The ancient stone archway stood silent in the Department of Mysteries, its tattered black curtain swaying despite the absence of any breeze. Harry's heart hammered against his ribs as he watched the fabric ripple, knowing—*knowing*—that Sirius had just fallen through it.
"No!" The word tore from his throat, raw and desperate.
Behind him, he could hear the ongoing battle—spells crackling through the air, shouts of pain and fury—but it all seemed distant now, muffled by the rushing sound in his ears. All that mattered was the archway and what lay beyond.
"Harry, don't!" Remus's voice cut through his trance, sharp with panic. "You can't—"
But Harry was already moving. Remus lunged forward, fingers grasping for Harry's robes, but Harry twisted away with desperate agility. The older wizard's hand caught only empty air as Harry sprinted toward the dais.
"SIRIUS!" Harry's scream echoed off the stone walls as he leaped.
For a moment, he hung suspended in the air before the archway, the whispers from beyond the veil growing louder, more insistent. Then the darkness swallowed him whole.
The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced—not the sharp hook behind his navel of a Portkey, nor the crushing squeeze of Apparition. This was like falling through layers of existence itself, each one peeling away another piece of the world he knew. His magic crackled around him, wild and uncontrolled, responding to his terror and determination in equal measure.
Then, abruptly, he landed.
Harry found himself in a place that defied description. It wasn't quite darkness, nor was it light. The ground beneath his feet felt solid enough, but when he looked down, he couldn't see it clearly. Mist swirled around him, occasionally taking shapes that made him think of memories—fragments of faces, places, moments that flickered and faded before he could grasp them.
"Sirius?" he called out, his voice strangely muffled here. "SIRIUS!"
Silence answered him. Not even an echo.
Harry stumbled forward, panic clawing at his chest. This place felt wrong, ancient and hungry. The whispers he'd heard from the veil were clearer now, speaking in languages he didn't recognize, telling him things he didn't want to hear.
*Lost,* they seemed to say. *Gone. Forever.*
"No," Harry whispered, then louder, "NO! He's here somewhere. He has to be!"
That's when he saw himself.
The other Harry stepped out of the mist ahead of him, but something was fundamentally wrong. His lightning bolt scar was a vivid, angry red that seemed to pulse with its own light. His eyes, while still green, held a coldness that made Harry's blood freeze.
"Well, well," the other Harry said, his voice carrying an inflection that was sickeningly familiar. "How fitting that you should come here, to this place between life and death. Though I must say, your timing couldn't be better."
Harry's hand instinctively reached for his wand, but his fingers found only empty air. He'd lost it in the fall.
"Who are you?" Harry demanded, though part of him already knew the answer.
The other Harry smiled, and it was a expression Harry had seen in nightmares—Tom Riddle's smile on his own face.
"I'm you, Harry Potter. Or rather, I'm what you could become. What you *will* become, once you understand the truth." The false Harry began to circle him slowly, predatorily. "Did you really think that scar was just a mark? Did you never wonder why you could speak to serpents, why you could see into his mind?"
"You're lying," Harry said, but his voice shook.
"Am I? Tell me, Harry—why do you think Dumbledore left you with those muggles? Why do you think he never told you about your parents' true legacy, about the prophecy, about so many things?" The false Harry's smile widened. "He's been raising you like a pig for slaughter, boy. Making sure you had no self-worth, no understanding of your own power. All so that when the time came, you'd walk willingly to your death."
The words hit Harry like physical blows. The Dursleys. The cupboard. Years of being told he was worthless, a freak, unwanted. And Dumbledore had known. Had chosen it.
"No," Harry whispered, but doubt crept into his voice.
"Oh, yes. You see, Harry, you carry a piece of Voldemort's soul in that scar. A Horcrux, though I doubt the old fool ever bothered to explain what that means. It means you must die for Voldemort to truly die. And Dumbledore has spent years making sure you'd be broken enough to accept that fate."
The false Harry stopped directly in front of him, extending his hand.
"But it doesn't have to be that way. Give me control. Let me show you what real power feels like. Together, we can remake this world, reshape it into something worthy of our strength."
Harry stared at the offered hand, feeling the weight of everything he'd learned crashing down on him. The Dursleys. Dumbledore's manipulations. The prophecy. Sirius's death.
But then he thought of his friends. Of Ron's loyalty. Of Hermione's fierce intelligence and love. Of the Order members fighting even now in the Department of Mysteries. Of everyone who had believed in him, not because Dumbledore told them to, but because of who he chose to be.
"No," Harry said, his voice growing stronger. "You're not me. You're just the worst parts of Tom Riddle, clinging to existence. And I won't let you use me."
The false Harry's expression twisted with rage. "Foolish boy! You choose suffering over power? Death over dominion?"
"I choose *choice*," Harry said firmly. "Even if Dumbledore manipulated me, even if I am broken—I still get to decide who I am. And I choose to be better than you."
The battle that followed wasn't fought with wands or spells, but with will itself. Harry felt the fragment of soul trying to overwhelm him, to drag him down into darkness and despair. But he fought back with every happy memory, every moment of love and friendship he'd ever experienced. The warmth of the Weasley family. Hermione's hug after the troll. Hagrid's gentle care. Even Sirius's laughter.
With a sound like tearing fabric, the false Harry screamed and began to dissolve, pulled apart by the hungry mists of the veil.
"This isn't over!" it shrieked as it faded. "You'll die anyway! The prophecy—"
But its voice was cut off as the darkness claimed it.
Harry collapsed to his knees, utterly drained. In the distance, he could swear he heard screaming—multiple voices crying out in agony. But the sound faded quickly, leaving only the whispered voices of the veil.
As exhaustion pulled him toward unconsciousness, Harry became aware of two figures approaching through the mist. One seemed to be wreathed in shadow, ancient and patient. The other burned with inner fire, radiant and fierce.
"Interesting," said a voice like the turning of pages in an old book. "Very interesting indeed."
"The boy has potential," agreed another voice, this one like the crackling of flames. "Great potential."
Harry tried to speak, to ask who they were, but darkness claimed him before he could form the words.
The last thing he heard before the world faded completely was the sound of two cosmic entities making a decision that would change everything.
—
# The Space Between
The mist parted like theater curtains, and Harry found himself face-to-face with two figures that made every instinct he'd honed through five years of mortal peril scream contradictory warnings. He struggled to his feet, legs shaking like a newborn foal's, every ounce of strength drained from the battle with Tom's soul fragment. But Potter pride—that stubborn, reckless thing that had gotten him into more trouble than Lockhart's entire collected works—kept his spine straight.
The first figure was cloaked in shadows so deep they seemed to devour light itself. She was beautiful in the way winter storms were beautiful—terrible, inevitable, and utterly beyond mortal comprehension. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves around a face that belonged on Renaissance sculptures, all sharp cheekbones and elegant lines. But it was her eyes that gave her away—ancient beyond measure, holding the weight of every final breath ever drawn.
The second burned like a living star given human form, and Harry had to resist the urge to shield his eyes. She was tall, statuesque, with hair that moved like liquid flame and skin that seemed to glow from within. Her features were sharp and aristocratic, but there was something fierce and primal in her gaze—the look of a predator that had never known fear because nothing in the universe was foolish enough to hunt her.
"Well," Harry said, his voice only slightly hoarse from screaming, "this is either the most elaborate hallucination I've ever had, or I've just stumbled into something that's going to make fighting a basilisk look like a pleasant afternoon stroll."
The woman of fire smiled, and it was like watching the birth of stars. "Oh, I like this one already," she purred, her voice carrying an accent that seemed to shift and flow like her flames—sometimes American, sometimes something older and indefinable. "He's got spine."
The shadow woman's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "Most mortals grovel when they meet us. Or faint. The fainting is quite common, actually." Her voice was cultured, precise—the kind of upper-class British accent that could cut glass.
"Sorry to disappoint," Harry replied with a crooked grin that had been charming witches since his fourth year. "But I've had tea with Voldemort, been possessed by diary-horcruxes, and spent the better part of five years having my life threatened by things that shouldn't exist. My standards for 'terrifying cosmic encounters' are probably a bit skewed."
The fire woman laughed, a sound like wind chimes made of pure joy. "Oh, this is delicious. Tell me, handsome, do you know who we are?"
Harry looked between them, taking in the shadows that clung to one like a second skin and the flames that danced around the other without burning her dress. "Well, given the whole 'place between life and death' setting, and the fact that you're both radiating enough power to make Dumbledore look like a first-year with a broken wand, I'm going to hazard a guess." He looked at the shadow woman first. "You'd be Death, wouldn't you? And you," he turned to the fire woman, "are something to do with rebirth. Phoenix, maybe?"
Death inclined her head with regal grace. "Perceptive. I am Death of the Endless, the final mercy, the last kindness. And this," she gestured to her companion, "is the Phoenix Force—creation and destruction, life and death, the fire that burns in the heart of every star."
"Right," Harry said, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "So, just to clarify—am I dead? Because I have to say, if this is the afterlife, it's got a very avant-garde decorating scheme."
The Phoenix Force stepped closer, and Harry caught a whiff of something that reminded him of Fawkes—cinnamon and sunlight and the promise of new beginnings. "Not dead, gorgeous. You're in the space between. Neither living nor dead, not yet committed to either path."
"But," Death added, her voice gentle despite its terrible certainty, "what enters the Veil cannot return to the world it left. Those are the rules, and even I cannot break them."
Harry felt his heart skip a beat. "So Sirius—"
"Lives," Death said quickly, and Harry's knees nearly gave out with relief. "He passed through before you, and has already been delivered to another realm. A world quite different from your own."
"Then send me there," Harry said immediately, his voice taking on that particular tone of stubborn determination that had driven his teachers to drink for five straight years. "Please. I can't—I can't lose him again. Not after everything."
The Phoenix Force's expression softened, and for a moment she looked almost maternal. "Oh, sweetheart. The world he's gone to... it's not like yours. It's a place where humans share the Earth with beings called mutants—people born with extraordinary abilities that manifest during adolescence."
"Mutants?" Harry frowned. "Like... what kind of abilities?"
"All sorts," Death explained, settling gracefully onto what appeared to be a chair made of crystallized shadow. "Telepathy, super strength, the ability to control weather or manipulate metal. Some can phase through walls, others can generate energy beams from their eyes. They're the next step in human evolution, though not everyone sees it that way."
"Let me guess," Harry said dryly, "they're feared and persecuted by the people they're trying to protect? Because that would be par for the course in my experience."
The Phoenix Force's flames flared with what looked like approval. "Exactly. They face prejudice, violence, government registration programs designed to track and control them. Sound familiar?"
Harry snorted. "Sounds like being a wizard in the muggle world, only with more leather uniforms and dramatic speeches, I'm guessing."
"You're not wrong," Death said with what might have been amusement. "The question is, would you want to be one of them?"
"One of them?"
The Phoenix Force moved closer, her hand hovering just over his chest. Harry could feel heat radiating from her skin, but it was the warm, comforting heat of a fireplace on a winter night, not the destructive burn of flame. "You already carry more than mortal essence in your veins, beautiful. Phoenix tears and basilisk venom, life and death intertwined. It's been changing you slowly, rewriting your DNA strand by strand."
Harry looked down at himself, then back up at her with a raised eyebrow. "Are you saying I'm already part mutant? Because that would explain a lot about my luck, actually."
"Not yet," Death corrected. "But the potential is there. The foundation has been laid. All it would take is... a little push."
"What kind of push?" Harry asked warily. "Because my experience with helpful magical transformations has been decidedly mixed."
The Phoenix Force's smile was pure temptation. "We want to awaken what's already dormant within you. Give you abilities that would let you not just survive in this new world, but thrive in it. Powers that complement what's already in your blood."
"Such as?"
"Draconic in nature," Death said, her voice taking on a clinical tone that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Snape explaining particularly gruesome potion ingredients. "Enhanced physical capabilities—strength, speed, durability that would make you very difficult to kill. A healing factor powered by the phoenix essence in your system."
"The ability to manifest scale-like armor at will," the Phoenix Force continued, her eyes literally glowing with excitement. "Weaponized breath—fire, lightning, frost, acid, even plasma if you're feeling particularly creative."
"Flight," Death added. "Using wings formed from pure psychic energy—a gift from the Phoenix Force's domain."
"Wandless magic," the Phoenix Force said with obvious glee. "Your abilities would flow directly from your will and intent, no focus required."
"And an intimidation aura," Death finished. "The ability to project such overwhelming presence that lesser beings would be compelled to submit or flee. Rather like what Tom Riddle could do, but powered by strength of character rather than fear and madness."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, processing all of this. "Right. So you're offering to turn me into a dragon-powered superhuman wizard. And the catch is?"
"No catch," Death said simply. "Consider it payment for services rendered. Even as we speak, the Veil is drawing in every fragment of Tom Riddle's fractured soul. The ring, the diadem, the locket, the serpent—all of them are being consumed, and with them gone..."
A distant scream echoed through the mist, a sound of such absolute agony that it made Harry's teeth ache. It went on for several long seconds before cutting off abruptly.
"And there goes Voldemort's original body," the Phoenix Force said cheerfully. "Spontaneous combustion, right in the middle of the Ministry. Rather dramatic, really. I approve."
Harry felt a weight he'd been carrying for five years suddenly lift from his shoulders. "He's actually dead? Properly dead? Not coming-back-as-a-wraith or possessing-random-animals dead?"
"Oh, completely and utterly deceased," Death said with evident satisfaction. "Tom Riddle has finally moved on to face whatever judgment awaits souls like his. A day I've been anticipating for quite some time, I must admit."
"Well," Harry said, a grin spreading across his face, "that's the best news I've heard all year. Possibly all decade."
"There is one small complication," Death continued, her expression growing more serious. "If we do this—if we grant you these abilities and send you to this new world—you won't be able to return to your original reality. The laws governing dimensional travel are quite strict about that sort of thing."
Harry's smile faltered slightly. "So I'd never see my friends again? Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys?"
"They'll mourn you," the Phoenix Force said gently. "But they'll also move on. The war is over now—they no longer need the Boy Who Lived. They can finally have the peaceful lives they deserve."
"But this new world," Death added, "is full of people who could use someone with your particular combination of power and moral compass. Someone who chooses to fight not because he has to, but because it's the right thing to do."
Harry was quiet for a long time, staring into the shifting mist. Finally, he looked back up at the two cosmic entities with a rueful smile.
"You know, when I jumped through that bloody veil, all I was thinking about was saving Sirius. I didn't exactly plan on a complete life makeover."
"The best adventures rarely go according to plan," the Phoenix Force pointed out with a knowing smile.
"True enough." Harry straightened his shoulders, and for a moment he looked exactly like what he was—a young man who had faced down the darkest wizard in a century and won. "Right then. Dragon powers it is. But I have two conditions."
"Name them," Death said.
"First, when I find Sirius, I'm giving him the lecture of a lifetime about jumping through mysterious magical doorways without thinking. I don't care if he's technically my elder—someone needs to teach that man some basic self-preservation instincts."
Both cosmic entities laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the space between worlds.
"And second?" the Phoenix Force asked, her eyes dancing with mirth.
Harry's grin turned decidedly wicked. "If I'm going to be a superhero in a world full of people with ridiculous powers and dramatic backstories, I'm doing it properly. None of this 'hide behind a mild-mannered alter ego' nonsense. I've spent enough years pretending to be someone I'm not."
Death's smile was sharp as a blade. "I think you're going to fit in beautifully, Harry Potter."
The Phoenix Force stepped forward, her flames wrapping around him like an embrace. "Are you ready, gorgeous?"
Harry took a deep breath, thinking of Sirius somewhere in another world, probably causing chaos and wondering where his godson had gotten to. Thinking of the friends he'd have to leave behind, but who would finally be safe. Thinking of a new world full of new people to protect, new wrongs to right, new adventures to stumble into.
"You know what?" he said, his green eyes bright with anticipation. "I was born ready."
The transformation began with light—blinding, searing light that seemed to pour from the Phoenix Force herself. Harry felt it sink into his bones, his blood, his very DNA, rewriting him at the most fundamental level. The phoenix essence and basilisk venom that had been dormant in his system suddenly roared to life, weaving together into something entirely new.
Fire raced through his veins, but it didn't burn—it *changed* him. He could feel his bones becoming denser, his muscles restructuring themselves, his skin developing the ability to shift into something harder than steel. Power filled every cell, transforming him from the inside out.
When the light finally faded, Harry collapsed to his knees, gasping. But even as his consciousness began to slip away, he could feel the changes taking root—wings of pure psychic energy flickering in and out of existence behind him, scales rippling beneath his skin like chain mail made of diamonds.
The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was the Phoenix Force's voice, warm with pride and anticipation:
"Welcome to your new life, Dragon-Born."
—
# The New World
The grounds of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters lay serene under the silver embrace of a full moon, the manicured lawns stretching endlessly toward the treeline. It was the kind of peaceful night that made Charles Xavier almost forget about the constant struggles his students faced in a world that feared them. Almost.
But tonight, peace was about to be shattered in the most spectacular way possible.
Xavier sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the great lawn, his fingers steepled as he contemplated the strange psychic disturbance he'd sensed just minutes earlier. It had been like a stone dropped into still water—ripples of displaced energy spreading outward from a single point of impact.
"Something's coming, isn't it?" Logan's gravelly voice cut through the quiet. The Canadian stood beside Xavier's chair, arms crossed over his flannel shirt, a half-smoked cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. His entire posture screamed barely-contained violence, like a wolf pretending to be a guard dog.
"Something already came," Xavier corrected gently, nodding toward a figure sprawled motionless on the pristine grass about thirty yards away. "Ten minutes ago, to be precise."
Logan's nostrils flared as he caught the scent on the night breeze. "Human. Male. But he smells like..." He paused, frowning. "Like he's been rollin' around in a chemistry lab that caught fire. And there's somethin' else. Somethin' I ain't smellin' right."
The unconscious man was a study in contradiction—tall and lean, with aristocratic features that spoke of good breeding, but dressed in what appeared to be elaborate period costume. His long black hair fanned out across the grass like spilled ink, and his clothes were singed and torn as if he'd been through an explosion.
"Fascinating," Xavier murmured, his keen eyes taking in every detail. "He simply materialized. No aircraft, no vehicle, no mutant signature I could detect. One moment empty air, the next..."
"Next we got ourselves a refugee from a Renaissance fair," Logan finished dryly, taking a step closer to the prone figure. "You want me to wake him up, or are we gonna sit here admirn' his fashion sense all night?"
Before Xavier could respond, the night sky lit up like the Fourth of July had arrived three months early.
A tear appeared in the fabric of reality itself, about twenty feet above the lawn—a jagged wound in the air that bled fire and shadow in equal measure. Through the rift came a figure that made Logan's every instinct scream danger, descending on wings that seemed to be made of pure psychic energy, each beat sending ripples of power through the air.
"Well," Logan said, his claws extending with their characteristic snikt, "that's new."
The being that descended was armored from head to toe in what looked like living dragon scales, each one gleaming black as midnight but shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson. The armor moved like a second skin, shifting and adjusting with each movement, and the heat radiating from it made the air shimmer like a mirage.
"Logan, wait," Xavier said sharply, one hand raised. He'd barely brushed against the newcomer's mind before recoiling as if burned. The psychic presence was like touching a solar flare—raw, untamed power held in check by sheer force of will. "This one is... extraordinary."
"Yeah, well, extraordinary tends to mean 'really good at killin' people' in my experience," Logan muttered, but he didn't advance. Yet.
The armored figure landed with surprising grace, barely disturbing the grass beneath his feet despite the obvious weight of the scales. His wings—those impossible constructs of pure mental energy—dissolved into sparkles of light that faded into the night air.
For a moment, he stood perfectly still, and Logan found himself fighting the urge to step backward. There was something primal about the presence this being projected, something that spoke to the deepest, most primitive parts of the human brain. It was the feeling of standing in the shadow of an apex predator—beautiful, terrible, and utterly without mercy.
Then the figure turned toward them, and Logan could see his face was hidden behind a helm that looked like it had been carved from the skull of some great dragon, complete with glowing crimson eye slits and razor-sharp teeth.
"You know," Logan said conversationally, "I've fought a lot of weird stuff in my time. Sentinels, Sabretooth, that ridiculous purple guy with the helmet. But you might just take the cake for 'most likely to give small children nightmares.'"
The armored figure cocked his head slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was muffled by the helm but unmistakably young—and distinctly British.
"Sorry about the dramatic entrance," he said, and Logan blinked in surprise. The kid—because that's what the voice suggested, someone barely out of his teens—sounded like he was apologizing for tracking mud on a carpet. "I'm still getting used to the whole 'cosmic transportation' thing. Haven't quite figured out how to stick the landing yet."
With a sound like flowing water, the draconic helm began to retract, scales folding back and disappearing to reveal the face beneath. Logan's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.
The kid was maybe fifteen, sixteen at most, with the kind of classically handsome features that belonged on movie posters. His black hair stuck up at odd angles—whether by design or defiance of gravity, Logan couldn't tell—and his eyes were the most vivid shade of green Logan had ever seen. But it was the expression in those eyes that caught him off guard: exhaustion, determination, and a weary kind of wisdom that had no business being in someone so young.
"Bloody hell," the kid continued, running a hand through his unruly hair, "interdimensional travel is murder on the complexion. I feel like I've been turned inside out and put through a blender."
Xavier leaned forward slightly in his wheelchair, fascination evident on his patrician features. "Interdimensional travel? My dear boy, are you saying you're not from this reality?"
The kid's green eyes fixed on Xavier with laser intensity, and Logan noticed the way his posture shifted subtly—still relaxed, but ready to move in an instant. Kid had good instincts.
"That depends," the young man said with a crooked smile that was equal parts charming and dangerous. "In this reality, is there a school for people with extraordinary abilities run by a brilliant bald man in a wheelchair who can read minds?"
Xavier's eyebrows rose toward his perfectly smooth scalp. "That's... remarkably specific."
"And remarkably accurate," the kid replied with obvious satisfaction. "Excellent. That means I'm in the right place, more or less." He turned that piercing green gaze toward Logan next. "And you'd be the famously grumpy Canadian with the metal skeleton and the anger management issues?"
Logan's claws extended another few inches. "Kid, you've got about thirty seconds to explain who you are and what you want before I introduce you to my anger management issues up close and personal."
"Fair enough." The young man straightened, and despite his youth, there was something regal about the gesture. "My name is Harry Potter, and I'm looking for someone. A man named Sirius Black—tall, dark hair, tendency toward dramatic gestures, and an unhealthy obsession with motorcycles. He's family, and I've traveled a very long way to find him."
"Harry Potter?" Xavier repeated thoughtfully. "That name is... familiar somehow."
Harry's smile turned slightly wry. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Occupational hazard of being famous, I suppose."
"Famous for what?" Logan asked suspiciously. In his experience, young people who were famous usually fell into one of two categories: trouble, or really big trouble.
"Oh, the usual," Harry said with studied casualness. "Defeating dark wizards, saving the world, that sort of thing. Nothing too exciting."
Logan stared at him. "Dark wizards."
"Mmm."
"You're serious."
"Completely."
"Kid," Logan said slowly, "are you telling me you're some kind of... what, magic user?"
Harry's eyes lit up with genuine amusement. "Magic user? That's a new one. I prefer 'wizard,' personally, but I suppose the terminology doesn't really matter now." He glanced down at his scale-covered hands. "Especially since I seem to be something rather more than human these days."
Xavier's expression grew even more intrigued. "The armor—it's not separate from you, is it? It's part of your mutation."
"Got it in one," Harry confirmed. "Though I have to say, 'mutation' makes it sound like I caught something unpleasant from a public loo. The entities who gave me these abilities called it a 'gift.'"
"Entities?" Logan's voice sharpened. "What kind of entities?"
Harry's expression grew distant for a moment. "The kind that exist beyond mortal comprehension and have names like 'Death' and 'Phoenix Force.' The kind that can remake you from the ground up and send you careening through dimensional barriers like a particularly confused cannonball."
Logan and Xavier exchanged glances.
"Phoenix Force?" Xavier said quietly.
"You know her?" Harry asked with interest. "Tall, gorgeous, tendency to speak in cosmic riddles and set things on fire? Lovely woman, terrible for one's peace of mind."
"We've... encountered the Phoenix before," Xavier said carefully. "It's not typically known for its restraint."
Harry snorted. "Try having her rewrite your DNA while chatting about the nature of existence. Though I have to say, she did excellent work. I feel like I could arm-wrestle a dragon and have a fighting chance."
"About that," Logan said, gesturing toward Harry's obviously non-human appearance. "The whole scales-and-wings thing. You planning on explaining what you are exactly?"
"Honestly? I'm still figuring that out myself," Harry admitted. "Best I can tell, I'm some sort of dragon-human hybrid with a side order of cosmic enhancement. I can fly, breathe various types of destructive energy, and apparently project an aura that makes people want to either bow down or run screaming. The jury's still out on which reaction I prefer."
As if to demonstrate, Harry let just a fraction of his presence leak through his mental barriers. Logan immediately felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and even Xavier's psychic shields reinforced themselves instinctively.
"Impressive," Xavier said, though his voice was slightly strained. "And dangerous. That level of psychic pressure could easily overwhelm an untrained mind."
"Sorry," Harry said, quickly reeling in his aura. "Still learning to control it. It's like having a new limb you've never used before—awkward and potentially destructive until you get the hang of it."
Logan's claws retracted with a soft snikt. Despite himself, he was starting to like the kid. Anyone who could project that kind of power and still apologize for it afterward had potential.
"So," Harry continued, glancing between them hopefully, "about Sirius Black? Tall, handsome in a devil-may-care sort of way, probably confused the hell out of whoever found him? Ring any bells?"
Xavier and Logan exchanged another look.
"The man on the lawn," Xavier said slowly. "Dark hair, expensive but damaged clothing, carrying what appears to be a wooden stick..."
"That's a wand, and that's him," Harry said immediately, relief flooding his features. He started toward the unconscious figure, his movements fluid despite the obvious weight of his armored form. "Thank God. I was starting to worry I'd ended up in the wrong dimension entirely."
"Hold up there, kid," Logan called, causing Harry to pause mid-stride. "Before you go wakin' up sleeping beauty, maybe you want to tell us a little more about what we're dealing with here? Because in my experience, people who fall out of other dimensions tend to bring their problems with them."
Harry turned back with a rueful expression. "Well, since you put it that way... the good news is that the homicidal dark wizard who's been trying to kill me since I was eleven is definitively dead. The bad news is that Sirius and I are now stranded in a reality where magic doesn't exist and we're probably going to have to start over completely."
"Magic doesn't exist?" Xavier repeated with obvious fascination.
"Not the way we're used to, anyway," Harry confirmed. "Where I come from, there's an entire hidden society of wizards and witches living alongside the non-magical population. Here, from what I understand, you have mutants instead. Different source, similar results."
"And you're sure your... Sirius... won't be a threat?" Logan pressed.
Harry's expression grew fierce, and for a moment Logan caught a glimpse of the steel beneath the young man's polite exterior. "Sirius Black is the best man I know. He's brave, loyal, and would die before he'd hurt an innocent person. He's also my godfather, and I've spent the better part of a year thinking he was a mass murderer thanks to a series of spectacular misunderstandings."
"A year?" Xavier's voice was gentle but probing.
"Long story involving time travel, mistaken identity, and a werewolf," Harry said dismissively. "The point is, he's family. The only family I have left, actually, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose him again."
The raw emotion in those words seemed to satisfy Logan's concerns. He nodded grudgingly. "Fair enough, kid. But if he wakes up swinging..."
"Then I'll handle it," Harry said firmly. "But he won't. Sirius is dramatic, not destructive. Well, not usually destructive. There was that incident with the flying motorcycle, but that was more property damage than actual—"
"Flying motorcycle?" Logan interrupted with sudden interest.
Harry grinned, and Logan was struck by how young he looked when he smiled like that. "Oh, you'll love Sirius. He's got excellent taste in both vehicles and mayhem."
---
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