The hospital corridor was exactly the kind of institutional beige that suggested someone had conducted extensive research into "colors that make absolutely everyone feel vaguely depressed" and decided that commitment to that aesthetic was more important than human psychological wellbeing. Martha Kent walked through it with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent the past three weeks navigating these halls, learning which nurses were sympathetic and which doctors delivered bad news with the kind of clinical detachment that made you want to throw something.
Dr. Harden was waiting by the nurse's station—middle-aged, professionally competent, carrying the particular exhaustion that came from delivering difficult news to families who didn't want to hear it. She saw Martha approaching and her expression shifted into something that was probably meant to be sympathetic but came across as "I'm about to ruin your day and we both know it."
"Mrs. Kent," she said with that carefully modulated tone doctors used when they were about to suggest something that sounded reasonable but felt like betrayal. "Do you have a moment? I wanted to discuss your husband's situation."
Martha wanted to say no. Wanted to keep walking straight past the nurse's station and back to Jonathan's room, where she could sit beside his unresponsive form and read to him from the agricultural journals he'd loved, maintaining the fiction that he could hear her, that consciousness was just temporarily absent rather than permanently destroyed.
But she was also practical enough to know that avoiding difficult conversations didn't make them go away. It just made them more difficult when they finally happened.
"Of course, Doctor," she said with the kind of polite firmness that had gotten her through decades of Kansas farming and community politics. "What did you need to discuss?"
Dr. Harden gestured toward her office—a small space that managed to be simultaneously cluttered with medical documentation and sterile in that particular way that institutional spaces achieved when someone had prioritized efficiency over comfort.
"Mrs. Kent," she began once they were seated, "I know we've had this conversation before, but I need to revisit it. Your husband has been classified as brain-dead for three weeks now. The machines are keeping his body alive, but there's no neurological activity. No response to stimuli. No indication that consciousness exists in any meaningful form."
"I understand the medical situation," Martha said quietly. "You've explained it very thoroughly. Multiple times."
"I know this is difficult," Dr. Harden continued with the kind of gentle insistence that suggested she'd had this conversation with other families and knew exactly how it went. "But you need to think about practical considerations. Your insurance coverage is nearly exhausted. The hospital can't continue providing this level of care indefinitely without payment, and the costs are... substantial."
"How substantial?" Martha asked, though she suspected she didn't want to know the answer.
Dr. Harden pulled out a document—an itemized bill that made Martha's breath catch. The number at the bottom was larger than the farm's annual income. Larger than what most families in Smallville earned in several years. The kind of number that transformed "difficult financial situation" into "complete economic catastrophe."
"I can't afford that," Martha said quietly. "Not without selling the farm. And even then, it might not be enough."
"I understand," Dr. Harden said with genuine sympathy. "Which is why I need to ask you to consider whether continuing treatment is the right choice. Your husband is gone, Mrs. Kent. The person you loved, the man you married—he's not coming back. What remains is just biological function maintained by machines."
Martha felt something fierce and protective surge in her chest—the same feeling that had made her argue with the adoption agency when they'd suggested giving up on finding her son, the same determination that had gotten the farm through droughts and failed harvests and economic disasters that would have broken less stubborn people.
"My future is Jonathan," she said with absolute certainty. "Not was. Is. And I will not give up on him. Not while there's even the smallest chance that he might wake up, that consciousness might return, that the man I love might still be in there somewhere fighting to come back to me."
"Mrs. Kent—"
"No," Martha interrupted with the kind of polite firmness that could stop conversations dead. "I understand the medical reality. I understand the financial situation. But I also understand that miracles happen, that the impossible sometimes becomes possible, and that giving up on someone you love because doctors say there's no hope is not something I'm capable of doing."
Dr. Harden was quiet for a long moment, studying Martha with an expression that suggested she was recalibrating her assessment of this particular patient's family member.
"You realize," she said finally, "that maintaining false hope can be psychologically damaging? That refusing to accept reality can prevent you from moving forward with your life?"
"I'm aware of the risks," Martha replied. "But I'd rather maintain what you call false hope and be proven right than give up on my husband and spend the rest of my life wondering if I'd just waited a little longer, if I'd just had a little more faith, whether he might have come back to me."
"There's also the matter of your son," Dr. Harden said carefully. "Clark. He's been missing for three weeks now. The police have conducted extensive searches with no results. You're dealing with one missing family member and one who's been declared medically deceased. At some point, you need to consider your own wellbeing and your ability to cope with multiple simultaneous crises."
Martha's hands clenched in her lap—the only visible sign of the storm of emotion she was carefully controlling. Clark. Her beautiful, impossible, alien son who'd disappeared the same day Jonathan had his accident. Who'd left no note, no explanation, no indication of where he'd gone or why he'd chosen that particular moment to vanish from her life.
"I haven't given up on Clark either," she said quietly. "And I won't. Not until I have proof that he's beyond help. Not until I know for certain that there's nothing I can do to bring him home."
"Mrs. Kent," Dr. Harden said with the kind of gentle insistence that came from genuinely caring about her patients' families, "you're setting yourself up for heartbreak on multiple fronts. Your husband is brain-dead. Your son has been missing for weeks with no leads. At some point, you need to accept that you can't fix everything, that some situations are beyond your control."
"I've spent my entire adult life learning that lesson," Martha replied with something that might have been dark humor. "I'm a farmer, Doctor. I understand that nature doesn't care about my plans, that weather destroys crops regardless of how carefully I tend them, that sometimes the universe simply decides that your year is going to be difficult and there's nothing you can do about it."
She stood, gathering her dignity around her like armor. "But I also understand that giving up is a choice. And it's not a choice I'm prepared to make. Not about Jonathan, not about Clark, and not about my future. So I appreciate your medical expertise and your concern for my psychological wellbeing, but I'm going to continue sitting beside my husband's bed, reading to him from his favorite journals, and maintaining what you call false hope."
Dr. Harden looked like she wanted to argue further, but something in Martha's expression apparently convinced her that this conversation was over.
"If you change your mind," she said finally, "or if your financial situation becomes untenable, please let me know. We can discuss options for transitioning your husband to palliative care that would be... less expensive."
"I'll keep that in mind," Martha said with the kind of polite finality that meant "I absolutely will not be doing that but I appreciate the suggestion."
She left the office with her head held high, her spine straight, and her determination intact despite the financial catastrophe looming on the horizon and the medical impossibility she was refusing to acknowledge.
Jonathan's room was on the third floor—a semi-private space that currently had only one occupant because the hospital had learned that having families nearby when difficult end-of-life decisions needed to be made was psychologically challenging for everyone involved.
He looked exactly as he had every other day for the past three weeks. Pale, unmoving, connected to machines that breathed for him and monitored vital signs that were technically present but fundamentally meaningless. The ventilator made its rhythmic sound—whoosh, pause, whoosh—creating the illusion of life through mechanical intervention.
Martha settled into the uncomfortable chair beside his bed—a piece of furniture that had clearly been designed by someone who believed that comfort during vigils was morally questionable—and pulled out the latest issue of Agricultural Innovations in Sustainable Farming. Jonathan had been subscribed to this particular journal for fifteen years, maintaining his interest in new techniques and scientific developments even when their small farm had no realistic way to implement most of the suggestions.
"Today's article is about integrated pest management using beneficial insects," she said aloud, her voice steady despite the emptiness of the one-sided conversation. "Apparently there's been significant research into using ladybugs and lacewings to control aphid populations without pesticide application. You would have been interested in that—remember when we tried the organic approach three years ago and nearly lost the entire corn crop to Japanese beetles?"
She paused, as though giving him time to respond, maintaining the fiction that he could hear her, that his mind was processing information somewhere beneath the surface of medical catastrophe.
"The article suggests that the key is establishing habitat zones that support the beneficial insects during off-season months," she continued. "Creating permanent refuge areas with native plants that provide nectar and shelter. It's interesting from a theoretical perspective, though I'm not sure our farm has the acreage to dedicate to permanent habitat zones without sacrificing productive land."
The ventilator continued its rhythmic breathing. The monitors displayed their steady patterns. Nothing changed.
"Dr. Harden wants me to consider removing life support," Martha said quietly, abandoning the pretense of reading about agricultural innovations. "She thinks I'm in denial about your condition. She's probably right—medically, scientifically, according to every expert I've consulted. But I can't shake the feeling that you're still in there somewhere, that consciousness hasn't been destroyed, just... displaced. Temporarily absent."
She reached over and took his hand—still warm from the machines maintaining his body temperature, but lacking the responsive squeeze that would have confirmed her hope.
"Clark's still missing," she continued, her voice threatening to break. "Three weeks with no word, no sightings, no indication of where he went or why. The police think he ran away—teenage rebellion combined with stress from your accident. But I know Clark. He wouldn't just leave. Not without explanation. Not without..."
She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence because finishing it required acknowledging possibilities she wasn't prepared to confront.
"I refuse to believe I've lost both of you," she said finally, her voice firm despite the tears threatening to escape. "I refuse to accept that my future involves sitting alone on that farm, maintaining a property for no one, living a life without the people who made it worth living."
The door opened behind her—a nurse, probably, coming to check vitals and adjust medications and perform all the medical maintenance required to keep a brain-dead body functioning.
"Mrs. Kent?" an unfamiliar voice said. Male, young, carrying a British accent that definitely didn't belong to any Smallville medical staff. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's someone downstairs you need to see."
Martha turned, and found herself looking at a young man who was possibly the most striking person she'd ever encountered. Tall—remarkably tall, with the kind of presence that made hospital corridors seem too small to contain him. Dark hair that somehow managed to look both perfectly styled and completely unmanageable. And eyes that were an impossible shade of green that seemed to glow with their own internal light.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," she said, her Kansas politeness automatic despite the confusion. "Who are you?"
"Harry Potter," he said with a slight smile that somehow managed to be both charming and apologetic. "I know that means absolutely nothing to you, which is fair. But I need you to come downstairs immediately, because we've found someone who I think might be your son."
Martha's heart stopped. Actually stopped, for approximately three beats, before restarting with the kind of force that made her vision blur at the edges.
"Clark?" she breathed. "You found Clark?"
"I found someone who matches the general description of the missing person reports that have been circulating around Smallville for the past three weeks," Harry clarified carefully. "Tall, dark-haired, appears to be in his late teens or early twenties. He was found unconscious in a corn field during the storm and brought to this hospital for treatment."
Martha was already standing, already moving toward the door with the kind of desperate hope that came from three weeks of not knowing, three weeks of imagining the worst, three weeks of maintaining false hope about her husband while refusing to acknowledge that she might have lost her son as well.
"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice sharp with maternal urgency.
"Emergency department," Harry replied, already leading the way with movements that suggested he'd memorized the hospital's layout. "He's been treated for minor exposure and released with medical clearance. But there's a complication."
"What complication?" Martha asked, though she suspected she wasn't going to like the answer.
"He has amnesia," Harry explained as they navigated corridors with increasing speed. "Complete retrograde amnesia consistent with severe electrical trauma. He doesn't remember his name, his history, or anything about his life before waking up in that field approximately two hours ago."
Martha felt something cold settle in her chest. Clark with amnesia. Clark without his memories, without the careful training Jonathan had provided about controlling his abilities, without the understanding of what he was and why discretion was essential to his survival.
"How severe?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Severe enough that he's currently waiting for what he calls 'the sign' that will help him understand who he is," Harry replied. "He says he'll recognize it when he sees it, but he can't explain what he's looking for. It's driving my friend Hermione absolutely mental because she keeps trying to apply logic to what appears to be pure intuition."
They reached the emergency department, and Martha stopped breathing entirely when she saw him.
Clark. Her son. Her beautiful, impossible, alien boy who'd been missing for three weeks and was now standing in a hospital corridor wearing borrowed clothes that didn't quite fit and looking at his surroundings with the expression of someone who recognized nothing.
"Clark," she breathed, moving toward him with the kind of maternal instinct that transcended conscious thought.
He turned at the sound of his name—a flicker of recognition crossing his face that suggested some part of him knew that name belonged to him, even if conscious memory couldn't confirm it.
"Do I know you?" he asked carefully, his voice carrying the same gentle quality she remembered but lacking the warmth of recognition that should have accompanied seeing his mother after three weeks apart.
"I'm Martha Kent," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'm your mother."
Clark stared at her for a long moment, his expression cycling through confusion, uncertainty, and what might have been desperate hope that she was telling the truth.
"I don't remember," he said finally, and the pain in his voice was like a physical blow. "I'm sorry, I want to remember, but there's just... nothing. No memories, no recognition, just this feeling that I'm supposed to be looking for something but I don't know what it is."
"The sign," Harry supplied quietly. "He keeps mentioning waiting for the sign."
Martha's mind was racing through implications, considerations, and the growing certainty that whatever had caused Clark's disappearance and subsequent amnesia was connected to the abilities he'd been developing, the powers he'd been learning to control, the impossible nature of what he actually was.
"I can help you find the sign," she said with absolute certainty, reaching for his hand with the kind of maternal gesture that didn't require memory to feel natural. "Whatever you're looking for, whatever you need to understand who you are—I can help you. But you need to come with me. Right now. Before anything else happens."
"Come with you where?" Clark asked, though he was already moving closer, drawn by something that might have been instinct or might have been the fundamental recognition of maternal care that transcended conscious memory.
"Home," Martha said simply. "To the farm. Where you've lived for the past eighteen years, where your father is waiting—" Her voice caught. "Where everything you need to know about yourself is waiting for you to remember."
"But the sign," Clark protested weakly. "I'm supposed to wait for the sign."
"Maybe the sign is me," Martha said gently. "Maybe the sign is home. Maybe the sign is the place where you learned to be yourself, where you discovered what you could do, where you became the person you were before this happened to you."
Clark looked at Harry with an expression that suggested he was seeking confirmation that this woman claiming to be his mother wasn't actually an elaborate trap or delusion.
"She's legitimate," Harry confirmed. "I checked—Martha Kent has been reporting you missing for three weeks, she matches the description you gave of what felt familiar when you were trying to reconstruct any memories, and most importantly, she knows things about you that wouldn't be public knowledge if she wasn't actually your mother."
"Like what?" Clark asked.
"Like the fact that you were found in a field as an infant during a meteor shower," Harry said quietly. "Like the fact that you developed abilities that exceed normal human limitations. Like the fact that your father spent years teaching you to control those abilities while maintaining the appearance of being an ordinary Kansas farm boy."
Clark's eyes went wide—not with surprise, exactly, but with the kind of recognition that suggested some part of him had known these things were true even if conscious memory couldn't access them.
"How do you know that?" he demanded.
"Long story involving alien genetics, cosmic inheritance, and the fact that I've got abilities remarkably similar to yours," Harry replied with a slight smile. "But the short version is that I came to Smallville specifically to find you, to help you learn to manage powers that could accidentally cause disasters if not properly controlled, and apparently the universe decided that the best way to introduce us was to deposit you unconscious in a corn field with complete amnesia."
"The universe has a terrible sense of humor," Clark observed.
"You have no idea," Harry agreed. "But your mother's right—you should go home. Back to the farm. Where familiar surroundings might help trigger memories, where you'll be safe from whatever caused your amnesia, and where we can all sit down and have a very long conversation about alien genetics, superhuman abilities, and exactly what it means to be Kryptonian on a planet that has no idea you exist."
Martha looked at Harry with renewed interest—this strange British young man who apparently knew about Clark's origins, who understood about the abilities, who'd arrived in Smallville at precisely the right moment to help her find her missing son.
"You know what he is," she said quietly. "You understand."
"I know what we both are," Harry corrected. "Which is complicated, unprecedented, and absolutely going to require extensive explanation once we're somewhere private. But right now, what matters is getting Clark somewhere safe, somewhere familiar, somewhere that might help him remember who he is before whoever scrambled his memories decides to try something else."
"Scrambled his memories?" Martha repeated sharply. "You think someone did this to him deliberately?"
"I think someone deposited him in a corn field with a Kryptonian symbol burned into the ground and his entire consciousness scrambled in a pattern that suggests professional medical intervention," Harry replied bluntly. "Which means this wasn't an accident or natural amnesia—this was deliberate. Someone wanted him confused, vulnerable, and presumably delivered to me for reasons I'm still trying to figure out."
The implications of that statement hung in the air like a threat that no one quite wanted to acknowledge directly.
"Then we need to leave," Martha said firmly. "Now. Before whoever did this decides that depositing him wasn't sufficient and tries something more aggressive."
"Agreed," Harry said. "Though I should mention that I've got five other people with me—friends who came to help with the whole 'teaching Kryptonian farm boys to manage superhuman abilities' mission—and we're all going to need somewhere to stay while we sort this situation out."
"The farm has space," Martha said immediately. "We've got guest rooms, the barn loft if necessary, and enough land that you could probably set up those fancy expansion trunks I'm guessing you've brought with you without anyone noticing."
Harry blinked. "How did you know about expansion trunks?"
"I've lived in Smallville for thirty years," Martha replied with the kind of practical wisdom that came from managing a farm and raising an alien child. "I've learned to recognize when visitors are carrying more than their visible luggage suggests. Also, the fact that six people apparently traveled from Britain to Kansas with minimal visible baggage is either extremely impressive packing or magical spatial manipulation."
"It's the magical spatial manipulation," Harry confirmed. "Though I'm impressed you recognized it."
"Clark isn't the only person in this town with secrets," Martha said with a slight smile. "Now, shall we collect your friends and head to the farm? I'd prefer to have this conversation somewhere that isn't a public hospital where anyone could overhear details about alien genetics and superhuman abilities."
Harry nodded and gestured toward the waiting area, where Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Andromeda were currently attempting to keep Teddy entertained while simultaneously looking like they were having a perfectly normal evening that didn't involve any cosmic complications whatsoever.
"Right then," Harry said. "Let me introduce you to the most thoroughly prepared expedition team in the history of international superhero consulting, complete with a reality-responsive metamorphmagus infant and enough backup supplies to survive approximately seventeen varieties of disaster."
Martha took Clark's hand—he was still looking uncertain but seemed willing to trust this woman who claimed to be his mother—and led him toward the group with determined maternal efficiency.
"Everyone," Harry announced, "this is Martha Kent. Clark's mother. She's offered to let us stay at the farm while we sort out this situation, which I'm classifying as 'significantly more complicated than anticipated but potentially manageable if we're very careful and nobody does anything stupid.'"
"Nobody does anything stupid?" Ron repeated. "Harry, mate, we just crashed a car in a corn field, found a naked amnesiac in a lightning-created alien symbol, and discovered that the person we came to help doesn't remember anything including his own name. I think the 'nobody does anything stupid' ship sailed approximately three hours ago."
"Fair point," Harry conceded. "Revised plan: we all try to minimize additional stupidity while acknowledging that we're already operating at peak chaos capacity."
"That's much more realistic," Hermione agreed, standing to greet Martha with the kind of professional courtesy that suggested she was already mentally organizing how to explain everything without causing complete psychological breakdown. "Mrs. Kent, I'm Hermione Granger. We're very grateful for your hospitality, and I promise we'll explain everything once we're somewhere more private."
"I'm counting on it," Martha replied. "Because if you're going to be staying on my farm and helping my son remember who he is, I need to know exactly what we're dealing with and what risks we're facing."
"That's entirely reasonable," Harry said. "Though I should warn you that the full explanation involves concepts that challenge conventional understanding of physics, biology, and several other scientific disciplines that you probably thought were settled matters."
"I've been raising an alien for eighteen years," Martha said dryly. "I think my understanding of conventional science has already been thoroughly challenged."
As they collected their things and prepared to leave the hospital—six British visitors, one amnesiac Kryptonian farm boy, and one thoroughly determined Kansas farmwife who'd just gotten her son back and was absolutely not going to let anything happen to him again—Harry found himself thinking about J'onn J'onzz.
The Martian shapeshifter who'd been observing everything. The presence he'd felt at the edges of his mental awareness, conducting reconnaissance with the kind of professional competence that suggested extensive training and centuries of practice.
He was still out there. Still watching. And he was going to have opinions about six British visitors arriving to help Kal-El discover his abilities while his Earth mother tried to help him remember his human identity.
"This is going to be interesting," Harry muttered as they made their way toward the hospital exit.
"That's one word for it," Ginny replied. "I'm going with 'absolutely mental but potentially educational.'"
"Both things can be true," Hermione observed. "And usually are when Harry's involved."
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the Kansas night clear and cool and sparkling with stars that seemed impossibly bright after the storm. The Honda Pilot was still buried in a corn field six miles away, which meant they were going to need alternative transportation to get everyone back to the Kent farm.
"I'll call someone," Martha said, already pulling out her phone. "We've got friends in town who can help with transportation. Give me ten minutes and I'll have us sorted."
While they waited, Clark stood looking up at the stars with the expression of someone who felt like they should recognize the constellations but couldn't quite place them.
"Do I know those?" he asked quietly, gesturing at the night sky.
"You've been looking at them your entire life," Martha said gently. "Every night, from the farm. Your father taught you the constellations when you were five years old."
"My father," Clark repeated, latching onto this new piece of information. "You mentioned him before. Where is he?"
Martha's expression shifted into something that was equal parts grief and determination. "He's in the hospital. Third floor. He's been in a coma for three weeks—since the same day you disappeared."
The implications of that coincidence hung heavy in the air.
"You think his accident and my disappearance are connected," Clark said slowly.
"I think the universe has a terrible sense of timing," Martha replied. "Or someone deliberately arranged for both things to happen simultaneously to ensure I was too distracted to effectively search for you."
"Who would do that?" Clark asked. "Who would have the capability to cause both a coma and... whatever happened to me?"
"That," Harry said grimly, "is an excellent question. And one we're going to need to answer very carefully, because whoever orchestrated this has access to Kryptonian technology, understanding of human psychology, and apparently no moral qualms about manipulating people's lives to achieve their objectives."
A truck pulled up—an older Ford pickup that had clearly seen decades of farm work but was still running through sheer determination and careful maintenance. The driver was a middle-aged man who looked like he'd been pulled away from dinner but was too polite to complain about it.
"Martha," he said warmly, then caught sight of Clark. "Is that—"
"It's Clark," Martha confirmed. "He's back. Long story involving amnesia and mysterious circumstances that I'll explain later. Right now, I need to get everyone back to the farm. Can you help?"
"Of course," the man said immediately. "Though I've only got room for about four people in the truck bed if we're creative about seating arrangements."
"That'll work," Martha said. "Thank you, Pete. I owe you one."
"You owe me nothing," Pete replied. "You'd do the same for me if I needed help. That's what neighbors are for."
The ride back to the Kent farm was cramped, slightly uncomfortable, and filled with the kind of awkward silence that came from six strangers, one amnesiac, and one mother who was trying very hard not to break down crying now that she'd gotten her son back.
The farm appeared in the truck's headlights like something out of a painting—modest farmhouse with a wraparound porch, barn that had been carefully maintained through decades of use, fields stretching away into darkness that suggested considerable acreage.
"Home," Martha said softly as they pulled up to the house. "This is home, Clark. Where you've lived since we found you eighteen years ago. Where you learned to walk, to talk, to control abilities that should have been impossible. Where your father taught you to be careful, to be kind, and to use your powers to help people without drawing attention to what you can do."
Clark stared at the house with the expression of someone who felt like they should remember but couldn't quite access the memories that would confirm familiarity.
"I don't recognize it," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, I want to, but there's just... nothing."
"That's okay," Martha said, reaching for his hand. "We'll make new memories. And maybe, eventually, the old ones will come back. But right now, what matters is that you're home, you're safe, and you're surrounded by people who care about you."
As they climbed out of the truck and Pete drove away with final waves of farewell, Harry looked around at the Kent farm and felt something settle in his chest.
This was where Kal-El had grown up. Where he'd learned to be human while discovering he was anything but. Where he'd developed the moral framework that had made him use his abilities to help people instead of dominating them.
This was important. This place, these people, this foundation that had shaped someone with godlike abilities into someone who chose kindness over power.
"Right then," Harry said as they stood in the farmyard under the Kansas stars, "shall we go inside and start the very long conversation about alien genetics, superhuman abilities, and exactly what happens when you mix Kryptonian heritage with British magical tradition?"
"Tea first," Martha said firmly. "Then explanations. I've learned that difficult conversations go better with proper beverages and comfortable seating."
"I like her," Ginny said to Harry. "She's got her priorities sorted."
As they filed into the farmhouse—six British visitors, one amnesiac Kryptonian, and one Kansas farmwife who'd just gotten her son back and was absolutely determined to protect him regardless of what cosmic complications were about to unfold—Harry reflected that their carefully planned expedition had transformed into something considerably more complex than anyone had anticipated.
But complex wasn't the same as impossible. And if there was one thing Harry Potter had learned through years of facing impossible situations, it was that proper preparation, good friends, and absolute refusal to give up could overcome even the most ridiculous obstacles the universe decided to throw at you.
Welcome to the Kent farm. Where everything was about to get considerably more interesting for everyone involved.
The adventure was just beginning. And knowing their luck, it was going to be absolutely mental.
But then again, that was just how things went when Harry Potter was involved.
Time to make some tea and start explaining the impossible.
---
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