The X-Mansion's state-of-the-art monitoring system—a technological marvel that made NASA's mission control look like a child's walkie-talkie set—suddenly erupted into a symphony of alerts, warnings, and electronic protests that would have made a smoke detector jealous. Every screen in Professor Xavier's office blazed to life simultaneously, displaying emergency feeds from across New York City with the kind of coordinated precision that suggested either the most spectacular series of coincidences in recorded history or someone with a very sophisticated understanding of urban chaos theory.
Hank McCoy materialized in the doorway with the kind of barely controlled academic panic that came from watching his carefully calibrated monitoring systems register impossible readings across seventeen different sensors. His blue fur was practically standing on end, and his usually precise diction had deteriorated into the kind of rapid-fire technical jargon that only emerged when reality decided to ignore several fundamental laws of physics simultaneously.
"Charles," he said, his cultured voice carrying that particular tone of scientific bewilderment mixed with professional concern, each syllable precisely enunciated despite the crisis, "we have what can only be described as a most extraordinary situation. Multiple situations, in fact. Seventeen distinct emergency scenarios, to be absolutely precise, all occurring simultaneously across five boroughs in patterns that suggest either coordinated terrorist action of remarkable sophistication, or the fundamental laws of probability having what I can only characterize as a complete nervous breakdown of statistical significance."
Xavier's wheelchair spun toward the displays with mechanical precision, his keen eyes—sharp as a blade despite his years—immediately cataloguing the cascade of emergency reports flowing across the screens like digital waterfalls of urban catastrophe. The weight of command settled across his shoulders like a familiar coat.
"Show me everything, old friend," he said, his voice carrying that unique combination of authority and compassion that had guided the X-Men through countless crises. "Leave nothing out."
The largest monitor displayed a real-time map of New York City that looked like it had been designed by someone with a doctorate in Applied Disaster Theory and a minor in Artistic Chaos. Red warning indicators pulsed across Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx like a heartbeat made of pure crisis, each one representing an emergency that should have been statistically impossible to occur simultaneously.
"Good Lord," Hank muttered, his massive fingers dancing across holographic interfaces with the delicate precision of a concert pianist performing surgery. "Gas main explosions in Brooklyn—three separate locations, all following identical patterns that don't match any known industrial accident profiles in my extensive database. The precision is... well, it's rather artistic, actually, if one can appreciate the technical sophistication required for such coordinated urban disruption."
The display zoomed in on Manhattan, where additional alerts bloomed like digital flowers of catastrophe. "Furthermore, we have high-value thefts across the financial district—jewelry stores, art galleries, banks—all reporting items missing with absolutely no signs of forced entry, no triggered security systems, and witnesses describing what they term 'silver blurs' that moved far too quickly for human perception to track with any meaningful accuracy."
Harry stepped forward, his aristocratic features settling into an expression of amused recognition that would have made his Slytherin classmates proud. The enhanced awareness granted by his cosmic transformation allowed him to see patterns that others might miss—patterns that spoke of professional criminal enterprise on a scale that was both impressive and deeply insulting to anyone with actual standards.
"Oh, how delightfully pedestrian," he drawled, his voice carrying that particular brand of upper-class British disdain that could freeze champagne at fifty paces. "Someone's coordinated a proper distraction operation. Seventeen simultaneous crises, each one carefully calibrated to stretch emergency response capabilities beyond their operational limits while creating enough chaos to mask whatever they're actually after."
He turned to regard the assembled X-Men with the kind of smile that had once convinced a basilisk to stare directly into a mirror. "Rather like setting seventeen small fires in a theater to ensure no one notices you've made off with the crown jewels. Effective, if somewhat lacking in imagination."
Jean Grey moved beside him with that fluid grace that seemed to make the air itself pay attention, her auburn hair catching the light from the displays in ways that suggested she existed in a state of perpetual readiness for action. Her green eyes—intelligent, determined, and carrying depths that spoke of power carefully controlled—fixed on the tactical displays with professional assessment.
"The coordination required for this level of simultaneous operation suggests either a very large organization or individuals with supernatural abilities," she observed, her voice carrying that unique combination of warmth and steel that made her such an effective leader. "But Harry's right about the distraction element—this is too elaborate, too precisely timed to be random criminal activity."
Storm glided into the room with the kind of serene confidence that came from someone who could summon hurricanes with the same casual ease that others might whistle for a taxi. Her white hair moved in nonexistent breezes, and her dark eyes held the calm intensity of gathering storm clouds preparing to demonstrate why weather was the planet's most powerful natural force.
"The atmospheric disturbances accompanying these events are... unusual," she said, her voice carrying traces of the accent that spoke of African skies and winds that had traveled continents to reach her. "Pressure changes that don't match natural weather patterns, electromagnetic fluctuations that suggest artificial weather manipulation. Someone is using abilities similar to mine, but with less... finesse."
"And the fires?" Xavier asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer would be both impressive and deeply concerning.
Hank pulled up footage that showed flames dancing in patterns that belonged in art galleries rather than arson investigations. "Seventeen controlled burns throughout Manhattan and the Bronx, each one precisely contained, artistically arranged, and burning at temperatures that create light shows visible from orbit while somehow managing to cause minimal actual property damage. It's really quite remarkable from a thermodynamic perspective, though deeply troubling from a public safety standpoint."
Harry examined the footage with the kind of critical assessment that spoke of someone who'd survived more than his fair share of creative attempts at property destruction. His enhanced senses could detect nuances in the flame patterns that suggested professional pyrokinetic abilities being used with theatrical flair rather than genuine destructive intent.
"Professional distraction operation," he confirmed, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent years analyzing coordinated attacks by individuals with supernatural abilities and questionable moral standards. "Multiple simultaneous crises designed to overwhelm response capabilities while the real objective proceeds unmolested. Classic misdirection—give them more problems than they can solve simultaneously."
Sirius stepped into the room with that particular combination of casual confidence and predatory alertness that came from years of navigating political intrigue, criminal enterprises, and family dynamics that made international espionage look like afternoon tea. His dark hair was perfectly styled despite the developing crisis, and his grey eyes held the sharp intelligence of someone who'd learned to recognize dangerous patterns developing.
"The question, dear godson," Sirius said with that trademark grin that had once charmed half the witches in London and thoroughly scandalized the other half, "is what our mysterious coordinators are actually after. Because seventeen simultaneous emergencies across five boroughs represents the kind of resource investment that suggests either governmental backing or someone with access to supernatural abilities and a very specific objective."
His expression grew more serious, taking on the weight of someone who'd spent considerable time studying both criminal psychology and tactical planning from multiple perspectives. "This level of coordination requires either extensive advance planning or real-time tactical coordination that suggests military-grade intelligence capabilities."
Xavier's expression shifted from concern to something approaching grim certainty as the implications crystallized with the clarity that came from decades of experience dealing with threats that operated beyond conventional understanding.
"They're after Harry," he said, the words carrying weight that made everyone in the room straighten with sudden alertness. "The timing is far too convenient to be coincidental."
The statement hung in the air like smoke from a fire that was definitely about to get much larger, while the monitoring systems continued their electronic symphony of urban catastrophe with the persistent enthusiasm of machines that had never learned the virtue of quiet desperation.
"Our new resident with Omega-level cosmic enhancement capabilities arrives," Xavier continued, his voice taking on that particular tone of someone connecting dots that formed an extremely unpleasant picture, "and less than twenty-four hours later, New York experiences the most coordinated series of supernatural emergencies in recorded history. Either we're dealing with coincidence on a scale that would make statisticians require extensive therapy, or someone is very interested in ensuring our attention is focused elsewhere while they conduct private business."
Harry's eyebrows rose with aristocratic amusement, his expression settling into the kind of politely dangerous smile that had once made Voldemort reconsider his life choices. "How flattering. I do so enjoy being the center of attention, though I must say their approach lacks a certain... subtlety. Seventeen emergencies to distract from one conversation? Rather like using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut, wouldn't you say?"
Logan chose that moment to stride into the office with the kind of focused alertness that suggested his enhanced senses had been picking up concerning information from multiple sources. His hazel eyes held that particular intensity that came from someone who'd learned to trust his instincts in situations where conventional wisdom got people killed, and his Canadian accent carried just a hint of the kind of professional concern that made smart people start looking for exits.
"Got a problem, Chuck," he announced with characteristic directness, his gravelly voice cutting through the electronic chaos like a hot knife through butter. "Perimeter sensors are detecting someone approaching the grounds—single individual, moving real careful-like, trying to avoid the main security systems but not quite managing to fool enhanced senses and motion detectors that were calibrated specifically for supernatural intrusion attempts."
His nostrils flared as he tested the air, yellow eyes sharpening with that predatory awareness that suggested someone was about to have a very educational experience about why approaching the X-Mansion uninvited was generally considered poor form.
"Scent profile suggests shapeshifter," he continued, his tone growing grimmer. "Too many different pheromone signatures layered together, like someone wearing a dozen different people's cologne simultaneously. Professional grade masking, but not quite good enough to fool someone with actually enhanced olfactory capabilities."
Scott Summers entered behind Logan with that particular brand of tactical precision that came from someone who'd learned to coordinate superhero operations while managing responsibilities that would make military commanders develop stress-related medical conditions. His dark hair was perfectly styled despite the developing crisis, and his ruby quartz glasses reflected the monitor displays in ways that suggested he was already calculating optimal response protocols.
"Mystique," he said immediately, the name carrying weight that made everyone in the room straighten with sudden alertness. His voice held that combination of professional respect and personal wariness that came from experience dealing with individuals whose abilities made them extremely dangerous in close quarters. "Blue skin, yellow eyes, shapeshifting abilities that allow her to impersonate anyone with perfect physical accuracy, and a documented history of infiltration operations targeting individuals with extraordinary abilities."
Logan nodded grimly, his expression settling into the kind of professional assessment that suggested he was already calculating tactical responses to multiple potential scenarios. "Brotherhood of Mutants. Magneto's personal intelligence operative and easily one of the most dangerous infiltration specialists on the planet. If she's here, it means they've identified our boy Harry as either a potential recruitment target or a threat that requires immediate assessment."
Bobby Drake materialized in the doorway with that particular combination of youthful energy and ice-cold precision that came from someone who'd learned to generate sub-zero temperatures while maintaining the kind of enthusiasm that made federal oversight committees nervous about proper superhero training protocols. His ice-blue eyes sparkled with interest despite the developing crisis, and his perfectly tousled blond hair somehow managed to look casually elegant even in the middle of a tactical briefing.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said, his voice carrying that unique blend of academic curiosity and barely contained excitement that suggested he was about to ask questions that would make everyone's day significantly more complicated. "Are we talking about the Mystique? The legendary shapeshifter who once impersonated a sitting U.S. Senator for six months without anyone noticing? The same Mystique who allegedly seduced three different heads of state while gathering intelligence for operations that are still classified?"
His grin was bright enough to power several city blocks while somehow managing to convey both genuine admiration and professional concern. "Because if we are, then this is either going to be the most sophisticated intelligence operation in X-Men history or the most educational afternoon any of us have had since Professor Xavier decided to start accepting students with cosmic-level enhancement capabilities."
Xavier's hands moved to the wheels of his chair with decisive precision, his expression settling into that combination of tactical awareness and paternal concern that had guided the X-Men through situations that regularly defied both conventional wisdom and several fundamental laws of physics.
"Logan, how much time do we have before she reaches the mansion?"
"Ten minutes, maybe fifteen if she maintains her current approach pattern," Logan replied, already shifting into the kind of tactical mode that had kept him alive through conflicts spanning multiple centuries. "She's being professional about it—careful, methodical, probably has extraction protocols planned if this goes sideways. But Charles..."
He paused, his expression carrying the weight of information that was about to complicate everyone's day significantly while potentially endangering civilian lives across multiple boroughs.
"Those emergency calls across the city? They're legitimate. Real people in actual danger, buildings genuinely on fire, and the NYPD is requesting superhero assistance through official channels. We can't just ignore seventeen actual crises to protect one kid, no matter how cosmically enhanced he happens to be. That's not what we do."
The office fell silent except for the continued electronic protests of monitoring systems that were having difficulty processing the scope of coordinated chaos developing across New York City. It was the kind of silence that preceded either brilliant strategic decisions or spectacular disasters, and everyone present understood that the next few minutes would determine which category their response fell into.
Harry regarded the assembled group with that particular expression of aristocratic amusement that suggested he was about to propose something that would either demonstrate tactical brilliance or spectacular recklessness, depending on one's perspective regarding appropriate responses to professional espionage operations.
"Right then," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive combination of upper-class British confidence and dangerous competence that had once convinced a dragon to let him ride it into battle. "I believe I have a rather elegant solution to our tactical dilemma."
His green eyes blazed with inner fire that suggested the Phoenix enhancement had included significant improvements to his strategic thinking capabilities along with his raw power levels. "Instead of scurrying about like mice trying to address seventeen different crises while hoping our uninvited guest doesn't notice we're desperately understaffed, why don't we take control of the situation entirely?"
Sirius straightened with sudden interest, his grey eyes sharpening with recognition of a pattern he'd seen before. "You're planning something magnificently reckless, aren't you?"
"I prefer to think of it as 'strategically audacious,'" Harry replied with that particular smile that had once convinced the Sorting Hat that Slytherin might not be entirely inappropriate after all. "But yes, I'm suggesting we invite Mystique in for tea and a proper conversation."
The silence that greeted this suggestion was profound enough to perform surgery without anesthesia.
"Kid," Logan said slowly, his tone suggesting he was rapidly recalculating his assessment of Harry Potter's sanity levels and coming up with numbers that were both impressive and deeply concerning, "are you actually suggesting we voluntarily sit down for a friendly chat with one of the most dangerous intelligence operatives on the planet while her team systematically terrorizes New York City?"
"Oh, I'm suggesting considerably more than that," Harry replied with the kind of calm confidence that belonged to someone who'd survived worse odds through careful planning and strategic audacity. "I'm proposing we transform this entire operation from a crisis response into a counter-intelligence opportunity."
His armor began to flow across his skin like liquid starlight, each scale catching the office lighting and transforming it into something that belonged in fairy tales rather than tactical briefings. The transformation was utterly mesmerizing—watching reality bend around him as cosmic forces reshaped mundane physics into something considerably more impressive.
"Think about it logically," he continued, his voice taking on undertones of power that made the air itself seem to pay attention. "Mystique is here to gather intelligence about Harry Potter—my abilities, psychological profile, potential vulnerabilities, and possible recruitment prospects. The most efficient approach would be to ask me directly rather than conducting elaborate espionage operations that endanger innocent civilians."
Jean stepped forward with that fluid grace that suggested she was already calculating the tactical implications while simultaneously preparing for the possibility that this conversation would become considerably more energetic than anyone planned.
"You want to turn her intelligence gathering operation into a recruitment pitch," she observed, her voice carrying that unique combination of admiration and professional concern that came from recognizing both tactical brilliance and spectacular risk-taking. "Feed her information that leads to incorrect conclusions about your capabilities while learning everything she's willing to reveal about the Brotherhood's assessment of the situation."
"Precisely," Harry confirmed, his smile taking on that particularly dangerous quality that had once convinced a basilisk to look directly into a pair of reflected eyes. "Information warfare conducted over afternoon tea. Very civilized, completely deniable, and considerably safer than letting her conduct unsupervised reconnaissance while we're scattered across five boroughs handling emergency responses that may or may not be entirely legitimate."
Storm moved beside Jean with that serene confidence that came from someone who controlled forces of nature with the same casual ease that others might adjust thermostats. Her dark eyes held the calm intensity of gathering storm systems preparing to demonstrate why weather was not something to be taken lightly.
"The atmospheric disturbances accompanying these emergencies could be maintained or dispersed at will," she observed thoughtfully, her accent adding musical notes to tactical assessment. "If these are artificial weather manipulations designed for distraction purposes, they can be countered without endangering civilian populations."
Hank's massive form shifted with academic excitement that suggested he was beginning to appreciate the intellectual elegance of the proposed solution. His blue fur practically vibrated with scholarly enthusiasm as he processed the tactical implications.
"The mathematical precision required for seventeen simultaneous coordinated events suggests either extensive advance planning or real-time coordination capabilities," he mused, his cultured voice carrying undertones of professional admiration despite the circumstances. "But if the coordination is being maintained through supernatural means rather than technological, then disrupting the primary operator could theoretically cascade through the entire operation, resolving all seventeen crises simultaneously."
Bobby's grin was bright enough to power entire cities while somehow managing to convey both genuine excitement and the kind of professional respect that came from recognizing tactical brilliance when he encountered it.
"So instead of playing defense against a coordinated attack designed to overwhelm our capabilities," he said, his voice carrying that unique blend of academic analysis and barely contained enthusiasm, "we're going to flip the entire operation and put them on the defensive by forcing them to respond to our initiatives rather than pursuing their original objectives."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed, his wings beginning to unfurl with magnificent precision that filled the office with warm, living light. The display was utterly spectacular—watching cosmic forces made manifest through someone who'd been personally enhanced by entities that existed beyond normal understanding of power, mortality, and appropriate responses to professional espionage operations.
"Besides," he added with that particular brand of aristocratic confidence that suggested he'd already calculated several moves ahead, "I'm genuinely curious about what the Brotherhood thinks they can offer me that Professor Xavier's school cannot. It should be an educational conversation for everyone involved."
Xavier was quiet for a long moment, his telepathic abilities undoubtedly processing implications and calculating probabilities at superhuman speed. His keen eyes held depths that spoke of decades spent making impossible decisions under circumstances that regularly challenged both conventional wisdom and basic assumptions about what was possible when dealing with individuals whose capabilities transcended normal human limitations.
Finally, his expression settled into something that might have been either brilliant strategic thinking or the kind of calculated risk-taking that made government oversight committees develop stress-related medical conditions requiring extensive therapy and possibly early retirement.
"It's audacious," he said carefully, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd learned to recognize both tactical brilliance and magnificent insanity when they occupied the same strategic proposal. "Potentially brilliant, almost certainly the most dangerous conversation any of us will have this year, and quite possibly the most sophisticated counter-intelligence operation the X-Men have ever attempted."
He paused, considering factors that involved cosmic-level abilities, professional shapeshifters, teenage psychology that had been forged in circumstances most adults couldn't survive, and the kind of tactical complexity that made military strategists require prescription medication for stress-related medical conditions.
"Yes," he decided with that combination of authority and paternal pride that had guided countless young mutants through situations that challenged both their abilities and their understanding of what it meant to be heroic. "We'll try it your way, Harry. But with modifications designed to ensure everyone survives this educational experience."
His keen eyes swept over the assembled group, already calculating optimal positioning and contingency protocols for a situation that existed somewhere beyond the normal boundaries of tactical planning and diplomatic protocol.
"Scott, Logan—Manhattan fires and theft operations," he decided with decisive authority. "Your precision optics and combat experience should be sufficient to handle speed-based criminals and artistic arsonists without excessive property damage or international incidents."
Scott straightened with that particular brand of focused attention that came from years of tactical training and leadership responsibility under circumstances that regularly defied both military doctrine and basic assumptions about appropriate superhero response protocols.
"Understood, Professor," he replied, his voice carrying that unique combination of professional competence and carefully controlled concern. "Rules of engagement for dealing with potentially supernatural criminals conducting coordinated distraction operations?"
"Minimum force necessary to neutralize threats and protect civilians," Xavier replied smoothly, his tone carrying decades of experience dealing with situations that required both tactical precision and diplomatic sensitivity. "These appear to be professional criminals rather than genocidal terrorists. Contain and capture if possible, but prioritize civilian safety over property concerns or intelligence gathering opportunities."
Logan's expression settled into the kind of grim satisfaction that came from finally having clear tactical objectives in a situation that had been rapidly approaching the boundaries of his patience for elaborate strategic complications.
"Got it, Chuck," he said with characteristic directness. "Keep the pretty boy from getting too creative with the laser vision, neutralize the speed demons, and make sure nobody's grandmother gets caught in the crossfire while we're demonstrating why professional criminals should consider alternative career paths."
Scott's expression suggested he was about to object to being characterized as a 'pretty boy,' then apparently decided that tactical coordination took precedence over defending his masculinity against Logan's commentary.
"Jean, Storm—Brooklyn gas emergencies and Queens seismic problems," Xavier continued, his tactical planning shifting into high gear with the kind of precision that came from decades of coordinating complex operations under impossible circumstances. "Your telekinetic abilities and weather control should be ideal for managing industrial accidents and geological instabilities without requiring extensive structural engineering or federal emergency assistance."
Storm nodded with that serene confidence that came from someone who'd learned to coordinate natural forces with the same precision that others might use to conduct symphony orchestras, assuming symphony orchestras regularly involved controlling atmospheric pressure changes and electromagnetic field fluctuations across multiple boroughs simultaneously.
"The weather patterns will help contain any gas dispersal while Jean handles the heavier structural stabilization requirements," she agreed, her voice carrying that musical accent that somehow made tactical planning sound like poetry. "We can coordinate atmospheric pressure changes with telekinetic support to prevent cascade failures and secondary explosions."
Jean's expression settled into that combination of professional competence and carefully controlled power that suggested she was already calculating the precise application of telekinetic forces required to prevent industrial accidents from becoming geological disasters requiring federal intervention and extensive paperwork.
"Understood," she confirmed, her voice carrying undertones of cosmic forces carefully held in check. "Prioritize civilian safety, minimize property damage, and try not to let anyone realize that we're dealing with artificial emergencies designed for tactical distraction rather than genuine natural disasters."
"Hank, Bobby—monitoring, coordination, and rapid response backup," Xavier decided, turning to address the remaining team members. "Your analytical capabilities and ice generation abilities will be valuable for unexpected complications, communication coordination, and providing tactical support if our diplomatic approach to intelligence gathering becomes more energetic than anticipated."
Hank straightened with obvious scholarly excitement that suggested he was already calculating the intellectual challenge of coordinating multiple simultaneous operations while monitoring a counter-intelligence conversation that existed somewhere beyond the normal boundaries of diplomatic protocol.
"Understood, Charles," he replied, his cultured voice practically vibrating with academic enthusiasm. "Monitor all tactical situations, maintain communication protocols, coordinate with emergency services, and prepare for the possibility that our afternoon tea with a legendary shapeshifter may require immediate backup support and possibly extensive damage control."
Bobby's grin suggested he was genuinely excited about being included in what was shaping up to be either the most sophisticated tactical operation in X-Men history or a spectacular disaster that would require extensive explanation to federal oversight committees and possibly international diplomatic services.
"What about field names?" he asked suddenly, his ice-blue eyes brightening with genuine curiosity despite the developing crisis. "I mean, if we're doing this professionally with legendary intelligence operatives and coordinated urban emergencies, shouldn't we establish proper tactical identification protocols? I'm Iceman, obviously. Jean's Phoenix. Storm's Storm. Logan's Wolverine. Scott's Cyclops."
He paused, his expression taking on that particular blend of curiosity and anticipation that suggested he'd been looking forward to this specific conversation since Harry had first demonstrated his cosmic enhancements in ways that defied several fundamental laws of physics.
"But what do we call you? Because 'Harry' doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of professional criminals and international terrorists. No offense intended, but tactical psychology suggests that field names should convey both capability and appropriate levels of professional concern for anyone considering hostile action."
Harry's armor completed its transformation with spectacular precision, leaving him standing like some ancient god of war who'd decided to pay a social call to mortals who needed reminding about proper respect for cosmic forces. His wings unfurled with magnificent grace, filling the office with warm, living light that made everyone present understand they were witnessing something that existed beyond normal boundaries of reality, tactical planning, and appropriate responses to afternoon social calls.
When he spoke, his voice carried the resonance of forces that had reshaped him from the ground up, transforming a teenage wizard into something considerably more dangerous, infinitely more magnificent, and absolutely determined to demonstrate why underestimating Harry Potter had always been a tactical error of the highest magnitude.
"Dragon-Born," he said simply, and the words seemed to hang in the air like smoke from fires that burned hotter than stars and carried implications that made reality itself pay attention. "That's what Death called me when she and the Phoenix Force finished their work. That's what I am now—not entirely human, not entirely dragon, but something new that carries the best qualities of both while transcending the limitations of either."
His green eyes blazed with inner fire that suggested cosmic enhancement had included improvements to his strategic thinking capabilities along with power levels that could reshape continental geography according to his whims and philosophical preferences.
"It seemed appropriately descriptive," he continued with that particular brand of understated British confidence that could freeze champagne at fifty paces while somehow managing to convey both warmth and the kind of friendly menace that suggested crossing him would be unwise and potentially hazardous to local architecture. "After all, one should be honest in one's professional presentations, don't you think?"
The monitoring systems' electronic protests seemed to fade into background noise as everyone present absorbed the implications of a field name that suggested power levels that could reshape geological features and philosophical frameworks that operated beyond conventional understanding of heroism, villainy, and appropriate responses to individuals whose capabilities transcended normal boundaries of what was possible when cosmic forces decided to take personal interest in teenage character development.
"Dragon-Born," Bobby repeated slowly, his voice carrying that mixture of awe, professional appreciation, and barely contained excitement that suggested he was already calculating the tactical psychology implications. "That's... that's actually perfect. Intimidating enough to make enemies reconsider their life choices, mysterious enough to keep them guessing about your actual capabilities, and magnificent enough to make government file clerks nervous about what kind of paperwork they're supposed to fill out when cosmic forces start taking field names and conducting diplomatic negotiations with legendary intelligence operatives."
Sirius stepped forward with that combination of paternal pride and amused recognition that came from watching his godson demonstrate exactly why the Black family had always produced individuals who made conventional society nervous about appropriate responses to complex social situations.
"Right then, Dragon-Born," he said, his voice carrying that particular blend of affection and professional respect that suggested he was genuinely proud of watching Harry transform from a traumatized teenager into something that existed beyond normal categories of power, responsibility, and tactical capability. "Let's go have tea with one of the most dangerous women on the planet and see what the Brotherhood of Mutants thinks they can teach Harry Potter about power, moral flexibility, and career advancement opportunities that don't involve federal oversight committees."
Logan's expression suggested he was torn between professional admiration for the tactical audacity and genuine concern about the potential consequences of conducting diplomatic negotiations with individuals whose capabilities included perfect impersonation, extensive criminal experience, and personal loyalty to someone who could manipulate magnetic fields with enough precision to disassemble nuclear weapons while having a casual conversation.
"Kid—Dragon-Born," he corrected himself with that particular tone that suggested he was rapidly adjusting his assessment of Harry Potter's tactical capabilities and coming up with numbers that were both impressive and slightly terrifying, "you realize that if this goes sideways, we're going to be explaining to federal oversight committees how an afternoon tea conversation with a legendary shapeshifter turned into an international incident requiring extensive damage control and possibly diplomatic intervention?"
Harry's smile was brilliant enough to power entire cities while somehow managing to convey both warmth and the kind of confident competence that suggested he'd already calculated several moves ahead and found them all equally entertaining.
"Logan," he replied with that distinctive combination of aristocratic confidence and dangerous capability that had once convinced Voldemort to reconsider his strategic priorities, "I've been having conversations that required diplomatic intervention since I was eleven years old. Trust me when I say that afternoon tea with a professional shapeshifter is considerably less complicated than explaining to the Minister of Magic why the Hogwarts Express needed extensive repairs after an encounter with flying Ford Anglia and a very irritated Whomping Willow."
The X-Men deployment continued around them, but now with a different energy—less desperate response to coordinated crisis, more coordinated tactical operation designed to demonstrate exactly why the Xavier Institute produced graduates who could handle situations that would make federal emergency management agencies require extensive therapy, prescription medication, and possibly early retirement with full psychological benefits.
As Scott and Logan headed for the equipment lockers with practiced efficiency, and Storm and Jean began coordinating flight patterns that would get them to their assigned crisis zones in minimum time, Harry Potter—now officially Dragon-Born—settled in to wait for a conversation that would either establish his reputation as a tactical genius capable of conducting counter-intelligence operations while having afternoon tea, or demonstrate that cosmic enhancement didn't automatically come with improved diplomatic capabilities when dealing with legendary criminals who specialized in impersonation and information gathering.
Either way, it was definitely going to be memorable.
And in the distance, monitoring systems continued tracking seventeen simultaneous emergencies across New York City while a professional shapeshifter approached the Xavier Institute with careful stealth, completely unaware that her infiltration operation had just been transformed into an afternoon social call with someone who'd been personally enhanced by entities that existed beyond normal understanding of power, mortality, and the appropriate response to uninvited guests who specialized in professional espionage and tactical misdirection.
This was either going to be the most sophisticated intelligence operation in Brotherhood history, the most educational conversation Mystique had ever experienced, or a spectacular demonstration of why underestimating Harry Potter—Dragon-Born—had always been a mistake of the highest tactical magnitude.
Quite possibly all three simultaneously.
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