Harry leaned back against his pillows with the practiced ease of someone who had spent far too much time in hospital beds—though admittedly, none of those previous stays had involved discovering he was the grandson of a man with retractable claws and a healing factor. His emerald eyes, sharp as cut glass and twice as dangerous when he was thinking, swept across the assembled collection of the world's most powerful individuals as though he were a general surveying his troops before battle.
The morning light streaming through the infirmary windows caught the subtle changes in his appearance—the way his jaw had strengthened, the breadth of his shoulders, the predatory grace that now seemed to flow beneath his skin like liquid steel. Even wrapped in standard-issue hospital linens, he commanded attention with the kind of casual authority that made grown wizards step back and seasoned X-Men take notice.
"So," he said at last, his voice carrying that distinctive blend of velvet and razor wire that had become his trademark—cultured, cutting, and completely unimpressed by the gravity of the situation, "what's the plan? Because forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't think 'go back to class, take some notes, get yelled at by Snape for existing while breathing' is really on the cards anymore. Unless Hogwarts has secretly added 'Advanced Reality Manipulation for Beginners' to the syllabus this term."
He paused, tilting his head with mock consideration. "Though knowing our academic standards, they'd probably make it an elective and schedule it during lunch."
Ron, who had been methodically demolishing what appeared to be his third helping of treacle tart at Harry's bedside—stress eating being his preferred coping mechanism—nearly choked on his current bite. His ears went red as he tried to swallow and laugh simultaneously, creating a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a wheeze.
"Blimey, mate," he managed once he'd recovered, blue eyes dancing with mirth, "if they had, you'd still manage to be late to class. Probably set the classroom on fire walking through the door, knowing your luck."
Harry's mouth curved into that sharp, predatory smile that had been making Slytherins nervous since third year—but now carried an edge that could cut diamond. "Right. Says the bloke who thinks completing his Divination homework counts as actual intellectual achievement." His tone was fond but merciless. "Tell me, Ron, what earth-shattering insights did you glean from tea leaves this week? Let me guess—you're going to encounter unexpected fortune, face a mysterious stranger, and suffer through a period of mild digestive discomfort."
Ron's grin widened, completely unrepentant. "Hey, I'll have you know Professor Trelawney said my inner eye was particularly keen last Tuesday."
"Your inner eye," Harry replied with devastating dryness, "couldn't find water in the lake. With a map. And a guide."
"Oi! I resent that. I found the lake just fine when you pushed me into it second year."
"That," Harry said with the air of someone making a profound philosophical point, "was an act of mercy. You were overheating from wearing that ghastly sweater your mother knitted. I was performing a public service."
Hermione, seated primly in the chair beside Ron but somehow managing to radiate the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for ancient war generals and particularly determined badgers, rolled her eyes with the weary grace of someone who had been managing these two particular disasters for years. Her bushy hair had been tamed into something resembling order, but her amber eyes held the sharp gleam of someone whose mind was already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
"Focus, please," she said, though the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. "We're discussing life-altering decisions, not relitigating Ron's academic shortcomings."
"To be fair," Harry observed with judicial solemnity, "Ron's academic shortcomings are quite extensive. We could be here for weeks."
"Harry James Potter," Hermione began in that tone that had struck fear into the hearts of grown wizards.
"Hermione Jane Granger," Harry replied in perfect mimicry of her inflection, complete with the subtle emphasis on the middle name that suggested incoming lecture.
Their staring contest might have continued indefinitely, but Professor Xavier cleared his throat with the kind of gentle authority that commanded instant attention without raising his voice. The sound seemed to resonate through the room, not because it was loud, but because it carried the weight of decades spent managing the world's most powerful and temperamental individuals.
"Mr. Potter," Xavier said, his cultured voice carrying that distinctive blend of warmth and steel that had convinced world leaders to listen to reason and convinced frightened mutant children they were safe, "Miss Granger. The truth is elegantly simple, though the implications are somewhat more complex."
He steepled his fingers, a gesture that somehow managed to be both professorial and commanding. His pale blue eyes held depths that suggested he had seen the rise and fall of empires and found them all equally fascinating and equally fragile.
"What you possess," he continued, each word measured and precise, "represents something unprecedented. Magical mutation—if we may call it that—exists at the intersection of two extraordinary evolutionary paths. It is not merely an addition to your existing abilities, but a fundamental transformation of what those abilities can become."
Harry's eyebrows rose with the kind of aristocratic skepticism that would have made Lucius Malfoy proud, if not for the fact that it was being directed at one of the most respected men on the planet. "That's a very elegant way of saying 'congratulations, you're even more of a freak than we initially calculated.'"
"Harry," Hermione said sharply, but Xavier held up a hand.
"No, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter's observation, while characteristically blunt, touches on something important." Xavier's smile held both understanding and challenge. "The question is not whether you are different—that much is obvious. The question is what you choose to do with that difference."
He leaned forward slightly, and suddenly the genial professor disappeared, replaced by a man who had built one of the world's most important institutions from nothing and had faced down gods, monsters, and politicians with equal calm.
"Hogwarts," he said simply, "is not equipped to nurture gifts of this magnitude. The magical world's educational system, however venerable, was designed for a different kind of power, a different scope of possibility. You need instruction that can grow with you as you discover the true extent of your capabilities."
Dumbledore, who had been standing near the window with the kind of patient stillness that somehow suggested he was simultaneously completely relaxed and ready to level half of Scotland at a moment's notice, inclined his head gravely. His blue eyes, magnified behind his half-moon spectacles, held their familiar twinkle—but underneath it was something harder, more calculating.
"Indeed, Harry. Miss Granger." His voice carried the weight of centuries and the warmth of a favorite grandfather simultaneously. "What you possess is not something Hogwarts can safely—or effectively—teach. The risks, both to yourselves and to your fellow students, are too great to ignore."
He moved closer, his presence somehow filling the room despite his aged frame. "You would benefit from... broader instruction. More diverse perspectives on the nature of power and responsibility."
Hermione straightened in her chair, her sharp mind already racing ahead to conclusions that others would take hours to reach. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but carried an undercurrent of something that might have been grief—or relief.
"You're suggesting we leave Hogwarts," she said, the words heavy with implication and finality.
The silence that followed was profound. Ron's fork clinked against his plate as he set it down, the sound unnaturally loud. Somewhere in the distance, the castle's ancient stones settled with a whisper that seemed to echo through the ages.
"Not merely suggesting," Xavier replied, his gaze direct but infinitely kind. "The Xavier Institute would provide a safe environment to explore your abilities, to understand them, and to grow into them with proper guidance. Our resources and expertise are... considerable."
He gestured slightly, encompassing not just the room but the entirety of what his Institute represented. "We have experience with power that transcends normal human capability. We understand the isolation, the fear, the weight of being different. More importantly, we know how to help young people like yourselves become not just powerful, but wise."
Logan, who had been slumped in his chair with his boots propped up on a conveniently placed stool like he owned the place, snorted with the kind of eloquent disdain that could deflate egos at fifty paces. His cigar—somehow still lit despite multiple hospital regulations—created a small cloud of smoke that seemed to perfectly frame his perpetual scowl.
"Translation," he growled, his voice carrying the rough edges of a man who had seen too much and survived worse, "you two are walking weapons of mass destruction. Phoenix fire and time manipulation? That's not something you wanna test-drive in a castle full of teenagers with impulse control issues."
He made an explosive gesture with his free hand, complete with sound effects. "One bad day, one moment of losing control, and boom—you're explaining to whatever's left of the Ministry why half of Scotland looks like the surface of Mars."
Harry's response was immediate and devastating, delivered with the kind of aristocratic disdain that could have frozen the Mediterranean. "Well, that's certainly inspiring, Grandpa Grumpy. Truly motivational. Perhaps you should consider a career in guidance counseling. I can see the poster now: 'One slip and everyone dies horribly.' Very uplifting. Really captures that essential optimism young people need."
Logan's scowl transformed into something that might charitably be called a grin, if grins typically involved showing too many teeth and suggesting imminent violence. "Kid's got a mouth on him. I like that. Shows backbone."
"Of course you do," Hermione muttered, though her eyes held a grudging respect for Logan's directness. "Violence recognizes violence."
"Hey now," Logan protested with mock offense, "I prefer to think of it as 'creative problem solving with a focus on permanent solutions.'"
But Harry wasn't finished. He had found his rhythm now, and when Harry Potter found his rhythm, the results were typically spectacular and occasionally explosive. He leaned forward, his expression sharpening into something that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees.
"I'm not saying no to your generous offer, Professor Xavier," he began, his tone perfectly polite and therefore absolutely terrifying to anyone who knew him well, "but let's not pretend that mutant training alone solves all our problems. I'm still a wizard. Hermione's still a witch. That doesn't simply vanish into the ether because some cosmic dice roll threw in bonus genetic modifications."
His green eyes blazed with an intensity that seemed to make the air shimmer around him. "Magic is still part of the equation. It's not some quaint hobby we can set aside when we're learning to control our shiny new abilities. It's who we are, what we've been trained for, what we've bled for."
He gestured broadly, encompassing the castle around them. "I didn't spend three years learning to do magic, to think in magical terms, just to abandon it all because I now have always and can set myself on fire and emerge unscathed. That's not evolution—that's waste."
For a long moment, the room fell into the kind of silence that felt heavy with possibility. The morning light shifted, casting new shadows across the assembled faces, highlighting the tension and the promise in equal measure.
Then Sirius—who had been leaning against the mantelpiece with the kind of casual elegance that suggested he was simultaneously completely relaxed and planning something wonderfully irresponsible—pushed off with a grin that could have powered half of London.
"Good thing you've got me, then, isn't it?"
The grin widened, transforming his already handsome features into something that looked distinctly dangerous and completely unrepentant. It was the kind of expression that had gotten him into trouble at Hogwarts, out of trouble with the Ministry, and into the kind of legendary mischief that people still talked about in whispers.
Harry eyed him with the weary suspicion of someone who had learned to recognize the warning signs of incoming chaos. "Merlin's saggy left—" He caught Hermione's sharp look and smoothly amended, "—beard. What brilliant scheme are you hatching now?"
Sirius began to pace, and somehow even that simple action carried the predatory grace of a man who had spent twelve years as a large black dog and had never quite lost the instincts. His grey eyes were alight with the kind of manic energy that typically preceded either brilliance or disaster—and with Sirius Black, the two were often indistinguishable.
"Here's the thing," he said, gesturing expansively as he moved. "I'm a free man again. Finally, officially, legally free. Pettigrew's in custody, my name's been cleared, the Ministry's falling over itself to apologize for that whole 'imprisoned without trial' thing, and I've got time on my hands for the first time in over a decade."
He paused dramatically, clearly enjoying the attention. "And Remus—well, our dear Minister Fudge practically threw him out of the castle doors after the whole werewolf situation went public. Apparently, having a lycanthrope teaching children is bad for the Ministry's image. Never mind that he's the best Defense teacher Hogwarts has seen in twenty years."
"Typical," Harry said with the kind of disgusted resignation that suggested he had long since given up expecting basic human decency from the wizarding government.
"Indeed," Sirius continued, warming to his theme. "But that's just the beginning. See, I've been doing some thinking—dangerous, I know, but bear with me. The wizarding world's educational system is broken. Has been for decades. Too much tradition, not enough innovation. Too much politics, not enough actual learning."
He stopped pacing and faced the group, his expression suddenly serious despite the gleam in his eyes. "So here's what I propose: we build something better."
Ron, who had been unusually quiet—always a concerning sign when it came to Ronald Weasley—finally spoke up. His voice carried a forced cheer that fooled absolutely no one in the room.
"Right, so let me see if I understand this correctly," he said, setting down his fork with unnecessary precision. "Harry and Hermione are off to America for superhero training in the mornings and private magical tutoring from a dream team in the afternoons. Sounds absolutely brilliant. Revolutionary. World-changing."
His smile was bright and brittle as spun glass. "Just one tiny question: what about me?"
The question hit the room like a Bludger to the chest. For all the assembled brilliance—mutant and magical, legendary and learned—no one seemed to have an immediate answer to that simple, devastating inquiry.
Harry, who had faced down Dark Lords and Dementors, dragons and Dursleys, suddenly felt more undone by the quiet pain in his best friend's voice than by any of those previous trials. He sat forward, his expression softening from aristocratic arrogance to something far more vulnerable.
"Ron," he said, and his voice carried none of its usual sharp edges, "mate, this doesn't change anything fundamental between us. You're my best friend. My brother. The fact that I can now apparently set things on fire with my emotional state doesn't rewrite four years of history."
Ron's laugh was wet and shaky, but genuine. "Harry, of course it changes things. You're both going off to learn how to bend reality to your will and probably save the world a few more times, while I'm... what? Going home to help Mum tend the garden gnomes and complain about the Chudley Cannons' latest spectacular defeat?"
"Garden gnomes are vicious little bastards," Harry said with perfect sincerity. "Have you seen their teeth? You're practically on the front lines of a guerrilla war. Very dangerous work."
That earned him another laugh, stronger this time, before Ron's expression grew serious again. "Look, it doesn't change what matters. You'll always be my best mate, even when you're off saving the world in increasingly ridiculous costumes—"
"Oi," Harry interrupted smoothly, "let's not give the universe ideas about me in spandex. I have enough problems with my image."
"Don't knock it till you try it," Sirius murmured with wicked amusement. "I looked fantastic in leather during my rebellious phase."
"You're still in your rebellious phase," Hermione pointed out.
"Fair point."
But Ron wasn't finished. He reached over and clasped both Harry and Hermione's hands, his grip firm despite the emotion in his voice. "The thing is, you two are going to go off and become even more extraordinary than you already are. And that's brilliant. That's what should happen. But I need you both to promise me something."
His blue eyes were fierce with unshed tears and absolute determination. "Promise me you'll come back. Maybe not to stay, maybe not to the same life we had before, but come back. Because whatever you become, wherever this takes you, this—" he gestured to encompass their friendship, their bond, everything they had built together "—this is still real. This still matters."
Hermione's voice was thick with emotion when she spoke. "Ronald Weasley, you absolute idiot, of course we're coming back. Did you really think we'd just... forget you? Forget this?"
She squeezed his hand tighter. "You're already extraordinary. You don't need flashy mutations or world-shaking power to prove that. You're brave and loyal and kind, and you believe in people when they've given up on themselves. That's rarer than phoenix fire, more precious than time manipulation."
Her amber eyes blazed with fierce protectiveness. "Besides, someone has to keep the wizarding world grounded while we're gone. Someone has to be our anchor, our reminder of what normal life looks like, what we're fighting to protect. That someone is you."
Logan, who had been watching this exchange with an expression that was surprisingly thoughtful for a man whose primary method of conflict resolution involved sharp objects, suddenly leaned forward. His voice, when he spoke, was gravelly but unexpectedly gentle.
"She's right, kid. I've seen a lot of teams over the years—some of the best, some of the worst. You know what breaks most of them apart? It's not the enemy, it's not the pressure, it's not even the casualties."
He paused, studying Ron with those sharp hazel eyes that had seen far too much of human nature, both the beautiful and the ugly. "It's losing sight of what they're supposed to be protecting. The guy in the middle—the one who keeps them connected to the real world, to normal people, to what life looks like when you're not saving it—that's the most important job on the team."
Logan's expression grew almost fond, which was as unsettling as it was touching. "The flashy powers get the attention. The claws, the fire, the time tricks—that's what makes the headlines. But the guy who stays steady? The guy who reminds the heroes that they're still human? That takes real guts. That's the hardest job of all."
Ron blinked at him, clearly not having expected a pep talk from Wolverine of all people. "Blimey. Didn't think I'd get life advice from Captain Grumpy."
Logan's grin was all teeth. "Don't make me take it back, Red."
Storm, who had been a quiet but commanding presence near the window, moved closer with the kind of fluid grace that suggested absolute control over every movement. Her white hair caught the morning light like spun silver, and her dark eyes held depths that spoke of both infinite patience and terrifying power.
"Logan speaks truth," she said, her voice carrying the resonance of distant thunder and summer rain. "In my experience, the strongest teams are not held together by shared power, but by shared purpose. And shared affection."
She smiled at Ron with genuine warmth. "You will be their reminder of balance, their connection to the life they fight to preserve. Without that anchor, power becomes... dangerous. Consuming. I have seen what happens to those who lose their way."
The weight of her words settled over the room like a gentle storm, carrying both warning and promise.
Ron straightened slightly, some of the dejection fading from his posture. "So what you're saying is I'm stuck writing the world's most boring letters. 'Dear Harry and Hermione: Please remember to sleep occasionally. Hermione, homework is not an Olympic sport. Harry, please don't set any major landmarks on fire while practicing your reality-bending tricks. P.S.—The Cannons lost again. Send help.'"
Harry leaned back with a smirk that could have sold tickets to its own performance. "That, Ronald Bilius Weasley, is exactly the kind of essential correspondence I expect in my weekly mail. Weekly, mind you. Any longer and I'll Apparate directly into your bedroom at three in the morning just to complain about the lack of communication."
"Weekly?" Ron's grin turned calculating. "Mate, you'll be lucky if I don't write daily. I plan to live vicariously through your shiny American adventures. And when you inevitably do something spectacularly stupid—which we all know you will—I want detailed reports."
"Details you shall have," Harry replied with regal magnanimity. "Annotated, illustrated, and possibly bound in leather for dramatic effect. I'm thinking of calling them 'The Chronicles of Harry Potter's American Misadventures, Volume One: How I Accidentally Became a Tourist Attraction.'"
Even Xavier chuckled at that, the sound rich with genuine amusement. "Mr. Weasley, please be assured—your place in this rather extraordinary friendship, in this family, is no less vital than theirs. The remarkable is not always the spectacular. Sometimes, it is simply the steadfast."
Dumbledore, who had been listening with the kind of benevolent attention that somehow made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room, finally spoke again. His voice carried the weight of centuries but also the warmth of someone who had spent a lifetime caring for young people navigating impossible circumstances.
"Quite so," he said, his blue eyes twinkling with that familiar mixture of wisdom and mischief. "Harry may command fire, Hermione may bend time to her will, but you, Ronald, possess a gift more rare than either: the courage to remain constant when others flee toward destiny. That strength has saved lives before, and I rather suspect it shall again."
Sirius, who had been remarkably well-behaved for the past several minutes—a sure sign that he was plotting something magnificent—suddenly clapped Ron on the back with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock him off his chair.
"Besides, kid," he said with that irrepressible grin that had charmed half of magical Britain and thoroughly alarmed the other half, "someone has to keep me properly informed when Harry inevitably decides to conquer America through the sheer power of his sarcasm alone."
Harry spread his hands with theatrical innocence. "What, me? I'm a model student. Ask anyone."
The response was immediate and unanimous: "Ha!"
But Hermione, despite the lighter mood that had settled over the group, still looked troubled. Her brow furrowed with the kind of focused concern that usually preceded either brilliant insights or comprehensive disaster planning—with Hermione, the two often went hand in hand.
"What about my parents?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of vulnerability that she rarely allowed others to see. "They think I'm safely tucked away at a Scottish boarding school, learning Latin incantations and waving wooden sticks about in carefully controlled environments."
She gestured helplessly, her usual composure cracking slightly. "How exactly do I explain that I'm actually a time-controlling mutant who needs to relocate to America for specialized training in not accidentally unraveling the fabric of reality? There's not exactly a pamphlet for this sort of thing."
Dumbledore's eyes began to twinkle with that particular gleam that meant he had not only anticipated this exact concern but had already formulated a solution that was probably both brilliant and slightly terrifying.
"Leave that to me, my dear," he said with the confidence of someone who had spent decades explaining impossible circumstances to people who thought magic was something that happened in children's books. "I've had... considerable experience in helping Muggle parents understand the true scope of their children's extraordinary nature."
He moved closer, and somehow his presence became both more comforting and more formidable. "Your mother and father strike me as exceptionally intelligent individuals. Once they understand the full situation—once they see the truth rather than carefully edited versions of it—I believe they will be both proud and supportive."
Hermione's eyes narrowed with the sharp suspicion of someone who had learned to read between the lines of adult reassurances. "You're going to tell them everything. About mutants. About the X-Men. About the fact that their daughter can manipulate time itself."
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied with serene confidence. "In my experience, it is often far better to trust parents with the complete scope of their child's brilliance rather than attempt to shield them from it. Truth, however extraordinary, is generally more palatable than half-truths and convenient omissions."
Xavier leaned forward, his expression serious but reassuring. "Parents fundamentally want two things: to know that their children are safe, and to understand that their children are valued for who they truly are. The Institute has considerable experience in providing both reassurance and recognition."
His smile was warm and utterly confident. "Once your parents see the environment we provide, once they understand the caliber of education and support available, I assure you—they will be not only reassured but genuinely proud of your opportunities."
Ron, who had been steadily working through what appeared to be his fourth helping of treacle tart—stress eating being a time-honored Weasley tradition—paused to consider this.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "if they're anything like my parents, they'll mainly be relieved that Hermione's not trying to turn the family sitting room into a dragon sanctuary or something equally mental."
Harry's smirk was instant and devastating. "Give it time, Ron. Knowing Hermione, that's probably her five-year plan. By year seven, she'll have established a fully operational magical creature preserve in suburban Surrey."
Hermione turned to glare at him with the force of a dozen sharpened quills dipped in acid. "You are absolutely impossible."
"Yes," Harry replied with the kind of smug satisfaction that could infuriate saints, "but in a charming, devastatingly handsome, and incredibly modest way."
"Modest," Sirius snorted, clearly enjoying himself immensely. "Right. And I'm a respectable member of society."
"You're not wrong about the handsome part though," Logan observed with the clinical detachment of someone evaluating a weapon. "Kid's got the kind of face that'll either get him out of trouble or into worse trouble, depending on who's looking."
"Worse trouble, definitely worse trouble," Ron said with the authority of long experience. "I've seen him charm his way past McGonagall and then immediately irritate her into detention within the same conversation. It's a gift."
Harry looked genuinely wounded. "I prefer to think of it as efficiency. Why waste time with multiple interactions when you can accomplish everything in one devastatingly memorable encounter?"
Before the banter could spiral completely out of control—though given the personalities involved, that was probably inevitable—Dumbledore cleared his throat with the kind of gentle authority that could command attention from world leaders and recalcitrant teenagers with equal ease.
"In any case," he said, his voice carrying a note of finality that suggested they were moving from planning to action, "the path forward seems clear. Harry, Hermione—you will attend the Xavier Institute beginning this autumn. Your magical education will continue through private instruction under Sirius's supervision, with additional support from Professor Lupin, Andromeda, Ted, and young Tonks."
His expression grew more serious, though the twinkle never entirely left his eyes. "So long as you successfully complete the equivalent of your OWLs and NEWTs under MACUSA oversight and recognition, you will be acknowledged as fully qualified graduates of the magical education system. Your options for future career paths will remain completely open."
Logan's eyebrows drew together in the kind of scowl that suggested either confusion or imminent violence—with Logan, the distinction was often academic. "Right, so what the hell are OWLs and NEWTs? Because I'm hearing animal names, not academic qualifications, and that seems like the kind of thing that should be clarified."
Charles Xavier's chuckle was rich with genuine amusement. "MACUSA is the Magical Congress of the United States of America, Logan. Think of it as the American equivalent of Britain's Ministry of Magic. And the examinations have rather... colorful names."
"Ordinary Wizarding Levels and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," Hermione supplied with the brisk efficiency of someone who had committed every detail of the educational system to memory. "They're standardized magical examinations used for career placement and academic achievement recognition."
Logan stared at her for a long moment, his expression suggesting that he had reached the limits of what his sanity could accommodate. "Right. Because calling them 'midterms' and 'finals' would have been too straightforward for you people."
Harry leaned forward with the air of someone about to share a profound truth. "Logan, my friend, you've just identified the fundamental flaw in wizarding society. We take perfectly simple concepts and give them names that sound like either children's toys or medieval torture devices."
He began counting off on his fingers with mock solemnity. "We have Exploding Snap, Pygmy Puffs, Whomping Willows, and a killing curse called 'Avada Kedavra.' We play a sport involving four different balls, three goals, and rules that only make sense if you've sustained multiple head injuries. We have a government department called the Department of Mysteries that literally no one is allowed to talk about, and our prison is guarded by soul-sucking demons."
Harry spread his hands as if presenting irrefutable evidence. "The wizarding world's approach to naming things makes sense only if you assume everyone involved was either drunk, concussed, or deliberately trying to confuse future generations."
"Avada Kedavra sounds like something you'd shout while sneezing," Logan observed with the kind of deadpan delivery that suggested he was beginning to appreciate the absurdity.
"That," Sirius said cheerfully, "is entirely the point. Confuse the enemy before you kill them. Classic misdirection."
Storm laughed, the sound like gentle thunder on a summer evening. "You'll adjust, Logan. The wizarding world's eccentricities become oddly endearing once you stop expecting them to conform to rational thought."
"That's putting it mildly," Sirius agreed, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Wait until we introduce you to Quidditch properly. Four balls—one of which actively tries to commit murder, one that runs away, and two that are just there for decoration. Seven players per team, three goal posts, and a rule book that reads like it was written by committee during a particularly creative mental breakdown."
Logan shook his head slowly, like a man coming to terms with a fundamental shift in his understanding of reality. "You people are completely insane."
Harry's grin was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "Welcome to the family, Grandpa. We specialize in controlled chaos and aggressive problem-solving."
Outside the infirmary windows, the morning sun was climbing higher, painting the Scottish Highlands in shades of gold and amber that seemed to promise new adventures and impossible possibilities. The light caught the ancient stones of the castle, highlighting centuries of history while somehow suggesting that the most important chapters were yet to be written.
Harry Potter—no, Harry Howlett-Potter now—was no longer just the Boy Who Lived or even the Man Who Conquered. He was something new, something unprecedented: a bridge between worlds, a fusion of magic and mutation, heir to two extraordinary legacies and student of powers that had yet to be fully understood.
As he looked around at the eclectic collection of family, friends, mentors, and allies gathered in that sun-drenched room, his smile took on a quality that was both predatory and protective, dangerous and determined.
"The Age of Miracles," he murmured, his voice carrying just enough volume for everyone to hear but quiet enough to suggest he was sharing a secret. "I rather like the sound of that. Let's see what kind of trouble we can cause."
Logan's chuckle was low and rough, like gravel shifting in a stream. "Kid, with you around? Trouble's not coming—it's already here and unpacking its bags."
And as the morning light continued to stream through the windows, illuminating the faces of some of the most powerful individuals on the planet, there was a sense that something fundamental had shifted in the world. The Age of Miracles wasn't just beginning—it was announcing itself with the kind of confident arrogance that only came from absolute certainty in one's own abilities.
It was going to be a very interesting autumn indeed.
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