The Cavalry Arrives
Or: How Harry Potter Accidentally Started Teaching Advanced Physics to People Who Really Should've Stayed in School
If you've ever wondered what it looks like when a seventeen-year-old wizard decides that the laws of physics are more like polite suggestions and seven of the world's most dangerous criminals are his teaching assistants, then Tuesday afternoon in Metropolis was probably the best educational television you never wanted to see.
Harry Potter—currently going by Shadowflame because "Harry" didn't sound nearly intimidating enough when you were floating thirty feet in the air with wings made of actual fire—was having what could diplomatically be called a "learning experience" with the local supervillain population. The learning experience mostly involved him teaching them why picking fights with magically enhanced teenagers was roughly equivalent to asking a hurricane for dance lessons.
The lesson was going about as well as you'd expect when one side had brought magical death traps and the other side had apparently decided that operating at the energy output of a small star was a reasonable Tuesday afternoon activity.
---
Six blocks away, Young Justice was speed-running through the streets of Metropolis like they were late for the most important final exam in the history of magical education. Which, considering Harry's tendency to turn routine superhero work into philosophical statements about the nature of power and reality, they probably were.
"I swear on Merlin's pointy hat," Hermione Granger muttered, her starlit armor gleaming as she sprinted with the kind of determined precision that had once terrorized Hogwarts professors during exam season, "every single time we let Harry out of our sight for five minutes, he ends up redefining the fundamental forces of the universe."
She was running calculations on a device that looked like someone had asked a smartphone to get a PhD in theoretical physics and maybe develop some strong opinions about quantum mechanics. Her bushy brown hair bounced with each step despite being pulled back in what was supposed to be a practical ponytail, and her warm brown eyes—the kind that could make you feel guilty for not doing your homework even when you definitely had done it—were doing that thing where they went slightly cross-eyed when she was trying to solve a problem that was actively rewriting the laws of magic.
"The energy readings are completely off any chart ever invented by anyone," she announced in that tone that meant she was about to say something that would make everyone else's day significantly more complicated. "Whatever Harry's tapped into, it's not just powerful—it's operating on principles that haven't been discovered yet by civilizations that won't exist for another thousand years."
"That's our Harry," Ron Weasley called out, his black and orange armored robes billowing as he kept pace with ground-shaking strides that left small craters in the pavement. His freckled face—honest and open in the way that made you immediately trust him with your lunch money and your deepest secrets—wore the expression he usually reserved for when his best friend was about to do something that would definitely end up in history books, assuming there was anyone left alive to write them.
"Never does anything the easy way, does he?" Ron continued, vaulting over a parked car with surprising grace for someone who'd spent most of his childhood running into things. "Probably turned a simple Tuesday into some kind of cosmic statement about the nature of power and also explosions. Lots of explosions."
"At least he's consistent," Hermione replied, dodging a pothole while simultaneously calculating energy displacement ratios. "Remember when he 'accidentally' turned Defense Against the Dark Arts class into a seminar on advanced battle magic?"
"That was an accident," Ron protested. "Mostly."
"Ron, he conjured a dragon."
"A small dragon!"
"It was thirty feet long!"
"Okay, a medium-sized dragon."
Overhead, Zatanna Zatara flew through the air with the kind of supernatural grace that made gravity look like it was trying really hard but just wasn't quite good enough. Her midnight silk costume rippled in ways that suggested physics was more of a friendly acquaintance than a binding law, and her striking blue eyes—the kind of blue that made you think of deep oceans and infinite possibilities—were fixed on the growing light ahead with laser focus.
Her long dark hair streamed behind her like a banner advertising the fact that even in the middle of a magical crisis, some people just looked effortlessly gorgeous while saving the world.
"The magical resonance is getting stronger," she called down, her voice carrying clearly despite the increasingly dramatic sound effects the city was providing. Car alarms were going off in synchronized waves that sounded almost musical, street lights were flickering in patterns that looked suspiciously like morse code spelling out "HELP US ALL," and somewhere in the distance, a flock of pigeons had apparently decided that Tuesday afternoon was a great time to relocate to an entirely different dimension.
"Whatever Harry's doing," Zatanna continued, and there was something in her voice that sounded like pride mixed with the kind of panic you get when your boyfriend is redefining what it means to be powerful, "he's not just fighting anymore. He's... rewriting the rules of what fighting means."
"Is that good or bad?" Susan Bones asked from street level, where she was practically vibrating with contained energy. Sparks danced around her blazing yellow and orange armor like really excited fireflies who'd had too much coffee, and her brown eyes—bright and determined in a way that suggested she was ready to dive headfirst into whatever chaos they found and sort out the details later—were fixed on the light ahead.
"Yes," Zatanna replied helpfully.
Beside her in the air, Raven moved like shadows given form and a really excellent education in dramatic entrances. Her violet eyes—the kind that saw straight through you and found your soul mildly interesting but not particularly impressive—were fixed on something beyond the visible spectrum, and her usually composed expression had shifted into the kind of professional interest that meant someone was about to have a very educational experience whether they wanted one or not.
"Seven distinct power signatures," she reported in that flat, matter-of-fact tone that somehow made everything sound more ominous, like she was reading grocery lists written by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. "All focused on a single target. High-level magical containment field in place, designed to cut off external power sources."
She paused, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear, possibly her father's interdimensional commentary track on why mortals always made everything more complicated than it needed to be.
"Containment field failing. Rapidly."
"How rapidly?" asked Ginny Weasley from her position overhead, swooping through the air on her enchanted broomstick with the kind of precision that made professional Quidditch players weep into their training manuals and consider career changes. Her red hair streamed behind her like a comet's tail made of determination and barely contained fury, and her brown eyes—warm like chocolate but currently blazing with the kind of protective anger that could melt steel—held that particular gleam that meant someone was about to have a very educational and very painful day.
"Rapidly enough that we should probably start running faster and maybe say some prayers to whatever deities specialize in cleaning up after teenage wizards," Raven replied in her eternally helpful way.
"Brilliant," Ginny muttered, her voice carrying that particular mix of affection and exasperation that came from dating someone who treated the laws of physics like homework suggestions. "Harry is having a magical meltdown, seven supervillains are probably about to become very crispy, and we're still six blocks away. This is fine. This is totally fine. Everything is completely under control."
"Look on the bright side," called Fred Weasley, bounding from rooftop to rooftop with his twin brother in perfect synchronization. Their black and red robes billowed dramatically in a way that suggested they'd been practicing their superhero landing poses, and their identical grins—the kind that made teachers check their classrooms for mysterious ticking packages—suggested they were having the time of their lives despite the imminent threat of city-wide destruction.
"What bright side?" George Weasley asked, vaulting over a chimney with the kind of casual athleticism that came from years of dodging hexes, Howlers, and their mother's legendary wooden spoons of discipline.
"If Harry accidentally levels half of Metropolis," Fred replied, leaping to the next building with the grace of someone who'd spent years escaping from increasingly creative detention scenarios, "we'll finally have something more impressive than that time we turned Umbridge's office into a swamp."
"Fair point," George agreed, executing a perfect flip that served no practical purpose except looking really cool. "Though I still think the swamp was better. More artistic. Had that certain je ne sais quoi that you just don't get with simple urban destruction."
"Will you two please focus?" Susan called up, sparks dancing around her like an extremely agitated light show. Her voice carried that particular tone that meant she was about to start hitting things until they made sense, which was usually a pretty effective problem-solving strategy when dealing with magical chaos.
"We are focused," the twins said in perfect unison, landing on the same rooftop with synchronized precision that was either really impressive choreography or mild telepathy. "We're focused on maintaining team morale through humor in the face of potential catastrophe."
"That's not focusing, that's coping," Daphne Greengrass observed, gliding through the air surrounded by ice crystals that responded to her emotional state like the world's most expensive and dangerous mood ring. Her frost-blue armor shimmered with its own inner light, and her aristocratic features—the kind that suggested centuries of good breeding and excellent posture—had shifted into something that looked like concern mixed with professional admiration.
"Sometimes coping and focusing are the same thing," she added thoughtfully, her posh accent making everything sound more refined even while discussing potential city-wide destruction. "Especially when dealing with Harry Potter being Harry Potter."
"Truth," Ron agreed, dodging a falling street sign that had apparently given up on the whole 'staying attached to things' concept. "Harry's got two settings: 'normal wizard doing normal wizard things' and 'cosmic force of nature having opinions about justice.' There's no middle ground."
"Don't forget 'trying to be normal but accidentally breaking reality,'" Hermione added, not looking up from her calculations. "That's definitely a third setting."
As they crested the final hill before the botanical district, the full scope of what was happening became visible, and every single one of them stopped talking at exactly the same time. Even the twins, who normally provided running commentary on everything from weather patterns to the philosophical implications of breakfast cereal, fell completely silent.
Because what they saw wasn't a fight.
It was a masterclass in applied physics being taught by someone who'd apparently decided that the textbook was wrong and needed immediate and comprehensive correction.
---
At the center of a magical containment field that was crackling and sparking like an electrical storm having a complete nervous breakdown, Shadowflame hung in the air on wings of pure fire that made the sun look pale and inadequate. His black and gold armor gleamed like molten starlight, every piece perfectly crafted and radiating power that made the air itself shimmer with heat distortion.
The winged helmet covering his entire face was a work of art that suggested whoever had designed it had strong opinions about looking absolutely terrifying while maintaining an air of classical elegance. Two glowing crimson eyes were the only features visible, burning with the intensity of collapsing stars and the patience of someone who was about to deliver a very educational experience to people who really should have stayed in school.
Below him, seven of the world's most dangerous criminals were discovering what it felt like to be on the wrong side of a physics lesson taught by someone with an unlimited special effects budget and apparently very strong opinions about proper educational technique.
"You know what your problem is?" Shadowflame asked conversationally, his voice carrying across the entire district with the kind of authority that made buildings lean in to listen better. He gestured casually with his sword—a blade that looked like someone had convinced a piece of the sun to take the shape of a weapon and develop strong feelings about justice—and a wave of golden fire washed over the battlefield.
The fire didn't burn anything it wasn't supposed to burn, which was somehow more terrifying than if it had just incinerated everything indiscriminately.
Black Adam, who usually had the kind of confident, divine-powered swagger that made lesser mortals feel inadequate about their life choices, was on one knee with electricity crackling around him in increasingly desperate defensive patterns. His massive frame—the kind that suggested he bench-pressed mountains for fun—was tense with effort, and his dark eyes were wide with something that looked suspiciously like the kind of shock that came from realizing you'd brought divine power to a cosmic war.
"My problem?" he growled, his voice carrying the kind of divine authority that had once made pharaohs bow down and lesser gods check their resumes. Now it just sounded tired and possibly a little confused. "I am the champion of Shazam! I wield the power of gods!"
"And that right there," Shadowflame said, beginning to descend slowly toward his opponents like a falling star with an agenda, "is exactly your problem. You think power is something you collect. Like trading cards or really expensive shoes. 'Oh look, I've got divine strength! And magical lightning! And an impressive cape collection!' But you never learned the most important lesson."
"And what lesson is that?" Black Adam demanded, struggling to his feet with the kind of stubborn determination that had probably served him well during his centuries of being generally villainous.
Shadowflame's helmet tilted slightly, and somehow you could tell he was smiling beneath it. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a teacher who was about to give a pop quiz on a subject you definitely hadn't studied for.
"That real power," he said, his voice carrying just a hint of amusement mixed with the kind of cosmic certainty that came from personally having conversations with fundamental forces of the universe, "doesn't come from gods or magic artifacts or really good marketing. It comes from understanding who you are and what you're capable of. And I've recently had some very enlightening conversations with myself about exactly what that means."
The Joker—who found literally everything funny, including his own impending doom and probably the heat death of the universe—had stopped laughing entirely. His pale face, usually split by that famous rictus grin, was set in an expression of fascinated horror as he crouched behind what used to be a decorative fountain but was now more of a modern art installation titled "What Happens When You Annoy Someone With Stellar Energy Levels."
His green hair was disheveled, his purple suit was singed at the edges, and his dark eyes held the kind of manic gleam that meant he was processing something that didn't quite fit into his usual worldview of chaos and mayhem.
"You know," he said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of madness but with a new note of what might have been professional respect, "I've seen a lot of impressive displays of violence in my time. Explosions, death traps, really creative uses of acid and sharp objects. This... this is different. This is art. Terrifying, potentially universe-ending art, but art nonetheless."
"Shut up, clown," Poison Ivy snapped, her usually perfect composure cracking like cheap makeup in a rainstorm. Her immaculate red hair—the kind that made botanists weep with envy—was disheveled and singed at the ends, her emerald dress looked like it had lost an argument with a bonfire, and her vines, those beautiful deadly extensions of her will that had terrorized heroes for years, were withering and retreating like flowers in the world's most polite but unstoppable wildfire.
Her green eyes, usually cold and calculating as winter frost, were wide with something that looked suspiciously like fear mixed with grudging admiration.
"Make me, plant lady," the Joker replied cheerfully, apparently deciding that if he was going to die horribly, he might as well go out with some good banter. "Oh wait, you can't. Your precious little murder flowers are having a bit of an existential crisis, aren't they?"
"They're not murder flowers," Ivy protested weakly, watching another vine retreat from the waves of heat radiating from Shadowflame. "They're... aggressive botanical solutions to human problems."
"Right," the Joker said. "And I'm a children's entertainer with a passion for making people smile."
"You are a children's entertainer with a passion for making people smile," Count Vertigo observed from behind his melted park bench, his aristocratic accent making even impending doom sound refined. "You're just really, really bad at your job."
The usually immaculate nobleman looked like he'd been through a blender and then set on fire for good measure. His fine jacket was torn, his pale face was drawn with exhaustion, and his carefully styled hair was doing things that would make his personal stylist weep.
"I take offense to that," the Joker replied. "I'm excellent at my job. People smile all the time when they see me coming. Granted, they're usually the kind of smiles that suggest 'oh gods we're all going to die,' but technically that still counts as smiles."
"Are you three quite finished?" Shadowflame asked politely, his voice cutting through their bickering like a sword through silk. The heat radiating from him had increased noticeably, turning the air around him into shimmering waves that made everything look like a mirage having philosophical discussions about the nature of reality.
"Because I'm trying to conduct a lesson here," he continued, taking another step forward as all seven villains instinctively backed away like students trying to avoid being called on in class, "and constant interruptions are really quite rude. My teachers always said that proper classroom management was essential for effective education."
"Your teachers were right," Ultra-Humanite observed from behind his portable computer setup, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with one massive gorilla hand while frantically typing with the other. His highly intelligent eyes—the kind that suggested he'd read every book ever written and found most of them disappointingly predictable—were fixed on his screen with the kind of desperate concentration that meant he was either trying to hack his way out of this situation or compose a really good farewell letter.
"Thank you," Shadowflame said graciously. "I always appreciated constructive feedback. Now then, where was I? Oh yes. The fundamental difference between power and strength, with a brief detour into why trying to trap teenagers in magical death circles is generally considered poor form."
Wotan, who'd spent centuries perfecting his dramatic villain aesthetic and probably had strong opinions about proper megalomaniacal presentation, was weaving defensive spells with the kind of desperate intensity that suggested he was running out of both ideas and backup plans. His pale, angular features—the kind that belonged in Renaissance paintings of really sophisticated evil—were drawn with effort, and his usually immaculate appearance was decidedly less immaculate than usual.
"You dare lecture us, boy?" he snarled, his Danish accent thick with fury and growing panic. "I have studied the mystic arts for longer than your civilization has existed! I have mastered secrets that would drive lesser minds to madness!"
"And yet," Shadowflame observed mildly, raising his sword so that the blade caught the light and threw it back in patterns that hurt to look at directly, "you're currently losing to a teenager with anger management issues and a really nice sword. What does that say about your study habits? Did you take notes? Keep a proper academic schedule? Because I'm starting to think your educational methodology might need some work."
The burn was so savage that even Ultra-Humanite looked up from his computer to wince in sympathy, and the Joker actually applauded.
"Ouch," the highly intelligent gorilla muttered, his voice carrying the kind of refined disappointment that came from witnessing someone get intellectually demolished in real time. "That was just cruel. Accurate, but cruel."
"Cruel but necessary," Shadowflame corrected. "Sometimes the best education is the kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew about yourself and your life choices."
"Speaking of life choices," Atomic Skull interrupted, his usually glowing form actually dimmer than usual, as if Shadowflame's overwhelming presence was somehow outshining nuclear radiation through sheer force of personality and possibly better special effects, "perhaps we should consider—"
"Surrender?" Shadowflame finished helpfully. "That's definitely an option. A smart option. The kind of option that people with good decision-making skills and a healthy respect for their own continued existence might choose."
"Never!" Atomic Skull declared, though his voice lacked the kind of conviction that usually accompanied declarations of never-ending defiance. "I am powered by atomic energy! I am the walking embodiment of nuclear power! I am—"
"About to learn some very interesting facts about thermal dynamics and stellar energy output," Shadowflame interrupted, his voice carrying the kind of patient authority that teachers used when they were about to explain why two plus two equaled four to someone who insisted it equaled purple. "You see, atomic energy is impressive. Splitting atoms, nuclear fusion, all very dramatic. But do you know what's more impressive than atomic energy?"
"I'm almost afraid to ask," Atomic Skull replied weakly, his glowing skull dimming even further.
"Stellar energy," Shadowflame said cheerfully, raising his sword high above his head. The blade began to sing—not metaphorically, but actually producing a sound like the universe's most expensive tuning fork having a philosophical discussion with the fundamental forces of reality.
"I'm currently operating at about sixty percent of a Class G star's energy output," he continued conversationally, as if discussing the weather or his weekend plans. "Would you like a demonstration of what that means in practical terms?"
The silence that followed was the kind of silence that usually preceded really spectacular explosions, the kind that got measured on scales that didn't technically exist yet.
"You know what?" the Joker said into the silence, his voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation. "I changed my mind. This isn't just art. This is performance art. Educational performance art. I'm actually learning things."
"What are you learning?" Poison Ivy asked weakly.
"That we should have brought bigger death traps," the Joker replied. "Much, much bigger death traps. Like, continent-sized death traps. Maybe universe-sized death traps."
"I don't think universe-sized death traps are a thing," Count Vertigo observed.
"They are now," the Joker said, gesturing at Shadowflame. "He's basically a walking universe-sized death trap with really good fashion sense and a passion for education."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me," Shadowflame said, and somehow you could hear the smile in his voice. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Can I surrender now?"
"You can absolutely surrender. In fact, I highly recommend it. Surrendering is an excellent life choice when faced with overwhelming force and the possibility of becoming a small pile of ash with delusions of grandeur."
That's when things got really interesting.
---
From their position behind what used to be a decorative garden wall but was now more of a abstract sculpture titled "What Happens to Landscaping During Magical Battles," Young Justice watched their friend and teammate prepare to deliver what might have been the most educational beatdown in superhero history.
"Is it wrong that I'm kind of impressed?" Ron whispered, his blue eyes wide with the kind of awe usually reserved for witnessing genuine miracles or really good Quidditch matches. "Because I'm definitely impressed. This is the most impressive thing I've ever seen, and I once watched him explain Potions theory to Snape until Snape actually agreed with him."
"Completely wrong," Hermione replied firmly, though her voice carried a note of scientific fascination that suggested she was taking detailed mental notes for later analysis and possibly a research paper titled 'The Practical Applications of Stellar Energy in Conflict Resolution.' "We should be concerned about the potential for collateral damage, the magical energy expenditure, the psychological impact on both the villains and the surrounding civilian population, and the long-term implications of—"
"Hermione," Ginny interrupted gently, her voice carrying that particular mix of affection and amusement that came from years of friendship with the brightest witch of her age.
"Yes?"
"You're also impressed, aren't you?"
Hermione's silence was answer enough, which was unusual because Hermione's silences were rarer than unicorns and usually meant someone was in very serious trouble.
"I need to have a very long conversation with him about not giving me heart attacks," Zatanna muttered, her magical senses trying to process what they were witnessing. The power levels were off every chart she'd ever seen, the control was absolute and terrifying, and the sheer impossible beauty of what Harry was accomplishing was making her reconsider everything she thought she knew about the limits of magical ability.
"Among other topics," Raven agreed gravely, her violet eyes fixed on something beyond the visible spectrum that was probably either very important or very ominous. Possibly both.
"Such as?" Susan asked, sparks dancing around her in patterns that suggested she was either really excited or preparing to accidentally set something on fire. With Susan, it was usually both.
"Such as how he's apparently become a living star without mentioning it to anyone," Raven replied in her eternally helpful way. "That seems like the kind of thing you'd want to put in your dating profile. 'Enjoys long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and operating at stellar energy levels. Must be comfortable with occasional reality manipulation and making supervillains question their life choices.'"
"Don't forget 'casual physics lectures during combat situations,'" Fred added, apparently having recovered from his temporary speechlessness. "That's definitely boyfriend material right there."
"Very romantic," George agreed. "Nothing says 'I love you' like explaining thermodynamics while defeating evil."
"Will you all please focus?" Zatanna hissed, though her voice carried a note of fond exasperation that suggested she was getting used to this particular brand of chaos. "My boyfriend is about to either save the world or accidentally break it, and you're making relationship jokes!"
"We're making relationship jokes because your boyfriend is about to save the world," the twins said in perfect unison, their identical grins suggesting they were enjoying this entirely too much. "This is how we cope with Harry Potter being Harry Potter. We make jokes, we provide running commentary, and we try not to think too hard about the implications of dating someone who can apparently rewrite the laws of physics when he gets annoyed."
"The implications are terrifying," Daphne observed, ice crystals swirling around her in increasingly complex patterns that suggested she was either nervous or working through some very advanced magical calculations. "But also oddly attractive. There's something to be said for a boyfriend who can literally move mountains if he puts his mind to it."
"As long as he doesn't move them accidentally," Susan added. "That would be awkward to explain to the insurance company."
That's when the real show began.
---
Shadowflame raised his sword high above his head, and the blade began to sing with increasing intensity, producing harmonics that made reality itself sit up and pay attention. The sound wasn't just music—it was the fundamental frequency of creation itself, the note that stars hummed when they were born and galaxies whistled when they danced across the cosmos.
"Final lesson," he announced, his voice carrying that particular tone that teachers used when they were about to assign homework that would change your entire understanding of the subject and possibly your entire worldview. "Power without wisdom is just destruction. It's loud, it's flashy, it makes impressive craters, but ultimately it doesn't accomplish anything meaningful."
He paused, letting that sink in while his sword continued its cosmic aria.
"Wisdom without power is just philosophy," he continued. "It's nice to think about, makes for good conversation at parties, but when push comes to shove, it can't actually change anything important."
The seven villains watched him with the kind of fascinated horror usually reserved for watching natural disasters in slow motion, except the natural disaster was giving a lecture and making very good points.
"But wisdom and power together?" Shadowflame asked, bringing the sword down in a perfect arc that split the air itself and made physics take very detailed notes.
The wave of energy that erupted from the blade wasn't fire, wasn't magic, wasn't anything that had a name in any language spoken by mortals or immortals or anyone in between. It was pure creation given form and purpose, the kind of force that stars used to light themselves and galaxies used to organize their cosmic dance cards.
It washed over the seven villains like a tsunami made of concentrated enlightenment, and when it passed, they were...
Still there.
Still breathing.
Still conscious.
But absolutely, completely, and utterly defeated.
Not injured—Shadowflame had been very careful about that, because good teachers didn't actually hurt their students even when they were being particularly difficult. They were just... done. The fight had gone out of them like air from a punctured balloon, leaving them sitting in the ruined botanical district looking like they'd just been handed a comprehensive final exam on a subject they'd never studied and discovered they'd failed so spectacularly that new grading scales had to be invented to properly measure their lack of understanding.
The magical containment field—Wotan's masterpiece that probably cost more than most small countries' annual budgets, and represented centuries of accumulated magical knowledge—shattered like spun glass in a hurricane. The pieces fell to the ground with tiny musical notes that sounded almost apologetic, as if the spell itself was embarrassed about the whole situation.
In the sudden silence that followed, Shadowflame landed gently in the center of the destruction, his flames slowly dimming from "small sun having a bad day" back to "really impressive bonfire with good management skills." His armor had cooled from white-hot to merely glowing, and his wings folded back into something that looked almost human-sized, if humans routinely grew wings made of concentrated starlight.
He looked around at the seven villains—who were now sitting in various poses of defeat and existential contemplation—and shook his head with the kind of disappointed expression that teachers usually reserved for students who'd forgotten to do their homework for the third time in a week and then tried to claim their dog had eaten it.
"This could have been so much simpler," he said, his voice carrying the weary tone of someone who'd just finished explaining basic physics to people who insisted that gravity was a matter of personal opinion. "You could have just asked nicely. Used your words like civilized beings. 'Please don't interfere with our evil plans.' 'We'll consider alternative approaches that don't involve terrorizing innocent people.' 'Maybe we could work out some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement that doesn't end with us questioning our entire worldview and possibly our life choices.'"
The Joker, for the first time in anyone's memory, was completely speechless. He was staring at Shadowflame with the kind of fascinated horror usually reserved for watching car accidents in slow motion, except the car accident was happening to his entire understanding of how the universe worked and possibly his sense of personal identity.
"But no," Shadowflame continued, walking over to examine the remains of what had once been a really nice fountain but was now more of a modern art installation titled "What Happens When You Annoy a Demigod with Good Educational Instincts." "You had to go with the 'trap the teenager in a magical death circle' approach. You had to make it complicated. You had to turn a simple disagreement into a comprehensive lesson on the nature of power and the importance of good decision-making skills."
"We..." Black Adam started, then stopped. He looked around at his defeated teammates, at the destruction surrounding them, at the young man who'd just redefined what it meant to be outclassed so thoroughly that new dictionaries would need to be written.
"We may have miscalculated," he finished weakly, his divine authority reduced to something closer to divine confusion mixed with grudging respect.
"You think?" Shadowflame asked dryly. "What was your first clue? The part where your magical death trap failed to work? The part where I started giving physics lectures while dismantling your entire battle strategy? Or the part where I demonstrated that stellar energy output is significantly more impressive than anything you brought to this particular educational experience?"
"All of the above?" the Joker suggested helpfully.
"Good answer. See? You can learn. I knew there was hope for you."
That's when they heard the slow clapping.
---
The applause started soft, barely audible above the sound of settling debris and the distant wail of sirens and possibly news helicopters. But it grew steadily louder, accompanied by footsteps that seemed to echo with the weight of centuries and really excellent dramatic timing that suggested someone had been practicing their villain entrances.
Everyone—heroes and villains alike—turned toward the sound with the kind of synchronized precision that would have made choreographers weep with envy.
Vandal Savage stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the district like he'd been waiting there the entire time, which he probably had been because patience was one of those skills you picked up when you'd been alive for fifty thousand years and had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations from the front row.
His massive frame was silhouetted against the ruined landscape, and his ancient dark eyes—the kind that had seen empires rise and fall and found most of them disappointingly predictable—were fixed on Shadowflame with the kind of intense interest that made everyone else very nervous about their immediate future and possibly their long-term survival prospects.
His weathered face, carved by millennia of experience and probably some really interesting skincare routines involving rare minerals and the blood of his enemies, wore an expression of genuine admiration mixed with something that might have been hunger. Not physical hunger—the kind of intellectual hunger that came from finally finding something genuinely interesting after centuries of being bored by lesser mortals and their predictable ambitions.
"Magnificent," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent battlefield with the kind of authority that came from having personally witnessed the invention of fire, the development of language, and probably the creation of really good wine. "Absolutely magnificent. I haven't seen a display of power like that since... well, since I was considerably younger and the world was considerably more interesting."
Shadowflame turned to face this new arrival, his flames flickering back to life around his armor like candles being relit by an invisible hand. His grip tightened on his sword, and his wings spread slightly—not in aggression, but in the kind of readiness that suggested he was prepared for whatever came next and probably had contingency plans for several things that hadn't even happened yet.
"Vandal Savage," he said, his voice steady as bedrock and twice as immovable. "Should have known you'd show up eventually. You've got that whole 'mysterious immortal observer' thing down to an art form. What do you want? And please tell me it's not another lecture about the natural order of things and the inevitable triumph of the strong over the weak, because I've had a really long day and my patience for philosophical discussions about social Darwinism is running dangerously low."
Savage's smile was the kind of expression that suggested he knew something everyone else didn't, and what he knew was going to change everything in ways that most people wouldn't appreciate until it was far too late to do anything about it. It was the smile of someone who'd been playing chess while everyone else was playing checkers, and had just realized the game was about to begin.
---
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