Fawcett City
The Vasquez household on Fawcett City's east side was experiencing what Billy Batson generously called "a peaceful Tuesday afternoon," which in his experience was roughly equivalent to the eye of a hurricane—quiet, deceptive, and almost certainly about to be followed by something that would require him to shout magic words at the top of his lungs while hoping the neighbors didn't start asking awkward questions about the sudden lightning strikes.
Billy sat hunched over the cramped kitchen table, surrounded by textbooks that seemed to multiply through some form of academic mitosis every time he wasn't looking directly at them. His algebra worksheet sprawled before him like a mathematical war zone, covered in eraser marks, frustrated doodles, and what appeared to be the remnants of his will to live.
"Okay, so if X equals the square root of negative stupid," he muttered, his pencil drumming against the table in a rhythm that suggested impending educational surrender, "and Y represents my rapidly diminishing faith in the American education system, then solve for Z, where Z apparently stands for 'why did I think I could handle ninth-grade math when I can barely handle being a superhero without accidentally becoming the patron saint of some random cult?'"
The pencil tip snapped under the pressure of his grip, and Billy stared at it with the expression of someone who'd just received personal confirmation that the universe had a sense of humor and it was terrible.
He'd already transformed into Shazam twice today—once to catch a city bus whose brakes had apparently decided to take an unscheduled vacation, leaving twenty-three passengers to contemplate their mortality while traveling at forty miles per hour through downtown traffic, and once to prevent a construction crane from turning a group of selfie-obsessed tourists into very flat, very regretful pancakes outside the Fawcett City Museum of Natural History.
Both incidents had been handled with his usual efficiency and complete inability to avoid property damage, but now he was back to being just Billy Batson—fourteen years old, living in foster care, and completely baffled by mathematical concepts that seemed designed specifically to make teenagers question their life choices and consider careers in burger flipping.
"If a train leaves Chicago at sixty miles per hour," he read aloud from his worksheet, his voice carrying the distinct tone of someone who'd given up on logic somewhere around problem number three, "and another train leaves Philadelphia at seventy-five miles per hour, traveling toward each other on the same track, why are we calculating when they'll meet instead of worrying about the fact that two trains are apparently racing toward each other like some kind of railway demolition derby? Shouldn't someone call the transportation authorities? File a safety report? Warn the conductors that they're about to star in their own action movie?"
He leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under the weight of his academic despair. "And why is it always trains? Don't these math book people know about planes? Cars? Really fast bicycles? Do they have some kind of weird train fetish, or is there a secret society of mathematics teachers who own stock in the railroad industry?"
From the living room came Mary's voice, carrying that particular note of barely contained excitement that usually meant either really good news, impending chaos, or that she'd discovered a new reason to reorganize her already perfectly organized bedroom. With the Vasquez family, those three possibilities weren't mutually exclusive.
"Billy!" she called, her voice pitched just loudly enough to carry over the sound of Eugene's latest project—which appeared to involve robotics, questionable electrical work, what sounded like a small explosion every few minutes, and possibly the violation of several fundamental laws of physics.
Billy looked up from his homework with the expression of a drowning man who'd just spotted a life preserver. Mathematical torture could wait indefinitely when there were more interesting forms of potential disaster calling his name.
"Yeah?" he called back, already pushing his chair away from the table.
"Your friend's here!" Mary's voice carried a note of barely contained glee that made Billy's enhanced hearing—one of the few Shazam abilities that lingered even in his civilian form, much to his occasional regret when the neighbors were having loud arguments—pick up on the rapid acceleration of her heart rate and what sounded suspiciously like someone trying to fix their hair very quickly.
Billy blinked, genuinely confused. Most of his classmates were either intimidated by his living situation—because apparently foster kids were supposed to be dangerous or something, which was ironic considering he could literally bench-press city buses when properly motivated—or too weirded out by the strange things that seemed to happen around him to actually risk a visit to his house.
Strange things like the time his backpack had started glowing during a pop quiz, or the incident where he'd accidentally caught a falling cafeteria tray one-handed without looking up from his lunch, or the memorable afternoon when he'd somehow managed to arm-wrestle Biff Thompson and win, despite being roughly half the guy's size and weight.
"Which friend?" he asked, though part of him was already beginning to suspect the answer, because there was really only one person in his life who could make Mary sound like she'd just discovered the cure for boredom and the secret to eternal happiness simultaneously.
"The criminally gorgeous British one!" Mary's voice carried that particular note of teenage infatuation that made Billy want to crawl under the table and hide until the secondhand embarrassment passed or the heat death of the universe, whichever came first. "You know, the one with the suits that probably cost more than Rosa's annual salary and the smile that could convince world leaders to sign over their countries without reading the fine print! The one who looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled 'What If James Bond Had Better Cheekbones, Mysterious Magical Powers, and a Trust Fund the Size of a Small Nation's GDP?'"
Billy's face lit up with genuine pleasure, algebra immediately forgotten in favor of something infinitely more interesting. "Harry!"
He abandoned his homework with the enthusiasm of someone escaping from prison—because X could wait indefinitely, but visits from interdimensional wizards masquerading as wealthy British businessmen were rare, precious, and therefore took absolute priority over any form of academic responsibility.
From the living room came Mary's voice again, this time in a stage whisper that was probably audible to anyone within a three-block radius: "Oh my God, he's even prettier than I remembered, and I have an excellent memory for pretty things. How is that even possible? Did he get a haircut? Is that a new suit? Should I change clothes? I should definitely change clothes. Do I look okay? Don't answer that. Actually, do answer that, but only if the answer is yes. Tell me I look okay. Actually, don't tell me anything, I'm going to go fix my hair and maybe my entire life and possibly learn how to be sophisticated and mysterious."
Billy paused at the door, grinning despite himself. "Mary, you know he can probably hear you, right? Enhanced senses and all that magical stuff?"
"I don't care!" Mary's voice was muffled now, probably because she'd buried her face in a couch cushion in a desperate attempt to muffle her own mortification. "Let him hear! Maybe he'll be impressed by my honesty! Or my lung capacity! Or my ability to overthink simple social situations!"
"Your lung capacity is definitely impressive," Billy called back, still grinning as he reached for the door handle. "You could probably power a small wind farm."
"Shut up, Billy!"
Billy shook his head, still grinning, and opened the door.
Hadrian Peverell—"Call me Harry, darling, we've been friends far too long for tedious formalities, and life's too short for unnecessary syllables"—stood in the hallway like he'd been personally designed by a committee of Renaissance artists working overtime on a project titled "How to Make Every Other Human Being Feel Hopelessly Inadequate While Somehow Still Being Charming About It."
He was wearing what was undoubtedly a custom-tailored suit in navy blue so dark it was nearly black, the kind of fabric that seemed to absorb light and reflect it back as pure, concentrated elegance. The cut was perfect—not a single wrinkle, not one thread out of place, fitted like it had been designed specifically for his frame by someone who understood geometry as an art form.
His shirt was crisp white silk that probably cost more than most people's car payments, his tie was knotted in a pattern that definitely had a name Billy couldn't pronounce and probably involved several mathematical principles, and his shoes were polished to a mirror shine that could have been used to signal aircraft or blind enemies at considerable distances.
His dark hair was styled with the kind of casual perfection that took either extensive professional help or supernatural intervention—possibly both—and those emerald green eyes, ancient and ageless and impossibly bright, seemed to take in everything about Billy's appearance, the apartment behind him, the emotional state of everyone within the building, and probably the general mood of the entire neighborhood.
In one hand, he carried a pink bakery box from Delacroix's—that ridiculously expensive French patisserie downtown where a single cupcake cost more than Billy's weekly allowance and the pastries were rumored to be so good they'd caused at least three diplomatic incidents. In the other, he held a coffee cup like he'd personally negotiated a peace treaty with it and emerged victorious.
"Billy, my dear boy," Harry said, his voice carrying that smooth British accent that made everything sound either incredibly sophisticated or mildly threatening, depending on context and the listener's current relationship with mortality. "Please tell me you've managed to avoid cults, cosmic artifacts, power-hungry extradimensional monarchs, and spontaneous deification since our last conversation. I'm running dangerously low on diplomatic immunity forms, the interdimensional bureaucracy has started charging processing fees, and my lawyer is threatening to retire to a nice quiet dimension where the most exciting thing that happens is occasional weather."
Billy laughed, stepping aside to let Harry enter with that fluid grace that made simple movements look like choreography. "Hey, none of that stuff was my fault! I just lifted a city bus off some pedestrians. *They're* the ones who decided that made me their prophesied god-emperor or whatever."
"They built a temple in your honor," Harry pointed out mildly, settling his coffee cup on the hall table with the precision of someone who'd never spilled anything in his life and probably viewed clumsiness as a personal failing. "Out of moon rock and meteoric iron and what I'm fairly certain was crystallized time itself. The architecture was actually quite impressive, if you like that sort of neo-classical meets cosmic horror aesthetic. One of your devoted followers tried to legally change his name to 'Shazam's Left Spleen' in your honor."
Billy winced. "Okay, that was more than a little weird."
"I've attended royal coronations with less pageantry," Harry said dryly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his jacket with the kind of attention to detail that suggested he'd never met a piece of clothing that didn't immediately improve upon contact with his person. "Although I must admit, your spleen does have a certain dependable quality that's quite admirable. Very consistent. Never lets you down. I can see why they'd want to honor it specifically."
"My spleen doesn't need its own religious following," Billy protested.
"Try telling them that," Harry replied with amusement. "I believe they're planning a feast day. Very solemn affair. Lots of chanting about internal organs and their mystical significance."
"Hey, Harry," came Mary's voice from the living room doorway, where she'd apparently been lurking and attempting to look casual while simultaneously trying to fix her hair, adjust her shirt, check her reflection in every available surface, and probably rethink her entire approach to human interaction.
She'd changed into her favorite jeans—the ones that actually fit properly and didn't have any suspicious stains or holes—and a blue sweater that brought out her eyes and looked effortlessly elegant in the way that suggested considerable effort had been involved. Her long dark hair was now perfectly styled in casual waves that had definitely taken more than five minutes to achieve, and she was holding what appeared to be a chemistry textbook, though Billy's enhanced senses could detect the distinctive smell of romance novel pages hidden inside the cover.
Harry turned toward her with that fluid, predatory grace that made simple movements look like they'd been choreographed by someone who understood the physics of attraction, and his smile could have powered the entire electrical grid of a small city while simultaneously inspiring poetry and probably causing several minor traffic accidents.
"Mary," he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to make her cheeks flush pink while managing to sound like he was genuinely delighted to see her, "you look absolutely radiant today. That color brings out the intelligence in your eyes and makes you look like you could solve all the world's problems before lunch."
Mary's brain seemed to temporarily short-circuit, and Billy could practically hear the sound of her higher cognitive functions grinding to a halt. "I... thank you. I shampooed my... brain this morning?"
Billy raised an eyebrow, torn between secondhand embarrassment and genuine concern for his foster sister's mental state. "You shampooed your brain? Is that a thing? Should I be worried about your mental hygiene routine? Are there special shampoos for thoughts? Do you condition your memories?"
Mary shot him a look that could have melted steel and possibly caused structural damage to the building. "It's a metaphor, Billy. For intellectual cleanliness. Obviously. You know, like... cleaning out the cobwebs of ignorance and... conditioning your neurons for maximum efficiency."
"Obviously," Harry agreed with complete gravity, though his eyes were dancing with barely contained amusement and what looked suspiciously like fond affection. "Intellectual hygiene is absolutely crucial. I personally recommend a good philosophical conditioning treatment at least twice a week, followed by a thorough rinse with logical reasoning and a light application of critical thinking serum."
Mary nodded eagerly, apparently taking this completely seriously and possibly planning to look up philosophical conditioning treatments as soon as humanly possible. "Yes! Exactly! I've been doing... philosophical... conditioning... things. Regularly. Very regularly. Sometimes twice a day when I'm feeling particularly... intellectually... dirty."
Billy just shook his head, wondering if this was what having a front-row seat to a train wreck felt like, except the train wreck was his foster sister's attempt at flirting and somehow it was both painful and endearing to watch.
"Come on, Harry," he said, gesturing toward the kitchen before Mary could accidentally compliment Harry's molecular structure or offer to wash his brain for him. "Before Mary starts offering to organize your thoughts alphabetically or something."
"I would be excellent at organizing thoughts," Mary called after them, following at what she probably thought was a casual distance. "I have a very systematic approach to mental filing systems."
Harry glided through the apartment like he owned the lease on the laws of physics, his presence somehow making the cramped space seem larger and more elegant just by virtue of him being in it. He settled into one of the kitchen chairs with the kind of effortless grace that made everyday furniture look like it had been designed specifically for him by artisans who understood that comfort and style weren't mutually exclusive.
"Rosa still working those brutal double shifts at the hospital?" he asked conversationally, beginning to open the bakery box with the precision of a surgeon performing a sacred ritual. The smell that emerged was absolutely incredible—sugar and butter and chocolate and something that might have been actual magic.
"Yeah," Billy replied, taking his seat across from Harry and immediately feeling better about the world in general. Harry had that effect on people—his presence somehow made everything seem more manageable, more solvable, more likely to work out in everyone's favor. "Victor's at a job interview downtown—some kind of electrical work with the city. Freddy's at his physical therapy appointment, trying to convince his therapist that he doesn't need the crutch anymore even though he totally does. Darla's at soccer practice, probably scoring goals and befriending everyone on the opposing team simultaneously. Eugene's in his room doing something that probably violates several laws of physics and at least two international treaties, and Mary's..."
He glanced toward the doorway, where Mary was attempting to look casual while obviously eavesdropping and possibly taking notes on Harry's conversational techniques.
"Mary's pretending she's not completely infatuated with you while actually being about as subtle as a neon sign advertising her feelings to anyone with functioning eyes," Billy finished with a grin.
"Billy!" Mary hissed from the doorway, her face turning approximately the same shade as a fire engine. She disappeared from view so quickly that she probably left a Mary-shaped dust cloud, though Billy could still hear her muttering something that sounded like "strategic repositioning" and "plausible deniability."
Harry's smile could have inspired poets and probably toppled governments if he'd ever decided to go into politics instead of whatever it was he actually did for a living. "Charming," he murmured, taking a sip of his coffee with the kind of appreciation that suggested it was either very good coffee or possibly enchanted. "She's grown up beautifully. You all have. It's remarkable, watching children become themselves."
His expression shifted then, the charming facade sliding away like a mask being removed to reveal something sharper, more dangerous underneath. It was like watching a masterpiece painting suddenly develop an edge that could cut glass and possibly reality itself.
"Billy," he said, his voice dropping into that register that meant important information was about to be shared and everyone's life was probably about to become significantly more complicated, "we need to talk. About something rather urgent and unpleasant and likely to ruin what was shaping up to be a perfectly nice afternoon."
Billy felt his stomach drop like he'd just stepped off a cliff. He'd been friends with Harry long enough to recognize that tone—it was the voice Harry used when the world was about to become significantly more dangerous and Billy was probably going to be standing right in the middle of whatever was about to go horribly wrong.
"What's going on?" Billy asked, his own voice automatically dropping to match Harry's serious tone, though he was pretty sure he already wasn't going to like the answer.
"Someone's been systematically attacking members of the Justice League," Harry said, his emerald eyes growing cold in a way that made the temperature in the kitchen seem to drop several degrees and probably made small animals in the area suddenly decide they had urgent business elsewhere. "Not random villain-of-the-week nonsense or your typical 'I shall conquer the world with my weather machine' theatrical garbage. This is coordinated, calculated, precisely planned assassination attempts using information they shouldn't have access to and resources that suggest serious funding and planning."
Billy's enhanced hearing picked up the sound of Mary's sharp intake of breath from the living room, followed by the soft sound of her moving closer to the kitchen doorway, apparently having decided that eavesdropping was more important than maintaining the pretense of not being interested in their conversation.
"Who got hit?" Billy asked, though part of him already knew he wasn't going to like the answer, because he never liked the answers when people started targeting his friends and mentors.
"J'onn was first," Harry said, his voice clinical now, like he was reading from a tactical report written by someone who understood violence as a science. "Someone laced his drinks with magnesium carbonate and set him on fire. He was burning for forty-three minutes before I could get the flames out and counteract the chemical reaction. Forty-three minutes, Billy. He thought he was going to die."
Billy's hands clenched into fists on the table, his knuckles white with tension. J'onn was one of the kindest people he'd ever met, gentle and thoughtful and always willing to listen when Billy needed to talk through some impossible problem.
"Diana was next," Harry continued, his voice growing colder with each word. "Nanomachines in her bloodstream that affected her perception, made her see everyone around her as Cheetah. She nearly massacred a crowd of dock workers before we could get close enough to inject her with the antidote. She still has nightmares about it."
"Are they okay?" Billy asked, though he could hear the strain in his own voice.
"Alive," Harry said quickly, recognizing the fear in Billy's expression. "Hurt, traumatized, questioning their own judgment and wondering who they can trust, but alive and recovering. Barry had a bomb attached to his wrist that would have detonated if he slowed down below Mach 1—he ran for hours straight before we could figure out how to disarm it safely. Hal was hit with concentrated fear gas mixed with yellow impurities and nearly removed his ring permanently. And Clark..."
Harry's expression grew even grimmer, if that was possible, and Billy braced himself for the worst.
"Someone disguised themselves as a jumper, let him spend twenty minutes talking them down from suicide, building trust and rapport and making him care about their wellbeing. Then they shot him point-blank with a kryptonite bullet when he got close enough to touch."
Billy felt sick. These weren't just his teammates—they were his friends, his mentors, the closest thing to a superhero family he'd ever had outside of his foster family. The idea of someone hurting them, using their own kindness and heroism against them, made him want to transform right there in the kitchen and start looking for someone to punch.
"But they're all recovering now?" he asked, needing the reassurance.
"They're alive and healing," Harry confirmed, though his expression remained grim. "But Billy, whoever's behind this has access to incredibly detailed files. Personal information, psychological profiles, tactical assessments. They know exactly how to exploit each League member's specific vulnerabilities, their moral codes, their instinctive responses to different situations. This isn't random or opportunistic."
Billy's stomach twisted as the implications hit him like a physical blow. "Like Batman's contingency protocols."
Harry nodded grimly, his emerald eyes flashing with something that might have been anger or might have been the promise of creative violence. "Exactly like Bruce's protocols. Except these weren't created out of paranoia or tactical necessity or reasonable preparation for worst-case scenarios. These were designed specifically to kill. Permanently. And efficiently. And the next target..."
He met Billy's eyes directly, and Billy could see the genuine concern there, the protective fury that Harry was keeping tightly controlled.
"Is you."
The kitchen fell silent except for the distant sound of Eugene's mechanical tinkering, the soft hum of the refrigerator, and what sounded suspiciously like Mary holding her breath in the living room.
"They're going to try to keep me from saying the word," Billy said quietly. It wasn't a question—it was the obvious tactical approach, the most efficient way to neutralize someone whose power depended entirely on a single spoken syllable.
"That's the most likely approach," Harry confirmed, his voice carefully controlled. "Magical vocal lock, laryngeal paralysis, some kind of spell or technological device that prevents you from transforming. Leave you trapped as just Billy Batson—no lightning, no gods, no superhuman durability, no enhanced strength or speed. Just a fourteen-year-old boy who can be killed by anything that would kill any other fourteen-year-old."
Billy was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands and thinking about how small they looked when they weren't capable of punching through walls or catching falling airplanes. When he looked up, his expression was older than his years—the look of someone who'd been forced to grow up too fast and make decisions that no child should ever have to make.
"So what do we do?" he asked, his voice steady despite the fear he was feeling.
Harry leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, but somehow Mary could probably still hear every word from the living room. "We let them come to us. We bait the trap, control the circumstances, choose the battlefield on our terms. And then..."
His smile was sharp enough to cut diamonds and carried twice the menace, the kind of expression that suggested he'd spent considerable time thinking about creative ways to make people regret their life choices.
"We remind them that children are off limits. You are not prey, Billy Batson. You are my friend, you are under my protection, and anyone who wants to hurt you will have to go through me first. And I have a rather comprehensive education in making that a significantly unpleasant experience."
The threat in his voice was mild, almost conversational, but it carried the weight of someone who'd walked through dimensions and wars and come out the other side with his moral code intact and his capacity for strategic violence significantly enhanced.
"And if they do try to go through you?" Billy asked, genuinely curious about the answer.
Harry's smile widened, and for just a moment, Billy caught a glimpse of something ancient and dangerous and absolutely committed to his protection. "Then they'll discover that I have a rather extensive education in making people regret their life choices. Permanently. And creatively. And in ways that will serve as educational examples for anyone else who might be considering similar poor judgment."
From the living room came Mary's voice, carefully pitched to sound casual and probably failing completely: "So, um, when you say Billy's under your protection, does that mean you're moving in? Because Eugene's room has that extra bed, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind sharing, and we could probably rearrange some things, maybe set up a more efficient security perimeter, install some early warning systems..."
Billy groaned and let his head fall forward onto the table with a soft thunk. "Mary, seriously?"
"I'm just being practical!" Mary called back, her voice getting closer like she was gradually working up the courage to actually enter the kitchen and join the conversation. "Safety in numbers! Strategic positioning! Efficient resource allocation! It's just good tactical thinking!"
Harry looked absolutely delighted, his eyes dancing with amusement and what looked suspiciously like fond affection. "I do appreciate tactical thinking, especially when it's presented with such obvious ulterior motives. Although I should probably warn you that I have some rather unusual habits that might make cohabitation challenging. I tend to receive interdimensional communications at odd hours, I sometimes practice magic in my sleep, I have a tendency to attract interesting enemies, and my morning routine involves at least three different types of exotic coffee."
"That's fine!" Mary's voice was getting noticeably closer, and Billy could hear the sound of her footsteps approaching the kitchen. "I like interesting! Interesting is good! I could be your backup! Or your assistant! Or your coffee consultant! I know lots about coffee! I could learn more about coffee! I could become a coffee expert!"
"Mary," Billy interrupted before she could offer to become Harry's personal barista or something equally embarrassing, "you're gonna hyperventilate."
"I'm breathing perfectly normally, thank you very much," Mary said, finally appearing in the doorway with her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with enthusiasm and what was probably oxygen deprivation. "I'm just... enthusiastically oxygenating. It's a thing. Very healthy. Promotes brain function."
Harry's laugh was warm and genuine, the kind of sound that made everything seem a little bit better just by existing. "Enthusiastic oxygenation is an excellent life skill. I approve completely. Very efficient use of available atmospheric resources."
Mary beamed like she'd just received a presidential medal and possibly discovered the secret to happiness. "See, Billy? Harry appreciates my breathing techniques."
Billy just sighed and reached for one of the donuts from Harry's bakery box, because if the universe was determined to be ridiculous, he might as well have good pastry while dealing with it. "Can someone please file a formal complaint with the universe and ask it to calm down for like five minutes? I haven't even finished my algebra homework, and now I have to worry about assassination attempts and Mary's increasingly obvious attempts at flirtation."
"The universe rarely schedules its catastrophes around academic deadlines," Harry observed, though he was still smiling with obvious affection for both Billy and Mary's respective forms of chaos. "Though I suppose we could try filing a formal complaint with the cosmic authorities. I do have some connections, though most of them owe me money or favors or both."
"You have connections with cosmic authorities?" Mary asked, moving closer to the table with the kind of casual obviousness that suggested she was trying very hard to look like she wasn't trying to get closer to Harry while absolutely failing to be subtle about it.
"One develops contacts over the years," Harry said modestly, taking another sip of his coffee. "Though most of them are either trying to arrest me, recruit me for increasingly questionable projects, or convince me to run for political office in dimensions where 'charismatic and morally flexible' are considered essential leadership qualities."
"What kind of questionable projects?" Billy asked, momentarily distracted from the whole "someone wants to murder me" situation by the fascinating details of Harry's apparently very interesting life.
"Last week I was offered a position as Emperor of a small dimension that exists entirely within a snow globe," Harry said conversationally, like this was the sort of thing that happened to him regularly. "The pay was excellent, the benefits included immortality and complimentary reality manipulation, but the commute was murder, and I'm not really management material. I prefer working freelance—more flexibility, better vacation time, fewer responsibilities for the existential welfare of entire populations."
Mary sat down at the table, apparently having decided that subtlety wasn't working and direct approach was the way to go. "That sounds amazing. Do you get to travel to lots of different dimensions? See different worlds? Meet interesting people? Have incredible adventures that most people couldn't even imagine?"
"Mostly I meet people who want to kill me for various reasons," Harry said cheerfully, like this was a perfectly normal aspect of his social life. "Though occasionally I meet someone charming who makes the whole experience worthwhile and reminds me why I keep risking interdimensional travel despite the obvious occupational hazards."
He smiled at Billy, but Mary apparently decided this was meant for her, because she turned approximately the same shade as a ripe tomato and looked like she might need to resume her enthusiastic oxygenation techniques.
"So," Billy said quickly, before Mary could say something that would require him to hide under the table for the next decade or possibly move to a different dimension entirely, "what's the actual plan? How do we catch whoever's behind this without me ending up as a cautionary tale about the dangers of being a teenage superhero?"
Harry's expression grew serious again, the charming mask sliding back into place over something much more dangerous. "We wait. We let them make their move. We control the circumstances as much as possible and try to stack the deck in our favor. And when they do come for you..."
His emerald eyes flared with that dangerous light that reminded Billy that Harry wasn't just a charming British businessman with excellent taste in clothing and coffee—he was also one of the most powerful magical practitioners in any dimension, with a moral code that included very specific provisions about the protection of children.
"We show them why threatening children is the fastest way to discover what it feels like to be scattered across multiple planes of existence, preferably while remaining conscious long enough to fully appreciate the educational value of the experience," Harry finished quietly, his voice carrying the kind of casual menace that suggested he'd given this considerable thought and was looking forward to the practical application.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set over Fawcett City, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that would have been beautiful under other circumstances—if they weren't sitting in a kitchen discussing assassination attempts and defensive strategies while Mary made heart eyes at an interdimensional wizard.
Inside the Vasquez kitchen, expensive donuts were shared, plans were quietly made, and a storm was beginning to gather in the emerald eyes of a man who'd decided—without question or hesitation—that nobody would ever hurt this boy while he drew breath.
And if that meant making an educational example of a few would-be assassins, well...
Harry had always been fond of comprehensive demonstrations of the consequences of poor judgment.
---
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