# The Hospital Wing - Dawn Approaches
The soft click of the infirmary doors opening drew the attention of all three teenagers, though only Harry's enhanced senses caught the distinctive sound of wheelchair mechanisms and the subtle scent patterns that spoke of newcomers long before they became visible. His transformed hearing picked up at least five different heartbeats approaching—some familiar, others entirely unknown but somehow carrying an undertone that made something deep in his chest respond with recognition.
"Well, this is interesting," Harry observed, sitting up straighter in his hospital bed with the fluid grace that still felt foreign to his transformed body. His voice carried that particular brand of dry British wit that had served him well through three years of increasingly impossible situations. "Multiple visitors at this ungodly hour. Either I'm about to receive very good news or spectacularly bad news. Given my track record, I'm betting on spectacularly bad with a side of 'things you never saw coming.'"
His enhanced features—sharper cheekbones, more defined jawline, and those mesmerizing emerald-gold eyes—gave him an almost otherworldly handsomeness that would have looked perfectly at home on a movie screen. The transformation had left him looking like someone who belonged in epic adventures, which, Harry reflected with characteristic irony, was probably appropriate given his life.
Ron looked up from his position propped against his pillows, his auburn hair catching the early morning light and his blue eyes shifting from tired contentment to alert curiosity. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his expression brightened with the kind of loyal enthusiasm that had carried him through three years of standing by Harry Potter through thick and thin.
"Blimey, Harry, you're more popular unconscious than most people are awake," Ron said with a grin that managed to be both teasing and genuinely affectionate. "At this rate, we're going to need to start charging admission fees. 'Come see the Boy Who Lived Transform Into Something Even More Impossible'—we'd make a fortune."
"Don't give him ideas," Hermione interjected with fond exasperation, though her voice carried undertones of concern as she straightened in her chair. Her brown eyes held that particular analytical intensity that appeared whenever she was processing multiple variables simultaneously. "Harry's ego is quite large enough already, thank you very much."
"My ego?" Harry asked with mock indignation, pressing a hand to his chest in a gesture that was pure theatrical outrage. "Hermione, I'm wounded. Here I am, barely recovered from a traumatic werewolf-induced mutation, and you're worried about my ego? I'm hurt. Truly devastated."
"You'll recover," she replied dryly, though the fond smile tugging at her lips betrayed her genuine affection. "You always do. Usually by finding new and creative ways to nearly get yourself killed."
"It's probably Dumbledore," she continued more seriously, her scholarly instincts taking over as she considered the possibilities. "He mentioned wanting to speak with you about the implications of your transformation. Though the number of visitors suggests he's brought reinforcements."
The infirmary doors swung open fully, and Professor Dumbledore entered with his characteristic unhurried dignity. His star-spangled robes flowed behind him with theatrical flair, and his pale blue eyes sparkled with what might have been anticipation—or mischief. With Dumbledore, those two things were often indistinguishable.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said warmly, his voice carrying that particular combination of grandfatherly affection and barely contained excitement that usually preceded life-changing revelations. "I do hope you're feeling better. You gave us all quite a scare."
"Just keeping things interesting, Professor," Harry replied with a grin that managed to be both charming and slightly dangerous. "Wouldn't want anyone getting bored around here."
But Dumbledore wasn't alone—behind him came a procession that made all three teenagers sit up and take notice. Professor Charles Xavier guided his wheelchair through the doorway with practiced ease, his cultured bearing and immaculate appearance suggesting someone accustomed to formal situations despite the early hour. His pale eyes held the kind of sharp intelligence that missed nothing, and his presence carried an authority that had nothing to do with titles and everything to do with the quiet confidence of someone who had faced down gods and monsters and emerged victorious.
Beside him walked a woman whose very presence seemed to change the atmospheric pressure in the room. Tall, elegant, with platinum hair that caught the lamplight like spun silver and dark eyes that held depths of power barely contained. She moved with the grace of someone who commanded the very elements themselves, and the air around her fairly hummed with suppressed energy.
Sirius brought up the rear of their small group, his dark hair falling across his aristocratic features and his grey eyes carrying a mixture of nervous energy and protective determination that Harry had never seen before. He looked like a man preparing to deliver news that would change everything, and his usual devil-may-care confidence was tempered by what appeared to be genuine anxiety.
But it was the figure walking beside his godfather that made Harry's enhanced senses sing with sudden, inexplicable recognition.
The man was roughly the same height as Sirius but built like someone who had spent decades learning that violence was often the only reliable solution to life's problems. His dark hair was styled in distinctive peaks that seemed to defy gravity, and his weathered face carried the kind of rugged handsomeness that belonged in old Western films. He wore simple clothes—jeans, boots, and a leather jacket that had seen better decades—but moved with the controlled grace of someone who could kill with his bare hands and had, frequently.
But it was his eyes that made Harry's breath catch. Hazel eyes that burned with inner fire, eyes that held depths of pain and determination and barely contained wildness that Harry recognized on some fundamental level that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with blood.
"Right then," Ron said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents of tension in the room, "this looks like it's going to be either the most interesting conversation of our lives or the most terrifying. Possibly both."
"With our luck?" Harry replied with characteristic wit, his enhanced gaze never leaving the stranger's face. "Definitely both. The universe has a twisted sense of humor when it comes to my life."
"Harry, Ron, Hermione," Dumbledore began with formal courtesy, settling his half-moon spectacles more firmly on his nose, "I'd like you to meet some very special guests who have traveled quite far to be here this morning."
He gestured toward Charles with a flourish that was pure theatrical Dumbledore. "Professor Charles Xavier, headmaster of the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters and a man whose work in genetics has revolutionized our understanding of human potential."
Charles inclined his head graciously, his cultured voice carrying the faint accent of someone who had spent decades moving in international academic circles. "Harry, it's a genuine pleasure to meet you at last. I've heard remarkable things about your recent... adventures. Though I confess, the reports hardly do justice to the reality."
His pale eyes moved between the three teenagers with the kind of analytical attention that suggested he was cataloging far more than just their physical appearances. "And you must be Ron and Hermione. Harry's friends, if I understand correctly. The ones who've stood by him through everything."
"That's us," Ron replied with cheerful pride. "Professional best friends and emergency backup for when Harry decides to do something spectacularly dangerous. Which, let's be honest, is most of the time."
"We prefer 'moral support and occasional voice of reason,'" Hermione corrected with the kind of fond exasperation that spoke of years of practice. "Though I'll admit the emergency backup aspect is disturbingly accurate."
"And this," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling as he gestured toward the striking woman beside Xavier's wheelchair, "is Ororo Munroe. Professor Munroe teaches at Professor Xavier's school and possesses some rather extraordinary meteorological talents."
Storm stepped forward with a warm smile that managed to be both genuinely friendly and slightly mysterious. Her dark eyes held the same analytical intensity as her colleague's, but tempered with a warmth that spoke of someone who genuinely cared about the welfare of others.
"Please, call me Storm. Everyone does," she said, her voice carrying a musical quality that seemed to echo with distant thunder. "And Harry, I have to say—you certainly know how to make an impression. The atmospheric disturbances from your transformation registered across half of Scotland. I've never seen weather patterns respond to a single individual's emotional state quite so dramatically."
"Ah," Harry replied with a slight grin that was equal parts chagrined and pleased, "sorry about that. I'm still getting used to the whole 'accidentally affecting weather patterns with my emotional state' thing. It's not exactly covered in the standard Hogwarts curriculum."
"I should hope not," Dumbledore interjected with gentle amusement. "We have enough trouble with the normal magical accidents without adding meteorological manipulation to the mix."
Ron was staring openly at their visitors, his expression cycling between awe and barely contained excitement. "Bloody hell—sorry, Professor Dumbledore—but are you really... I mean, are you actually the X-Men? The mutant heroes we've been hearing about in the Muggle news reports?"
"Some of us, yes," Charles replied with gentle amusement, clearly accustomed to such reactions. "Though I suspect the tabloid versions of our exploits may have been somewhat... embellished for dramatic effect."
"Embellished how?" Hermione asked with scholarly curiosity, her analytical mind immediately engaging with the possibilities. "Are the reports understating your capabilities or overstating them?"
"Bit of both, really," Storm replied with a laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "The media tends to focus on the more spectacular aspects while completely missing the educational mission that's at the heart of everything we do."
"Right then," Sirius said with the air of someone who had been building up to this moment for the past several hours, his grey eyes fixed on Harry with an intensity that spoke of barely controlled emotion. "Introductions out of the way, there's someone else you need to meet, Harry."
He stepped slightly aside, and the man in the leather jacket moved forward with predatory grace that reminded Harry powerfully of his own transformed movement patterns. Up close, the family resemblance was unmistakable—not just in physical features but in the way he carried himself, the way his eyes assessed threats and exits with automatic precision, the way he held himself ready for violence at a moment's notice.
"Harry," Sirius continued, his voice carrying enormous emotional weight as he struggled with how to deliver information that was going to change everything, "I'd like you to meet Logan Howlett. Also known as Wolverine. Also known as..."
He paused, clearly wrestling with the magnitude of what he was about to reveal. The silence stretched for a moment before he squared his shoulders and met Harry's eyes directly.
"Also known as your grandfather."
The silence that followed was so absolute that the soft hum of the infirmary's magical warming charms seemed deafening by comparison. Harry stared at Logan, his enhanced senses picking up scent markers and emotional resonances that his newly awakened instincts recognized as family, while his conscious mind struggled to process what Sirius had just revealed.
"His what now?" Ron said faintly, his voice cracking slightly as he processed the implications. "Did you just say grandfather? As in, actual blood relative grandfather?"
"Grandfather," Hermione repeated in a whisper, her analytical mind already racing through the implications at lightning speed. "But Harry, your grandparents are all... I mean, we thought they were all..."
"Dead," Harry finished quietly, his emerald-gold eyes never leaving Logan's face. His voice held a complex mixture of hope, disbelief, and carefully controlled emotion. "I thought I was completely alone in the world. No family left, other than the Dursleys. Just me against whatever the universe decided to throw at me next."
Logan stepped closer to Harry's bedside, his movements careful and deliberate, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden motion. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than Charles's cultured tones but carried depths of sincerity that were unmistakable.
"Kid," he said simply, his hazel eyes meeting Harry's directly, "I don't remember much about my life before the experiments. Most of my memories got scrambled pretty thoroughly by people who thought my brain was their personal playground and my body was government property."
His expression darkened briefly, hinting at depths of pain and rage that Harry recognized instinctively. "But if you're really my grandson, if we're really family..." He paused, studying Harry's transformed features with growing wonder. "Then you're the best thing to come out of a life that's been pretty damn short on good news."
Harry sat up straighter, his enhanced physique making the movement fluid despite his emotional turmoil. "How?" he asked, his voice steady despite the magnitude of what he was learning. "I mean, how are you my grandfather? Nobody ever mentioned... and you look younger than Sirius, for crying out loud."
"That would be the healing factor," Logan replied with a slight smile that transformed his weathered features completely. "Same mutation that you just manifested, actually. Keeps me from aging normally—been looking roughly the same for the past century or so."
"Century?" Harry repeated weakly, his characteristic composure finally showing cracks. "As in, one hundred years? You're over a hundred years old?"
"Give or take a few decades," Logan confirmed with dry humor. "Time gets a bit fuzzy when you can't die and your memory's been professionally scrambled by government scientists with more ambition than ethics."
"Right," Harry said slowly, his British wit reasserting itself as his mind caught up with the situation. "So to recap: I've just discovered that my grandfather is a century-old mutant superhero with memory problems and a healing factor. This is either the best news I've ever received or I'm having the most detailed hallucination in medical history."
"Given your life so far," Ron interjected with cheerful pragmatism, "I'm betting on best news. Your reality is weird enough that this actually makes sense."
Storm moved to stand beside Logan, her presence somehow making the entire situation feel more grounded and real. Her dark eyes held depths of understanding that spoke of someone who had helped many people navigate difficult revelations about their heritage and abilities.
"Harry," she said gently, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to helping young people process life-changing information, "Logan had a relationship with your grandmother—your mother's mother—during a time when she was separated from your legal grandfather. Your mother never knew Logan was her biological father."
"Your parents found out shortly after you were born," Sirius added gently, his expression carrying guilt and regret that had clearly been weighing on him for years. "Your mother's mum left her a letter and a photograph when she died. Lily made me promise that if anything happened to her and James, I'd make sure you learned the truth about your heritage."
He ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that spoke of years of carrying this secret. "I wanted to tell you sooner, Harry, but with everything that happened—Azkaban, Pettigrew, the bloody Ministry hunting me like a common criminal—there never seemed to be a safe time."
Harry processed this information with the kind of methodical thoroughness that had served him well through three years of impossible situations. His enhanced intellect, sharpened by his transformation, was already connecting dots and drawing conclusions at a speed that would have impressed Hermione.
"So my mother had the X-gene," he said thoughtfully, his voice gaining confidence as he worked through the implications. "That's why the lycanthropy triggered the mutation instead of just making me a werewolf. The genetic markers were already there, just waiting for the right catalyst."
"Precisely," Charles confirmed with academic satisfaction, clearly pleased by Harry's rapid understanding. "The genetic markers were already present in your DNA, passed down from Logan through your mother's line. The werewolf bite provided the traumatic catalyst necessary for manifestation, but the underlying potential was inherited."
"But the phoenix fire and the enhanced magical capabilities," Hermione interjected, her scholarly instincts overriding her social anxiety as she leaned forward with intense curiosity, "that's not a standard mutant ability, is it? How do you explain the interaction between the X-gene and magical capabilities?"
Logan's grin widened, and Harry could see genuine pride flickering in his hazel eyes as he looked at Hermione. "Smart girl. I like her already." He looked back at Harry with growing approval. "Good taste in friends, kid. Real good taste."
"She has a point, though," Harry said thoughtfully, his analytical mind engaging with the puzzle. "The phoenix fire isn't just mutation—it's connected to Fawkes, to the phoenix tears that saved my life in the Chamber of Secrets, to magic itself in ways I don't fully understand yet. How does that work with mutant genetics?"
"We're not entirely certain," Charles admitted with the kind of scientific honesty that had made him one of the world's leading experts on genetics. "The interaction between mutation and magic appears to be unprecedented. You may be the first individual in recorded history to manifest both types of power simultaneously and have them enhance each other rather than conflict."
"Lucky me," Harry said dryly, though his tone held more amusement than complaint. "Always knew I was special. Just didn't realize I was 'rewrite the laws of genetics and magic' special. That's a new level of impossible, even for my life."
Logan moved closer to the bedside, and Harry caught the scent of leather and metal and something wild that his enhanced senses categorized as safe, as family, as home. The recognition was so strong it was almost overwhelming.
"Can I... would it be all right if I sat down?" Logan asked, his voice carrying an unusual note of uncertainty. "This is a lot to process, and despite appearances, I'm not as young as I look."
"You're over a hundred years old," Harry pointed out with a grin that was becoming more genuine by the moment. "I think you're entitled to sit down. Hell, you're entitled to a pension and a comfortable retirement, but somehow I doubt you're the retiring type."
"Not hardly," Logan replied with a bark of laughter as he settled into the chair Hermione had been occupying. She moved to perch on the edge of Ron's bed with characteristic adaptability, her brown eyes bright with fascination as she watched the family reunion unfold.
Up close, the family resemblance was even more pronounced—the same bone structure, the same intense eyes, even some of the same unconscious mannerisms. Harry found himself studying Logan's face, searching for echoes of his mother in features he was seeing for the first time.
"So," Harry said, leaning back against his pillows with newfound confidence, his natural charisma enhanced by his transformation, "what's it like being a century-old mutant superhero? Because I have to admit, that sounds significantly more interesting than 'orphaned boy wizard with a tendency to attract homicidal dark lords and impossible situations.'"
Logan barked out another laugh, the sound rich with genuine amusement and growing fondness. "Kid, I think you're selling yourself short. From what I've heard about your adventures, you make my life look like peaceful Sunday strolls through the park."
"Oh, I doubt that," Harry replied cheerfully, his emerald-gold eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've only faced down one supposedly immortal dark lord, a sixty-foot basilisk, about fifty soul-sucking demons, and a few dozen other assorted monsters and Death Eaters. What's your personal record for impossible odds and near-death experiences?"
"Let's just say we'd be here all week if I tried to give you the complete list," Logan said with dry humor, though his expression held a note of concern at Harry's casual recitation of mortal dangers. "Though I have to ask—phoenix fire claws? Really? Because that's got to be the most spectacular manifestation I've ever heard of, and I've seen some pretty impressive abilities in my time."
Harry extended his right hand and concentrated, feeling the familiar sensation of bone sliding through flesh as three gleaming claws emerged from between his knuckles. But instead of the dramatic phoenix fire that had accompanied their previous appearances, they now glowed with a warm golden light that seemed almost gentle in the infirmary's soft lighting.
"Still getting used to them," Harry admitted, flexing his fingers experimentally while studying the way the light played across the gleaming bone. "The fire only really manifests when I'm emotional—angry, protective, that sort of thing. Most of the time, they're just... well, claws. Very sharp, very effective claws."
Logan extended his own hand, and with that distinctive metallic sound—*snikt*—three adamantium claws slid out to gleam under the infirmary's lamplight. The metal caught the light with a cold, deadly beauty that spoke of precision engineering and lethal purpose.
"Mine are a bit more straightforward," Logan said with understated pride. "Metal, sharp, designed for cutting through pretty much anything you can imagine and quite a few things you probably can't."
Harry stared at the parallel between their abilities, the genetic echo made manifest in bone and metal and the promise of violence when necessary. "We really are related," he said wonderingly, his voice carrying a note of awe at the visible proof of their connection.
"Looks like it," Logan agreed, retracting his claws with practiced ease. "Question is, what do we do about it? I mean, this changes things, doesn't it?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, though his enhanced intellect was already beginning to grasp the implications.
"I mean, kid," Logan replied with characteristic bluntness, his hazel eyes holding depths of self-awareness that spoke of decades of hard-won wisdom, "I'm not exactly father figure material. Hell, I'm probably not even grandfather material. I've got more blood on my hands than most small wars, my memory's Swiss cheese on the best of days, and I tend to solve problems by stabbing them until they stop being problems."
Harry's smile turned sharp and dangerous, an expression that would have looked perfectly at home on Logan's face. "Sounds familiar," he replied with cheerful irreverence. "I've got a tendency to solve problems by charging headfirst into impossible situations with minimal planning and maximum determination. Hermione calls it my 'Gryffindor martyr complex.' We might get along just fine."
"Oh, this is going to be interesting," Storm said with musical laughter, her dark eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. "Charles, I think we may have found the one person on Earth who's more recklessly heroic than Logan."
"Now that's saying something," Charles replied with dry humor, though his pale eyes held obvious affection for both Logan and his newly discovered grandson.
"Hey now," Ron protested with mock indignation, though his grin was wide and genuine, "that's my best mate you're talking about. I've got exclusive rights to mock his suicidal tendencies and his complete inability to avoid mortal peril."
"And I have exclusive rights to lecture him about proper research methodology, strategic planning, and the importance of thinking before acting," Hermione added with the kind of fond exasperation that spoke of years of practice. "Though I'll admit my success rate in that area has been... limited."
"See?" Harry said to Logan with obvious pleasure, gesturing toward his friends with genuine affection, "I've got excellent friends who keep me honest. Well, relatively honest. Mostly alive, anyway, which is more than some people manage in my vicinity."
Logan studied the three teenagers with growing approval, noting the easy camaraderie and obvious deep affection between them. His expression softened in a way that spoke of someone who understood exactly how rare and precious such loyalty was.
"Good friends are rarer than adamantium, kid," he said seriously. "Hold onto these two. In a life like ours, the people willing to stand by you when everything goes to hell are worth more than all the powers and abilities in the world."
"Speaking of abilities," Charles interjected gently, his pale eyes settling on Hermione with sudden intensity that made her straighten instinctively, "Miss Granger, might I have a word? There's something rather unusual about your psychic signature that I'd like to discuss."
Hermione looked startled, her analytical mind immediately shifting into overdrive as she processed the implications of Charles's statement. "My psychic signature?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of scientific curiosity despite her obvious confusion. "Professor Xavier, I'm not telepathic—I would have noticed something like that, surely. I mean, I would have felt something, experienced some kind of manifestation or unusual phenomena—"
"Not telepathic, no," Charles agreed with careful precision, his cultured voice carrying the authority of decades of experience in identifying and categorizing mutant abilities. "But definitely manifesting mutant traits. The signature is quite distinct once you know what to look for."
The second silence of the evening fell across the infirmary, this one tinged with amazement rather than shock. Hermione stared at Charles with the expression of someone whose carefully constructed worldview was undergoing rapid and thorough reconstruction.
"That's... that's not possible," she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction. Her analytical mind was already beginning to catalog anomalies and unusual occurrences that she'd previously attributed to other causes. "I would have known. I would have felt something, experienced some kind of manifestation—"
"Actually," Dumbledore interjected with gentle authority, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, "I believe Professor Xavier is quite correct. Hermione, you've been manifesting abilities for several months now, though you've attributed them to... other sources."
Hermione's brown eyes widened as understanding began to dawn, her brilliant mind making connections at lightning speed. "The Time-Turner," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Time-Turner?" Logan asked sharply, his protective instincts immediately engaging as his enhanced senses picked up the sudden spike in tension throughout the room. "What, some kind of time travel device? Because that sounds like the kind of thing that should come with about a thousand warnings and safety restrictions."
"It's perfectly safe!" Hermione said quickly, though her voice carried notes of uncertainty that hadn't been there before. Her scholarly confidence was beginning to crack as she reconsidered events through a new lens. "Professor McGonagall got special permission from the Ministry of Magic for me to use one this year. I needed it to attend all my classes—there were scheduling conflicts that made it impossible to take all the subjects I wanted otherwise."
She reached beneath her robes and withdrew a delicate golden chain, from which hung an hourglass pendant that seemed to glow with inner light. The device was clearly magical, humming with barely contained temporal energy that made the air around it shimmer slightly.
"It's strictly regulated," she continued, though her voice was growing less certain with each word. "Very specific rules about usage and temporal paradoxes and maintaining the timeline. The Ministry has protocols for everything related to time travel—"
"Hermione," Charles interrupted gently, his pale eyes fixed on her with the kind of intense focus that suggested he was seeing far more than just surface details, "when you use the Time-Turner, do you sometimes go back further than intended? Or perhaps stop time entirely rather than reversing it?"
The color drained from Hermione's face as she stared at him, the golden Time-Turner suddenly feeling heavy in her hands. "How did you... I mean, yes, but that's just the device malfunctioning," she said weakly. "Old magical artifacts can be unpredictable, everyone knows that. There are documented cases of temporal devices developing quirks over extended use—"
"Or," Dumbledore suggested with grandfatherly wisdom, his voice carrying the kind of patient understanding that came from decades of helping young people navigate extraordinary circumstances, "the device is responding to latent mutant abilities that allow you to manipulate temporal fields instinctively."
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, staring at his other best friend with an expression of mingled awe and exasperation. "Hermione, you're telling me you can control time? Actually manipulate time itself?"
Storm leaned forward with intense curiosity, her dark eyes bright with scientific fascination. "You can stop time? Actually freeze temporal progression completely?"
"Not... not intentionally," Hermione admitted reluctantly, her scientific honesty overriding her desire to maintain the rational explanation she'd constructed. "It started during particularly stressful study sessions. I'd be using the Time-Turner to give myself extra hours for research, and suddenly I'd realize that the clock had stopped moving entirely."
She looked down at the Time-Turner in her hands, her expression troubled. "The first few times, I thought it was just a coincidence—old magical artifacts interacting with periods of intense magical study. But it kept happening, always when I was under pressure, always when I needed more time to complete something important."
"But it kept happening," Charles finished sympathetically, his cultured voice carrying the kind of understanding that came from years of helping young mutants understand their abilities. "Hermione, stress and strong emotion are the most common triggers for initial mutant manifestations. You've been unknowingly manipulating time itself, and the Time-Turner has been amplifying your natural abilities."
Ron was staring at his other best friend with an expression of mingled awe and exasperation that was becoming familiar. "Hermione, you're a bloody time-controlling mutant, and you didn't think to mention this? Even to us?"
"I didn't know!" she protested, though her scientific mind was clearly working through the implications at lightning speed, reorganizing months of experiences into a new framework. "I thought it was just equipment malfunction combined with exhaustion-induced hallucinations! There are documented cases of temporal displacement causing perceptual distortions—"
"That," Harry said with affectionate amusement, his emerald-gold eyes sparkling with fondness for his brilliant friend, "is the most Hermione response to discovering superpowers I've ever heard. Trust you to rationalize time manipulation as equipment failure and academic stress."
"It's not rationalization if the evidence supports the hypothesis!" Hermione replied with indignant dignity, though her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. "I was following proper scientific methodology and considering the most likely explanations first!"
Logan was studying Hermione with the same intensity he'd shown Harry, though his expression held professional interest rather than familial recognition. "Kid, temporal manipulation is one of the rarest mutant abilities on record. We're talking omega-level classification, possibly beyond that."
"Omega-level?" Hermione repeated faintly, her analytical mind already beginning to grasp the implications.
"Think of it as the mutant equivalent of Outstanding-plus," Dumbledore explained helpfully, his blue eyes twinkling with gentle humor. "Powers that can affect global conditions or reality itself. The kind of abilities that make governments nervous and scientists very, very interested."
"Right," Hermione said weakly, sinking back onto Ron's bed as her legs gave out entirely. "So to summarize the evening's revelations: Harry is a devastatingly attractive mutant wizard with phoenix fire claws and a previously unknown grandfather who's over a hundred years old and apparently one of the most famous mutant heroes in the world. And I'm apparently a time-controlling mutant who's been accidentally manipulating temporal fields for months while thinking it was just academic stress."
"That's... remarkably accurate, actually," Storm said with admiring amusement, her musical laughter filling the infirmary with warmth.
"And I'm still just Ron," Ron added cheerfully, though his expression held nothing but pleasure at his friends' discoveries rather than any hint of jealousy or resentment. "Ron Weasley, ordinary wizard with no mysterious heritage or reality-altering superpowers. I'm starting to feel a bit left out of the genetic lottery, honestly."
"Ron," Harry said seriously, his enhanced features conveying absolute sincerity as he met his best friend's eyes directly, "you're the one who kept us all sane through three years of increasingly impossible situations. You're brave enough to face down giant spiders and homicidal chess sets, loyal enough to stick by your friends even when it costs you everything you want, and kind enough to accept that your best mates are apparently genetic anomalies without batting an eye."
He grinned, the expression transformed by his enhanced features into something that could have graced magazine covers or movie screens. "Trust me, mate—being ordinary in the ways that actually matter is exactly what Hermione and I need. Someone has to be the stable center when we start brainstorming solutions to impossible problems."
Logan nodded approvingly, his weathered features showing genuine respect for the redhead's character. "Kid's right, Red. Powers are useful tools, but character is what counts when everything goes to hell. And Ron," he fixed the young man with a serious look that carried decades of hard-won wisdom, "anyone willing to stand by their friends against impossible odds, anyone with the courage to face down nightmares for the people they care about—that's extraordinary in my book."
"Plus," Storm added with gentle humor, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief, "someone needs to provide stability and common sense when the time-controller and the phoenix-fire-claws start brainstorming solutions to problems. I have a feeling the combination of those two particular abilities could lead to some very creative approaches to conflict resolution."
"Point taken," Ron replied with a grin that suggested he was perfectly content with his role as the stable center of their increasingly chaotic little group. "Though I have to say, this does explain a lot about why our study sessions always seem to last longer than they should."
"Ronald Weasley," Hermione said with mock severity, though her brown eyes were bright with affection, "are you suggesting that I've been unconsciously manipulating time to extend our homework sessions?"
"Well, when you put it like that..." Ron replied with cheerful irreverence.
Charles had been observing this interplay with growing satisfaction, noting the deep bonds of affection and loyalty that connected the three teenagers. His pale eyes held the kind of approval that came from recognizing something rare and precious.
"Harry, Hermione," he said warmly, his cultured voice carrying genuine invitation, "I hope you'll both consider visiting our school when your current educational obligations allow. There's a great deal we could teach you about controlling and developing your abilities."
"And there's a great deal you could teach us," Dumbledore added thoughtfully, his blue eyes bright with intellectual curiosity. "The interaction between magic and mutation is unprecedented. We have much to learn from each other, I suspect."
Logan stood, his movement drawing Harry's attention immediately as his enhanced senses tracked every subtle shift in posture and expression. "Kid," Logan said quietly, his voice carrying depths of emotion that he clearly wasn't accustomed to expressing, "I know this is a lot to process. Finding out you've got family when you thought you were alone in the world, learning about genetic heritage you never knew existed—it's overwhelming."
Harry looked up at his grandfather, noting the way the man seemed genuinely concerned about his wellbeing despite having known him for less than an hour. The care in Logan's expression was unmistakable, and it stirred something in Harry's chest that he'd thought was permanently closed off.
"Logan," he said quietly, his enhanced voice carrying absolute sincerity, "I've spent thirteen years believing I was completely alone in the world. Knowing I've got family who cares, that there's someone else who understands what it's like to have claws and healing factors and the urge to protect people no matter the cost..." He smiled, the expression radiant with genuine happiness. "It's not overwhelming. It's wonderful."
Logan's answering smile was soft and genuine, transforming his weathered features completely. "Yeah, kid. It really is."
Outside the infirmary windows, dawn was breaking over the Scottish Highlands, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that seemed to echo the phoenix fire that still ran through Harry's veins. It promised to be a beautiful day, full of possibilities that none of them could yet imagine.
The Age of Miracles had just gained new members—a grandfather and grandson reunited across decades of separation, and a brilliant young woman discovering that her thirst for knowledge extended to the very fabric of time itself.
Somewhere in the distance, a phoenix sang welcome to the morning, and the future stretched ahead of them bright with promise.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!