HELICARRIER – ARMORY BAY – 9:47 PM
(Where wizards learn that sneaking past five deadly girlfriends is harder than fighting dragons, and Harry discovers his mouth writes checks his armor can't cash.)
Harry Potter was exactly five steps away from the transport pad when his life decided to remind him why dating multiple superhuman women was both the best and worst decision he'd ever made.
The temperature plummeted like someone had opened a window to the Arctic. The lights flickered in that dramatic way that screamed "incoming confrontation." And there, blocking the bay door like the world's most beautiful firing squad, stood his entire polycule.
Jean Grey stood front and center, arms crossed, her copper-red hair catching the overhead lights like liquid fire. Her green eyes held that particular shade of "I'm not angry, I'm disappointed" that was roughly a thousand times worse than actual anger. She was wearing a simple black sweater and jeans, but somehow managed to look like she could bench press a small country.
To her left, Natasha Romanoff leaned against a weapons crate with the casual elegance of a panther pretending to nap. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she was twirling a knife between her fingers like other people might fidget with a pen. The smile on her lips promised either a really good time or a really painful death. Possibly both.
Ororo Munroe floated approximately one inch off the ground, because walking was apparently for mortals. Her white hair moved in a nonexistent breeze, and tiny sparks of lightning danced between her fingers. She wore a flowing white dress that made her look like a storm goddess who'd decided to grace humanity with her presence. Which, Harry reflected, wasn't far from the truth.
Laura Kinney crouched near the wall, her hood up and her claws extended just enough to catch the light. She looked like she was deciding whether to hug him or introduce his face to her adamantium knuckles. Her dark eyes held that particular X-23 intensity that meant someone was about to get stabbed.
Tonks bounced on her toes near the back, her hair cycling through colors like a mood ring having an identity crisis. Currently, it was settling on an indignant shade of purple that matched her crossed arms. She was wearing ripped jeans and a band t-shirt that probably belonged to him, and she looked like she was torn between laughing and hexing him into next week.
And clinging to Jean's sleeve like a life preserver was Madelyn Pryor, Jean's clone, who was currently the color of a particularly ripe tomato. She kept sneaking glances at Harry and then immediately hiding behind Jean's hair.
Harry stopped mid-step and slowly turned to face them. His Revenant armor gleamed red and gold in the overhead lights, making him look like Iron Man's magical older brother. His cowl and mask were retracted, letting his emerald eyes do what emerald eyes did best – make people forget basic safety protocols.
"Ah," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant he was about to dig himself into a hole. "The welcoming committee."
Jean's eyebrow arched so high it practically reached her hairline. "You weren't even going to tell us, were you?"
Harry straightened his shoulders, and his armor responded by helpfully making him look even more impressive. Which, given the circumstances, was like bringing a sword to a nuclear war.
"Would it help if I said I was planning to tell you... eventually?" He flashed that crooked smile that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
"Oh, sweet Circe's sparkly knickers," Tonks groaned, letting her head fall back against the wall with a dramatic thunk. "He's using the smile. Jean, he's using the smile again. That's not fair."
Laura stepped forward, her claws extending another inch. "I'm going to remove that smug expression from your face, Potter."
Harry tilted his head, completely unbothered by the threat of dismemberment. "And yet, you love this face."
Laura's lips twitched traitorously. "Not right now, I don't."
"Liar," Harry said softly, his voice dropping to that register that made smart women do stupid things.
Ororo's lightning crackled a little brighter. "Harry James Potter," she said in that calm, terrifying voice that made hurricanes apologize, "you are not walking into Hogwarts alone."
Harry's gaze swept over her – storm goddess, perfect posture, eyes that could strip paint – and his grin widened. "Ororo. You're absolutely stunning when you're threatening me."
"You should see me when I follow through," she murmured back, and somehow made it sound like both a promise and a threat.
Natasha finally spoke, her voice a velvet drawl that could make reading a phone book sound seductive. "You didn't even say goodbye. Or leave a note. Or, and this is just me being sentimental, ask me to come along and kill things with you."
Harry turned to face her fully, and the air between them practically ignited. "Nat, you know what happens when we work together. SHIELD ends up writing new protocols specifically titled 'Under No Circumstances Should These Two Be Assigned to the Same Mission.'"
Natasha's smile turned predatory. "And yet... you keep calling me when things get interesting."
"Because you're the most dangerous woman I know," Harry said, his voice rough with honesty. "And I'm apparently attracted to things that can kill me."
"Smart man," Natasha purred, and somehow made it sound like both a compliment and a death sentence.
Behind them, Madelyn squeaked, "He's... really something..." She was so red now she could have been mistaken for another Weasley.
Tonks snorted. "Mad, you're practically glowing. It's adorable."
"I am not glowing," Madelyn protested, then immediately glowed brighter.
Jean sighed and stepped forward, placing a hand on Harry's armored chest. Even through the enhanced plating, he could feel the warmth of her palm. "Harry. When exactly are you going to figure out that we don't get hurt for you? We fight with you. There's a difference."
Harry's expression softened, just slightly. "I know. I just... I've lost people before. I won't lose you. Any of you."
"You won't," Jean said firmly. "Because we're not going anywhere. And we're certainly not letting you go anywhere without us."
Laura jabbed a claw lightly into his chest plate, the adamantium making a soft scraping sound against the armor. "You pull this lone wolf garbage again, wizard, and I will break your nose. Just so we're clear."
Harry leaned down until their faces were inches apart, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow everyone could hear. "You'd heal it for me five minutes later."
Laura's mouth twitched. "Maybe. If you apologized nicely."
"I can apologize very nicely," Harry murmured, and Laura's cheeks actually colored.
Tonks made a gagging sound. "Oh, come on. I'm standing right here. Keep it in your pants, Potter."
"All of you, keep it in your pants," Natasha added cheerfully. "At least until we're not on a SHIELD helicarrier."
Ororo's lightning danced more playfully now. "So. What now, bird boy? Still planning to sneak out like a teenager breaking curfew?"
Harry straightened to his full height, tapping the collar of his armor. His cowl and mask hissed up and over his face, locking into place with mechanical precision. The red and gold plating made him look like a predatory bird of prey, and his voice came out deeper, distorted by the mask's systems.
"No," he said simply. "Now I walk into Hogwarts with the most dangerous, beautiful backup squad in two realities. And we remind Dumbledore exactly why playing games with my family was a spectacularly bad idea."
Even Ororo smiled at that, her eyes sparking with approval.
Jean's hand lingered on his chest, her voice quiet but steel-strong. "We're with you. Always."
Harry's gaze met hers through the mask's lenses. "I know. And I'm sorry I tried to protect you by leaving you behind."
"Apology accepted," Jean said. "This time."
"Don't do it again," Laura added, retracting her claws.
"Or we'll let Natasha plan your punishment," Tonks threatened cheerfully.
Natasha's smile turned absolutely wicked. "Oh, I have ideas."
From behind Jean, Madelyn finally whispered, "He's so confident... and terrifying... and attractive..." Then she promptly buried her face in Jean's shoulder again.
Harry chuckled, the sound distorted by his mask but still warm. He turned toward the transport pad, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him.
"Right then," he said, his voice carrying that particular brand of Potter confidence that had started and ended wars. "Let's go remind Hogwarts why they should have left well enough alone."
The Cloak of Levitation wrapped itself tighter around his shoulders, as if agreeing with the sentiment.
And in a shimmer of golden-red light, he vanished – but not alone. Five women, one blushing clone, and enough combined firepower to level a small country disappeared with him, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and the lingering promise of chaos.
Somewhere in Scotland, Albus Dumbledore felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to update his will.
—
HOGWARTS CASTLE – DEFENSE PROFESSOR'S QUARTERS – MIDNIGHT
(Where you learn that impersonating Mad-Eye Moody is like trying to fool a pack of wolves by wearing a "Hello, I'm a sheep" name tag.)
The thing about Hogwarts at midnight was that it was already creepy enough without a polycule of superpowered individuals stepping through a portal that looked like someone had gift-wrapped a small sun in red and gold paper.
The quarters of Professor Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody were exactly what you'd expect from a man whose idea of home security involved seventeen different types of magical alarms and a mirror collection that would make a fun house jealous. Wards crackled along every surface like invisible electric fences. Dark detector devices whirred and clicked in corners like mechanical insects. The whole place smelled like a combination of firewhisky, paranoia, and what might charitably be called "defensive magic residue."
The real Alastor Moody would have noticed the portal opening before it even finished forming.
The real Alastor Moody would have had three different wands pointed at their throats and a Dark detector shoved in their faces before they could blink.
The real Alastor Moody would definitely not have sat there gaping at them like a tourist who'd accidentally wandered into the wrong haunted house.
Harry stepped through first, and sweet Merlin's beard, he was a sight that could stop traffic in both the magical and muggle worlds. The Revenant armor gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the narrow windows – red and gold plates inscribed with runes that seemed to pulse with their own inner fire. His cowl and mask gave him the profile of a predatory bird, all sharp angles and dangerous curves. His emerald eyes burned through the lenses like someone had captured the Aurora Borealis and convinced it to take up residence in his skull.
Behind him, his girlfriends fanned out like the world's most beautiful special operations team. Because of course they did. Harry Potter had never done anything halfway in his life, and apparently that included assembling a squad of women who could each individually conquer small countries.
Jean Grey took position center-right, her copper-red hair catching the light like liquid fire. Her arms were crossed, and her green eyes held that particular shade of calm that preceded volcanic eruptions. She was wearing dark tactical gear that somehow made her look both approachable and absolutely lethal. The air around her shimmered slightly with telekinetic energy, like heat waves rising from summer pavement.
Natasha Romanoff moved to center-left with the fluid grace of a predator who'd never met a situation she couldn't seduce, manipulate, or murder her way out of. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she was already spinning a knife between her fingers like other people might fidget with a pen. Her smile promised either the best night of your life or the last night of your life, and possibly both simultaneously.
Ororo Munroe floated exactly one inch off the ground because apparently walking was for mortals with less impressive magical abilities. Her white hair moved in a breeze that existed only for her, and tiny lightning bolts danced between her fingers like electric jewelry. She wore flowing white robes that made her look like a storm goddess who'd decided to grace the earthbound with her presence, which wasn't far from the truth.
Laura Kinney crouched low near the wall, her hood up and her claws extended just enough to catch the light. Her dark eyes held that particular X-23 intensity that meant someone was about to discover what their insides looked like. She moved with the coiled energy of a spring-loaded trap, all lethal potential and barely contained violence.
Tonks bounced on her toes near the doorframe, her hair cycling through colors like a mood ring having an existential crisis. Currently, it was settling on an indignant shade of magenta that perfectly matched her expression. She was wearing her typical combination of ripped jeans and a band t-shirt that probably belonged to Harry, and she was spinning her wand with the casual confidence of someone who'd been hexing people since before she could properly pronounce "incantation."
And clinging to Jean's sleeve like a particularly attractive life preserver was Madelyn Pryor, Jean's clone, who was currently the color of a particularly ripe strawberry. She kept sneaking glances at Harry and then immediately hiding behind Jean's hair like she was playing the world's most adorable game of peek-a-boo.
The fake Moody jumped up from his chair with all the grace of a startled troll, his magical eye spinning wildly in its socket like a broken compass. His wand came up in a grip that was just wrong enough to make anyone who'd actually fought beside the real Mad-Eye wince.
"Who the hell are—?"
Harry didn't even let him finish the sentence.
The Cloak of Levitation cracked like a whip, moving faster than human reflexes could follow. The fake wand went flying, embedding itself in the ceiling with a solid thunk that echoed through the room. The impostor let out a strangled snarl that sounded more like a cornered animal than a grizzled Auror.
"Terrible opening line," Harry drawled, his claws sliding out with a soft schick that somehow managed to sound both musical and menacing. He stepped closer, his cowl retracting so his impossibly handsome face could deliver a proper smirk. "Want to try again? Maybe with less amateur hour and more actual competence?"
Natasha was suddenly behind the impostor, because of course she was. One hand curled into his collar with deceptive gentleness, while her knife pressed against his ribs just hard enough to make breathing an interesting challenge. "You're not even pretending to hide it well," she murmured, her voice like velvet wrapped around a razor blade. "It's almost insulting."
Jean's telepathic presence slammed into the fake Moody's mind like a freight train made of psychic energy. Her voice curled through his thoughts, honey-sweet and deadly as arsenic. *Drop the act, Crouch. We know you're in there, and frankly, your mental shields are about as effective as a chocolate teapot.*
The transformation wasn't pretty. It wasn't even close to pretty. In fact, it was the kind of thing that would give people nightmares for weeks.
His fake leg buckled first, the wooden prosthetic twisting at an angle that made basic anatomy weep. The scarred face began to sag like wet clay left in the sun, chunks of graying hair falling in clumps as his features melted and reshaped themselves. The magical eye clattered to the floor, bouncing once before rolling to a stop near Tonks's feet like a particularly macabre marble.
Skin rippled and reformed with wet, squelching sounds that belonged in a horror movie. Bones cracked and repositioned themselves with sickening pops. The impostor's real eyes – wild, manic, and unmistakably belonging to Barty Crouch Jr. – stared up at them from a face that was still shifting between identities like a broken television changing channels.
Crouch's cheekbones emerged from the melting flesh with all the dramatic flair of a theatrical reveal, followed by his distinctive jawline and that particular brand of manic intensity that made him either incredibly attractive or absolutely terrifying, depending on your perspective.
Laura was over him in an instant, her claws pressing just lightly enough against his throat to make her point without actually perforating his trachea. "You twitch wrong," she whispered, her voice carrying that particular Laura Kinney brand of casual menace, "and you'll be gargling your own blood. Just so we're clear."
Tonks snorted from the doorway, her hair shifting to an amused shade of electric blue. "Honestly, mate, that was what? Fifteen seconds? The real Moody would've hexed us, the furniture, and probably the castle's plumbing by now. Absolutely pathetic."
Harry crouched down in front of the now-revealed Crouch, his claws resting gently against the younger man's cheek. His eyes glowed faintly with inner fire, and his smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Here's the thing about pretending to be Alastor Moody," he murmured, his voice low but carrying the kind of authority that made people reconsider their life choices. "We actually like the old paranoid bastard. He's gruff, he smells like charred socks half the time, and he once tried to curse a Christmas tree because it looked at him funny. But he's ours. You? You're a cheap knockoff. And worse than that – you thought we wouldn't notice."
Jean's telepathic presence twisted around Crouch's mind again, and he shuddered like someone had walked over his grave while tap-dancing. "She's already rifling through everything in that disaster you call a brain," Harry continued, tilting his head with predatory interest. "Frankly, I'm not sure whether she's more horrified by the war crimes or your fashion choices."
Natasha leaned down next to him, her voice dropping to that particular purr that made smart people do stupid things. "Should've left the real Moody where he was, love. Now we have to clean up your mess. And I do so hate cleaning."
Crouch finally tried to scramble backward, but Laura's claws dug in just enough to pin him like a particularly murderous paperweight. "I wouldn't," she advised helpfully. "These are fresh. I'd hate to dull them on your spine."
Ororo's lightning cracked, filling the room with a blinding flash that left afterimages dancing across everyone's vision. She floated forward with the serene grace of a goddess who'd decided that mortals were about to learn why crossing her was a spectacularly bad idea. "If you value what little dignity you have left," she murmured, her voice carrying the distant rumble of thunder, "you will stop moving. Now."
Harry stood, rolling his shoulders as the cowl hissed back into place. When he spoke through the mask again, his voice was deeper, mechanically distorted, and full of the kind of menace that made hardened criminals reconsider their career choices.
"Not bad," he said with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather, "for a rat. But now comes the fun part. You get to watch while we spring the real Mad-Eye. And trust me, Crouch – he's going to have some very creative thoughts about what you've done to his reputation."
Laura's smile could have powered half of London with pure malicious energy. "And by thoughts, he means curses. Lots of them. With very creative and painful endings."
Tonks twirled her wand between her fingers, her hair shifting to a cheerful shade of orange that somehow made her look even more dangerous. "Oh, I've got a few suggestions myself. Want to hear them? They involve transfiguring certain parts of your anatomy into things that were never meant to be transfigured."
Natasha leaned down and whispered something in Crouch's ear that actually made him go pale. And considering the man had voluntarily served Voldemort, that was saying something.
Madelyn finally spoke up from behind Jean, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are we... are we the bad guys now?" She looked genuinely confused, which was probably the most adorable thing anyone had ever seen during an interrogation.
"No, sweetheart," Jean said without taking her eyes off Crouch. "We're the good guys. We're just really, really good at being good guys."
Harry turned back to his team, his cloak flaring dramatically as he gestured toward the enchanted trunk in the corner – the one that had more locks than a bank vault and was practically vibrating with barely contained magical energy.
"Let's get our Mad-Eye back," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that started revolutions and ended wars. "And then? We hunt down the rest of these Death Eater wannabes. Because tonight, Hogwarts remembers why you don't mess with the Revenant or his girls."
The locks began popping off the trunk one by one, each more violently than the last. Magic sparked and crackled as ancient protective enchantments met modern magical engineering and decided to have a very loud argument.
From inside the trunk, a gravelly voice that sounded like it had been aged in whisky and tempered by decades of fighting dark wizards growled out:
"About bloody time, boy! Now get me outta here so I can kill the bastard myself! And when I'm done with him, we're having words about what took you so damn long!"
The girls grinned with the kind of synchronized menace that would have made lesser men reconsider their life choices.
Harry just smiled under the mask, the expression somehow managing to be both warm and absolutely terrifying.
"Don't worry, Alastor," he called back as the final lock shattered in a shower of sparks. "We saved you a front-row seat for the show."
The air in the room practically crackled with magic, murderous intent, and what might charitably be called "aggressive problem-solving energy."
Even Hogwarts itself seemed to shiver as the Revenant and his squad got back to work, the ancient stones practically humming with anticipation.
This was going to be fun.
—
HOGWARTS CASTLE – HEADMASTER'S OFFICE – MEANWHILE
*(Where lemon drops meet their match, and the world's most dangerous polycule teaches an old wizard that chess is a young man's game.)*
By his own reckoning, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was having what could generously be called an excellent night.
The stars twinkled in precisely the configuration he'd calculated would be most favorable for his carefully orchestrated plans. The ancient wards of Hogwarts hummed with their usual serene confidence, completely unaware that they were about to have a very bad time. His enchanted chess set was locked in its nightly battle with itself, and the white pieces were winning, which was always a good omen for his machinations.
Even Fawkes was practically purring from his perch, clearly sensing that his human was in complete and utter control of the evening's festivities.
Albus was, naturally, in complete and utter control. That was sort of his whole thing.
Oh, certainly, young Harry Potter had gotten some rather adorable ideas about independence lately. And about forming alliances that didn't involve bending the knee to the one person who actually knew what was best for him. The boy and his merry little family of misfits had taken to gallivanting around with SHIELD agents and mutant sympathizers instead of accepting Albus's benevolent guidance.
But Albus wasn't worried. He never worried. Worrying was for people who didn't have centuries of experience manipulating the universe to their will.
He popped a lemon drop into his mouth, savoring the sugary burst of victory-flavored confidence—
—and then the wards screamed.
Not in a polite, "Oh dear, Peeves is juggling dungbombs again" sort of way.
No.
This was more of a "someone just broke reality over their knee and set the pieces on fire" kind of way.
Albus froze mid-chew, lemon drop suddenly tasting like impending doom with a hint of citrus.
The magical signature was unmistakable: Apparition. Directly into Hogwarts. Into Moody's quarters, no less. A thing that, by every known law of magic (and at least three bylaws he'd personally written after the last time someone had tried something this stupid), was completely impossible.
Fawkes trilled softly from his perch. The kind of trill that could mean "oh no" or "I told you so" or "your beard looks ridiculous when you panic."
Dumbledore, of course, did not panic. He swept to his feet with practiced dramatic flair, robes billowing appropriately, and murmured, "Stay here, my boy. Just a little misunderstanding to clear up."
The phoenix didn't even bother answering this time, which was probably answer enough.
---
DEFENSE PROFESSOR'S QUARTERS – TWENTY MINUTES LATER
By the time Dumbledore arrived at Moody's quarters, he had once again arranged himself into the picture of serene, grandfatherly authority. His wand was hidden up his sleeve in the casual way that suggested he definitely wasn't planning to use it. His beard was properly arranged for maximum wise-old-man impact. His smile was faint but ever-so-knowing.
He knocked politely on the door, because even world-class manipulators had manners.
"Alastor?" he called, his voice carrying that perfect note of concerned mentor. "It's Albus. There was a rather significant disruption in the wards centered on your quarters. Is everything quite alright?"
A long pause stretched out like a cat deciding whether to knock something off a table.
Then: "Everything's under control," came Moody's voice, gravelly and impatient in the way that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else having this conversation.
Dumbledore blinked. Odd. But not impossible. Moody did love to fiddle with dangerous magical artifacts like they were particularly explosive Legos.
Still... something felt wrong. Like wearing socks on the wrong feet, but with more potential for apocalyptic consequences.
"I see," Dumbledore said carefully, his tone suggesting he saw nothing at all. "Would you mind opening the door, Alastor? I'd like to see for myself that everything is... secure."
Another pause. Then the distinctive thunk of approximately seventeen different locks sliding free, because Moody's idea of home security made Fort Knox look like a lemonade stand.
The door opened.
Moody stood there, every scarred, terrifying inch of him exactly what people expected from the legendary Auror. His staff was in hand, his magical eye was spinning like a slot machine having an existential crisis, and his expression suggested he'd rather be fighting a dragon than having this conversation.
"Everything's under control, Albus," he growled, his voice carrying that particular brand of irritation that meant someone was about to have a very bad time. "No need to get your beard in a twist."
And then—
Behind him—
A different kind of control stepped into view.
---
A figure emerged from the shadows behind Moody, and suddenly the entire corridor seemed to hum with the kind of dangerous energy that made smart people reconsider their life choices.
Harry Potter.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the kind of confidence that started revolutions and ended empires. His emerald eyes gleamed like polished jade in the torchlight, and his red-and-gold Revenant armor caught the light in ways that made it look like he was wearing captured starfire. The birdlike mask that covered the upper half of his face hissed open with mechanical precision, retracting to reveal a face that could have been carved by Renaissance masters who specialized in making mortals weep.
"Evening, Professor," Harry said, his deep voice carrying that perfect note of polite menace that suggested he could destroy you with either words or violence and hadn't decided which would be more entertaining. "Fancy seeing you here. Love what you've done with the surveillance state. Very... retro."
Dumbledore opened his mouth to deliver what was undoubtedly going to be a masterpiece of manipulative rhetoric.
And promptly forgot how to form coherent thoughts.
Which was about when the rest of them stepped into view, and Dumbledore realized he was about to have the worst night of his very long life.
Natasha Romanoff leaned against the doorframe with the casual grace of a predator who'd already calculated twelve different ways to kill everyone in the room and was just waiting for someone to give her an excuse. Her copper-red hair caught the light like liquid fire, and her smile promised either the best night of your life or the last night of your life, depending on how smart you were about not crossing her.
"We told you, old man," she purred, her voice like honey wrapped around a razor blade. "You really should stop underestimating him. It's not your best look."
Tonks bounced into view next, her hair currently a shade of bubblegum pink that somehow managed to look both adorable and vaguely threatening. She was grinning like a cat that had not only stolen the canary but had also figured out how to mass-produce them.
"Wotcher, Professor," she chirped, hands on her hips in a pose that suggested she was having the time of her life. "Love what you haven't done with the place. Still smells like mothballs and abandoned dreams."
Jean Grey stepped forward with the kind of ethereal grace that made grown men forget basic motor functions. Her flame-red hair seemed to move in its own private breeze, and her green eyes held depths that suggested she could see right through your soul and wasn't particularly impressed with what she found there.
"We were wondering when you'd show up," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of amused condescension that made people question every decision they'd ever made. "It's almost cute, really, how you keep thinking you're three moves ahead when you're actually playing a completely different game."
Ororo Munroe floated into view – literally floated, because apparently walking was for people who hadn't achieved goddess status – her white hair moving in wind that existed only for her. Lightning danced between her fingers like electric jewelry, and her dark eyes held the kind of ancient wisdom that made mortals remember why their ancestors had built temples.
"Your wards are old," she said, her voice carrying the distant rumble of thunder. "Your rules are older. Both have been broken."
Laura Kinney crouched on the arm of a nearby chair like a particularly lethal cat, her claws extended just enough to catch the light and remind everyone present that she could probably disembowel someone before they finished screaming. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her smirk spoke volumes about her opinion of the current situation.
And bringing up the rear was Madelyn Pryor, who looked disturbingly identical to Jean but somehow managed to project an aura of barely contained chaos that was all her own. She gave Dumbledore a little wave, like someone greeting an old friend at a funeral.
Moody, bless his paranoid heart, just shook his head with the weary resignation of someone who'd tried to warn people about exactly this scenario.
"Told you not to pick this fight, Albus," he muttered, his magical eye spinning lazily as it tracked every possible threat in the room. "You never bloody listen."
Harry stepped closer, his armor whispering against itself as he moved, until he was close enough that Dumbledore could see his reflection in those impossibly green eyes. He tilted his head with predatory interest, like a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
"So," he said, his voice dropping to that register that made smart people do stupid things, "shall we skip the lecture about 'the greater good,' or are you going to try the same manipulation tactics on me that you used on my parents? Because I've prepared a whole speech about that. Spoiler alert: it ends with you realizing you're not the smartest person in the room anymore."
Natasha's grin turned positively wicked. "Ooooh, I love it when he gets all authoritative. It's so attractive."
Tonks added cheerfully, "And just wait until you hear the second speech. That one comes with interpretive dance and possibly some light property damage."
Jean's eyes practically glowed as she stepped closer to Harry, her hand finding his arm with possessive confidence. "We should let him try something," she murmured, her voice carrying that particular brand of dangerous amusement. "I'm curious what he thinks he can still get away with."
Ororo's lightning crackled a little brighter. "It has been some time since I've had to demonstrate why challenging a storm goddess is considered poor form."
Laura's claws extended another inch. "Can I stab him a little? Just a little. I promise I'll aim for non-vital organs."
Madelyn bounced slightly on her toes. "This is so much more fun than I expected. Are we the villains now? Because I think I could be a really good villain."
Dumbledore, for the first time in his exceedingly long life, found himself completely and utterly speechless. His mouth worked soundlessly, his sharp blue eyes darting from face to face, trying desperately to find some angle, some manipulation, some way to regain control of a situation that had clearly spiraled so far beyond his influence that he couldn't even see it anymore.
Harry stepped even closer, until the air between them practically crackled with tension. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but somehow everyone in the room could hear every word.
"You had your chance to do right by me," he said, each word carefully chosen and devastatingly delivered. "You chose to put me in an abusive home because it served your purposes. You chose control over trust. Manipulation over honesty. Secrets over truth. And now..."
A slow, absolutely devastating smile curved his lips, the kind of smile that made people understand why angels had fallen and devils had risen.
"...you don't get to play the wise old mentor anymore. That game is over. You lost. And we're writing new rules."
Behind him, his squad of impossibly dangerous and attractive women smirked with synchronized menace that would have made lesser mortals reconsider their entire existence.
Natasha's smile turned predatory. "New rules are so much more fun than old rules."
Tonks's hair shifted to a pleased shade of gold. "Plus, we get to make them up as we go along. I've always been good at improvisation."
Jean's telekinetic aura flared slightly. "Change is healthy. Even for stubborn old men who think they know better."
Ororo's lightning danced more playfully. "Evolution is natural. Adaptation is survival."
Laura's claws gleamed. "And if you don't adapt, you become extinct. Simple biology."
Madelyn clapped her hands together with childlike glee. "This is the best family meeting ever!"
For the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore – self-proclaimed master of the chessboard, manipulator of fate, and architect of destiny – realized he might just be the pawn.
And pawns, as any chess master knew, were expendable.
The thought was not comforting.
---
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I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!