space as naturally as walking, supported by forces that responded to conscious intention rather than mechanical engineering. The walls of the shaft blurred past in streaks of crystal, ice, and mineral deposits that probably had fascinating geological stories but were moving too quickly to examine in detail.
When he burst from the ice into the clear Antarctic air, something fundamental unlocked in Harry's chest—not his magical core, which had always been there humming contentedly like a familiar friend, but something deeper and more primal that spoke of solar energy and the vast freedom of unlimited sky.
"Oh," he breathed, hanging motionless in the polar air while ice crystals sparkled around him like suspended diamonds painted with aurora light, "this is rather significantly different from flying on a broomstick, isn't it?"
Where broomstick flight had always felt like riding—controlling an external magical object through balance, skill, and the kind of intuitive partnership that developed between wizard and enchanted wood—this felt like a natural expression of will made manifest in three-dimensional space. He didn't need to worry about wind resistance affecting his stability or maintaining his grip on anything; he simply existed in the air as naturally as he'd once walked on solid ground, supported by forces that treated gravity as a polite suggestion rather than an absolute requirement.
The freedom was intoxicating in ways that transcended mere physical sensation and approached something that might have been spiritual if Harry had been inclined toward metaphysical contemplation. This was flight as he'd dreamed of it as a child—not the mechanical process of operating flying machines or even the magical partnership with enchanted objects, but simply the pure expression of human will refusing to be bound by terrestrial limitations.
For several minutes, Harry simply played with his new abilities like a child who had discovered that toys could be considerably more interesting than their manufacturers had intended. He dove and swooped through the crystalline Antarctic air with reckless joy, performing aerial maneuvers that would have made Victor Krum weep with professional jealousy while discovering that his enhanced reflexes could process three-dimensional movement in ways that transformed flying from transportation into art form.
He executed barrel rolls that existed in more than three dimensions, performed turns so sharp they should have been physically impossible according to conventional understanding of momentum and inertia, and discovered that he could hover in perfect stillness or accelerate to speeds that made the polar landscape blur beneath him into abstract patterns of white, blue, and crystalline light that belonged in museums rather than geography textbooks.
"This," he called out to the empty Antarctic sky, his voice carrying clearly through air so thin it should have made conversation impossible, "this is absolutely magnificent. Hermione is going to be so insufferably envious when she discovers I can fly without requiring any external equipment whatsoever. Ron will probably ask if I can teach him, and then be disappointed when I explain that it requires alien heritage and cosmic genetic modification."
But as spectacular as Antarctic aerobatics were—and Harry was fairly certain he'd just invented several new forms of atmospheric ballet that would require entirely new vocabulary to describe properly—he had friends to surprise with demonstrations of his new abilities, and somewhere in Kansas, a Kryptonian counterpart to locate before he accidentally leveled something important while learning to control heat vision.
Harry turned his enhanced senses toward the north, reaching out with awareness that had been expanded beyond ordinary human limitations. Through some combination of enhanced perception and magical sensitivity, he could actually feel the familiar signatures of home somewhere on the far side of the planet—the ancient ward-stones of Hogwarts humming their eternal vigil, the warm chaos of magical London's commercial districts, and most importantly, the beloved and chaotic magical signature of the Burrow, where Ron and Hermione were undoubtedly engaged in the kind of worried planning that came from being best friends with someone whose destiny had a documented tendency toward the dramatically inconvenient.
"Right then," he murmured, rising higher into the stratosphere as his enhanced physiology automatically adapted to atmospheric conditions that should have been immediately fatal to any purely human biology. "Time to discover exactly what 'superhuman speed' means when applied to intercontinental travel by someone who's always been more comfortable in the air than on the ground."
At thirty thousand feet, Harry paused to properly orient himself, his enhanced vision easily picking out the curvature of Earth below with clarity that made the view from commercial aircraft seem like looking through frosted glass. The panorama spread beneath him was nothing short of spectacular—endless expanses of polar ice giving way to the deep blue of southern oceans, painted in shades of blue and white that would have driven landscape artists to despair at the inadequacy of their pigments.
But more than the visual spectacle, Harry could feel the planet itself in ways that transcended ordinary sensory experience. The magnetic field of Earth hummed through his consciousness like a vast instrument being played by cosmic forces, creating a sense of direction and orientation that was more accurate than any navigation system ever developed by human technology. The rotation of the planet created subtle awareness of time zones and relative position that let him know exactly where he was in relation to anywhere he'd ever been, while solar radiation painted three-dimensional maps of weather patterns and atmospheric density that were more detailed than any meteorological survey.
"North," he said to himself, settling into a trajectory that would take him over the curve of the world toward England and whatever conversations awaited him there. "Let's see what happens when someone with my luck decides to test the absolute limits of alien-enhanced flying abilities."
He began to accelerate gradually, watching the landscape blur beneath him as his velocity climbed past anything achievable by conventional aircraft. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced—pure speed without the mechanical limitations of engines, the vibrations of machinery, or the physical constraints of traditional flight. He was moving fast enough that the sun's position in the sky was visibly changing, Earth rotating beneath him as he raced across time zones with the casual ease of someone who had transcended ordinary limitations and found them wanting.
At fifty thousand feet, Harry broke the sound barrier without even noticing, his passage creating atmospheric disturbances that painted aurora-like displays across the polar sky in colors that probably didn't have names in any terrestrial language. The thin atmosphere offered no resistance to his enhanced physiology, while his magic seemed to be unconsciously creating whatever environmental requirements his body needed to remain comfortable at altitudes where conventional wisdom insisted nothing human could survive.
Driven by curiosity and the simple joy of testing abilities that exceeded every childhood dream of flight, Harry climbed higher still, rising through atmospheric layers that became progressively less recognizable as anything that belonged to normal human experience.
At the very edge of space itself, Harry paused to float in the cosmic void, watching the curve of Earth turn slowly beneath him like a living jewel suspended in infinite darkness that held more beauty than any human art had ever achieved. The vacuum of space should have been instantly, dramatically fatal, but his enhanced physiology was adapting with casual efficiency, his magical core apparently generating whatever atmospheric requirements his metabolism demanded while his Kryptonian heritage handled cosmic radiation and temperature extremes that would have reduced ordinary matter to its constituent atoms.
"Well," he said aloud, his voice somehow carrying perfectly despite the complete absence of atmosphere as his unconscious magic created localized pockets of breathable air around him, "this is definitely not covered in any Hogwarts curriculum I remember. Though I suppose 'Advanced Interplanetary Studies' would have been a rather specialized elective, and Snape probably would have found ways to make even cosmic flight seem tedious and personally insulting."
The sun blazed above him with unfiltered intensity that would have been unbearable to ordinary human senses, but Harry found himself drinking in the solar radiation like someone who had been unconsciously thirsty for years and had finally discovered the perfect refreshment. Every photon seemed to add to his strength, his speed, his overall sense of well-being in ways that were simultaneously completely alien and utterly natural, as if he'd been designed specifically to thrive in conditions that would destroy ordinary life.
But it was the view of Earth itself that truly captured his attention—not because of any physical discomfort, which his enhanced abilities were handling with remarkable efficiency, but because of the sheer emotional impact of seeing his entire world spread out below him like the universe's most precious artwork floating in cosmic darkness that put every human achievement into proper perspective.
Continents drifted past in stately rotation as Earth turned beneath him: the white expanses of Antarctica giving way to the brilliant blue of the Southern Ocean, the familiar shapes of Africa and Europe beginning to curve into view with the kind of clarity that made every map he'd ever seen seem like crude approximation. And there, still hours away by any conventional means of transportation but mere minutes at his new cruising speed, lay the unmistakable outline of the British Isles—looking exactly like every geography textbook had promised but somehow more real, more precious, more worth protecting when viewed from the edge of infinity.
"Right," Harry said, feeling solar energy surge through his enhanced physiology as he prepared for what was probably going to be the longest flight of his life in terms of distance, though likely the shortest in terms of actual travel time. "Time to go surprise my dearest friends with the news that their best mate has been promoted to cosmic-level superhero with excellent fashion sense, reality-editing capabilities, and the ability to commute to work via low Earth orbit."
He angled himself toward the distant landmass that contained everything he'd ever called home, drew his dramatic cloak around his shoulders with unconscious flair that would have made theatrical directors weep with professional envy, and prepared to accelerate into a dive that would take him halfway around the world in minutes while almost certainly violating several principles of physics that had previously been considered inviolable.
"Hold onto your hats, you two," Harry murmured as he began his descent toward the atmosphere, already anticipating the expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces when he casually demonstrated abilities that redefined the possible. "Your favorite Boy Who Lived has rather a lot of explaining to do, and I suspect the next few hours are going to be memorable for everyone involved. Particularly when I show you what happens when heat vision meets precision magic, and strength enhancement meets careful control."
The sensation of diving toward Earth at velocities that conventional physics would have declared completely impossible was simultaneously the most terrifying and absolutely magnificent experience of Harry's life—and that was saying something, considering his documented history with dangerous situations and their tendency to involve mortal peril, cosmic consequences, and at least one dragon.
The planet rushed up to meet him with velocity that should have been instantly fatal, but his enhanced reflexes and supernatural durability transformed what should have been a cosmic disaster into the ultimate expression of controlled flight. Air resistance became merely another force to be negotiated rather than a limiting factor, while gravitational acceleration provided additional energy that his enhanced metabolism converted into even greater speed and maneuverability.
As he plummeted through the upper atmosphere, his passage created a trail of golden fire that painted itself across the sky like the most spectacular meteor in recorded history. His heat vision flickered automatically in response to atmospheric friction, but instead of the destructive red beams of traditional Kryptonian abilities, streams of golden energy played around him like protective armor that kept his dramatic reentry from accidentally setting the upper atmosphere on fire or creating the sort of light show that would require awkward explanations to various governments.
Through his enhanced senses—which were now operating at levels that redefined superhuman—Harry could already detect the familiar magical signatures of home with clarity that made ordinary perception seem like looking through thick fog. The ancient ward-stones of Hogwarts sang their protective songs across the Scottish Highlands, their magic older than recorded history and still patient as mountains. The warm commercial chaos of Diagon Alley buzzed with thousands of small magics being performed simultaneously, creating a magical ecosystem that was uniquely British in its combination of tradition, eccentricity, and stubborn refusal to conform to anyone else's standards.
And most importantly, shining like a beacon of warmth and chaotic affection across the English countryside, was the beloved and instantly recognizable magical signature of the Burrow—where Ron and Hermione were undoubtedly engaged in the kind of worried planning that came from being best friends with someone whose personal relationship with destiny could charitably be described as 'complicated.'
"Hold on, you two," Harry murmured as the familiar landscape of rural England rushed up to meet him, his enhanced vision already picking out the crooked, impossible silhouette of the Weasley family home among rolling fields that looked exactly as he remembered them but somehow more vivid, more real, more worth protecting when seen with perception that could catalogue individual blades of grass from several miles away.
"Your best mate has rather more to tell you than anyone should reasonably be expected to believe, and I suspect the next few hours are going to be absolutely unforgettable for everyone involved," he continued, adjusting his approach to ensure a landing that would be dramatic enough to properly announce his transformation without accidentally leveling any garden gnomes, livestock, or other features of the Weasley property that had sentimental value.
As Har-Rell—once Harry Potter, now something unprecedented in the history of either magical or Kryptonian civilization—prepared to land in the garden of his chosen family's wonderfully chaotic home, the golden glow of his eyes promised that the conversation ahead was going to redefine everyone's understanding of what was possible.
The universe, he suspected, was about to become a considerably more interesting place. And knowing his luck, that was probably going to involve both more adventure and more complicated explanations than any reasonable person would want to deal with before teatime.
But then again, Harry Potter had never been accused of being entirely reasonable, and he rather suspected that Har-Rell wasn't going to change that particular character trait.
If anything, having cosmic-level superpowers was probably going to make his tendency toward the dramatically inadvisable considerably more spectacular.
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