The food court wasn't just a collection of fast-food franchises—it was a monument to humanity's collective decision that diabetes and capitalism should join forces to create something simultaneously beautiful and catastrophically unhealthy. The fluorescent lighting had that特particular quality of making everyone look like they were either recovering from the plague or about to star in a zombie movie, and the ambient noise was less "background music" and more "what hell sounds like if hell was sponsored by Taco Bell."
Harry Potter stood at the epicenter of this culinary Thunderdome looking like a Greek god who'd been personally offended by the concept of chicken tenders. His jaw—which could probably cut glass and had definitely launched a thousand fanfics—was set in that particular expression of British disapproval that suggested someone had just told him tea wasn't important.
"Right," he said, his voice dripping with enough posh British exasperation to make the Queen rise from her grave and applaud, "I'm going to need a full briefing on what I'm looking at here. Because I recognize approximately two of these establishments, and that's only because I saw them while being chased by Dudley through London that one time he discovered I'd accidentally turned his PlayStation into a toad. Everything else looks like it was designed by committee where everyone was required to be either drunk or American. Possibly both."
Emma Frost materialized beside him like a particularly expensive shark who'd been promised unlimited credit cards and chaos. Sydney Sweeney's whole "ethereal beauty mixed with chaos energy" thing was working overtime as she surveyed the food court with the expression of a general planning a particularly delicious invasion.
"Welcome to the American Dream, babe," she purred, somehow making even fluorescent lighting look good. "It's beautiful. It's terrible. It's simultaneously the best and worst decision you'll make today, and you'll love every second of it even while your arteries are actively filing for divorce."
Hermione appeared on Harry's other side, her British accent cutting through the chaos like a knife through particularly aggressive butter. Danielle Rose Russell's whole energy was "deeply concerned friend who's read seventeen books about American fast food and is ready to cite sources."
"It's really not that complicated, Harry," she said with that particular brand of gentle exasperation that suggested she'd been explaining things to him since they were eleven. "You just choose where you'd like to eat, queue up, order your food, pay for it, and then consume it. Standard procedure. Same as anywhere, really, just with more grease and less regard for nutritional science."
"Standard procedure," Harry repeated flatly, his Henry Cavill eyebrows doing that thing where they conveyed more emotion than most people's entire faces. "Hermione. There are seventeen different restaurants. I can see at least four different types of Asian food that are probably all the same dish with different names. There's a place that appears to sell exclusively cheese in various forms. This isn't standard procedure. This is psychological warfare disguised as lunch."
"You survived Voldemort," Jean pointed out, her Holland Roden energy radiating that particular kind of mom-friend concern mixed with mild amusement. "You can survive choosing a burger joint."
"Voldemort was trying to kill me," Harry replied with devastating British logic. "That was simple. Clear objectives. Straightforward problem-solving—don't let the snake-faced fascist murder me or my friends. This—" he gestured dramatically at the food court "—this is asking me to make *choices* based on *preferences* I don't have because the Dursleys' idea of taking me out to eat was letting me watch Dudley consume seventeen courses while I got whatever he couldn't physically fit in his face. Which was not a lot, to be clear. Dudley could have won competitive eating championships if we'd lived near anything other than a chip shop and a Little Whinging that actively discouraged joy."
Kurt Wagner BAMF'd into existence right next to Harry, causing at least three normal humans to spill their drinks. Finn Wolfhard's whole "chaotic good German elf energy" was operating at maximum capacity as he grinned with genuine enthusiasm.
"Ja, but now you haff friends!" Kurt announced cheerfully, his Bavarian accent making even food court navigation sound like an adventure. "Friends who vill help you navigate zis American nightmare of choice and cholesterol! It vill be vunderbar! Or terrible! But probably both!"
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is," Harry observed.
"I am not trying to reassure," Kurt replied happily. "I am trying to be honest. Honesty is important, ja? Like friendship. And also schnitzel, but zat is not available here, vhich is a tragedy."
Kitty Pryde phased through the table they were standing near, because why walk around things when you had mutant powers? Millie Bobby Brown's whole "I'm baby but also I could destroy you" energy was perfect for Kitty's particular brand of enthusiastic chaos.
"Harry!" she announced with the kind of excitement that suggested she'd been waiting for this moment specifically. "You've never had real American fast food before? Like, *never*? Not even McDonald's? That's actually tragic. We're fixing this immediately. This is a cultural emergency!"
"How is this a cultural emergency?" Harry asked with genuine bewilderment.
"Because you're in America now!" Kitty explained like it was obvious. "And being in America without experiencing American fast food is like... like going to England and not having tea! Or going to France and not having wine! It's just *wrong*!"
"I'm not sure those comparisons are equivalent," Hermione interjected with her trademark precision. "Tea is a centuries-old cultural institution with significant historical and social importance. Fast food is capitalism in edible form."
"Exactly!" Kitty agreed enthusiastically. "Capitalism in edible form! That's SO American! Harry needs to experience it!"
Rogue drifted over, her Mississippi accent making everything sound like honey poured over a murder confession. Jenna Ortega's whole deadpan energy combined with Southern hospitality was its own particular kind of devastating.
"Y'all are makin' this way more complicated than it needs to be," she drawled, somehow making existential food court confusion sound romantic. "Sugar, just pick somethin' that looks good and eat it. If it's terrible, we'll get you somethin' else. You ain't makin' a blood oath to a restaurant franchise. It's just lunch."
"But what if I pick wrong?" Harry asked, and the vulnerability in his voice would have broken hearts if everyone wasn't already used to Harry's particular brand of childhood-trauma-induced decision paralysis.
"There is no wrong," Piotr Rasputin rumbled from somewhere behind them, his massive frame making even the food court look small. John Cena's entire "intimidating but gentle" energy was perfect for Colossus's particular brand of Russian teddy bear violence. "Is only food. You eat, you are satisfied or not satisfied, you continue living. Very simple. Very Russian approach to problems."
"Very simple," Harry repeated dubiously. "Yes. Simple. Just like everything else in my life has been simple."
"You're being dramatic," Emma observed with delight. "I love it. Channel that angst into food choices, babe. Make it work for you."
"I'm not being dramatic," Harry protested. "I'm being *realistic* about my complete lack of preparation for this specific scenario. The Dursleys never took me anywhere. Hogwarts had house elves who just made food appear. I've never had to actually *choose* from this many options before. It's overwhelming!"
"Okay, okay," Jean said, shifting into full mom-friend crisis management mode. "Let's break this down. Harry, what kind of food do you actually like? In general terms."
"I don't *know*," Harry admitted, running his hand through his perfect hair in frustration. "I like... food that tastes good? Food that isn't poisoned? Food that doesn't remind me of the cupboard under the stairs? I don't have sophisticated preferences—I have 'grateful to be eating anything' preferences!"
"Dat's actually kind of sad, mon ami," Remy LeBeau interjected, sauntering over with the kind of casual swagger that suggested he'd just stolen something and no one could prove it. Channing Tatum's whole "charming thief who could probably kill you but would rather flirt" energy was working overtime as he studied Harry with genuine sympathy. "But also fixable! Remy's gonna help you fix dis. Right now. Today. Dis is happenin'."
"Is it happening whether I want it to or not?" Harry asked dryly.
"Oui," Remy confirmed cheerfully. "Absolutely. Your consent in dis matter is assumed and also irrelevant. We're helpin' you. Dis is what friends do—force unwanted assistance on you until you realize you actually needed it all along. Very heartwarmin' if you t'ink about it."
"I'm not sure that's what friendship is supposed to be," Hermione observed carefully.
"It's what *our* friendship is," Emma corrected. "We're a found family of traumatized mutants and wizards. We've got our own rules. Rule one: we aggressively care about each other even when it's inconvenient. Rule two: shopping and food are love languages. Rule three: Harry needs to stop being precious about American fast food and just order something before I order for him and it's something deliberately weird."
"You wouldn't," Harry said suspiciously.
"I absolutely would," Emma confirmed. "I'd order you, like, a fish sandwich from the questionable seafood place just to teach you about consequences. Don't test me, babe."
"Right," Harry said decisively. "Fine. I surrender to the collective will of my aggressively helpful friends. What am I eating? Someone just tell me what to eat and I'll eat it. I'm giving up my agency in this matter entirely."
"Dat's not healthy either," Remy observed.
"Nothing about this situation is healthy!" Harry protested. "We're in a food court! Health has already evacuated the premises!"
"He's got a point," Kitty admitted.
"Okay, new plan," Jean announced with the kind of organizational energy that suggested she'd been waiting for someone to put her in charge. "We're doing a group order. Everyone gets their favorite thing, we all share, Harry tries everything, and that way he gets to experience variety without the pressure of committing to one choice."
"Dat's actually brilliant," Remy said with approval. "Very efficient. Very communist, actually, wit' da sharing and everything. Piotr, you proud of dis plan?"
"Is good plan," Piotr confirmed solemnly. "Sharing food is important. Builds friendship. Also means I can order very large burger without feeling guilty about excess."
"How large?" Harry asked cautiously.
"Very large," Piotr replied. "Perhaps larger than reasonable. But I am very large man, so is proportional. Is fine."
"I'm getting the spicy chicken sandwich," Remy announced, already heading toward his target restaurant with the confidence of a man who'd made this choice a thousand times before. "Wit' da sauce dat's probably mayonnaise and lies, but good lies. Satisfyin' lies. You want to try dat, Harry?"
"I want to try everything," Harry decided. "If I'm doing this, I'm committing fully. Total cultural immersion. When the aliens arrive and ask me about American food culture, I want to be able to give them a comprehensive answer before they destroy us all."
"Zat's ze spirit!" Kurt said enthusiastically. "Total commitment to new experiences! I vill get pizza! American pizza zat vould make Italian people cry, but ve vill eat it anyvay because ve are brave!"
"I'm gettin' Chinese," Rogue drawled, already drifting toward the Panda Express with the kind of slow inevitability of someone who'd made peace with their choices. "Well, American Chinese. Which ain't Chinese at all, really. It's more like... Chinese-inspired American food creation that involves a lot of orange sauce and optimism."
"I'll try that too," Harry agreed immediately. "I'm committed to bad decisions now. I'm all in."
"You're gonna regret dis," Remy warned cheerfully.
"I regret most things," Harry replied. "That's brand consistency."
They dispersed like some kind of organized chaos mob, each person heading toward their chosen franchise with purpose and determination. Harry followed Piotr toward the burger place because if he was going to experience American excess, he might as well do it with the Russian superman who could demonstrate proper technique.
The burger that eventually appeared—after a wait that seemed unreasonable for "fast" food—was genuinely architectural. It was roughly the size of a small planet, constructed from multiple layers of meat, cheese, vegetables, and at least four different sauces that were definitely just mayonnaise with different food coloring.
"This is offensive," Harry observed with awe. "This is an offense against nature and probably several health codes. It's magnificent. I hate it. I love it. I'm confused."
"Dat's America," Remy called from across the table, where he was already demolishing his chicken sandwich with enthusiasm. "Confusion and satisfaction in equal measure! Welcome home, mon ami!"
"I'm British," Harry protested. "I can't be American."
"You can be American-adjacent," Emma suggested. "Americans love British people. You'll be fine. Just keep talking with that accent and everyone will forgive you for everything."
"That seems like a problematic cultural dynamic," Hermione observed while carefully examining the egg roll situation happening in front of Rogue.
"Oh, it absolutely is," Jean agreed. "But we're not here to fix American imperialism. We're here to feed Harry and make sure he understands French fries."
"I understand French fries," Harry protested. "We call them chips in Britain. I've had chips."
"American fries are different," Kitty insisted seriously. "They're more... aggressive. More committed to the concept of fried potato. Just try them."
Harry tried them.
"Oh my God," he said with genuine shock. "These are incredible. Why are these incredible? They're just fried potatoes! Why do they taste like everything good in the world decided to have a party in my mouth?"
"Salt," Jean explained. "So much salt. Also oil. Mostly salt and oil and capitalism."
"I love capitalism now," Harry announced. "I've changed my position entirely. Capitalism is good actually."
"You can't base your entire political philosophy on French fries," Hermione said with concern.
"Watch me," Harry replied, eating another fry with the kind of intensity that suggested he'd just discovered religion.
"He's broken," Emma observed with satisfaction. "We've successfully broken Harry Potter with American fast food. I'm counting this as a victory."
"Is victory for everyone," Piotr agreed solemnly. "Harry is happy. We are happy. Is good day."
Harry took his first bite of the actual burger and experienced what could only be described as a complete sensory overload. It was simultaneously too much—too salty, too greasy, too aggressively American—and somehow absolutely perfect.
"This is obscene," he announced with his mouth partially full, which would have been rude except everyone else was also talking with their mouths full because that's just what happened in food courts. "This is genuinely obscene. I can feel my arteries staging a protest. I don't care. This is the best thing I've ever eaten and I'm having a crisis about it."
"Dat's da American food experience," Remy explained. "Crisis and satisfaction simultaneously. Very philosophical. Very delicious."
"Everything you say sounds philosophical because of your accent," Kitty pointed out while somehow managing to eat pizza that was probably 60% grease. "You could read a grocery list and it would sound like profound observations about the human condition."
"Remy *is* profound," Remy confirmed without shame. "Also handsome. Mostly handsome, but also profound. Is good combination."
"You're terrible," Jean said fondly.
"I'm *honest*," Remy corrected. "Terrible would be lyin' about bein' handsome. I'm just statin' observable facts."
"Zis is true," Kurt agreed cheerfully. "Remy is very handsome. Also very annoying. But mostly handsome."
"Thank you, mon ami," Remy said graciously. "Remy accepts your compliment and your criticism wit' equal grace."
Harry continued working his way through his portion of the burger, occasionally sampling items from everyone else's orders with the kind of scientific determination that suggested he was taking this cultural education very seriously.
"Okay," he announced after trying the Chinese food, "I have thoughts. Firstly, this is definitely not actually Chinese food. I don't know what Chinese food is supposed to taste like, but I'm confident this isn't it. Secondly, I don't care. It's delicious anyway. Thirdly, I'm having an existential crisis about enjoying food that I know is terrible for me. Is this cognitive dissonance? Am I experiencing cognitive dissonance about lunch?"
"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "That's exactly what's happening. Welcome to modernity."
"I hate it," Harry said while eating more orange chicken. "But also I don't hate it. I'm very confused."
"Zat's growth!" Kurt announced happily. "You are growing as person! Through confusing food experiences! Is beautiful!"
"Is it beautiful?" Harry asked dubiously.
"Ja! Very beautiful! Like butterfly emerging from cocoon, except butterfly is you and cocoon is British food culture and emerging is eating American mall food!"
"That's the worst metaphor I've ever heard," Harry observed.
"I know!" Kurt agreed enthusiastically. "I am not good vith metaphors! But I try! Trying is important!"
"You're all insane," Harry said affectionately. "Every single one of you is completely insane and I'm grateful for it because otherwise I'd still be eating sad British food and feeling sorry for myself."
"We ARE insane," Emma agreed happily. "But we're insane together, which is basically the same as being functional. It's found family logic."
"Found family logic is just regular logic but with more emotional vulnerability," Jean observed.
"Exactly!" Emma confirmed. "See? We're all on the same page!"
Harry leaned back in his chair, surveying the absolute chaos of his friend group with genuine affection. Piotr was methodically working through a burger that could have fed a family of four. Remy was somehow flirting with a girl at the next table while simultaneously eating his sandwich. Kurt had acquired extra pizza from somewhere and was sharing it with Kitty, who was vibrating with enthusiasm. Rogue was eating her Chinese food with the kind of dignified grace that suggested she was raised better than the rest of them. Jean was attempting to maintain order while also stealing fries from everyone. Hermione was taking notes about American food culture in a small notebook she'd apparently brought to the mall because of course she had.
And Emma was watching all of them with an expression that might have been genuine affection if you looked past the usual sarcasm and designer sunglasses.
"I have clothes now," Harry announced to the table at large. "And I've experienced American fast food. I'm basically completely integrated into American culture. I'm unstoppable."
"You've got a price tag hangin' off your jeans, sugar," Rogue pointed out gently. "Might want to handle that before declarin' yourself unstoppable."
"I'm unstoppable except for price tags," Harry corrected, reaching back to remove the offending piece of retail evidence. "And emotional vulnerability. And people I care about being in danger. But mostly price tags in this specific context."
"We should probably head back," Jean said reluctantly, checking her phone with the kind of responsible adult energy that suggested someone had to keep track of time. "Logan wanted Harry back before dinner, and we've been gone for like six hours. If we're not back soon, he's going to assume we've been kidnapped by Sentinels or that Emma convinced us to buy a car."
"Both valid concerns," Emma agreed. "Though I didn't convince anyone to buy a car today, so Logan should be proud of my restraint."
"You tried to convince Harry to buy a motorcycle," Hermione reminded her.
"I said I *showed* him motorcycles," Emma corrected. "I didn't actually try to convince him to buy one. There's a difference. I'm very ethical about my corrupting influence."
"You're really not," Jean said fondly.
"I'm ethical *enough*," Emma amended. "I operate in moral gray areas but with style. That counts for something."
They began gathering their trash and approximately seventeen thousand shopping bags with the kind of coordinated chaos that suggested this group had done this before and had developed systems.
"Thank you," Harry said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise with genuine emotion. "All of you. I complained extensively about every aspect of this experience, but... I actually appreciate it. All of it. The clothes, the food, the aggressive friendship. Just... thank you."
"You're welcome, sugar," Rogue said gently. "That's what family does. We force you to participate in capitalism and food courts for your own good."
"It's basically love," Kitty agreed.
"Violent love," Kurt added cheerfully. "Zrough shopping!"
"You all need therapy," Harry observed.
"We ALL need therapy," Jean corrected. "That's why we have each other. We're group therapy disguised as friendship."
"Dat's actually pretty accurate," Remy admitted. "We're all disasters helpin' other disasters pretend to be functional. Is beautiful, really."
"It's something," Harry agreed.
As they loaded back into their vehicle—Harry was pretty sure it was Jean's car but honestly he'd stopped paying attention to logistics hours ago—he found himself genuinely grateful for his chaotic found family despite his continued conviction that shopping was psychological torture.
He had clothes that fit. He understood American food culture. He'd survived extended social interaction without anyone dying.
That was progress.
Significant progress, even.
He might actually survive American high school after all.
Probably.
As long as nobody made him go shopping again in the immediate future.
Or at least not without the promise of more French fries.
French fries made everything better.
That was his new philosophy.
Hermione was right—he couldn't base his entire worldview on fried potatoes, but he could definitely try.
---
Logan sat on his bed—which was less a "bed" and more a "horizontal surface that happened to have a mattress on it because someone insisted he needed furniture"—with the phone pressed to his ear, listening to Sirius Black's voice filtered through whatever magical-technological hybrid bullshit was making international calls to England actually work without sounding like someone was gargling static.
His weathered features showed the kind of focused attention that only appeared when he was receiving information about people he actually gave a damn about. Which was a very short list. Like, microscopically short. Basically just Harry and a handful of X-Men who'd worn down his defenses through persistent friendship and refusing to die.
"Right, so the suits are ready," Sirius was saying, his British accent making even mundane information sound like he was about to steal something valuable and charm his way out of consequences. "Goblins finished the crafting yesterday—and let me tell you, working with goblins is like negotiating with particularly aggressive investment bankers who can also curse you. Very stressful. Remus verified quality control this morning, which means he spent three hours examining every stitch because he's thorough to the point of neurosis. They're shipping via secure magical courier tonight. Should arrive at Xavier's by tomorrow evening at the latest, assuming the magical postal system doesn't experience another dragon-related incident."
"Dragon-related incident?" Logan repeated flatly.
"Don't ask," Sirius replied cheerfully. "It's complicated and involves international magical transportation regulations that would make your brain hurt. Just trust that the package will arrive and it won't be on fire. Probably. Sixty percent confident about the fire situation."
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is," Logan observed.
"I'm not trying to be reassuring," Sirius said. "I'm trying to be *honest*. There's a difference. Reassuring would be lying about the dragon situation. Honest is admitting that magical postal service occasionally involves dragons and hoping for the best."
Logan felt something warm settle in his chest at the mental image of Harry's face when he received actual protective gear that might keep him alive during whatever insane situations teenagers inevitably found themselves in. The kid had a talent for attracting danger like Logan attracted bar fights and bad decisions—it was impressive and concerning in equal measure.
"That's good timing," he said, his rough voice carrying more emotion than he typically allowed into professional conversations. "Birthday's next week—gives us a few days to make sure everything fits properly and make any necessary adjustments before the actual celebration happens. Assuming we survive until next week without Harry accidentally discovering another secret magical conspiracy or pissing off another dark wizard."
"He's been at Xavier's for two weeks," Sirius pointed out. "How much trouble could he possibly have gotten into?"
"You're joking, right?" Logan asked incredulously. "This is *Harry Potter* we're talking about. The kid who found a way to fight Voldemort while he was *eleven*. I've been monitoring his activities and he's already managed to: accidentally blow up part of the training room during power testing, get into a philosophical argument with a telepathic teenager about free will, discover he has a healing factor that makes medical staff nervous, and somehow befriend approximately seventeen students despite claiming he's not good at social interaction. That's not even counting whatever happened at the mall today with Emma Frost, which I'm sure I'll hear about eventually through the student gossip network."
"He's efficient," Sirius agreed with audible pride. "Gets his capacity for attracting chaos from his father. James was exactly the same way—couldn't go three days without accidentally starting something that required intervention from responsible adults. Which was usually me, ironically, despite being the least responsible person in our friend group."
"You're still not responsible," Logan pointed out.
"I'm *more* responsible," Sirius corrected. "I've grown as a person. Personal development is an ongoing journey. Very challenging. Requires constant effort and occasionally backsliding into familiar patterns of questionable judgment, but I'm *trying*."
"How's that working out?" Logan asked dryly.
"Mixed results," Sirius admitted cheerfully. "But the effort counts for something, right? That's what Remus keeps telling me. He's very supportive of my personal growth journey even when it involves me making the same mistakes repeatedly with slight variations."
Logan snorted, finding himself genuinely amused despite his usual preference for minimal conversation and generally avoiding people who talked this much. Sirius Black had that rare quality of being entertaining even through phone calls—the kind of natural charisma that made you want to listen even when he was saying objectively ridiculous things.
"So," Logan said, shifting slightly on his definitely-not-comfortable bed, "we're calling it a celebration now? I was thinking more along the lines of 'moderate gathering with cake and presents' rather than anything that could be described as actual *celebration*. The kid's not big on being center of attention for extended periods. Neither am I, actually. We've got that in common—extreme discomfort with being perceived by multiple people simultaneously."
"That's very healthy," Sirius observed. "Definitely not going to cause any problems in your developing relationship. Just two emotionally constipated men refusing to acknowledge feelings publicly while desperately wanting validation privately. Classic masculinity. Very functional."
"You're not wrong," Logan admitted, "but you didn't have to say it like that."
"I absolutely did," Sirius replied with satisfaction. "Someone needs to call you both out on your commitment to emotional repression disguised as stoic independence. Might as well be me—I've got experience with that particular brand of dysfunction."
"From personal experience?" Logan asked.
"*Extensive* personal experience," Sirius confirmed. "Spent twelve years in magical prison partially because I was too emotionally incompetent to communicate effectively with people I cared about. Learned my lesson. Now I'm aggressively honest about feelings and it makes everyone uncomfortable, but at least I'm not bottling everything up until it explodes into catastrophic life decisions."
"That's actually kind of healthy," Logan observed.
"I know!" Sirius said with obvious pride. "Therapy works! Who knew? Remus knew. Remus has been telling me for years that therapy works, but I had to discover it myself through trial and error and several incidents that we're not discussing because they're embarrassing."
Logan found himself genuinely liking this guy despite never having met him in person. There was something refreshing about someone who was both completely honest about their flaws and genuinely committed to being better without being self-important about it.
"Anyway," Sirius continued, "I should warn you—Hermione's apparently coordinating with some of the other students about additional gift-giving, and you know how Hermione is. When that girl sets her mind to something, she goes all-in with research, planning, and thorough execution. Whatever she's organizing, it's going to be comprehensive. Possibly overwhelming. Definitely well-intentioned but potentially excessive."
"She's good for him," Logan said, thinking about the few interactions he'd had with Harry's best friend. Smart kid. Grounded. The kind of person who balanced out Harry's tendency toward self-sacrificing heroism with actual strategic thinking. "They're good for each other, actually. Balance each other out—he provides the instinct and courage, she provides the planning and research. Solid partnership. The kind of partnership that actually works long-term."
"It's more than partnership at this point," Sirius said with obvious fondness that carried clearly even through international phone lines. "They're absolutely gone on each other, even if they're being very British about acknowledging it publicly. Lots of meaningful looks and careful proximity and the kind of unconscious physical contact that suggests significant emotional attachment without explicitly declaring romantic intent. It's adorable and frustrating in equal measure. I want to lock them in a room until they just *talk* about their feelings, but apparently that's 'inappropriate' and 'not how healthy relationships develop.' According to Remus. Who's annoyingly correct about these things."
"Kids these days," Logan said with amusement, his weathered face showing the kind of genuine smile that suggested he was actually enjoying this conversation. "Making simple things complicated through excessive courtesy and emotional restraint. When I was courting—well, I wasn't *courting*, because I was too socially incompetent to understand basic human interaction and also kept forgetting I'd met people due to trauma-induced memory loss. But if I *had* been courting, I would've been significantly more direct and significantly less successful. Probably would've just growled at someone and hoped they understood that meant affection."
"That's both sad and probably accurate," Sirius replied. "Though I should mention—Harry's got attention from other directions too. One of Xavier's students, Emma Frost, apparently made her interest known pretty explicitly. Propositioned both Harry and Hermione for potential romantic exploration in non-traditional relationship configurations."
Logan blinked, processing that information with the kind of careful attention that suggested he wasn't entirely sure how to respond. His Hugh Jackman eyebrows did that thing where they conveyed more emotion than most people's entire faces.
"And how'd the kids handle that particular revelation?" he asked carefully.
"With surprising maturity, actually," Sirius said, sounding genuinely impressed. "Thanked her for being honest, established clear boundaries about still figuring out their own relationship and not being ready to add complications, but didn't completely shut down the possibility of future exploration if circumstances change. Very diplomatic. Very adult. Made me feel vaguely incompetent by comparison because I would've just said something stupid and made everything awkward. Which is my default response to complicated social situations."
"That's because you *are* incompetent at emotional navigation," Logan replied without heat. "You've got excellent instincts about everything except your own feelings and how to communicate them effectively without turning it into a dramatic performance. It's very consistent. Very British, actually."
"Thank you for that devastating but accurate assessment of my character flaws," Sirius replied dryly. "Very helpful. Definitely makes me feel better about my life choices and my national identity."
"You asked," Logan pointed out.
"I absolutely did not ask," Sirius protested. "You just volunteered that information unprompted. That's you being emotionally vulnerable and disguising it as criticism. I recognize that move—I invented that move."
"Damn," Logan muttered. "You're right. That's exactly what I was doing."
"I know!" Sirius said with satisfaction. "See? I *am* learning about emotional communication! Remus will be so proud!"
Logan leaned back against his definitely-too-thin pillow, staring at the ceiling while continuing the conversation. "This Emma situation—should I be concerned? Because I'm not great with complicated social dynamics, but I'm decent at identifying when someone's intentions might be less than pure. If this girl's trying to manipulate the kids into something they're not ready for..."
"She's not," Sirius interrupted firmly, his voice taking on that particular quality that suggested he was being completely serious rather than his usual charming-chaos mode. "I've met her. Talked to her. Used my extensive experience with reading people to determine whether she's a threat. She's genuinely attracted to both of them and being honest about it without applying pressure. The way Xavier explains it, Emma's just very direct about her feelings and doesn't believe in playing social games. It's actually refreshing, even if it creates complicated situations. She told them what she wanted, accepted their answer, and moved on without making it weird. That's healthy communication. Better than most adults manage."
"Huh," Logan said, filing that information away in his mental database of "things to monitor but not immediately panic about." "Well, as long as she's being respectful about boundaries and not pushing them into something they're not ready for, I guess it's fine. Kids gotta learn to navigate complicated social situations eventually. Might as well start now when they've got support systems rather than later when they're alone and vulnerable."
"Very progressive of you," Sirius observed. "Also surprisingly emotionally intelligent for someone who claims to be bad at feelings."
"I've lived over a century," Logan replied, his rough voice carrying the weight of actual experience rather than just theoretical knowledge. "You learn to be flexible about other people's relationship configurations when you've seen enough variations to know there's no single 'correct' way to handle attraction and connection. People are complicated. Feelings are complicated. As long as everyone's honest and respectful and not hurting each other, I don't care who's interested in who or how many people are involved. I've seen enough relationship dynamics to know that judging people for unconventional arrangements is pointless and usually hypocritical."
"That's remarkably healthy," Sirius said with genuine approval. "Also possibly concerning given some of the stories I've heard about your past relationships, but I'm choosing to focus on the healthy part and ignore the historical complexity."
"Good instinct," Logan confirmed. "My relationship history is a disaster and we're not discussing it unless you want this conversation to get significantly more depressing."
"Hard pass," Sirius agreed immediately. "I've got enough depressing personal history of my own—I don't need yours too. Let's stick to discussing our shared godson/grandson and how we're going to make sure he survives to adulthood."
There was a pause in the conversation—the kind of comfortable silence that suggested both parties were processing information and preparing to transition to different topics. Logan used the moment to consider exactly how to phrase what he wanted to say next. This was delicate territory, the kind of subject that required careful approach because it involved things he wasn't great at discussing. Like feelings. And gratitude. And acknowledging that he needed help.
"So," he said finally, his voice carrying more emotion than he typically allowed into any conversation that wasn't happening during active combat situations, "I wanted to thank you. For everything you've been doing for Harry. The custody arrangements, the educational coordination, the birthday planning—all of it. You didn't have to do any of that. Could've just let Xavier handle everything and maintained distance. Hell, you could've decided that your godson being related to a Canadian mutant with anger management issues was a problem and fought for full custody yourself. But you didn't. You stepped up and made sure Harry had someone fighting for him who actually gives a damn about his wellbeing beyond just his abilities or his potential usefulness."
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line—the kind of silence that suggested Sirius was experiencing actual emotions and didn't know how to respond immediately without his usual defensive humor.
"He's my godson," Sirius finally replied, his voice carrying equal emotion even filtered through whatever magical-technological nonsense was connecting them across an ocean. "Of course I stepped up. That's what godparents do—they show up when it matters and they make sure their godchild knows they're loved and valued. Besides, Harry makes it easy. He's a good kid despite everything he's survived. Smart, brave, fundamentally decent in ways that make me want to hunt down the Dursleys and introduce them to creative applications of magic that aren't technically illegal but definitely violate several ethical guidelines."
"Get in line," Logan said with dark amusement, his voice carrying the kind of controlled violence that suggested he'd thought about this extensively. "I've got approximately seventeen scenarios planned for what I'd do to those people if I ever had the chance and legal immunity. Most of them involve my claws and their complete lack of healing factors. Very detailed scenarios. Possibly too detailed. Definitely therapeutic to imagine."
"We should compare notes," Sirius suggested immediately. "Pool our resources. Develop a comprehensive revenge strategy that satisfies both our protective instincts without actually crossing legal boundaries that would get us arrested. Though honestly, I'm not opposed to crossing legal boundaries if the circumstances warrant it. Just want to be smart about it."
"I like the way you think," Logan replied with genuine approval.
"I'm told it's one of my better qualities," Sirius said, his British accent making even self-deprecation sound charming. "Along with being devastatingly handsome and only occasionally making catastrophically poor life decisions that endanger myself and everyone around me."
"Only occasionally?" Logan asked skeptically.
"I'm working on it!" Sirius defended. "Personal growth is an ongoing process! Very challenging! Requires constant attention and occasional backsliding into familiar patterns of questionable judgment! But I'm *trying* and that should count for something!"
They both laughed—genuine, warm laughter that spoke of developing friendship despite their vastly different backgrounds and life experiences. Logan found himself genuinely grateful that Harry had Sirius in his life. The man was clearly devoted to his godson in ways that went beyond simple obligation, and his willingness to coordinate complex logistical arrangements across international boundaries just to ensure Harry had proper birthday presents and educational support—that was the kind of commitment that mattered.
"When are you coming to visit?" Logan asked, shifting the conversation toward practical planning because too many feelings were happening and he needed to redirect toward logistics before he got overwhelmed. "Because Harry's going to want to see you on his birthday, and honestly, I'd like to meet you properly in person rather than just through phone calls and magic mirrors. Face-to-face introductions seem appropriate given we're both invested in making sure this kid survives to adulthood despite his apparent talent for finding danger."
"Soon," Sirius promised immediately. "Remus and I are coordinating travel logistics right now—working out visa situations, which is surprisingly complicated when you're technically a convicted criminal who was never officially pardoned because the magical government is incompetent. Also arranging accommodations near the Institute, setting up the educational framework with your faculty, making sure we can actually enter the country without triggering international incidents. We're planning to arrive about a week before school starts for Harry and Hermione, which gives us time to settle in, meet everyone properly, and make sure the magical instruction integration works smoothly without anyone accidentally cursing anyone."
"That's good timing," Logan confirmed. "Gives the kids time to adjust to having you around before they're thrown into American high school chaos. Also gives me time to warn everyone at the Institute that you're coming and that your presence may create interesting social dynamics."
"I create interesting social dynamics everywhere I go," Sirius replied with obvious pride. "It's a gift. A curse sometimes. Mostly a gift. Definitely makes life more entertaining for everyone involved."
"That's one word for it," Logan said dryly.
"What would you call it?" Sirius challenged.
"Chaos generation with optimistic framing," Logan replied immediately. "Very effective chaos generation that somehow works out despite having no right to work out. Also impressive hair that defies logic."
"How do you know about my hair?" Sirius asked suspiciously. "We've never met in person."
"Magic mirror," Logan explained. "Also Harry showed me pictures. Your hair is objectively ridiculous and somehow looks good anyway. It's offensive to people with normal hair."
"Thank you!" Sirius said with genuine delight. "I work hard on my hair! Well, I don't actually work on it at all—it just does this naturally—but I appreciate the acknowledgment!"
"You're impossible," Logan observed fondly.
"I'm *consistent*," Sirius corrected. "There's a meaningful difference. Impossible suggests I'm deliberately difficult. Consistent means I'm predictably difficult, which is actually better because people can plan around it."
They talked for another twenty minutes about practical logistics—arrival schedules, housing arrangements, curriculum planning, visa complications, and approximately seventeen other details that needed coordination between the magical education system and Xavier's Institute. By the time they ended the call, Logan felt confident that Harry's birthday was going to be genuinely good rather than just adequately managed, and that the educational framework would provide proper support for both magical and mutant development.
He set down the phone and stared at his ceiling for a moment, processing the reality that he had family again. Real family who cared about his wellbeing, who wanted to celebrate his birthday, who were actively working to ensure he had proper support and resources.
That was... new.
Good new.
Unfamiliar new that required adjustment, but definitely good.
Two weeks had passed since he'd discovered Harry existed. Two weeks since his entire understanding of himself had been reorganized around the reality that he had a grandson, that he had blood family who actually wanted him around instead of treating him like a weapon or a problem to manage.
His birthday was coming up in less than a week now—July thirty-first, same as Harry's, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor about these things.
For the first time in longer than he cared to calculate—possibly ever, actually, given his memory situation—Logan found himself actually looking forward to his birthday rather than just enduring it as another marker of survival.
That was definitely progress.
Significant progress.
The kind of progress that made him feel uncomfortably emotional, which he was going to deal with by going to the training room and hitting things until the feelings went away or at least became manageable.
He smiled—genuine, unguarded, the kind of expression that Hugh Jackman made look effortless but that Logan almost never allowed himself.
This was good.
This was really, genuinely good.
Whatever chaos lay ahead—and there would definitely be chaos, because Harry Potter's life seemed specifically designed by sadistic cosmic forces to produce complications at regular intervals—they'd face it together.
As family.
That was worth celebrating.
Even if celebrating made him uncomfortable.
Even if feelings were hard.
This was worth it.
Harry was worth it.
Family was worth it.
Logan got up from his bed, stretched until several joints cracked in ways that would concern normal people, and headed toward the training room.
He had approximately seventeen punching bags to destroy and a week to prepare for his first real birthday celebration in over a century.
Time to get to work.
---
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