With a crack like a thunderclap and a flash of blue magic that smelled vaguely of ozone and regret, the Portkey did its thing—which is to say it yanked four world-class superheroes halfway across the planet and dumped them like mismatched laundry just outside the gates of Hogwarts.
Steve Rogers landed in a textbook-perfect three-point stance, like he'd just won the gold medal in Superhero Portkey Landings.
Logan, on the other hand, hit the dirt in a crouch, claws halfway unsheathed, eyes narrowed like something was about to attack him. To be fair, it usually was.
Clint Barton looked like someone had shoved him out of a moving car.
"Okay," he gasped, wobbling upright and clutching his bow like it could save his pride. "That is not how physics is supposed to work. I think my spleen is in my throat."
"Welcome to magic," Natasha Romanoff said coolly, already upright and dusting off her red-and-black suit like the teleportation had been a minor inconvenience—on par with a wrinkle in her sleeve or a badly timed meeting with Nick Fury.
Steve stood, stretching out like he'd just come off a long run. "That," he said with a grin and a Captain-America-glint in his eye, "was a Portkey."
"Seriously?" Clint squinted at him. "You knew that was gonna happen and you still didn't warn us?"
"I warned you," Steve replied. "You just didn't listen."
"I thought you meant figuratively disorienting! Not 'spin-me-like-a-bloody-beyblade-and-throw-me-into-Scotland' disorienting."
Logan snorted. "You get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it."
They all turned to look at what lay before them.
Hogwarts Castle rose in the distance, shrouded in mist and mystery. The forest to the right rustled with secrets. Magic practically buzzed in the air, thick and heady, like ozone before a storm—or, as Clint would describe it, "that weird feeling when you're pretty sure your microwave just judged you."
The great iron gates creaked open as they approached, and that's when they saw him.
Hagrid.
And really, there's no mistaking Hagrid. He was less "man" and more "walking medieval siege weapon with a beard." He had a crossbow the size of a Vespa strapped to his back and a bubblegum-pink umbrella in one meaty hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Yeh must be the ones Harry sent fer," he boomed, voice as warm and gravelly as an old kettle. "Captain Rogers! Clint Barton! And…"
He stopped.
His eyes landed on Natasha, and the rest of the world just… vanished for him.
"Lily…?" he whispered.
Natasha blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
Logan took a half-step forward, voice low and gravelly. "Hagrid. That's not her."
Steve placed a calming hand on the half-giant's arm. "This is Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow. An Avenger."
Hagrid didn't seem to hear him.
"She looks just like her," he muttered. "Same red hair. Same eyes. That look—like she's already figured out the best way to hex yeh if yeh try anything funny. Bloody hell…"
Clint raised an eyebrow. "Lily who? Did we just stumble into a Shakespeare play?"
Steve's voice dropped. "Lily Potter. Harry's mom."
Natasha's entire body stilled, except for a twitch in her jaw.
"Potter?" she asked.
"Yeah," Steve nodded. "The woman who died protecting her son. Voldemort killed her when Harry was a baby."
"You look just like her," Hagrid said again, still staring. "She were one o' the bravest witches I ever knew. Heart as big as this castle. And stubborn! Merlin help yeh if yeh crossed her in Charms class."
Natasha's hands clenched. She didn't show it on her face, but inside her mind was a storm.
She looked like someone's mother.
She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or punch something. Maybe all three.
The Red Room had stolen everything from her—her name, her past, her future. They'd even made sure she'd never have kids. That wasn't just cruelty. That was control. Permanent control.
And now this wizarding man-mountain was telling her she might have a doppelgänger? A woman who'd died a hero? A mother?
"Nat?" Clint's voice was softer now, more friend than archer. "You okay?"
She didn't answer right away. Her lips were set in a firm line. Her eyes flicked between Hagrid and the castle behind him, weighing ghosts she didn't know she had.
"I don't know," she said finally.
Logan folded his arms, eyes on the horizon. "Kid's got power. Wizard and mutant. Knows more than he should. Smart, too. He asked for us. Asked for you."
"Why me?" she asked.
"He didn't ask specifically for you. Doesn't even know you're comin." Logan said. "But maybe he's got a thing for badass women in tactical gear."
Clint grinned. "Don't we all?"
Steve rolled his eyes. "Focus."
Hagrid finally seemed to come back to himself. He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. "Sorry. It's just… yeh gave me a bit of a shock, yeh did. Come on, come on. Harry'll be wantin' to see yeh. Blimey—he's gonna lose his mind when he sees yeh all here."
Natasha didn't move right away.
Then she spoke—quiet, but with that same fire Hagrid had seen in someone long gone.
"Tell me about Lily," she said.
And just like that, the gates of Hogwarts swung wide open.
Because this wasn't just a mission anymore.
It was personal.
—
The walk up to the castle was what you'd get if you threw The Lord of the Rings, Scooby-Doo, and a haunted house into a blender, hit puree, and sprinkled the result with a dash of awkward silence.
Trees loomed like they'd been coached in dramatic posture. Mist curled around their ankles, slow and deliberate, as if it had stage directions from a ghostly choreographer. And the castle—well, the castle made every Halloween movie set designer look like they were underachieving. Gothic towers stabbed the sky. Windows glowed with golden light like the place ran on pumpkin spice. Somewhere, Dracula was probably weeping with envy.
Hagrid's footsteps kept rhythm with the awkward tension, each one heavy enough to make the dirt path whimper in protest. The massive crossbow on his back swung with each stride like an oversized toddler's toy, and his eyes kept sneaking sideways glances at Natasha like she might vanish if he blinked too long.
"You know," Clint muttered to Steve, elbowing him lightly, "we're one black cat and a couple floating candles away from a full-on Disney ride."
Steve gave a low chuckle. "Wait till the portraits start talking."
"They talk?" Clint hissed, like someone had told him the walls were alive. "Great. What do the brooms do—file taxes?"
"They fly," Logan said, gruffly. "And hit harder than you'd think. Took a bruised rib while watching a Quidditch practice session once."
Clint blinked. "The hell's a Quidditch?"
"Imagine rugby, air traffic violations, and a severe lack of adult supervision," Steve replied.
"Don' worry," Hagrid rumbled, his voice warm and gravelly, "we'll catch yeh up. But first... I reckon yeh want to know about Lily."
That shut everyone up. Even Clint, whose mouth usually had no off switch, quieted.
Hagrid looked at Natasha again, softer this time. Like someone seeing a painting come to life.
"Lily Potter—well, Lily Evans back then—was brilliant. Not just book-smart, mind, though she had that in spades. She had this fire about her. Like she could burn the world down if you gave her a reason, but she'd rather warm it instead."
Natasha's voice was cool and cautious. "And Muggleborn means…?"
"Her mum and dad weren't magical," Hagrid said gently. "Ordinary folk—Muggles, we call 'em. She was one of us by magic, not by blood."
Clint scratched his head. "So you're saying she was the wizarding world's version of a Bronx kid getting into MIT?"
"Er… suppose that fits," Hagrid said, blinking.
"Sounds like a setup for a backhanded compliment," Natasha muttered. "Smart—for a Muggleborn?"
Hagrid's face went redder than a Gryffindor banner. "What? No! Not at all! We don't care 'bout stuff like that—skin or blood or… y'know."
Steve tilted his head. "You sure about that?"
"Well…" Hagrid suddenly found the moss on a nearby rock very interesting. "Not everyone. Some still bang on about blood purity and the like."
"Like the Nazis," Steve said flatly.
Hagrid flinched like he'd been slapped. "Aye. Some of 'em're no better."
Logan cracked his knuckles. "She was Muggleborn, yeah. But she still outdueled half the pureblood snobs who looked down on her. That's what really scared 'em."
They were almost at the castle now, where a pair of massive oak doors stood like bouncers to the world's creepiest private school. And just when Clint was about to ask if the doors came with a theme song, there was a soft click.
The doors swung open. Not by hand. Because of course not.
Inside, the flicker of candlelight danced on ancient stone, illuminating the silhouette of a man who looked like a fashion accident involving a jellybean jar and a wizard-themed Vegas show.
Long silver beard. Half-moon spectacles. Robes that shimmered like someone had mugged a rainbow.
Clint leaned toward Logan. "Tell me I'm wrong, but that guy looks like he's been living in a closet full of glitter for seventy years."
"That's Dumbledore," Logan muttered. "Don't let the sparkle fool you. He's the reason Voldemort didn't win the war in five minutes."
The man stepped forward with a kind smile, eyes crinkling like he knew all your secrets and was proud of you anyway.
"Ah," he said. "Our honored guests. And I see Hagrid has begun the introductions."
Then his eyes fell on Natasha. And something strange happened—Albus Dumbledore, unshakable master of a school that had seen dragons and dark wizards, faltered.
"My word," he murmured. "It's like seeing a ghost. Miss Romanoff… forgive me. But you bear an uncanny resemblance to Lily Evans."
Natasha met his gaze, cool as ice. "So I've been told."
Dumbledore recovered quickly, his smile never quite fading. "Captain Rogers. Mr. Barton. Logan. Welcome back to Hogwarts."
Steve gave a half-smile. "Feels weird without Snape sneering in the background."
"Give it a minute," Steve added.
Clint raised a hand like he was in class. "Just to clarify—this is a school, right? One with, I don't know, homework? Exams? Maybe a nice cafeteria?"
"Oh, don't worry," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "The death traps are mostly extracurricular."
"Mostly?" Clint echoed.
Hagrid let out a booming laugh. "He's jokin'. Mostly."
"Okay, nope," Clint muttered. "That word's doing a lot of heavy lifting right now."
Dumbledore gestured down a flickering corridor that seemed to stretch forever. "Come. Harry and the others are waiting in the Room of Requirement."
Clint frowned. "The what-now?"
"Think Danger Room," Steve said.
"With personality disorders," Logan added.
"Oh joy," Clint groaned. "I left one psycho training simulator just to walk into Hogwarts: Extended Edition."
"Better bring silver," Logan said, casually popping a claw with a metallic snikt. "Werewolves don't play nice."
"Werewolves?!" Clint yelped. "There's werewolves? Is there anything here that doesn't want to kill us?"
Dumbledore gave him a twinkling smile. "I assure you, Mr. Barton… we're all quite mad here."
As they moved deeper into the castle, the air thickened with magic and history. Every brick, every portrait, every floating torch seemed to watch them. Listen to them.
And somewhere, hidden behind a door that wasn't always there, a room shifted and breathed in anticipation.
Harry Potter was waiting.
And class?
Class was about to begin.
—
They'd barely made it ten steps into the castle before Hagrid gave a gruff wave and made a beeline for the nearest exit.
"Gotta check on Buckbeak," he mumbled. "And get 'is stew on the fire. Chicken stew—fer the Hippogriff, not fer us. Although I s'pose if yeh're really hungry…"
"No worries," Clint said, hands raised. "You don't have to feed us magical bird-horse soup to avoid the feels."
Hagrid looked vaguely offended, vaguely guilty, and mostly like a guy who just remembered he left the oven on.
"Er—right. Well. Yeh lot be careful. Hogwarts can be... unpredictable this time o' year."
"Isn't it always unpredictable?" Natasha asked dryly.
Hagrid paused. "Yeh know, that's fair. Anyway—off I go!"
And just like that, the half-giant shuffled away, his boots thudding against the stone like someone dropping furniture down a staircase.
Clint watched him go. "Did he just use a mythical creature as an emotional escape hatch?"
Logan lit a cigar he was absolutely not supposed to have indoors and blew smoke like a disapproving dragon. "Classic Hagrid."
They pressed on. Their boots echoed down endless corridors lined with stained glass, odd statues, and staircases that moved like they were playing Dance Dance Revolution on espresso. The paintings watched them as they passed, whispering to each other in what Clint was pretty sure was British.
The castle had vibes. Not necessarily good ones.
Natasha matched pace with Dumbledore, who walked like a man with nowhere to be—but who still got there before anyone else.
"Tell me about her," Natasha said quietly. "Lily Potter. What was she really like?"
Dumbledore didn't answer right away. Instead, he nodded politely to a suit of armor that saluted him back, because apparently politeness extended to medieval tin cans here.
"She was brilliant," Dumbledore said at last, his voice thick with memory. "Lily had a mind sharper than any blade and a heart that could make the coldest winter feel like spring. She was... radiant. She had a gift for seeing through people—past their masks, their flaws, their fears. And she never once let that stop her from loving them anyway."
Natasha's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted. She understood that kind of strength.
"She made James Potter a better man," Dumbledore added. "No easy feat, mind you."
"Sounds like a miracle worker," Clint muttered.
"Oh, he grew up," Dumbledore chuckled. "Eventually. Mostly."
"And Harry?" Natasha asked. "What of the boy?"
"He has her fire," Dumbledore said. "And James's recklessness. A dangerous combination. But if you wish to truly know them both, talk to Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. They were Lily's closest friends. They knew her best."
"They're both here?" Steve asked, surprised.
Dumbledore nodded. "In the Room of Requirement. Along with others who've... answered the call."
"Looks like we're not the only ones assembling," Natasha said.
Clint glanced around at the moving staircases and sentient architecture. "Okay, but this Hogwarts edition didn't come with a GPS. Where are we going, exactly?"
"Seventh floor," Dumbledore said. "Just ahead."
They turned a corner, and suddenly the corridor widened. Sunlight filtered through tall windows. There was a stillness here, the kind that made your footsteps sound louder than they should. And right across from a very boring-looking stretch of stone wall hung a tapestry that was... decidedly not boring.
"Okay, hold up," Clint said, squinting. "Is that guy teaching trolls how to ballet?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said, utterly unfazed. "Barnabas the Barmy. He attempted to train eight trolls for The Nutcracker. It ended... explosively."
"I mean, A for effort," Clint said.
"F for spine alignment," Logan muttered. "Those trolls went full WWE."
Steve just blinked. "This is it?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed. The Room of Requirement lies just opposite Barnabas and his ill-fated artistic pursuits."
Natasha raised an eyebrow at the blank wall. "Looks like a wall."
"It is a wall," Clint said. "A very... solid wall. I'm not seeing a secret passage or magic door. No runes. No password. Hogwarts, I am disappoint."
"Watch," Logan said, smirking.
Dumbledore stepped forward, his robes swishing dramatically, because of course they did. The man could probably tie his shoes and make it look like a Shakespearean monologue.
Without a word, he began to pace back and forth in front of the wall. Once. Twice. Three times.
Clint was about to open his mouth—probably to say something deeply sarcastic involving invisible paint and bad interior design—when the wall shimmered.
With a soft whoosh, a door materialized out of thin air. Not just any door, either. This one looked like it belonged in the throne room of a fantasy epic. Rich dark wood, intricate carvings, an iron handle that said you better have a quest to be touching me, mortal.
Clint's mouth hung open. "Okay. That's new."
"The Room of Requirement appears," Dumbledore said gently, "only when one truly needs it."
Steve studied the door like it might start reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. "And what are we about to walk into?"
Dumbledore turned to them. The twinkle in his eyes had dimmed, just a little.
"The past," he said. "And possibly, the future."
Then he opened the door.
—
The Room of Requirement, once it got over its dramatic flair for entrances (seriously, it was like walking into a Hogwarts version of a James Bond lair), revealed itself as something between a wizard's private cinema and the fanciest man cave on Earth. Cozy lighting, glowing torches, and the faint scent of old books and fresh parchment gave the place a mystical IKEA vibe.
Boots—both tactical and magical—thudded quietly on the smooth stone as the Avengers followed Dumbledore inside. The air crackled faintly with magic, the kind of energy that made your arm hair stand up and whisper, "This is not Kansas anymore, Steve."
Two men stood ahead at a curved viewing balcony, completely engrossed in what looked like magical IMAX. The taller one had wild dark hair, the devil-may-care smirk of a man who'd punched a cop and won, and a leather jacket that looked like it had history. Possibly a criminal one. The other wore a threadbare cardigan and had the kind of expression that said he'd seen way too much and still kept extra teabags in his pocket for emotional emergencies.
Clint leaned toward Natasha. "Let me guess—Sirius Black and Remus Lupin?"
Natasha smirked. "Which one do you think is which?"
"My money's on Mr. Motorcycle Brood being Sirius."
Before she could reply, the two men turned—and froze.
The leather-clad one blinked like someone had rebooted him. "Lily?"
Natasha blinked back. "Nope. Natasha Romanoff. Sorry to disappoint."
Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it. Opened it again. "You look exactly like her."
"She's been hearing that a lot," Steve added, stepping beside her.
"Seriously," Natasha muttered. "Hagrid almost cried. Dumbledore got emotional. Now you guys. It's getting a little old."
Remus stared, then turned to Dumbledore. "It's uncanny."
"She could be her twin," Sirius whispered.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. It is… notable. But we've more pressing matters."
"Where are the children?" Steve asked.
Sirius—finally recovering his motor functions—gestured toward the glowing gallery window. "Right down there."
They all leaned forward.
Below was the Forbidden Forest.
Or rather, a simulated version so detailed even Logan's nose twitched.
"Is this real?" Steve asked.
Remus answered, "Advanced magical simulation. The Room of Requirement creates an environment based on the training needs. Safe…ish."
"Basically Hogwarts's version of the Danger Room," Clint muttered. "With extra bark and bite."
Logan lit a cigar without asking. Of course.
Down below, teenagers moved like they were in a superhero movie. Tight formation, practiced movements, and expressions that said, "Yeah, we've done this before, and we are not here to play."
"That's Susan Bones," Logan said. "Codename: Veritas. Magical mutant. She can tell when someone's lying. Doesn't matter if you're cloaked, hexed, or just really good at poker."
"Useful," Natasha said. "Also terrifying."
Next to Susan, another redhead hovered. Emerald green bodysuit, golden phoenix on her chest, and a matching headpiece that screamed, "Regal but I will mess you up."
"Jean Grey?" Clint asked.
Logan nodded. "Phoenix. Yeah, that Jean Grey. Turns out, she's magical and a mutant. Magic kinda... adopted her."
"Hogwarts has an exchange program now?" Natasha asked.
"Unofficial," Remus said. "But magic tends to find its people."
Then came the third teen. Red and gold bodysuit armor that looked like Iron Man and a dragon had a baby. A red hood obscured most of his face, but the posture? All leadership and chaos.
"Alright," Clint said, squinting. "Who's Moody Junior?"
"That," Logan said, puffing smoke, "is Harry Potter. Codename: Marauder."
Natasha narrowed her eyes. "Lily's kid?"
"Thirteen," Steve said. "And already making a Super-Soldier work for it."
"Kid's a magical mutant," Logan added. "He absorbs abilities from magical creatures and artifacts. Right now he's got unicorn reflexes, basilisk venom, phoenix fire healing, and a serious problem with authority."
Clint whistled. "Armor's dragon hide?"
"Ukrainian Ironbelly," Sirius said, with a touch of pride.
Natasha frowned. "That a real thing or a British rock band?"
Remus sighed. "Dragon. Big one."
"And the black lining?"
"Acromantula silk," Sirius added.
Clint blinked. "Spider?"
"Giant spider," Dumbledore said. "Think: haunted RV with eight legs."
Steve winced. "That's... a choice."
"They call themselves MageX," Sirius added. "Group of magicals and magical mutants working together. Think magical X-Men, Hogwarts edition."
Down below, Harry—Marauder—raised his wand, muttered something, and blasted one of the werewolves with a spell that combined fire, frost, and possibly righteous fury. The beast howled and dissolved into mist.
Jean swooped in with telekinesis, Susan deflected an illusion, and the whole team moved like a perfectly synchronized magical SWAT unit.
"That's not a bunch of students," Clint muttered. "That's a tactical strike team."
Steve didn't answer. He was still watching, arms crossed, mouth tight.
Dumbledore glanced at him. "Thoughts, Captain?"
Steve exhaled. "That's the future."
"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured.
"And it's coming fast," Logan added, flicking ash from his cigar.
Natasha's eyes didn't leave the screen. "Are we all on the same side?"
Sirius smirked. "Depends on who's lying."
As if on cue, Susan's head snapped up. Her gaze locked with the magical viewing window like she felt them.
Her eyes narrowed.
Logan muttered, "Kid's creepy like that."
And somewhere deep in the stone walls of Hogwarts, war whispered back.
—
Clint Barton leaned forward in his seat like he was watching the final round of a magically enhanced cage match. "Okay, let me get this straight," he said, pointing dramatically at the projection of the battlefield. "Harry's a magical Super-Soldier with a phoenix complex, Jean could probably terrify the Boogyman into therapy, and the other redhead—"
He glanced sideways at Natasha, who was quietly watching the screen with that unreadable spy expression of hers. He winced. "Sorry, that redhead can tell if you're lying even when you're thinking about lying."
Natasha arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "I like the nickname, Veritas. Might use it."
Clint cleared his throat. "Cool, cool, terrifying. But what about the rest of the wizarding X-Men over here? Who's the tank?"
Steve Rogers leaned against the console with his arms folded and the world's most patriotic smirk on his face. "You mean him?" He gestured toward the left flank of the fight like he was introducing the next Avenger on a game show.
Clint followed the direction of his finger. Then his eyes bugged out like a cartoon character spotting a giant stack of pancakes.
There he was.
A wall of muscle in yellow and black moved like someone had fed a panther espresso and told it to go nuts. His hood covered most of his face, but the glint of claws—sharp, vicious talons erupting straight from his fingernails—was impossible to miss. He slashed through a shadow-wolf like it was made of paper mâché, then spun, wand flicking with a smoothness that was 100% John Wick and 0% schoolboy.
He should've moved like a tank. He moved like a dancer who bench-pressed tanks for warm-ups.
"Okay. Nope." Clint slapped a hand on the table. "That's illegal. Steve. Logan. Did you two have a baby and forget to send a birth announcement?"
Logan, lounging nearby with a cheap cigar hanging out of his mouth and a look like he was ten seconds from calling someone 'bub,' snorted smoke like an offended dragon. "Hell no. I don't breed 'em pretty."
"That's Cedric Diggory," Steve supplied helpfully. "Sixteen. Hufflepuff."
Clint turned to stare at him. "That's a Hufflepuff? I thought you said Hufflepuffs baked cookies and hugged people."
Logan shrugged. "He can bake. Then stab you with claws while his cookies cool."
"Feral mutation," Sirius added from behind them, hands in his coat pockets like he belonged on the cover of a wizarding leather catalog. "Like Logan's, but different. His claws come out of his fingernails. Think Sabretooth, but with better skin care."
"Claws, enhanced strength, speed, senses, healing factor," Logan grunted. "Basically, he's puberty on performance enhancers."
"He's still working on a codename," Sirius added. "Harry calls him Badger until he picks one."
"Because of Hufflepuff," Clint guessed.
"Yup," Sirius grinned. "Also, Cedric once suplexed a werewolf during simulation. Harry thinks it's adorable."
Clint glanced back at the screen. Cedric had just flipped a shadow-creature over his shoulder with one arm and hexed another without even looking. "Uh-huh. Adorable. I'm getting strong 'final boss of a magical brawler game' vibes."
"He's a good kid," Logan muttered, almost proud. "Just don't challenge him to arm-wrestle."
Remus—calm, vaguely glowing like a druid from a fantasy novel—stepped forward and gestured toward the ice-covered part of the field. "If Cedric's the tank, Daphne's our frost mage."
The girl in question moved with the eerie calm of someone who could turn you into a popsicle and not blink. Her bodysuit shimmered white and pale blue, her long blond hair glittered like frosted moonlight, and her skin looked like it had been carved from glacier glass. A literal snow queen.
"That's Daphne Greengrass. Codename: Ice Queen."
Clint raised a hand. "Okay, I feel like calling her that to her face would end in hypothermia."
"Her mutation gives her complete cryokinesis," Remus explained.
"In English?" Clint asked.
Natasha, still watching the battlefield with a distracted expression, said, "She controls ice. Shapes it, builds it, weaponizes it. Elsa, but meaner."
"Let It Go is officially banned in this room," Clint said quickly. "I like my fingers where they are."
"Smart," Logan muttered.
Sirius pointed again, this time at a tangle of green. "And that walking greenhouse? Neville Longbottom. Codename: Thorn."
Neville stood in the center of a living, shifting dome of vines and thorns. He didn't look particularly fierce—more like a quiet gardener who had discovered plant-based vengeance. His wand was in one hand, his other guiding the growth like a conductor with a symphony of angry shrubs. Shadow-wolves got too close and were promptly swallowed by carnivorous kudzu.
"Mutation lets him control plant life," Sirius said. "Roots, vines, thorns, you name it. He once broke a Death Eater's wand using a sunflower during simulation."
"Okay," Clint said slowly, "so now I have to fear Hufflepuffs and the gardener."
"Save the best for last," Logan grunted, nodding toward the edge of the screen.
Clint's eyes widened again. "Is she floating?"
Yep. Luna Lovegood hovered a good six feet above the battlefield, glowing faintly like a magical nightlight blessed by a unicorn. Her blue and gold bodysuit sparkled, her silver-blonde hair haloed around her like she'd personally told gravity to take a hike. And those raddish earrings? Somehow they made her look more otherworldly, not less.
"That's Luna. Codename: Halo," Logan said.
"She's talking," Steve noted.
Indeed, Luna's eyes were closed, and she was murmuring softly, like she was either praying or reciting a poem only she understood. Below her, shadow-wolves began unraveling into ribbons of golden light and vanished.
"Her mutation is aura reading," Logan said. "She sees emotions, intent, magic. Everything people try to hide."
"And her secondary mutation?" Natasha asked, though her eyes flicked again toward Harry on the other side of the screen.
Logan took a deep drag of his cigar. "She talks to metaphysical forces."
Clint blinked. "Define 'metaphysical.'"
"Luck. Gravity. Fate. Magic. Stuff you don't normally send a text to."
"And they talk back!" Steve said.
"They obey," Logan said. "She calls 'em Wrackspurts and Nargles and other nonsense. And when she asks nicely, reality listens."
Clint sat back like someone had just handed him a philosophical migraine. "So, she's got a full RPG party in her brain, and she's the only one with the group chat password?"
"Pretty much," Logan said.
"And you're okay with that?"
"No," Logan said flatly. "But she once told Death to take a hike. So we're rolling with it."
Clint looked around at the team, then back at the screen. "I take it back. These aren't kids. These are god-level boss fights waiting for the wrong trigger."
Steve nodded. "Welcome to MageX."
Sirius smirked. "Don't worry. You get used to the insanity."
Remus smiled gently. "Eventually."
Natasha said nothing, her eyes still on Harry, her thoughts spinning faster than the battlefield.
Because Harry moved like someone she'd seen before. Fought like someone she should remember.
And for the first time since the Red Room, the Widow felt something like... recognition.
—
In the meanwhile…
The last shadow-wolf disintegrated into wisps of dark smoke, and the Room of Requirement began its slow, magical transformation. The battlefield shimmered like someone had flipped reality's "scene change" switch, and the dueling ground morphed back into MageX's cozy common room—think Xavier's School meets Gryffindor Tower with better lighting and zero dress code.
"Alright, team," Harry called out, jogging to the center of the now-transformed space. "Simulation's over. No more shadow monsters, flying hexes, or Daphne accidentally freezing Ron's eyebrows again."
"I said I slipped," Daphne muttered, crossing her arms as Ron rubbed his slightly blue forehead.
"Sure," Fred said.
"Definitely slipped," George added, grinning. "Right into the direction of his face."
"Go hydrate, stretch, snack, collapse dramatically—whatever your post-battle ritual is," Susan announced, stepping up beside Harry. "You've all earned it."
"Did we?" Luna asked dreamily as she floated down to the couch. "I feel like I earned the right to name that last creature Wibbleclaw the Doombringer."
Neville gave a tired smile. "I just want a sandwich."
"You always want a sandwich," Ginny pointed out.
"Sandwiches are reliable," Neville replied solemnly.
As laughter echoed around the room and students began flopping onto beanbags, sofas, and magically generated hammocks, Harry glanced toward the far corner where the viewing platform and control console used to be. It hadn't completely disappeared—it had just slid seamlessly into a raised platform framed by stone archways and floating candlelight.
And standing there, just beyond the fading shimmer of simulation tech and magic, were familiar faces.
Sirius, of course—still the rogue uncle with rockstar energy and a wardrobe full of billowing coats that screamed "midlife crisis, but make it fashion."
Remus—serene, wise, and radiating the same energy as a particularly well-read forest spirit who taught yoga on full moons.
And beside them, unmistakable even in full gear: Captain America and Wolverine.
Cap stood tall, arms crossed, that impossible sense of calm and command rolling off him like a heatwave.
Logan, in full tactical black and yellow, was chewing a cigar with all the intensity of a guy mentally calculating how many stab wounds he could walk off before needing a nap.
And with them… two new figures.
A tall, lean man in sleek navy-blue and silver armor, face partially hidden by a visor, like he walked out of a secret spy thriller and into Hogwarts by accident.
And a woman.
Long red hair pulled into a sleek braid. Black tactical bodysuit that moved like a second skin. Expression neutral, assessing. Dangerous.
Harry's breath caught in his throat.
Jean, walking just ahead of him with Susan, turned at the exact moment she felt Harry stop dead behind her.
"What is it?" she asked, stepping closer, her brows drawn together.
Harry didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His eyes were locked on the woman. The redhead. She was speaking to Captain America, nodding at something he said, utterly unaware of the emotional hurricane currently tearing through Harry James Potter.
Jean reached for his hand, but when she touched him, she felt it—waves of emotion crashing like a tidal wave through their bond. Grief. Wonder. Confusion. An ache that had no words.
And then—images.
Flashes.
A photograph, faded at the edges but lovingly handled. A smiling woman with vivid red hair and emerald green eyes, laughing beside a man with messy black hair and glasses.
A memory—not real, not even formed, just a feeling.
Warmth. Safety. The scent of flowers. The sound of a lullaby.
And then—green light. Screaming. Silence.
"Oh my god," Jean whispered aloud, and she turned fully, eyes wide.
Because she knew that face. She'd seen it in Harry's mind. In dreams. In flashes of memory that were more magic than recollection.
The red-haired woman standing beside Captain America…
She had Lily Potter's face.
Exactly. Down to the gentle curve of her jaw. The shape of her lips. Even the way she tilted her head while listening to someone speak.
Harry's hand trembled as he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, "Mum…"
Susan stepped up beside Jean, sensing something was off, but catching on quickly. "Jean? What's—"
Jean shook her head and whispered back, "It's her. She looks exactly like Lily."
Harry blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in his throat. He knew it wasn't Lily. Logically, rationally, he knew that. But emotions didn't care about logic. Not when the face of the woman who died to save you just walked out of a superhero lineup like it was no big deal.
Jean squeezed his hand. Hard. "We go together, alright?"
Harry nodded. Once.
Then they walked forward, every step an echo of a heartbeat from a different life.
The woman—the woman—turned her head as they approached.
Her eyes met Harry's.
And for the first time since forever, Harry forgot how to breathe.
Because Black Widow just smiled—and for a single, flickering, impossibly heartbreaking moment—
She looked exactly like Lily Potter saying hello.
---
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