The Granger household operated on the kind of precise clockwork that would have impressed a Swiss watchmaker and possibly induced mild envy in Greenwich Observatory. Dr. Richard Granger had learned through fifteen years of marriage that his wife's morning routine was sacred, inviolable, and absolutely not to be disrupted by his chronic inability to remember where he'd left his car keys, wallet, or occasionally his shoes.
Standing six-foot-two with the kind of distinguished bearing that spoke of military service and years of managing anxious dental patients, Richard possessed the sort of rugged handsomeness that aged like fine whiskey. His dark hair showed distinguished threads of silver at the temples, and his steel-blue eyes held the steady composure of someone who had once been responsible for keeping other people alive in considerably less comfortable circumstances than suburban Surrey.
"Richard," Dr. Helen Granger called from the kitchen, her voice carrying that particular note of patient exasperation that suggested this was not the first time she'd had to prompt him this morning, "your briefcase is by the front door, your keys are on the hall table where they always are, and your reading glasses are on your head."
Her voice carried the crisp authority of someone accustomed to managing both a successful dental practice and a husband whose organizational skills had apparently been left behind somewhere during his army days. Helen Granger was the sort of woman who commanded respect without raising her voice—intelligent, elegant, with auburn hair swept back in a practical but stylish chignon and green eyes that missed nothing.
Dr. Granger paused in his frantic search through the morning post, one hand automatically moving to his forehead where his glasses were indeed perched with the kind of stubborn determination that suggested they'd been there for some time. His weathered features—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and the kind of nose that had been broken at least once in service to Queen and Country—registered mild embarrassment at his continued defeat by basic object permanence.
"Right," he said with the dignity of a man who had served Her Majesty's forces with distinction and was not about to be defeated by domestic logistics, "I knew that. I was just... conducting a comprehensive security assessment of our morning protocols."
"Of course you were, dear," Helen replied with the kind of fond tolerance that came from years of managing both a successful dental practice and a husband whose tactical brilliance had never quite translated to remembering where he put his coffee mug, "and I'm sure the tea cozy appreciated the thorough inspection you gave it five minutes ago when you were looking for your wallet."
She emerged from the kitchen with her usual morning efficiency—hair perfectly styled despite the early hour, professional attire that managed to be both practical and elegant, and the kind of composed authority that made nervous patients feel immediately at ease. In one hand she carried her travel mug of tea, in the other the practice's appointment book that she reviewed religiously every morning.
"Mrs. Patterson at nine-thirty for a cleaning," she recited while checking her watch with practiced precision, "the Thornbury child at ten-fifteen for a checkup, that emergency root canal at eleven-forty-five, and the Jenkins consultation at two-fifteen. We should be out of here in exactly seven minutes if we want to review the morning's inventory before our first patient arrives."
Richard straightened his tie with military precision, the gesture automatic after decades of ensuring his appearance met regulation standards. "Right then. Emergency kit in the car, appointment files reviewed, surgical instruments sterilized and ready. All systems operational, Dr. Granger."
"Excellent, Dr. Granger," Helen replied with the ghost of a smile that suggested she found his military terminology endearing rather than excessive. "Though you might want to actually locate your briefcase before declaring all systems operational."
"About that," Richard began, his expression suggesting he was about to embark on a detailed explanation of why his briefcase wasn't where it was supposed to be.
The sound hit them both simultaneously—a deep, thrumming rumble that seemed to come from everywhere at once, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling the china in Helen's antique cabinet. It wasn't the familiar drone of commercial aircraft passing overhead on their way to Heathrow, nor the distinctive whine of military jets that Richard occasionally recognized from his service days. This was something else entirely: powerful, controlled, and getting steadily closer with the kind of purposeful intent that made his military instincts sit up and take notice.
Richard's head snapped up with the automatic alertness of someone whose survival had once depended on identifying unusual sounds quickly and accurately. His steel-blue eyes sharpened as he processed what he was hearing, muscle memory from his army days asserting itself despite fifteen years of civilian life spent dealing with nothing more dangerous than impacted wisdom teeth.
"That's not standard commercial aviation," he said, his voice taking on the clipped precision that Helen recognized from their early marriage, when he'd still been active duty and every unexpected sound had required immediate assessment and response. He moved toward the front window with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he was prepared to take decisive action based on whatever he found.
Helen joined him, her own curiosity overriding the morning's carefully structured schedule. Her analytical mind—trained through years of dental school and honed by a decade of practice—was already cataloging the unusual characteristics of the sound. "Richard, what is that noise? It sounds like it's coming from directly overhead, but it's far too controlled for any sort of emergency situation."
"Whatever it is, it's big, it's advanced, and it's making a very deliberate approach," Richard replied, his tactical assessment automatic and thorough. "The sound pattern suggests vertical landing capability, which limits the possibilities considerably. Military transport, perhaps, though I can't imagine why—"
The sleek black aircraft broke through the cloud cover above their suburban street like something that had escaped from a science fiction film and decided to take up residence in reality. It moved with impossible grace for something of its size, descending vertically with the kind of controlled precision that spoke of technology far beyond anything either of them had seen before.
Richard's jaw dropped with undisguised amazement, his analytical mind struggling to process what he was witnessing. His military background had exposed him to cutting-edge aviation technology, experimental aircraft that officially didn't exist, and classified projects that pushed the boundaries of conventional engineering. This was beyond all of it.
"That's... that's not possible," he said slowly, his voice carrying the kind of bewilderment that came from watching fundamental laws of physics being casually ignored on his front lawn. "VTOL aircraft of that configuration don't exist. The power requirements alone would be..." He trailed off, watching the impossible become routine as the aircraft settled onto their meticulously maintained grass with barely a whisper.
The jet was a thing of beauty—all sleek curves and purposeful angles that suggested both elegant design and barely contained power. Its hull gleamed like polished obsidian in the morning sunlight, reflecting the suburban landscape with mirror-like perfection. The complete absence of visible exhaust or conventional propulsion systems made it seem more like an elaborate sculpture than a functional aircraft.
"Richard," Helen said faintly, her composed professional demeanor developing significant structural cracks as she processed the fact that their Tuesday morning schedule was about to be thoroughly, comprehensively, and irreversibly disrupted, "please tell me you can explain this. Please tell me this is some sort of military exercise you forgot to mention."
"I can't," Richard replied with the kind of honest bewilderment that came from a man watching his understanding of aviation technology being rewritten in real time. "Helen, I've seen every type of military aircraft the RAF has in service, most of what the Americans have developed, and a fair bit of the experimental stuff that officially doesn't exist and never has. This..." He gestured helplessly at the impossible sight occupying their lawn. "This is completely outside my experience."
Helen's grip tightened on her appointment book as if holding onto familiar routine might somehow restore normalcy to a morning that was rapidly spiraling into the realm of the impossible. "Richard, we have patients arriving in less than an hour. Mrs. Patterson is never late, and the Thornbury child gets anxious if we're not ready precisely on time. How exactly do we explain to them that we can't open the practice because there's an unidentified aircraft on our lawn?"
"We'll figure something out," Richard said with the kind of calm determination that had served him well during his military career. "Right now, let's focus on determining whether this represents a threat or..." He paused, studying the aircraft's elegant lines and obviously advanced technology. "Or an opportunity."
The aircraft's bay door opened with a soft hydraulic hiss that somehow managed to sound both sophisticated and welcoming. For a moment, nothing emerged except a sense of vast, comfortable space that suggested the interior was considerably larger than the exterior should have allowed—a detail that made Richard's engineering-trained mind file away another impossibility for later consideration.
Then Hermione Granger bounded down the ramp with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just traveled across an ocean to deliver the most important news of her life.
"Mum! Dad!" she called out, her voice bright with excitement and relief as she ran across the lawn toward the house. Her bushy hair—the same auburn shade as her mother's but with significantly more personality—streamed behind her, and her amber eyes sparkled with the kind of joy that came from being reunited with people you loved after far too long an absence.
Helen's professional composure evaporated entirely as she flung open the front door and rushed to meet her daughter. "Hermione! Sweetheart, what are you doing here? How did you—what is that thing?"
The embrace was fierce and immediate, mother and daughter clinging to each other with the desperate affection of people who had been separated by more than just physical distance. Helen's arms wrapped around her daughter with protective intensity, while Hermione buried her face in her mother's shoulder with the kind of relief that suggested she'd been carrying considerable worry about this reunion.
Richard joined them a moment later, wrapping both women in his arms with the kind of protective enthusiasm that had nothing to do with military training and everything to do with being a father who had missed his daughter terribly. His embrace was strong and steady, the anchor point that both women needed in a moment that was rapidly becoming surreal.
"Dad," Hermione said, her voice slightly muffled against his shoulder, "I've got so much to tell you both. So much has changed since we last spoke properly. I've missed you terribly, and there are things... important things that I need you to understand."
"We've missed you too, sweetheart," Helen replied, pulling back just enough to study her daughter's face with the analytical attention of someone who had spent years reading people's expressions for signs of distress, deception, or hidden pain. "But Hermione, what's going on? That aircraft, your unexpected arrival—and you look different. More confident, somehow. More..."
"More like someone who's discovered she's capable of things she never imagined possible," Hermione finished with a smile that held depths of knowledge and experience that seemed far beyond her years. "It's complicated, Mum. More complicated than I initially realized, but also more wonderful than I ever dared hope."
Richard's steel-blue eyes sharpened with paternal concern as he studied his daughter's expression. "Hermione, sweetheart, are you in some sort of trouble? Because if you are, you know we'll support you regardless. But I need to know what we're dealing with here."
"Not trouble," Hermione said quickly, though her voice carried the kind of diplomatic note that suggested the answer was more complex than a simple denial, "but definitely... unprecedented circumstances that require some explanation. I've brought some people I'd like you to meet. People who can help explain things much better than I can manage on my own."
More figures were emerging from the aircraft now, and Richard found himself automatically cataloging potential threats with the kind of tactical awareness that fifteen years of civilian life hadn't entirely suppressed. His military training engaged smoothly, assessing body language, movement patterns, and threat potential with unconscious efficiency.
What he saw was... unexpected.
The first figure was elderly and distinguished, moving with the kind of unhurried dignity that suggested either supreme confidence or complete indifference to conventional urgency. His long silver beard and half-moon spectacles gave him the appearance of someone who had stepped out of a classical painting, while his midnight-blue robes—adorned with what appeared to be actual silver stars—suggested either theatrical flair or genuine eccentricity elevated to the level of art.
Behind him came a man in an expensive wheelchair, his bearing suggesting the kind of quiet authority that came from years of commanding respect without ever raising his voice. His perfectly bald head gleamed in the morning sunlight, and his pale blue eyes held depths of intelligence that seemed to take in everything while revealing nothing of his own thoughts. His perfectly tailored clothes spoke of someone accustomed to moving in the highest circles of power and influence.
The third figure made Richard's breath catch in his throat with recognition—not of the person, but of the type. This was a young man who moved like a predator, every step calculated and controlled. His dark hair was artfully tousled in a way that looked effortless but probably required considerable effort to achieve, and his green eyes held flecks of gold that seemed to burn with inner fire.
But it was his face that made Richard's parental instincts sound klaxons of alarm. This was the kind of devastatingly handsome that made grown women forget their own names, made teenage girls write poetry, and made sensible fathers seriously consider purchasing tower real estate for defensive purposes.
"Hermione," Helen said carefully, her voice carrying the particular note of maternal concern that suggested incoming lectures about appropriate young men and the importance of maintaining reasonable standards, "who exactly is your friend?"
Before Hermione could answer, the young man stepped forward with a smile that could have powered half of London and probably caused several traffic accidents in the process. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of aristocratic polish that suggested expensive education, natural charisma, and the sort of confidence that came from never having been told that something was impossible.
"Mr. and Mrs. Granger," he said with perfect courtesy, inclining his head in a gesture that managed to be both respectful and somehow regal, as if he were acknowledging equals rather than offering deference, "I'm Harry Potter. Hermione's mentioned you both many times—always with tremendous affection and deep respect."
Richard blinked, his mind struggling to reconcile this impossibly attractive young man with his memories of the scrawny, bespectacled boy he'd met briefly two summers ago. The transformation was so complete it seemed to belong in the realm of fantasy rather than biological possibility.
"Harry? Harry Potter?" Richard's voice carried genuine bewilderment. "But you were... you were shorter. Considerably shorter. And considerably less..." He gestured vaguely, searching for diplomatic language.
"Substantial?" Harry supplied with gentle amusement, his green-gold eyes sparkling with understanding and not a trace of self-consciousness about his transformation. "Yes, I've heard that observation several times recently. I've had what you might call a growth spurt. Rather comprehensive in scope, I'm afraid."
"Growth spurt," Helen repeated faintly, her professional eye noting the kind of physical development that typically took years to achieve and rarely resulted in such... comprehensive improvement to every visible aspect of human anatomy. "Harry, that's the sort of growth spurt that requires divine intervention or advanced genetic manipulation."
Harry's smile widened, taking on an edge that was simultaneously charming and slightly dangerous. "Dr. Granger, you have an excellent eye for detail. That's remarkably close to accurate, actually. Though I'd describe it more as genetic activation triggered by extraordinary circumstances rather than manipulation per se."
"Genetic activation?" Richard's military background had exposed him to enough classified briefings to recognize when someone was discussing subjects that probably weren't covered in standard medical textbooks. "Harry, exactly what sort of... circumstances are we discussing here?"
But Harry's attention had already shifted to the next figure emerging from the aircraft, and his entire demeanor brightened with genuine affection that transformed his aristocratic features into something warm and accessible.
"And this," he said with obvious pleasure, "is my godfather, Sirius Black."
Richard stiffened immediately, his military background providing instant recognition of the name that had been splashed across newspaper headlines—both magical and mundane—for months. His tactical assessment shifted into higher gear as he processed the implications of having a known fugitive on his front lawn.
"Sirius Black? The escaped convict?" Richard's voice carried the kind of controlled tension that suggested he was preparing to take protective action if necessary. "The man who was convicted of—"
"Former escaped convict," Sirius interrupted with a grin that could charm birds from trees and probably persuade them to perform light musical numbers while they were at it, "and completely exonerated of all charges, I'm pleased to report. Turns out twelve years in prison for crimes you didn't commit makes you surprisingly popular with the press once the truth comes out."
Sirius Black was the sort of man who commanded attention simply by existing in the same general vicinity as other people. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of roguish good looks that suggested he'd been personally designed by someone with excellent taste in leading men, he carried himself with the casual confidence of someone who had never met a rule he couldn't charm his way around.
His dark hair was slightly longer than fashionable, his grey eyes held depths of intelligence and mischief in equal measure, and his smile suggested he was perpetually on the verge of either kissing someone or starting a revolution—possibly both simultaneously.
He executed a bow that was pure theatrical flourish, complete with an imaginary hat tip that somehow managed to be both mockingly formal and genuinely respectful. "Sirius Black, at your service. Professional troublemaker, amateur rebel, devoted godfather to the most remarkable young man I've ever had the privilege to know, and recent recipient of a full government apology for what they're calling 'administrative oversight' but what I prefer to think of as 'twelve years of institutionalized injustice.'"
Helen's analytical mind was working overtime, processing the impossible collection of information being presented to her in rapid succession. Her medical training provided framework for dealing with unusual situations, but this was pushing the boundaries of even her considerable adaptability.
"But the news reports said you were guilty of—" Helen began, her professional instincts demanding clarification.
"The news reports," said the elderly gentleman as he approached with dignified composure, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from decades of dealing with incompetent bureaucracies and stubborn politicians, "were based on incomplete information, manufactured evidence, and a justice system more concerned with convenient scapegoats than actual investigation."
He removed his pointed hat with old-world courtesy, revealing silver hair that caught the morning light like spun moonbeams. His blue eyes held that distinctive twinkle that suggested either profound wisdom or sophisticated mischief—possibly both simultaneously.
"Professor Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he introduced himself with grandfatherly warmth, "Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger, it is an honor to meet Hermione's parents at last. She speaks of you both constantly, always with tremendous pride and affection."
Richard's world lurched sideways as another piece of impossible information slotted into place. This was the man who had been responsible for his daughter's education for the past four years, the one who sent those impossible letters by owl and who had somehow turned their pragmatic, analytical daughter into someone who spoke casually of magic as though it were simply another academic subject.
"Professor Dumbledore," he managed, his voice carrying the kind of automatic respect that came from meeting someone whose reputation preceded them by several decades, "we've... we've heard a great deal about you. Hermione's letters mention you frequently."
"All good, I hope," Dumbledore replied with gentle humor, his eyes twinkling with the kind of benevolent mischief that suggested he was perfectly aware his reputation was rather more complex than entirely good, "though I suspect some of it has been considerably edited for parental consumption."
But Dumbledore's attention had shifted to the remaining figures emerging from the aircraft, and his blue eyes held that familiar twinkle that suggested either profound wisdom or sophisticated mischief—possibly both simultaneously.
"And these," he continued with obvious pleasure, "are some very special colleagues from across the Atlantic. Professor Charles Xavier, headmaster of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters in New York. Miss Ororo Munroe, one of his most accomplished faculty members. And..."
He paused with dramatic timing that would have done a theatrical producer proud, clearly savoring the moment before delivering what he obviously considered the most significant introduction.
"Logan Howlett, who has the rather extraordinary distinction of being Harry's grandfather."
Helen's carefully maintained composure finally cracked completely. She stared at the man emerging from the aircraft—ruggedly handsome in the way that suggested he'd been carved from granite by someone with excellent artistic judgment, moving with predatory grace that spoke of lethal training and absolute confidence in his own capabilities, and looking no older than Sirius Black himself—and felt her understanding of basic biology undergo rapid and comprehensive reconstruction.
Logan Howlett was the sort of man who made other men unconsciously straighten their postures and made women forget whatever they'd been thinking about. Not conventionally handsome in the classical sense, but possessed of the kind of raw magnetism that suggested he could handle anything the world threw at him and probably enjoy the experience.
His dark hair was styled in distinctive peaks that seemed to defy both gravity and conventional logic, his hazel eyes held depths of experience that spoke of someone who had seen far too much of the world's darker corners, and his weathered features carried the kind of rugged appeal that belonged in old Western films or modern action movies.
"Grandfather?" Helen repeated weakly, her voice carrying the kind of disbelief that came from watching reality perform impossible acrobatics. "But he's... you look... how is that even remotely possible?"
"Like I could be his brother instead of his grandfather," Logan supplied with dry amusement, clearly accustomed to this particular reaction and finding it more entertaining than troublesome. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Long story involving genetics, government experiments, and the kind of healing factor that makes aging more of a polite suggestion than an actual biological requirement."
His voice was rough around the edges, carrying the kind of gravelly tone that suggested either too many cigars or too many years of saying exactly what he thought regardless of the consequences. When he smiled—which he did now, with genuine warmth despite the circumstances—it transformed his weathered features completely.
"Logan Howlett," he introduced himself with casual confidence, extending a hand that Richard took automatically, "also known as Wolverine to people who read too many newspapers and watch too much television. Harry's grandfather, Hermione's unofficial protective detail, and general pain in the ass to anyone who thinks they can intimidate kids with unusual abilities."
His handshake was firm without being aggressive, the grip of someone who was confident enough in his own capabilities that he didn't need to prove anything through meaningless displays of strength. Richard found himself oddly reassured by the man's straightforward manner despite the impossibility of his claimed relationship to Harry.
Richard, whose military background had prepared him for unusual briefings, classified information, and situations where the impossible became merely improbable, found himself approaching the situation with tactical pragmatism that had served him well during his service years.
"Right," he said slowly, his voice carrying the kind of controlled calm that came from years of dealing with situations where panic was counterproductive, "magic school headmaster, exonerated fugitive, mysteriously youthful grandfather, and American colleagues arriving via impossible aircraft. Hermione, sweetheart, exactly how much trouble are you in? And please don't tell me 'none' because aircraft like that don't make house calls for routine social visits."
"None!" Hermione protested quickly, though her voice carried the kind of defensive note that suggested the answer was significantly more complex than a simple denial, "Well, not trouble exactly. More like... unprecedented opportunity combined with some rather significant revelations about my genetic heritage and magical capabilities that require explanation and potentially relocation for specialized education."
She paused, clearly recognizing that her explanation was raising more questions than it answered. "It's complicated, Dad. More complicated than I initially realized when all of this started, but also more wonderful and important than I ever dared hope."
Professor Xavier moved forward with the kind of quiet authority that made Richard's military instincts recognize someone accustomed to command at the highest levels. His presence carried weight that had nothing to do with physical size and everything to do with decades of making decisions that affected the lives of thousands of people.
"Mr. and Mrs. Granger," he said, his cultured voice carrying the kind of refined English accent that spoke of Cambridge, Oxford, and the sort of education that opened doors to the highest levels of society, "I suspect this is rather overwhelming. Perhaps we might continue this conversation inside? There's quite a lot to discuss, and some of it is rather... sensitive in nature."
His pale blue eyes held depths of intelligence and compassion that suggested he had considerable experience in helping people navigate impossible revelations about their children's capabilities. When he smiled, it was with the kind of paternal warmth that suggested he understood exactly how bewildering this situation must be.
The fourth figure—the woman introduced as Ororo Munroe—moved with fluid grace that suggested absolute control over every movement. She was beautiful in the way that natural forces were beautiful—elegant and powerful simultaneously, with platinum hair that caught the morning light like spun silver and dark eyes that held depths of knowledge and experience.
"Please," she said, her voice carrying the musical quality of distant thunder and summer rain, "call me Storm. Everyone does. And Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I want you to know that Hermione has become very dear to all of us. What we're here to discuss represents opportunity, not danger."
Helen looked between the impossible collection of individuals on her front lawn—a magician, a superhero, an exonerated convict, a mysteriously youthful grandfather, and her daughter who seemed to have become part of something far larger than standard boarding school education—and felt her professional composure warring with maternal concern and scientific curiosity.
"Of course," she said finally, her natural British hospitality overriding her bewilderment and the small voice in her head that was screaming about disrupted schedules and patients who would be arriving soon, "Please, come in. Though I should warn you, we weren't expecting... well, any of this, so the house isn't prepared for entertaining."
"Mrs. Granger," Dumbledore said with grandfatherly warmth, his blue eyes twinkling with the kind of benevolent understanding that suggested he had considerable experience in disrupting people's carefully planned mornings, "in my experience, the most important conversations happen in the most ordinary circumstances. Your home will be perfect."
Harry, who had been watching this exchange with obvious amusement, stepped forward with the kind of confident charm that made Richard's paternal warning systems sound multiple alarms simultaneously.
"Dr. and Dr. Granger," he said with perfect courtesy, though his green-gold eyes danced with mischief, "I do apologize for the disruption to your morning routine. I realize this must be somewhat overwhelming, having your front lawn occupied by impossible aircraft and your daughter arriving with what amounts to an entourage of individuals who probably shouldn't exist according to conventional understanding of reality."
His smile widened, taking on that sharp edge that suggested he was enjoying the absurdity of the situation. "But I assure you, we come in peace, we're properly house-trained, and we promise to wipe our feet before entering your home. Though I should mention that Logan occasionally smokes cigars indoors, Sirius has been known to charm furniture into rearranging itself for better conversation, and Professor Dumbledore tends to summon tea and biscuits from thin air when he thinks people need refreshments."
"Harry," Hermione said with fond exasperation, her amber eyes holding the kind of affectionate warning that spoke of years of managing his more theatrical impulses, "you're not helping with the 'this is perfectly normal' impression we're trying to create."
"My dear Hermione," Harry replied with aristocratic dignity, "I think we passed 'perfectly normal' somewhere around the point where we landed a science fiction aircraft on their front lawn. At this point, I'm aiming for 'charmingly impossible' and hoping they don't call the authorities."
Logan snorted with amusement, his hazel eyes crinkling with genuine fondness for his newly discovered grandson. "Kid's got a point. Subtle we ain't."
"Subtlety," Sirius added with cheerful irreverence, "is overrated. Where's the fun in doing things quietly when you can arrive in style and give everyone something interesting to talk about for the next decade?"
Storm laughed, the sound like gentle thunder on a summer evening. "You'll have to excuse them, Dr. and Dr. Granger. Put these particular personalities together and subtlety becomes... challenging."
As they moved toward the front door, Helen caught sight of her neighbors peering through curtains and from behind garden fences, their faces reflecting the same bewilderment she was feeling. Mrs. Peterson from next door was standing in her garden with her mouth agape, still clutching her morning paper and staring at the sleek aircraft occupying the Grangers' lawn like it had personally offended her understanding of suburban propriety.
Mr. Williams from across the street had emerged in his dressing gown and was taking photographs with his mobile phone, clearly convinced he was documenting either the most important news story of the decade or evidence of the most elaborate film production Surrey had ever seen.
"Richard," Helen murmured under her breath, her professional instincts warring with social anxiety, "how exactly do we explain this to the neighbors? And more importantly, how do we explain to our patients that we can't open the practice today because there's an unidentified aircraft on our lawn and our daughter has arrived with what appears to be a collection of superheroes and magicians?"
"We don't," Richard replied with military pragmatism, his steel-blue eyes assessing the situation with tactical efficiency, "We smile, we wave, we answer no questions, and we hope they assume it's some sort of elaborate film production or government training exercise. The British public's capacity for willful ignorance in the face of the genuinely inexplicable is quite remarkable."
Logan's chuckle was rough but genuinely amused. "Smart man. Though you might want to prepare for some interesting conversations at the local pub for the next few years. This is gonna be the kind of story that gets better with every telling."
"Oh, it absolutely will," Harry agreed with obvious delight, his aristocratic features bright with mischief, "By next week, they'll be telling people that we arrived in a fleet of flying saucers accompanied by a marching band and a trained circus elephant. By next month, I'll apparently have descended from a golden chariot pulled by winged horses while wearing a crown and declaring myself the rightful King of Surrey."
"Don't give him ideas," Hermione warned, though her expression held more affection than genuine concern, "He's quite capable of arranging something like that just for the theatrical value."
"I am not," Harry protested with wounded dignity, "I have never once declared myself king of anything. Emperor, perhaps, on special occasions, but never king. I have standards."
"Your standards," Sirius observed with paternal pride, "are beautifully twisted. I approve completely."
Xavier shook his head with the kind of long-suffering patience that came from years of managing extraordinarily gifted individuals with theatrical tendencies. "Perhaps we might focus on the immediate situation before planning Harry's coronation?"
"Spoilsport," Harry muttered, but his tone held obvious affection for the professor.
As they reached the front door, Helen paused for one last look at the impossible scene on her front lawn—the sleek aircraft that defied every law of physics she understood, the collection of individuals who seemed to have stepped out of fantasy novels and superhero comics, and her daughter at the center of it all, radiating the kind of confident happiness that spoke of someone who had finally found where they belonged.
The morning sunlight caught the aircraft's hull, making it gleam like polished obsidian and casting rainbow reflections across the suburban landscape. It was beautiful and impossible and completely outside anything she had ever imagined might appear in her carefully ordered life.
"Hermione," she said softly, her voice carrying all the love and concern of a mother who was beginning to understand that her daughter's life had become something far more extraordinary than she had ever imagined, "whatever this is, whatever you need to tell us—we love you. That doesn't change, no matter how impossible the circumstances become."
Hermione's answering smile was radiant with relief and joy, her amber eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness. "I love you too, Mum. Both of you. And I promise, once you understand everything that's happened, it's all going to make sense. Or at least, it's going to make the kind of sense that's possible when magic and science start collaborating."
"Define 'sense,'" Richard muttered, but his tone was fond rather than truly worried. His military background had prepared him for situations where the impossible became merely improbable, and his daughter's obvious happiness was worth any amount of confusion.
Harry's laugh was warm and genuine, his green-gold eyes sparkling with understanding and affection. "Mr. Granger, in my experience, 'sense' is entirely relative when magic and mutation start collaborating. But I promise you—your daughter is remarkable, she's safe, she's surrounded by people who would do anything to protect her, and she's got opportunities ahead of her that most people can only dream of."
Logan nodded approvingly, his weathered features showing genuine respect for Harry's words. "Kid's right. And if anyone tries to give her trouble—anyone at all—they'll have to deal with us. All of us. And trust me when I say that's not a conversation anyone wants to have."
The promise in his voice was unmistakable, carrying the kind of casual certainty of violence that made Richard oddly reassured despite the man's impossible claims about his relationship to Harry. There was something fundamentally trustworthy about someone who was willing to threaten bodily harm on behalf of his daughter.
Storm added her own gentle but unmistakable support. "Hermione has become family to us, Dr. and Dr. Granger. We protect our family."
As they crossed the threshold into the Granger family home, the morning sunlight caught the aircraft on the lawn one more time, making it gleam like a promise of adventures yet to come. Whatever revelations awaited them in the familiar comfort of their sitting room, Richard and Helen Granger were about to discover that their daughter's life—and by extension, their own—had become something far more extraordinary than they had ever dared imagine.
The Age of Miracles, it seemed, had come calling on suburban Hampstead. And it had brought excellent manners, impeccable credentials, and the kind of quiet confidence that suggested it intended to stay for a very long conversation indeed.
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