The garden gnomes at the Burrow had developed what could charitably be described as "political consciousness" and what Ron Weasley was currently calling "an attitude problem that would make Draco Malfoy weep with envy."
"Right then, you little revolutionary," Ron grunted, wrestling with a particularly belligerent gnome who seemed to have appointed himself shop steward for the entire vegetable patch. "This is my family's garden, not your personal socialist commune."
The gnome responded by delivering a surprisingly articulate speech about workers' rights while simultaneously attempting to bite Ron's thumb off.
"Oh, for crying out loud," Ron muttered, finally managing to hurl the creature over the hedge. "Twenty-eight days ago, these things just squeaked and ran. Now they're giving me lectures on fair labor practices. What's next? Demands for healthcare and pension schemes?"
Hermione Granger looked up from her own gnome-wrangling activities, a smudge of dirt across her cheek and that particular expression she got when she was about to deliver uncomfortable truths. "You do realize they're not actually unionizing, don't you, Ron? They're responding to environmental stress. Animals—and magical creatures—are highly sensitive to emotional atmospheres. The entire ecosystem around the Burrow has been disrupted."
"Disrupted by what?" Ron demanded, shaking dirt from his hair. "By us being miserable? Because if that's the case, these gnomes are going to be staging protest marches until we're all dead and buried."
"That's rather the point," Hermione said quietly, her voice losing its lecturing tone. "Everything's been off since—"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
Twenty-eight days. That's how long it had been since Harry Potter vanished in a flash of silver light, right as Voldemort's body hit the flagstones of the Great Hall. Twenty-eight days of searching, of sleepless nights, of conversations that always circled back to the same devastating truth: their Harry—stubborn, reckless, too bloody-minded to die even when fate practically demanded it—was simply gone.
The Burrow felt hollow now, like a music box with half its parts missing. Mrs. Weasley moved through the kitchen like she was underwater, cooking elaborate meals that nobody wanted to finish. Mr. Weasley had taken to dismantling Muggle electronics with the manic intensity of a man avoiding his own thoughts. George sat in the twins' old room, surrounded by half-finished joke products that didn't feel funny anymore.
And Ron and Hermione hurled garden gnomes with the grim determination of people who needed something—anything—to do with their hands while their minds chewed on problems their wands couldn't solve.
"I've been thinking," Hermione announced suddenly, in that tone that usually preceded either brilliant breakthroughs or three sleepless nights of obsessive research.
Ron paused mid-gnome-grab. "Oh, brilliant. Because what this situation desperately needs is more of your thinking. Last time you said that, I ended up helping you reorganize the entire Restricted Section by theoretical magical resonance patterns."
"This is important, Ron." Hermione's voice carried that sharp edge that meant she was onto something significant. "The magical discharge right before Harry disappeared. Every witness described the same thing—silver light, enormous magical power, then nothing. No residual trace whatsoever."
"The silver light thing, yeah." Ron held up a gnome that was glaring at him with tiny, furious eyes. "What about it?"
"That shouldn't be possible." Hermione began pacing, which was never a good sign. "Even the most advanced magic leaves traces—resonance patterns, disturbances in the magical field, something. But Harry just... disappeared. Like he stepped outside magic entirely."
Ron blinked. "You're saying Harry quit magic? Just packed up his wand and said, 'Cheers, been fun, off to become an accountant'?"
"Don't be ridiculous." Hermione shot him an exasperated look. "I'm suggesting that maybe the explanation isn't purely magical. We've been assuming it has to be magical because Harry's a wizard, but what if that's the wrong assumption entirely?"
The gnome in Ron's hand chose that moment to deliver a tiny but surprisingly painful kick to his wrist. "Ow! Right, you little—" He hurled it over the hedge with more force than strictly necessary. "Like what then? Muggle science? Are you going to tell me Harry's been abducted by aliens?"
Hermione's eyes suddenly lit up with that dangerous gleam that usually preceded either genius or catastrophe. "Why not? We know practically nothing about how magic interacts with the broader universe. There could be forces we've never studied, never even considered."
Ron gave her a long, wary look. "Please tell me this isn't going to end with you building a rocket in Dad's shed. Because I'm telling you right now, Hermione—if you try to drag me into space, I'm filing for conscientious objector status."
"Ron!"
"What? You get that look—the one that says you're five minutes away from calculating the aerodynamic properties of broomsticks or trying to prove that Quidditch violates the laws of physics. I'm just preparing myself for whatever mad scheme you're cooking up."
Hermione took a deep breath, clearly counting to ten. "What I'm suggesting is that Harry has never existed under normal circumstances. He survived the Killing Curse as a baby through means nobody understands. He had a psychic connection to Voldemort that defied every magical principle we know. He came back from the dead at Hogwarts in a way that even Dumbledore couldn't fully explain."
Her voice softened, taking on that tone she used when she was working through a complex problem. "What if there's something fundamental about Harry—something we've never understood—that allowed him to step outside the normal rules entirely?"
Ron was quiet for a long moment, absently holding a gnome that had gone suspiciously docile in his grip. "That's just typical, isn't it?" he said finally. "Trust Harry to find a completely new way to disappear that nobody's ever thought of before. Most people get themselves killed in normal, predictable ways. But Harry? No, he has to go and invent some previously unknown method of vanishing that'll probably end up in textbooks someday."
The gnome bit his thumb. Ron yelped and flung it across the garden. "Brilliant. Vanished into thin air while the rest of us get stuck dealing with politically conscious garden pests."
Despite everything, Hermione smiled—the first real smile to grace the Burrow's grounds in weeks.
---
Before Ron could launch into what was undoubtedly going to be a detailed complaint about the declining standards of gnome behavior, the sky above the Burrow began doing things that would have made the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures file several strongly-worded reports.
The afternoon sunlight dimmed as though someone had installed a cosmic dimmer switch, and then—high above them—the clear blue sky tore open with a streak of golden fire.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his current gnome slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers. The creature landed with an indignant squeak, brushed itself off, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "typical workplace safety standards," and stalked off toward the cabbages.
Ron didn't notice. His freckled face was tilted skyward, mouth hanging open like he was trying to catch raindrops. "Hermione, please tell me you're seeing this too. Please. Because if I'm having hallucinations again, I'm blaming George's experimental Whizzing Worms."
"I see it," Hermione said tightly, her gaze locked on the blazing streak cutting across the heavens. "Though I'm not entirely sure I believe it. Meteors don't decelerate mid-flight, Ron. They don't correct their trajectory. That's controlled descent."
The golden fire grew brighter, closer, and began resolving into something distinctly human-shaped. Not falling—arriving. With purpose.
Ron and Hermione exchanged one of those looks that had gotten them through seven years of increasingly improbable near-death experiences. The look that said: We're not running, are we? No? Right then. Wands out, sanity questionable, curiosity overwhelming. Here we go again.
They drew their wands with the fluid precision drilled into them during months of guerrilla warfare, though neither assumed an aggressive stance. They'd learned that sometimes the difference between living and dying came down to waiting two extra seconds before hexing the unknown.
The figure descended toward the garden like a controlled meteor, trailing streamers of golden light that looked almost like liquid starfire. Then—three feet above the grass—it simply stopped. Hovering effortlessly in midair, golden radiance flickering around it like living flame.
"You know what?" Ron said conversationally, though his voice cracked slightly. "I'm starting to think gravity is just a suggestion in our lives. First flying motorbikes, then Thestrals, now this. Why do we even bother with stairs anymore?"
The figure lowered itself to the ground with a grace that made professional ballet dancers weep with envy. His boots touched earth without disturbing so much as a blade of grass.
He was tall—easily six feet—with shoulders that looked like they'd been carved by a sculptor who believed in making a statement. His suit was midnight black with crimson piping that traced elegant lines across a form that seemed more crafted than grown. A golden belt gleamed at his waist, matching the intricate gauntlets covering forearms that suggested serious time spent lifting things considerably heavier than garden gnomes.
But it was the cloak that really sold the whole production: deep crimson, flowing in an invisible breeze, with that particular kind of dramatic flair that suggested its wearer had either spent considerable time practicing in front of a mirror or was simply born to make an entrance.
The deep hood cast shadows that seemed to swallow light, revealing only burning golden eyes that looked like molten metal trapped in human form.
Ron leaned slightly toward Hermione, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a whisper. "Well, this is either the world's most dedicated cosplayer, or we've just been personally visited by some sort of incredibly well-dressed deity with a flair for dramatic entrances."
"Ron," Hermione hissed, elbowing him sharply without taking her eyes off the stranger.
"What? You're thinking it too! Look at him—he's got that whole 'mysterious savior figure' thing down to an art form. Bet he practices that cape flourish. I mean, it's working, isn't it? Very impressive. Terrifying, but impressive."
The hooded figure tilted his head in what might have been amusement.
Ron, displaying his usual talent for reading rooms about as well as a concussed troll, continued: "I mean, if you're going to drop out of the sky trailing golden fire like some sort of avenging angel, you've got to commit to the aesthetic, haven't you? Fair play to him. Full marks for style. Absolutely terrifying style, but still."
"I don't suppose you're here about the garden gnomes?" Hermione said suddenly, her voice dry as week-old toast. "Because they've organized into some sort of collective bargaining unit, and frankly, we could use professional mediation."
The stranger's golden eyes flickered with what looked distinctly like suppressed laughter.
Ron's grip tightened on his wand. "Right, so not a gnome consultant. Shame, that. We could really use one. Does this mean we move to Plan B?"
"What's Plan B?" Hermione asked without looking away from their mysterious visitor.
Ron swallowed hard, glanced at the imposing figure, and said with forced brightness: "Panic, obviously. I'm excellent at panic. Years of practice."
---
The hooded figure reached up with one gauntleted hand and slowly, deliberately lowered his hood.
Ron's wand actually slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a small thud. Hermione made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Both of them simply stood there, their brains having apparently declared a work stoppage in the face of complete impossibility.
Because the face revealed beneath that dramatic cowl was Harry Potter.
Not their Harry—not the skinny, perpetually disheveled boy with knobby knees, haunted eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding trouble in empty rooms. This was Harry Potter if Harry Potter had been personally redesigned by a committee of Renaissance masters working in collaboration with several benevolent gods who specialized in dramatic improvement projects.
Six feet of sculpted perfection filled out that black and crimson armor like he'd been born to wear it. His messy hair—still fundamentally untameable, because some cosmic truths were apparently immutable—now looked like the kind of artful dishevelment that required teams of stylists and possibly divine intervention. His skin practically radiated health and vitality. His shoulders could have been used as architectural inspiration.
And his eyes—Merlin's beard, his eyes—still that same vivid green, but now glowing with depths that suggested he'd personally witnessed the birth of stars and possibly had opinions about their interior decorating choices.
When he spoke, his voice resonated with cathedral-like depth, rich with harmonics that seemed to vibrate in their bones. But underneath all that impossible grandeur was something utterly, unmistakably familiar: the same dry affection, the same barely contained amusement, the same Harry.
"Hullo, you two," he said, as casually as if he'd just wandered back from a quick trip to Diagon Alley instead of vanishing from existence for nearly a month. "Sorry I'm late. Got a bit sidetracked with some family business. You know how it is—alien heritage, cosmic destiny, crash course in advanced reality management. Absolute nightmare for one's social calendar."
Hermione made a sound like a tea kettle achieving critical pressure. Ron just stared, his mouth working soundlessly.
The silence stretched for exactly three heartbeats.
Then Hermione exploded.
"Harry James Potter!" Her voice climbed into registers typically reserved for calling wayward cats down from very tall trees. "You have been missing for twenty-eight days. Twenty-eight! We thought you were dead! We searched everywhere—literally everywhere! I've read so much theoretical magical physics I could probably teach at three different universities, the Ministry mobilized half their Auror force, your godfather nearly had a nervous breakdown, Mrs. Weasley hasn't slept properly in a month, and you—" She gestured wildly at his towering, glowing, impossibly perfect form. "—you show up looking like this!"
"Like what?" Harry asked with infuriating innocence, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Like—like—" Hermione sputtered, apparently having reached the limits of her vocabulary.
"Like a superhero," Ron supplied faintly, his ears turning bright red as he continued to stare. "A really, really fit superhero. With excellent tailoring. I mean, seriously, Harry—who designed that outfit? Because they deserve awards. Multiple awards. The shoulders alone are a work of art."
"Ron!" Hermione snapped.
"What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking! He looks like he walked out of one of those Muggle films and decided gravity was more of a guideline than a rule. I'm allowed to notice when my best mate's turned into... into whatever this is!"
Harry had the absolute audacity to grin at them—not the hesitant, often self-deprecating smile they remembered, but a confident, slightly cocky grin that belonged on someone who could probably bench-press a dragon. "Right, about that." He scratched the back of his head in a gesture so fundamentally Harry that it nearly undermined the whole godlike presentation. "Turns out I'm not entirely human."
The temperature in the garden seemed to drop several degrees.
"Excuse me?" Hermione's voice had gone very quiet and very dangerous.
"Well, not purely human," Harry corrected smoothly, his tone maddeningly casual. "Apparently there's a significant amount of extraterrestrial heritage in the Potter family line. Skipped several generations, lay dormant for decades, then decided to wake up all at once when I got hold of the Deathly Hallows. Triggered what I believe are called genetic activation protocols. And here we are." He gestured vaguely at his transformed self.
"Extraterrestrial heritage," Hermione repeated in the flat, dangerous tone she usually reserved for people who claimed that Arithmancy was "just fancy maths."
"Kryptonian, specifically." Harry's expression was that maddening blend of matter-of-fact and slightly apologetic, as though he was explaining why he was late for dinner rather than revealing that he was part alien. "My great-great—well, many-times-great-grandfather was apparently the last survivor of a highly advanced alien civilization. Came to Earth, fell in love with a witch, started a family. The genes have been dormant ever since. Until me."
Ron blinked several times in rapid succession, like a camera trying to focus on something impossible. "So you're saying... you're part alien."
"More or less."
"And that's why you can fly."
"Among other things."
"And why you've suddenly turned into..." Ron made a vague gesture that encompassed Harry's entire impossible existence. "That."
Harry's grin widened. "Genetic upgrade package. Side effects may include flight, enhanced physical capabilities, energy projection, cosmic awareness, and apparently the ability to make garden gnomes question their life choices just by existing in their general vicinity."
Ron gave a low whistle. "Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. Harry Potter disappears for a month and comes back as Super-Harry. Meanwhile, I'm still getting bitten by politically motivated garden pests."
Hermione, however, was far from finished. "How long have you known about this?"
Harry held up one perfectly manicured hand. "About five minutes after I disappeared, give or take."
Hermione's nostrils flared. "Five minutes. And you didn't think to come back and tell us?"
"In my defense," Harry said with that smooth confidence that was definitely new, "I was rather busy learning how not to accidentally level continents every time I sneezed. Cosmic puberty, as it turns out, requires a certain amount of... focused attention."
Ron snorted despite himself. "Cosmic puberty. Right. That's what we're calling it."
Harry spread his arms, cape flowing dramatically as if choreographed. "What else would you call it, Ron? Alien adolescence? Extraterrestrial growing pains? Superman syndrome?"
"I don't know what any of those words mean, but they all sound better than 'cosmic puberty,'" Ron muttered.
Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I cannot believe this is my life now."
"Could be worse," Harry said cheerfully. "I could have developed a taste for world domination. Or poetry. Trust me, cosmic poetry is apparently a thing, and it's universally terrible."
Ron just kept staring, then shook his head slowly. "Yeah, well... at least you're still Harry. A bigger, shinier, more annoyingly perfect Harry who can apparently fly and shoot laser beams out of his eyes, but still Harry."
"Damn right," Harry said, his grin turning fond. "I still hate Potions, I still think Divination is rubbish, and I still have absolutely no idea how to properly fold laundry."
"Some things never change," Hermione said weakly.
"The important things," Harry agreed. "Though I have to say, the cosmic awareness thing does make Trelawney's predictions look even more ridiculous in retrospect. Apparently, the universe has a sense of humor, and it's mostly centered around making prophecies as vague and unhelpful as possible."
---
Hermione approached him with the careful precision of a researcher approaching a potentially explosive magical experiment—equal parts fascination and healthy paranoia, with an underlying current of if this goes badly, I'm hexing everyone in sight.
"You're really Harry?" she demanded, each word sharp and suspicious. "Not some elaborate imposter, not a Polyjuice mishap, not an incredibly attractive stranger suffering from a tragic case of mistaken identity and cosmic coincidence?"
Harry lowered himself gracefully from his casual hover—because apparently he'd been floating three inches off the ground this entire time without anyone noticing, which was just typical—and touched down with the kind of effortless grace that made professional dancers weep with envy.
"I'm really Harry," he said solemnly. "Though I'm also Har-Rell now. That's my Kryptonian name. Comes with cosmic responsibilities, reality management duties, and what I strongly suspect will be enough intergalactic paperwork to make the Ministry's bureaucracy look like a model of streamlined efficiency."
"Paperwork?" Ron said blankly, as though Harry had just announced his intention to become a professional accountant. "You've gone missing for nearly a month, come back looking like... like that—" he gestured helplessly at Harry's impossible transformation "—and your biggest concern is paperwork?"
"I'm multitalented," Harry replied with that new, confident smirk. "I can save worlds and fill out forms in triplicate. Don't let the muscles fool you—I'm still fundamentally British. I understand bureaucracy."
"Right," Ron said faintly. "Prove it then. Tell us something only Harry would know."
Harry's expression shifted into something wickedly familiar—the same look he'd worn when convincing Dudley to sit on a cushion that turned out to be a Dungbomb, just scaled up to match his new cosmic proportions.
"Oh, do you really want me to do that, Ron? Because I could mention your sleep-talking habit. Very detailed Quidditch strategies, complete with sound effects and emotional commentary. Or perhaps Hermione's extensive collection of romance novels, carefully hidden in her beaded bag beneath a camouflage layer of Arithmancy textbooks."
Hermione went scarlet. "You absolute—!"
Ron's ears flamed to match his hair. "I do not talk in my sleep!"
"'Watch out for the Bludger, Ginny!'" Harry quoted in a passable imitation of Ron's voice. "'No, not that Bludger, the other one! Why are there so many Bludgers? Who authorized this many Bludgers?'"
"That's—that's not—" Ron sputtered.
"And Hermione," Harry continued mercilessly, "I particularly enjoyed 'Passion in the Potions Laboratory: A Tale of Forbidden Love and Dangerous Chemistry.' Very educational. I learned several new uses for lacewing flies that Snape definitely never mentioned."
"I was researching the psychological implications of romantic literature as a coping mechanism during wartime!" Hermione protested, though her face had progressed from red to burgundy.
"Of course you were," Harry said with fond exasperation. "Just like you were 'researching sleep patterns' when you stayed up all night reading 'The Duke's Dangerous Desire.'"
"Fine!" Ron threw up his hands in defeat. "No need to get personal! Just—show us the alien magic then."
"Abilities," Hermione corrected automatically, her scholarly instincts overriding her embarrassment. "What sort of abilities are we talking about?"
Harry's eyes began to glow, that molten gold building behind his irises like banked fire. "Well, let's start with the classics, shall we? Heat vision. Though mine's got some interesting magical integration properties."
He turned toward a dead branch that had been cluttering the garden for weeks—one of those eyesores that everyone kept meaning to clear away but never quite got around to. Two precise beams of golden energy lanced out from his eyes, but instead of incinerating the wood, something extraordinary happened.
Life flooded back into the branch like time-lapse photography on fast forward. Bark smoothed and darkened, leaves unfurled in brilliant green cascades, and within moments, delicate white blossoms appeared as though spring had arrived early for one small corner of the world. The dead stick had become a thriving apple tree, complete with the promise of fruit come autumn.
Hermione's jaw dropped. "That's not heat vision. That's... that's..."
"Healing heat vision," Harry finished casually, like he was describing a new variety of tea. "Rather useful, actually. Works for precision cutting through steel, discouraging Dark wizards, encouraging plant growth, and I suspect it would do wonders for unclogging drains, though I haven't tested that particular application yet."
"You've achieved a functional synthesis of terrestrial magic and extraterrestrial bio-energy projection," Hermione said faintly, staring at the apple tree as though it had personally offended her understanding of physics. "That shouldn't be possible. It violates at least six fundamental principles of thaumic resonance theory."
Harry reached out and patted her shoulder gently. "Hermione, love, I died once and came back. The rules and I... we're not exactly on speaking terms anymore."
Ron had been silent through this entire display, but suddenly he surged forward and wrapped Harry in a hug so fierce it made his armor creak ominously. His voice came out thick and muffled against Harry's impossibly broad chest.
"Don't you ever do that to us again, you absolute git. We thought you were dead. Mum's been cooking for an army and crying into the soup, Dad's taken apart every electronic device in the house twice, George won't come out of the workshop, and Hermione's been on a research bender so intense she nearly hexed me for asking if she wanted tea."
"I did not nearly hex you," Hermione protested weakly.
"You threatened to transfigure me into a bookmark if I interrupted your bibliography one more time," Ron pointed out.
"That's not nearly hexing, that's creative motivation," Hermione said, but her voice was unsteady.
Harry wrapped them both carefully in his arms—and it was a strange thing, having to be careful about his strength now, having to remember that he could accidentally break the people he loved most if he wasn't paying attention.
"I missed you both more than I can possibly express," he said quietly, his voice losing that new resonant quality and becoming something softer, more familiar. "Turns out cosmic enlightenment is spectacularly boring when you don't have anyone around to mock you for it."
They held each other in the Burrow's garden while the late afternoon sun painted everything gold, three friends who had somehow survived a war and were now facing the prospect of whatever came next. Around them, the garden gnomes had gone suspiciously quiet, as though even they recognized the significance of this moment.
Or possibly they were just planning their next organized labor action. With gnomes, it was always hard to tell.
---
When they finally pulled apart—though Hermione kept one hand firmly planted on Harry's arm as though she expected him to vanish again in a puff of cosmic smoke—her expression had shifted into that particular combination of worry and determination that usually preceded either brilliant solutions or spectacular disasters.
"So what happens now?" she asked with the careful precision of someone trying to plan for the unplannable. "Do you have immediate world-saving duties? Are there cosmic emergencies that require your urgent attention? Should we be preparing for alien invasions, interdimensional rifts, or shadowy government agencies with unlimited budgets and flexible ethics?"
Harry chuckled, the sound rumbling deeper than it used to, like his voice had been upgraded along with everything else. "Nothing quite so dramatic. Not today, anyway. Though I do need to take a trip to Kansas soon."
"Kansas?" Ron repeated, already sounding personally betrayed by the American Midwest. "Of course it's bloody Kansas. Because when you mentioned alien heritage, my first thought was obviously wheat fields and tractors. Couldn't be somewhere civilized, could it? London? Paris? Somewhere with decent fish and chips and reliable Floo connections?"
Harry's grin was pure mischief. "I can fly at approximately Mach 3 now, Ron. Kansas is only a few hours away at cruising altitude, assuming you don't mind traveling at heights where the atmosphere gets a bit thin and human lungs have some rather strong opinions about oxygen deprivation."
Ron gave him a flat look that could have curdled milk. "Oh, wonderful. I'll just pack my high-altitude breathing apparatus then, shall I? Right next to my alien translation guide and my 'How to Not Die in Kansas' handbook."
"What's in Kansas?" Hermione asked, though her tone suggested she was already dreading the answer.
"Another Kryptonian heir," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Raised by farmers, currently discovering his powers, probably wondering why he can accidentally lift tractors and why his parents keep finding perfectly circular holes melted through their barn walls."
"Of course there is," Hermione muttered. "Because one impossibly powerful alien wizard wasn't complicated enough for the universe. Now we need two."
"Actually," Harry said thoughtfully, "there might be more. The whole 'last son of Krypton' thing appears to have been somewhat exaggerated. But Kansas definitely has one, and he's apparently caused enough strange incidents that certain government agencies are starting to take notice."
Ron perked up slightly. "What sort of strange incidents?"
Harry's eyes twinkled with something that was definitely not entirely innocent. "Well, there was the incident with the falling airplane that somehow landed safely in a corn field with no casualties and no explanation. Then there was the oil rig fire that got mysteriously extinguished from above. Oh, and apparently someone's been preventing quite a lot of traffic accidents with what witnesses describe as 'impossible speed and strength.'"
"He's already heroing," Hermione observed with the air of someone identifying a particularly virulent strain of noble stupidity. "Wonderful. Two of you with Gryffindor complexes and godlike abilities. I can feel the migraine forming already."
"Hey," Harry protested mildly. "I resemble that remark."
"You absolutely do," Ron confirmed. "Remember second year? 'I can hear voices in the walls, obviously the logical response is to follow them into mortal peril.' Or fourth year: 'Dangerous tournament I didn't enter? Perfect opportunity for heroic stupidity.' Or basically any time someone mentioned danger and you got that look."
"I don't get a look," Harry said with wounded dignity.
"You absolutely get a look," Hermione said firmly. "It's the same look you're getting right now when you talk about flying to Kansas to help another superpowered alien learn responsible use of impossible abilities."
Harry paused, considering this. "...Fair point. But in my defense, I'm much better at the heroic stupidity now. I have actual powers to back up the poor decision-making."
"That's not the reassurance you think it is," Ron observed.
"Probably not," Harry agreed cheerfully. "But think about it—international travel with me as your personal supersonic transport. Educational opportunities in American agricultural techniques. The chance to meet alien royalty who's been raised on farm values and probably knows seventeen different ways to improve crop yields."
Hermione eyed him suspiciously. "You can't just fly us to Kansas, Harry. Governments notice when unidentified flying objects cross international airspace at impossible speeds. There are radar systems, air traffic control, military response protocols..."
"True," Harry conceded. "Though I could probably manage it without being detected if I really tried. But you're right—probably better to be diplomatic about it. First-class commercial flights all around. I refuse to fold myself into economy seating now that I could probably bench-press the airplane."
"You can bench-press airplanes?" Ron asked faintly.
"Haven't tested the upper limits yet," Harry admitted. "But I accidentally punched through a mountain yesterday while working out some frustration about cosmic responsibility, so... probably?"
"You punched through a mountain," Hermione repeated slowly.
"Just a small one," Harry said hastily. "More of a large hill, really. And I fixed it afterward! Good as new. Better, actually—improved the drainage and everything."
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look that spoke volumes about their concerns regarding Harry's new relationship with geological features.
"Right," Hermione said firmly. "Definitely commercial flights. With multiple forms of identification and very careful explanations about why you're traveling with us."
"Oh, that's easy," Harry said with that confident grin that usually meant trouble was about to become everyone else's problem. "Ron's my emotional support friend, and you're my designated keeper. Very official positions in the superhero industry, I'm told."
"I am not your emotional support anything," Ron protested.
"And I'm definitely not your keeper," Hermione added.
"Could've fooled me," Harry said cheerfully. "You've been keeping me out of trouble for seven years. Well, trying to, anyway. You're actually remarkably good at it, considering the degree of difficulty involved."
"I'm going to hex you," Hermione threatened, though there was no real heat in it.
"You could try," Harry said with insufferable smugness. "Though I should probably mention that I'm reasonably certain I'm magic-resistant now. Something about cosmic energy integration and enhanced molecular stability."
"Are you saying you're immune to magic?" Hermione demanded, her voice climbing toward the register reserved for major threats to the natural order.
"Not immune," Harry said quickly, apparently recognizing dangerous territory. "Just... resistant. Like wearing really, really good armor. You could probably still hex me if you really put your back into it."
"I'm going to test that theory," Hermione said with satisfaction.
"Please don't hex me in front of the gnomes," Harry requested. "They already think I'm showing off. If they see me get taken down by a Stinging Hex, I'll never live it down."
As if summoned by their names, one of the garden gnomes poked its head out from behind a cabbage and made what sounded like a distinctly sarcastic comment before disappearing again.
"See?" Harry said. "No respect whatsoever. I save the world, develop cosmic powers, and the gnomes are still giving me attitude."
"To be fair," Ron pointed out, "the gnomes gave you attitude before you had cosmic powers. They're remarkably consistent that way."
"Comforting," Harry said dryly. "It's nice to know that some things never change."
Hermione tugged on his arm, drawing his attention back to more serious matters. "Harry, what about us? Do Ron and I just... go back to finishing our N.E.W.T.s while you gallivant around the world managing cosmic crises? Because after everything we've been through, I have to say, normal life isn't nearly as appealing as it used to be."
Harry's expression softened into something warm, almost boyish despite the chiseled jawline and impossible aura. "Honestly? I was hoping you'd both come with me. I've got to talk to these American farmers—they've been raising an alien child and probably wondering when the instruction manual arrives. Having the two smartest people I know along? That makes it less of a diplomatic incident waiting to happen and more of an… educational road trip."
Ron blinked. "International travel with our best friend, the glowing alien wizard superhero. Right. Perfectly normal. Stranger things have happened."
"Name one," Hermione challenged.
Ron opened his mouth, paused, and shut it again. "…Fair point."
Harry leaned closer with a wicked glint in his starlit eyes. "It'll be fun. Educational. And I suspect there'll be moments when your crisis-management skills will save me from saying something deeply inappropriate to an American senator."
Hermione groaned, already picturing it. "Oh, Merlin, you're going to offend world leaders with your sarcasm, aren't you?"
"Absolutely," Harry said, not remotely apologetic. "But at least I'll look devastatingly handsome while doing it."
Ron snorted. "You've turned into the world's first intergalactic peacock."
Harry clasped a hand to his chest in mock offense. "A cosmic phoenix, Ronald, if you please. I rise dramatically, heal things with fire, and look majestic doing it."
Hermione shot Ron a look. "We'd better go tell your mum before she finds out on her own."
Ron winced. "Yeah, that'll be fun. 'Hi Mum, Harry's alive, he glows now, has alien powers, and we're all off to Kansas.' She'll hex us before dessert."
"She'll probably just try to feed me until I can't take off again," Harry said with mock gravity. "Then a lecture. Possibly a Howler."
Hermione nodded briskly. "About proper communication protocols during extended absences, and the absolute necessity of regular updates."
Harry's grin turned soft again. "I can live with that. Honestly? I've missed her fussing."
The three of them began walking toward the Burrow—Harry with that new, effortless stride that made him look like he belonged in the sky, Ron and Hermione falling naturally into their old protective flanks. The sun seemed to burn a little brighter, as though the world itself was glad he was home.
Behind them, the garden gnomes resumed their noisy debate, now loudly arguing whether alien heritage qualified one for honorary gnome status or immediate eviction from the shrubbery.
But for the first time in twenty-eight days, the Burrow was complete again. Chaotic, ridiculous, and bracing itself for the next impossible adventure.
Because Harry Potter—Har-Rell, wizard, alien, sassmaster extraordinaire—was never going to do "normal."
And honestly? Neither were they.
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