Twenty minutes later, Harry found himself trailing behind Dr. Henry "Hank" McCoy—"Dr. McCoy, if you please," the man had corrected with the kind of polite emphasis that carried the weight of doctoral dissertations and tenure committee meetings—down a gleaming corridor that looked like someone had crossed the Enterprise with Hogwarts and forgotten to add the moving staircases.
The blue-furred geneticist moved with the polished ease of a Shakespearean actor who'd accidentally been body-swapped with a professional wrestler. His long arms swept through the air in theatrical gestures that punctuated every syllable, each movement calculated with the precision of someone who'd memorized the Oxford English Dictionary and decided to perform it as interpretive dance.
"The infirmary here," Hank was saying, his voice carrying that particular academic tone that suggested he'd been perfecting lectures since before Harry was born, "is equipped with some of the most advanced medical technology available in the western hemisphere. Or, indeed, anywhere that hasn't been forcibly annexed by certain governments whose names I shall tactfully omit—though one suspects they rhyme with 'schmydra' and employ an alarming number of individuals with facial hair that defies both gravity and good taste."
Harry raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "So you're telling me you've got the NHS beat, then? Because I'll be honest, that's setting the bar somewhere around the Earth's core."
Hank's mouth twitched into what might have been the beginning of a smile, his canine features somehow managing to convey academic amusement. "If by NHS you mean your nation's admirably persistent healthcare service—which, I must note, I hold in the highest regard despite its occasional fondness for queues that stretch into geological ages—then yes, I daresay we may have them at something of a disadvantage. At least when it comes to handling claws, plasma discharges, spontaneous combustion, and the occasional student who accidentally phases through three floors of school infrastructure."
"Ah," Harry said with mock solemnity, "the usual teenage problems, then. Though I have to ask—do you get many walk-ins complaining of accidental time travel? Asking for a friend."
"More often than one might expect," Hank replied without missing a beat. "Though typically they arrive stark naked and speaking in future tense. Your sartorial choices, while striking, suggest either remarkable foresight or a interdimensional dry cleaner."
Behind them, Ororo Munroe walked with the unhurried grace of a queen whose court was wherever she deigned to plant her feet. White hair cascaded like liquid starlight over her shoulders, and her eyes—those impossible, storm-born eyes that seemed to hold both the fury of tornadoes and the peace of morning mist—tracked their surroundings with the steady attention of someone who'd learned that weather patterns and teenage mutants were equally unpredictable.
"Your friend shows no sign of injury," she said, her accent weaving through the words like silk thread through fine cloth—African rhythms wrapped in something else Harry couldn't quite place. Her voice carried the kind of quiet authority that suggested she could call down lightning or offer comfort with equal ease. "Breathing steady, pulse strong, temperature normal. As if he sleeps peacefully. Though sleep rarely carries such... resonance."
"Resonance?" Harry asked, glancing back at her. "That sounds ominous. Like the kind of thing that ends with 'and then everything exploded.'"
Ororo's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "In this place, most things do end that way eventually. But this feels different. Deeper. Like a song being hummed just below the range of hearing."
"Fantastic," Harry said dryly. "My godfather's gone all mystical. Next you'll tell me he's channeling the cosmic forces of the universe through his spectacular hair."
"I would not rule it out entirely," Hank interjected cheerfully. "We once had a student whose emotional state was directly correlated with local seismic activity. Another young lady whose sneezes opened temporary rifts in space-time. After seventeen years in this establishment, I have learned that dismissing possibilities as 'too ridiculous' is itself rather ridiculous."
"Seventeen years?" Harry shot him a sideways look. "Christ, that's dedication. Most people would've run screaming after the first interdimensional incident."
"Oh, I did run screaming," Hank said with academic cheer. "Twice, actually. But then I realized that between the cosmic horror and the grading papers, the cosmic horror was significantly less tedious."
Harry barked out a laugh. "Fair point. Though I've got to ask—do you always talk like you've swallowed a thesaurus, or is this special occasion vocabulary?"
"My dear boy," Hank said, placing a massive blue hand over his heart in mock offense, "I am wounded. Simply because I choose to employ the full breadth and majesty of the English language rather than limiting myself to grunts and abbreviations does not mean I have committed any lexicographical crimes. Besides," his eyes twinkled, "wait until you meet Charles. I sound practically monosyllabic compared to him."
"God help us all," Harry muttered.
Ororo's soft chuckle sounded like distant thunder. "Charles does enjoy his speeches. Though they are usually worth hearing."
"Here we are," Hank announced with a flourish, stopping before a door marked Infirmary – Authorized Personnel Only (Unauthorized Personnel Will Be Subjected to Educational Lectures on the Cardiovascular System). He keyed in a code with those massive fingers, each digit press deliberate and careful. "Inside you will find not only diagnostic equipment and biometric scanners of my own design—patents pending, naturally—but also, I trust, a wardrobe selection to make you somewhat less conspicuous. Your present attire, magnificent though it is, does tend to draw the eye. And occasionally cause small children to point and ask their parents awkward questions about why the nice man is wearing dragon skin."
Harry glanced down at the shimmering black scales veined with gold and crimson that rippled across his skin like living metal, catching the fluorescent lights and throwing them back in patterns that hurt to look at directly. "What, this old thing? I was going for 'understated elegance.' Thought it was practically muggle casual wear."
Hank's chuckle rumbled through his chest like an earthquake made of mirth. "Ah yes, quite. Nothing says 'blending in' quite like looking as though one has recently won a wrestling match with a particularly fashionable dragon. In any case, I have prepared clean clothes in what I judged to be approximately your size, though I confess your… enhanced physiology rather complicates standard measurements. I estimated based on your shoulder breadth, which suggests either extensive physical training or possibly a very committed relationship with protein supplements."
"Bit of both, actually," Harry said with a self-deprecating grin. "Though most of the protein came in the form of whatever the Dursleys didn't finish. Builds character, apparently. And muscle mass, if you're persistent enough."
Ororo's expression darkened slightly, storm clouds gathering behind her eyes. "Family can be... complicated."
"That's one word for it," Harry agreed, then shook his head. "But enough ancient history. Fair warning about the armor—it doesn't exactly come off the conventional way. More like it... goes away. Vanishes. Poof. Like my dignity during seventh year, or any hope of Snape ever giving me a decent grade."
Hank's eyes practically lit up like Christmas morning. "Fascinating! A symbiotic exo-dermal lattice structure, fully integrated with your nervous system and subject to conscious recall. The defensive applications alone could revolutionize personal protection technology. The molecular bonding mechanisms must be extraordinary—do you feel any sensation during the transition? Heat? Cold? Tingling? And the storage medium—is it truly extra-dimensional or merely compressed into subatomic—"
"Doctor," Ororo interjected gently, though amusement danced in her storm-touched gaze like lightning playing through cloud formations, "perhaps let the young man actually use the facilities before you draft him into your next research paper."
"Yes, yes, quite right," Hank said, looking faintly abashed in the way of academics who'd been caught mid-tangent. "Forgive me. Intellectual enthusiasm does tend to override social niceties. The bathroom is through that door—fully stocked with amenities, including soap that doesn't require a chemistry degree to operate. Clothing folded neatly on the counter. And Mr. Potter..." His tone softened, the academic bluster fading into something genuinely warm. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. We're honored to have you."
Harry felt something loosen in his chest at the simple sincerity of it. "Appreciated, Dr. McCoy. And it's just Harry, if you don't mind. The title thing... I've collected enough of those to stock a small library. Most of them involving the word 'git.'"
"Just Harry it is, then," Hank said with grave formality. "Though I reserve the right to upgrade you to 'Harry, defender of dimensions' if circumstances warrant."
"I'll hold you to that," Harry said, and disappeared into the bathroom with something that might have been the first genuine smile he'd worn since arriving in this peculiar new world.
---
The bathroom was spotless in the way that suggested either obsessive maintenance or possibly a very committed house-elf with advanced degrees in sanitation. Every surface gleamed like it had been personally polished by someone who considered cleanliness a competitive sport. Harry caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror and stopped dead in his tracks.
*Bloody hell.*
The armor clung to his form like liquid midnight shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire. Every scale caught the light and threw it back transformed, creating patterns that seemed to shift and flow even when he stood perfectly still. He looked mythic. Legendary. Like someone had taken the concept of 'knight errant' and fed it nothing but protein shakes and heroic deeds for several years running.
Except the knight looked like he'd been through a blender. Shadows pooled under his eyes like bruises, and his face was drawn tight with the kind of exhaustion that went bone-deep. He touched the mirror's surface and muttered, "Right then, Potter. Let's see who's still hiding under all this cosmic window dressing. Hopefully someone who still knows how to tie his own shoes."
He closed his eyes and reached for that strange new instinct—like flexing a muscle he'd never known he had. The scales shimmered, rippled, then began to flow backward, melting into his skin like liquid shadow returning to the darkness that birthed it.
When he opened his eyes again, his breath caught in his throat.
Gone was the wiry fifteen-year-old he remembered—all sharp angles and hand-me-down clothes that never quite fit. In his place stood someone who looked like he'd been personally commissioned by a sculptor with both talent and an extremely generous budget. His shoulders filled the mirror frame; his chest and arms carried the kind of defined muscle that suggested he'd been bench-pressing motorcycles as a hobby. His legs looked like they'd been built to run down fleeing dark wizards, and his jaw...
"Merlin's saggy left sock," he breathed. "I actually have a jawline. Like, a proper one. The kind that could probably cut glass if properly motivated."
Green eyes blazed like polished emeralds set in a face that Hollywood would've killed for. His hair—still wonderfully, defiantly messy—now looked artfully tousled rather than simply neglected, as though he'd hired a professional stylist who specialized in 'ruggedly handsome disaster.'
Harry swallowed hard, running a hand through said hair. "Well. That's... comprehensively unexpected."
Then he glanced down and felt his ears turn scarlet.
"Oh, *brilliant*. Of course the universe would enhance *everything*. Because apparently cosmic power comes with a sense of humor that makes the Weasley twins look subtle." He grabbed for the towel with speed that would've impressed a Seeker. "Right then. Shower first. Existential crisis about supernatural body modification second. Figuring out how to explain this without sounding completely mental... that can be third. Maybe fourth, depending on whether McCoy's got any books on 'Coping With Cosmic Makeovers for Dummies.'"
---
The hot water cascaded over him like a blessing, carrying away layers of interdimensional travel grime, magical residue, and what might have been actual stardust. Harry closed his eyes and let himself simply *feel* for the first time since arriving in this strange new world.
Everything was different. Not just the obvious changes—though those were rather hard to ignore—but the subtle things. His balance felt different, like his center of gravity had been recalibrated by someone who understood physics on a level that would make Newton weep with envy. His muscles moved with a kind of liquid precision that belonged in nature documentaries about hunting cats.
Even his senses were sharper. He could hear individual water droplets striking the tile, could distinguish between the slightly different pitches they made depending on where they hit. The soap smelled like seventeen different botanical ingredients, each one distinct and clear.
"Right," he said aloud, testing his voice. Still his, but deeper now, with more resonance. "So apparently along with the cosmic power package, I've also been upgraded to Supernatural Hunk, Complete Edition. Wonderful. Because what every awkward teenager needs is to wake up looking like he walked off a movie poster."
He scrubbed his hair with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "At least I still sound like me. Well, like me if I'd been voiced by someone with an actual budget for vocal coaching. Small mercies, Potter. Take them where you find them."
The shampoo was, he had to admit, absolutely excellent. Whatever Xavier's was paying for bathroom supplies, it was worth every penny.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped out looking significantly more human and considerably less like he'd been dipped in liquid starlight. The mirror confirmed what he'd feared: the changes weren't going anywhere. He looked like someone had taken the awkward teenager version of Harry Potter and fed him nothing but superhero serum and good nutrition for about three years.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, pulling on the jeans McCoy had left. They fit perfectly, which was either excellent guesswork or mildly concerning surveillance. "I look like I should be rescuing cats from trees and posing for romantic comedies. This is going to take some getting used to."
The sweater—soft grey wool that probably cost more than the Dursleys spent on his food in a year—settled over his shoulders like it had been tailored specifically for him. Which, given the precision of the fit, it probably had been.
Harry studied his reflection one more time, tilted his head, and attempted his most charming smile. The effect was devastating.
"Right then, Potter," he said to his reflection. "Time to go forth and attempt to convince a school full of superpowered individuals that you're not completely barking mad. Should be simple enough. After all, how hard could it be to explain that you're a wizard from another dimension who just got cosmically enhanced by mysterious forces? People love a good origin story."
He squared his shoulders, checked that everything was properly covered—the universe's sense of humor only went so far—and opened the door.
"Time to face the music. And probably McCoy's seventeen-part dissertation on the theoretical applications of interdimensional armor. Joy."
---
The medical bay was a study in contrasts—gleaming steel surfaces that could double as mirrors, soft ambient lighting that somehow managed to be both clinical and welcoming, and the faint, rhythmic hum of machines so advanced Harry suspected they might be reading his thoughts along with his vitals. The whole place looked like someone had torn a page from a sci-fi novel and decided to make it reality. Very un-Hogwarts, indeed. Someone—probably Storm, given the thoughtful touch—had placed fresh white lilies in a crystal vase by the bedside, their perfume cutting through the antiseptic smell.
Sirius lay sprawled across what had to be the Rolls-Royce of hospital beds, all gleaming chrome and holographic displays. The diagnostic monitors surrounding him beeped with the patience of well-trained servants, their soft chorus creating an oddly soothing symphony. Even unconscious, the man managed to look like he was posing for the cover of Wizard Weekly's "Most Eligible Bachelors" issue.
At his side sat Professor Charles Xavier, every inch the distinguished academic even in this sterile environment. His hand was pressed to his temple, brow furrowed in the kind of concentration that suggested he was wrestling with something particularly stubborn. The man had the bearing of someone accustomed to solving impossible problems before breakfast.
Across the room, Logan leaned against the wall with the casual ownership of a man who'd been thrown through enough walls to know which ones were worth respecting. Arms crossed, shoulders set in that perpetual ready-for-trouble stance, he looked like he'd been carved from granite and taught to scowl. The faint scent of his ever-present cigars clung to him like a signature cologne.
Dr. Hank McCoy stood hunched over a tablet, his blue fur practically bristling with academic frustration as readouts scrolled past faster than most mortal eyes could follow. His fingers danced across the screen with the precision of a concert pianist, muttering under his breath in what sounded suspiciously like Latin mixed with colorful invectives.
Ororo Munroe—Storm—stood at the foot of the bed like a goddess overseeing her domain. Her posture was serenely elegant, white hair shifting with an unfelt breeze that seemed to follow her everywhere. There was something about her presence that made the very air feel more alive, charged with potential.
Harry stepped closer, his green eyes cataloguing each face in turn. The weight of their collective attention was palpable, but not uncomfortable. These were people who'd seen their share of impossible things. "Any change since I left?"
Xavier lowered his hand with the careful precision of a man setting down something fragile, his sigh carrying the weight of genuine concern. When he spoke, his voice held that distinctive velvet baritone that could probably convince water to flow uphill. "None whatsoever, I'm afraid. His mind is present—very much alive and characteristically... spirited. But it's suspended, as if caught between waking and sleeping. Like a lantern whose flame has been snuffed out, though the wick remains perfectly intact and ready to burn."
"Medically speaking," Hank interjected, his cultured tones carrying both frustration and fascination in equal measure, "he presents a most perplexing paradox. Brain activity well within normal parameters, cardiac rhythm steady as a metronome, no evidence of trauma, toxins, or any pathological process I can identify. By all rights, he should be sitting up, demanding his discharge papers, and probably flirting with the nursing staff by now."
"Knowing Sirius," Harry muttered, "he'd have charmed half the medical bay into bringing him tea and the other half into smuggling in alcohol."
Storm's lips curved in an amused smile. "He does seem the type."
Logan snorted from his wall. "Kid's got his number."
Harry's gaze softened as he studied his godfather more carefully. Even unconscious, Sirius managed to look irritatingly handsome—aristocratic features that belonged on a statue, softened only by the ridiculous, roguish sprawl of his dark hair across the pillow. He looked less like a patient and more like a man taking a particularly luxurious nap, probably dreaming about motorbikes, firewhisky, and whatever delightfully impractical prank he'd spring on the world upon waking.
His eyes drifted to the nightstand. "He had this with him when we found him?"
Storm inclined her head with that regal grace that made every movement look deliberate. "Clutched so tightly in his hand we had to ease his fingers open. Whatever it is, he wasn't letting go without a fight."
Harry reached for Sirius's wand—thirteen and three-quarter inches of ebony, elegant as a blade and twice as dangerous. The moment his fingers closed around it, warmth pulsed through the wood like a heartbeat, familiar and welcoming. Magic recognized magic, even across dimensional boundaries.
And then it hit him like a Bludger to the skull.
He smacked his forehead hard enough to leave a mark. "Merlin's saggy left testicle—of course! I'm a complete and utter pillock."
Logan straightened, pushing off the wall with predatory grace. "News to precisely no one, bub. But if you've got something useful rattling around in that pretty head of yours, now'd be a good time to share."
"Logan," Xavier chided mildly, though his eyes held curiosity.
Harry turned, brandishing the wand like it was Excalibur and he'd just remembered he was bloody Arthur. "He was hit with a Stunning Spell just before he fell through the Veil. Standard battlefield magic—knocks you unconscious and keeps you that way until someone specifically cancels it. Bellatrix, the psychotic cow, caught him square in the chest."
Xavier leaned forward, intrigued. "And such an enchantment could survive dimensional transition?"
Harry's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Professor, magic isn't bound by your physics. It's not logical, it's not reasonable, and it sure as hell isn't polite. When magic says 'stay down,' you stay down. Doesn't matter if you've hopped realities, traveled through time, or taken up residence in bloody Narnia."
"Fascinating," Hank breathed, his scientific mind clearly spinning at light speed. "A neurological stasis effect bound directly to the subject's life force, completely independent of environmental context. The theoretical applications for trauma medicine alone could revolutionize—"
"Easy there, Doctor Frankenstein," Harry interrupted with a grin. "Let's see if I can actually wake him up before you start writing grant proposals."
Storm's eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth. "Perhaps allow him to succeed before you draft the Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Henry."
Hank had the grace to look sheepish. "Quite right. Forgive my enthusiasm."
Harry squared his shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle around him like an old cloak. "Right. Fair warning, everyone—this is my first proper attempt at wandless magic since my delightful cosmic makeover. So if I accidentally explode, someone please have the courtesy to clean up the mess before Rita Skeeter finds out and writes a headline about it."
"The kid's got a sense of humor," Logan observed, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely convinced that was a good thing. "Just try not to blow up my medical bay."
"Your medical bay?" Harry raised an eyebrow that could have been trademarked for devastating effect.
"I've bled on more surfaces in here than anyone else. Gives a man certain rights."
"Logan," Xavier said with the weary patience of a man who'd had this conversation before.
Harry ignored the byplay, focusing entirely on Sirius. He placed one hand gently on his godfather's brow—warm, alive, stubbornly unconscious—and raised the other. The power that surged through him was nothing like the controlled channeling he was used to with a wand. This was raw, primal, like every cell in his body had become a conductor for forces that laughed at the concept of limitation.
"*Enervate.*"
Golden light poured from his palm like liquid starlight, wrapping Sirius in its radiance. The very air seemed to thrum with energy, and Harry felt the magic respond to his will with an eagerness that was almost frightening. For a heartbeat, nothing changed.
Then Sirius exploded into motion like a man still in the middle of a battlefield.
His fist shot toward Harry's throat with the precision of someone who'd learned to fight dirty and never forgotten the lessons. His other hand grasped desperately for a wand that wasn't there, grey eyes blazing with the kind of battle-madness that had made him legendary among Aurors and Death Eaters alike.
Harry caught the striking wrist inches from his neck, his grip firm but not cruel, moving with the kind of casual grace that suggested he'd done this before. "Good evening to you too, Padfoot. Lovely to see you're still leading with violence."
Sirius twisted like a duelist, all lethal elegance and practiced fury, driving his free fist toward Harry's ribs with enough force to crack bone. Harry caught that wrist as well, completely unbothered, as if catching lightning bolts was just another Tuesday activity.
"Bloody—" Sirius snarled, knee lashing upward toward Harry's gut with the kind of desperate ferocity of a cornered wolf.
Harry didn't even blink. The knee connected with what felt like a brick wall wrapped in expensive fabric. It was like trying to hurt a mountain.
"Jesus," Logan muttered appreciatively. "Kid's built like a tank."
"Logan, perhaps—" Xavier started with sharp concern.
"No need for intervention, Professor," Harry cut in smoothly, his tone carrying just enough authority to make it clear he had the situation well in hand. He tightened his grip just enough to be unbreakable without causing pain, his voice dropping to that low, warm register that Sirius would recognize anywhere. "Easy there, Padfoot. The war's over. You're safe. You're with me."
The nickname—*Padfoot*—sliced through Sirius's fury like a blade through silk. His eyes sharpened with startling speed, battle-madness giving way to dawning recognition. He took in the height first, then the shoulders that belonged on a rugby player, then the jawline that could have been carved by Michelangelo on his best day.
"…Harry?" His voice cracked like a teenager's, disbelief painted across every aristocratic feature. He stared openly, taking inventory of the transformation with the thoroughness of a man who'd known Harry since he was a scrawny eleven-year-old. "Bloody hell, pup. What in Merlin's name happened to you? Did you eat a bloody dragon?"
Harry released him and stepped back, his smirk crooked enough to be devastating. "Oh, you know how it is. Veil diving, cosmic remodeling, the full spa treatment. Apparently, getting hurled between dimensions comes with a complimentary makeover." He gestured grandly to the room around them. "Welcome to another reality, Padfoot. People here are called mutants instead of wizards, but they're just as prone to blowing things up. Try to act impressed."
Sirius sat up properly, running both hands through his hair in a gesture Harry recognized as his thinking pose. "And I suppose there's a long version of this story?"
"Considerably longer," Harry confirmed with theatrical gravity, "and infinitely more depressing. I'll save it for when you've had a proper meal and possibly several drinks. For now—" His expression grew serious, concern bleeding through the humor. "Are you alright? What's the last thing you remember?"
Sirius's face darkened, jaw setting in a way that promised retribution. "Bellatrix, the psychotic bitch. Caught me with something nasty just before I took my unscheduled tumble through your mysterious archway. Then nothing but falling—rather like a very long, very boring dream about gravity." He paused, then grinned with wolfish delight. "Woke up trying to punch you in the throat. Good to know my survival instincts made the dimensional journey intact."
"Yes, thank you for that heartwarming reunion," Harry said dryly. "Really felt the love."
"Always aim for the throat, pup. First rule of fighting dirty."
"I'll add it to my list, right after 'don't follow mysterious godfathers through ancient magical archways.'"
"Where's the fun in that?"
Xavier cleared his throat with the gentle authority of a man accustomed to managing extraordinary personalities. "Mr. Black, if I may—these are my colleagues. I am Professor Charles Xavier. This institution is my school for gifted youngsters."
Sirius swung his legs over the side of the bed and offered a bow that managed to be both graceful and slightly mocking—a talent that was purely Black family genetics. "Sirius Orion Black, at your service. Apologies for the dramatic entrance—I've never been what you'd call a graceful waker. Tend to assume I'm still fighting for my life until proven otherwise."
"An understandable reaction," Storm said with warm amusement, "given your circumstances. I am Ororo Munroe. Most call me Storm."
"Storm," Sirius repeated, tasting the name like fine wine. "Meteorologically themed, I assume? Please tell me you can summon lightning. Harry's told me absolutely nothing useful about this place, and I'm starting to feel underdressed for whatever party we've crashed."
As if summoned by his words, the air around Storm began to shift subtly, charged with potential energy. "Among other things, yes."
"Outstanding. I do love a woman who can electrocute people."
Logan straightened from his wall, and the soft *snikt* of extending claws punctuated his introduction. "Logan."
Sirius blinked at the adamantium blades, then grinned with genuine appreciation. "Right to the point. I respect that in a man. Do they retract, or are handshakes off the table permanently?"
"They retract," Logan said with what might have been amusement. "Most of the time."
"Most of the time?"
"Sometimes I forget they're out."
"Brilliant. A man after my own heart."
Dr. McCoy stepped forward, his enthusiasm barely contained behind academic politeness. "Dr. Henry McCoy, and if I may say so, Mr. Black, you present a most fascinating case study. The dimensional transition appears to have had no deleterious effects whatsoever, which suggests either remarkable adaptive physiology or—"
"Hank," Xavier interrupted gently, though his eyes definitely held amusement now. "Perhaps we might allow our guest to fully regain consciousness before subjecting him to peer review?"
"Of course, of course," Hank said, adjusting his glasses with the sheepish air of a man caught being too clever for his own good. "Though I would be absolutely delighted to discuss the theoretical implications at your convenience, Mr. Black. The chance to study trans-dimensional magical theory is—"
"Is something that'll keep until tomorrow," Storm cut in smoothly, though her smile took any sting out of the interruption. "Tonight, I believe our guests have earned some rest."
"Rest," Harry groaned theatrically, "is the best idea anyone's had since Logan volunteered to shut up for five minutes."
"When the hell did I—" Logan started, then caught the grin. "Smart ass."
"I prefer 'devastatingly witty,' but I'll accept 'smart ass' from you, Logan. It's got a certain rough charm."
But Sirius leaned forward, and suddenly his expression was razor-sharp, the playful mask dropping to reveal the calculating mind underneath. "Before we adjourn to wherever you're planning to stash me, pup—what exactly can you do now? Because the Harry Potter I knew this morning couldn't bench-press a feather, let alone catch punches like he's made of bloody adamantium."
Harry's smirk was pure predator. "Well, since you asked so nicely—let me give you a proper demonstration."
The change was instant and breathtaking. Scales poured across his body like molten obsidian, each one catching the light as they formed seamless armor across his frame. The transformation flowed like liquid mercury, reshaping him until he stood gleaming like some ancient god of war given human form. Then, with a thought that felt as natural as breathing, psychic wings unfurled from his shoulders—vast, magnificent constructs of pure energy that filled the medical bay with warm, living light.
The silence stretched for exactly three heartbeats.
"Well," Sirius said finally, his voice carefully measured. "Bugger me sideways with a Quidditch broom."
"Language, Mr. Black," Storm said, but she was fighting a smile.
"Ororo, my dear, I believe the circumstances call for a bit of creative expression." Sirius stood slowly, circling Harry like he was examining a particularly impressive piece of art. "When I told you to aim high in life, pup, I wasn't suggesting you join the bloody pantheon of ancient heroes."
"You always said I was destined for great things," Harry replied, wings shifting slightly as he turned to keep Sirius in view. "I just took a more literal approach than expected."
"Great things, yes. Becoming a living legend out of Greek mythology was perhaps a touch more ambitious than I had in mind." Sirius reached out as if to touch one of the wings, then thought better of it. "Do they... work?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
"Can you fly?"
"Can Storm make it rain?"
"Point taken." Sirius backed up a step, shaking his head in wonder. "And here I was worried about explaining to James and Lily how their son managed to fail his Defense Against the Dark Arts practical. Instead, I get to explain how he became a bloody superhero."
The wings folded back into nothingness, and the scales melted away like they'd never been there. Harry stood before them again, looking perfectly normal except for the small detail that he'd just demonstrated he was anything but.
"They're..." Xavier began, then paused, searching for adequate words. "They're quite remarkable, Harry."
"They're bloody impossible is what they are," Hank muttered, stylus moving frantically across his tablet. "The energy requirements alone should—"
"Should probably be discussed over breakfast," Harry interrupted smoothly. "Along with a dozen other impossibilities I'm still trying to wrap my head around."
Sirius was still staring at him with something approaching awe. "You know, pup, when you decided to have a growth spurt, you really didn't do anything by halves, did you?"
"Black family genetics," Harry replied with a shrug that was entirely too casual for someone who'd just manifested wings made of psychic energy. "Go big or go home."
"Speaking of which," Storm interjected with motherly authority, "I believe 'home' for tonight means the guest quarters. Both of you look ready to fall over."
"I could sleep for a week," Harry admitted. "Dimensional travel is murder on the constitution."
"Lightweight," Sirius said with fond mockery. "Though I suppose I can't talk, seeing as I've been unconscious for... how long exactly?"
"Few hours," Logan supplied. "Not bad for a guy who took a header through a magic door."
"A magic archway," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"About three feet of carved stone and several centuries of accumulated dark magic."
"That... actually doesn't make me feel better about any of this."
"Wasn't meant to, Padfoot. We'll cover the existential horror in tomorrow's briefing."
Xavier smiled, the expression warm and paternal. "I believe Storm's suggestion of rest is quite sound. There will be time for questions and explanations tomorrow. Tonight, simply be grateful you're both safe."
"Safe," Sirius repeated, looking around the room at the assembled mutants with something approaching wonder. "You know, I think I'm starting to like this place."
"Give it time," Logan said with a grunt that might have been amusement. "It grows on you."
"Like a particularly agreeable fungus?"
"...Sure, kid. Whatever works for you."
Harry laughed—rich, genuine, and alive with relief. For the first time since the Department of Mysteries, since watching Sirius fall through that bloody Veil, he felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight with grief and guilt and the terrible weight of being alone.
Because Sirius was here. Sirius was awake, and making jokes, and looking at Harry like he'd hung the moon and painted the stars. And if Sirius Black—who'd survived Azkaban, fought in two wars, and maintained his sense of humor through twelve years of hell—could roll with dimensional travel and cosmic makeovers?
Then Harry bloody Potter could handle anything this new reality threw at them.
"Come on then, Padfoot," he said, offering his arm with mock formality. "Let's see what passes for guest quarters in Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters."
"Lead the way, pup," Sirius replied, accepting the arm with equal ceremony. "Though I reserve the right to complain loudly if the accommodations don't meet Black family standards."
"Which are?"
"Egyptian cotton sheets, at minimum. A decent view. And absolutely no house-elves—I've had quite enough of being waited on by creatures who insist on being grateful for the privilege."
Storm laughed, the sound like silver bells. "I believe we can manage that."
As they moved toward the door, Sirius glanced back at the assembled X-Men. "Thank you. All of you. For taking care of him while I was... indisposed."
"Our pleasure," Xavier said simply. "Welcome to the future, Mr. Black."
"Let's hope it's an improvement on the past," Sirius replied, then grinned with that roguish charm that had gotten him into and out of more trouble than any reasonable person should survive. "Though given present company, I'd say our odds are rather good."
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