The years between Harry's fifth birthday and Peter and MJ's eleventh passed in a blur of carefully managed magical incidents, whispered conversations with professors, and the gradual expansion of their magical circle. What had started as three children discovering their abilities had grown into something much larger and more complex.
—
The Watson Revelation
The conversation with Philip and Madeline Watson had been, in MJ's words, "like watching my parents' entire understanding of reality get turned upside down and shaken like a snow globe." Professor McGonagall had arrived on a Tuesday evening in March, her presence lending official weight to what might otherwise have sounded like an elaborate prank.
Philip Watson stood in his living room, tall and angular, running his hands through his graying hair in that particular way he had when trying to process impossible information. His mind, accustomed to the logical progression of academic research, was attempting to categorize and file away concepts that defied categorization.
"Magic," he repeated slowly, his voice carrying that distinctive cadence of someone working through a complex theorem, staring at the teacup McGonagall had just transformed into a mouse and back again. "Our daughter has... magic. Actual, literal, scientifically impossible magic."
"Well, not scientifically impossible," he corrected himself immediately, because Philip Watson was constitutionally incapable of letting an inaccurate statement stand. "Obviously it's not impossible if it's happening right in front of me. Just... operating according to principles that current scientific understanding hasn't... hasn't catalogued yet."
Tu
McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been approval. "That is a remarkably rational response to the impossible, Mr. Watson."
"Oh, he's always like this," Madeline interjected with fond exasperation, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "When MJ was three and claimed she could talk to the neighbor's cat, Philip spent two weeks researching feline communication patterns before admitting that maybe something unusual was happening."
"I maintain that thorough investigation is the appropriate response to anomalous phenomena," Philip replied with dignity, then paused. "Although I admit that 'magic' wasn't one of my working hypotheses."
MJ, perched on the edge of the couch between her parents, was wîiickpkatching this exchange with barely contained delight. At nine years old, she had developed a sophisticated appreciation for her father's particular brand of intellectual overthinking.
"Dad," she said with patience beyond her years, "remember when you spent six months trying to figure out the mathematical probability of me guessing every multiple choice answer correctly on my practice tests?"
"That was legitimate statistical analysis," Philip protested. "The odds of randomly achieving those results were approximately—"
"Fourteen million to one," MJ finished. "I remember. You made charts."
"Good charts," he defended. "Very informative charts that clearly demonstrated that either you had developed unprecedented test-taking intuition, or something genuinely unusual was occurring."
"Quite considerable magical ability, actually," McGonagall interjected with her characteristic directness. "The prescient dreams and linguistic intuition she's demonstrated suggest she may have natural gifts for Divination and Ancient Runes."
Madeline, who had been listening to this exchange with the expression of someone watching a tennis match played with concepts instead of balls, suddenly focused on the practical implications.
"And she'll need to go to boarding school in Scotland," she said faintly, sinking deeper into her chair.
"Well," McGonagall replied with what might have been the ghost of a smile, "that depends entirely on her citizenship status and the negotiations currently underway between the British Ministry of Magic and the Magical Congress of the United States of America."
Philip's head snapped up with the alertness of someone who had just heard his favorite type of complex problem. "Negotiations? What kind of negotiations? Are we talking about educational treaties? International jurisdiction agreements? Immigration law?"
"All of the above," McGonagall replied crisply. "Plus several categories of magical law that have no non-magical equivalent."
"Oh, this is going to be fascinating," Philip said with genuine enthusiasm, completely forgetting his earlier overwhelm in favor of intellectual curiosity. "Madeline, do you realize we're witnessing the development of unprecedented international magical educational policy? The bureaucratic implications alone—"
"Philip," Madeline interrupted gently, "our daughter is magical and might have to go to school in another country."
"Right. Yes." Philip's expression shifted back to parental concern. "That's... that's the important part here. Our daughter. Not the fascinating bureaucratic processes that will determine her educational future."
MJ grinned at her parents. "I love you guys. Dad, you can research the magical bureaucracy all you want. Just... maybe after you finish processing the fact that I can actually do magic?"
"Oh, I've processed that," Philip said with a wave of his hand. "Magic exists, you have it, Professor McGonagall is here to help us understand the educational implications. What I'm having trouble processing is the idea of you being thousands of miles away for most of the year."
Madeline reached over and squeezed MJ's hand. "We just found out our daughter is extraordinary in ways we never imagined. The last thing we want is to send her away before we've had time to... to understand what this means for our family."
McGonagall's expression softened in a way that suggested she'd had this conversation with many worried parents.
"Mrs. Watson," she said gently, "I understand your concerns. But I think you'll find that the proposed arrangement may address many of them in ways you haven't yet considered."
Which had led to the most complicated year and a half of bureaucratic wrangling that Ben Parker had ever witnessed from the outside.
---
The International Exchange Program
"The fundamental issue," Professor Dumbledore had explained during one of his increasingly frequent visits to the Parker household, his voice carrying that particular warmth that made even the most complex problems seem manageable, "is that American magical children fall under the jurisdiction of MACUSA—the Magical Congress of the United States of America. Normally, Peter and Mary Jane would be expected to attend either Salem Witches' Institute or Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Ben Parker, comfortable in his favorite armchair with a cup of coffee that had gone cold while he tried to follow the intricacies of international magical law, looked up with the expression of a man trying to navigate unfamiliar but important territory.
"But?" he prompted, because Ben had learned over the years that most conversations that started with 'normally' were heading somewhere decidedly abnormal.
"But Harry's unique circumstances, combined with the remarkable magical resonance between the three children, present an opportunity for unprecedented international cooperation," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with the particular satisfaction of someone who had spent months engineering exactly this outcome.
May, curled up on the couch with her own coffee and a legal pad covered in notes from previous conversations about magical education, gave Dumbledore the look she usually reserved for Peter when he was being deliberately evasive about something important.
"Professor Dumbledore," she said with the gentle firmness that had made her an effective nurse and an even more effective aunt, "that's a very diplomatic way of not answering Ben's question. What aren't you telling us?"
Dumbledore chuckled, a warm sound that filled their living room with something approaching paternal fondness.
"You have an excellent instinct for detecting incomplete information, Mrs. Parker. What I hadn't mentioned initially is that MACUSA has been looking for an excuse to establish stronger ties with British magical education for years. The American magical schools, while excellent, have different strengths and specialties than Hogwarts, and there has been growing interest in creating some kind of exchange program."
"And Harry being famous in the magical world gives you the leverage you need to make that happen," Ben said with the understanding of someone who had spent years working with people and understanding how systems actually functioned.
"Harry Potter's presence provides the perfect catalyst," Dumbledore agreed. "Though I prefer to think of it as an opportunity rather than leverage."
Peter, who had been listening to this conversation from his position on the floor where he was supposedly doing homework but actually absorbing every word, looked up with nine-year-old directness.
"So basically, me and MJ get to go to Hogwarts with Harry because Harry's famous and the magical governments want to be friends with each other?"
"That's... not entirely inaccurate," Dumbledore replied with evident amusement.
"Cool," Peter said, and went back to his homework with the casual acceptance that characterized his approach to most magical complications.
"You're telling me," Ben said slowly, setting down his coffee and leaning forward with the posture of someone working through the implications, "that Harry being famous in the magical world is actually helping Peter and MJ go to school with him?"
"In essence, yes. MACUSA is quite interested in maintaining positive relations with the family of the Boy Who Lived. And I have proposed an exchange program that benefits magical education on both sides of the Atlantic."
May made a note on her legal pad, then looked up with the practical concern that always emerged when she was trying to plan for unusual circumstances.
"And how long did you say these negotiations were going to take?"
"Ah," Dumbledore said with the slight pause of someone delivering news they knew wouldn't be entirely welcome. "International magical bureaucracy moves at its own pace. I'm afraid we're looking at approximately eighteen months before final approvals are in place."
"Eighteen months," Ben repeated, glancing at Peter and MJ, who were both trying to look like they weren't hanging on every word of this conversation. "That takes us right up to when they'd be starting school anyway."
"Indeed. Which gives us time to identify the other participants in the program and ensure that everyone is properly prepared for the transition."
The program, when it was finally approved after exactly eighteen months and two weeks of negotiations, was surprisingly comprehensive. Five American students would attend Hogwarts for their complete magical education, while the next year five British students would attend Ilvermorny. The exchange would be permanent rather than temporary, allowing for deep cultural and educational integration.
"And how," May had asked during one of the final planning meetings, her legal pad now filled with multiple pages of notes and questions, "do you choose five American children for this opportunity?"
"Very carefully," Dumbledore had replied with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he had been looking forward to this question.
---
The Selection Process
The selection of the other three American students had been a process that combined magical ability with psychological compatibility. Dumbledore and the MACUSA representative, a sharp-eyed witch named Aurora Sinclair who spoke with the precision of someone accustomed to navigating complex political situations, had spent months identifying candidates.
Aurora Sinclair was the kind of woman who could make bureaucratic efficiency look like an art form. She had arrived for her first meeting with the Parker family wearing robes that managed to look both traditionally magical and professionally contemporary, carrying a leather portfolio that contained what appeared to be several inches of carefully organized documentation.
"The selection process," she had explained in her clear, authoritative voice, "requires us to consider not just magical ability, but compatibility with the existing group dynamic, academic preparation, family stability, and psychological resilience."
"That sounds incredibly complicated," May had observed.
"It is incredibly complicated," Aurora had agreed with a slight smile. "Which is why we've been working on it for the better part of a year."
The first candidate they had identified was Ned Leeds, a cheerful eleven-year-old from Brooklyn whose magical talent manifested as an extraordinary ability with magical creatures and an intuitive understanding of complex magical theory that far exceeded his age.
George Leeds was a Brooklyn public school teacher who had spent thirty years dealing with every possible variety of childhood chaos, so when his son started attracting stray cats, healing injured birds, and somehow knowing when the neighbor's elderly dog was going to get sick, George had taken it in stride with the pragmatic acceptance of someone who had learned that weird things happened to kids sometimes.
"Look," George had said during his first meeting with Aurora Sinclair, his Brooklyn accent making everything sound simultaneously practical and slightly confrontational, "I don't pretend to understand what's going on with Ned. But the kid's happy, he's not hurting anybody, and if you're telling me there's a school where he can learn how to do... whatever it is he's doing... then I'm listening."
His wife, Helen, had been more emotional about the whole situation.
"He's just so young," she had said, dabbing at her eyes with tissues while trying to maintain her composure. "And this school is so far away. How do we know he'll be okay? How do we know he'll fit in?"
"Ned's magical signature suggests he'll be particularly gifted at Care of Magical Creatures and possibly Arithmancy," Aurora had explained patiently. "But more importantly, his personality profile indicates he'll integrate well with your existing group. He's loyal, kind, and has a natural inclination toward friendship rather than competition."
When they had finally arranged for Ned to meet Peter, MJ, and Harry, the result had been immediate and obvious compatibility. Ned had walked into the Parker living room, taken one look at the three friends, and announced with characteristic Brooklyn directness, "You guys seem cool. Want to see me make plants grow really fast?"
The second candidate was Felicia Hardy, a sharp-minded girl from Manhattan whose magical abilities seemed to center around luck manipulation and probability alteration.
Walter Hardy was a museum security consultant who had built his career on understanding how people moved through spaces, how systems failed, and how to prevent both accidental damage and deliberate theft. So when his daughter started finding lost objects with uncanny precision, avoiding accidents that should have been unavoidable, and somehow always ending up in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, Walter had noticed.
"At first I thought she was just observant," Walter had explained to Aurora during their initial consultation, his British accent carrying the careful precision of someone accustomed to writing detailed reports. "But then I started keeping track. The statistical probability of the things that happen around Felicia... it's not normal."
Felicia's mother had been less analytical and more worried.
"She's not doing anything wrong," she had insisted. "But sometimes it feels like the world just... arranges itself around her. Like reality bends a little bit to make sure things work out in her favor."
"Miss Hardy presents some interesting challenges," McGonagall had noted during the evaluation process, with characteristic understatement. "Her magical gifts could easily be turned toward... less constructive purposes. But placed in the right environment, with the right influences, she could become an extraordinary witch."
"You mean she could use her luck magic for bad things?" Harry had asked with nine-year-old directness during one of their planning meetings.
"I mean she'll need friends who help her understand that true luck comes from making good choices, not just manipulating outcomes," Dumbledore had replied gently.
When Felicia had finally been introduced to the group, she had spent the first hour sitting quietly in the corner, watching the other children interact with the wariness of someone accustomed to being either feared or misunderstood. But MJ's straightforward friendliness and Peter's genuine scientific curiosity about her abilities had gradually drawn her into the conversation.
"You know what I like about you guys?" Felicia had said eventually, after Peter had spent twenty minutes asking detailed questions about exactly how her probability manipulation worked and MJ had simply accepted the demonstration as if magical luck was the most normal thing in the world. "You don't act like I'm scary or dangerous just because my magic is weird."
"All magic is weird," Harry had replied matter-of-factly. "That's what makes it magic instead of just... regular stuff."
The third candidate was Gwen Stacy, whose magical talents were perhaps the most unusual of all.
Captain George Stacy was a twenty-year veteran of the NYPD who had seen enough strange things in his career to maintain a healthy skepticism about most unusual claims. But when his daughter started demonstrating reflexes that defied human limitation, balance that seemed to ignore gravity, and an investigative intuition that consistently led her to solutions that experienced detectives missed, George had been forced to consider possibilities that weren't covered in any police manual.
"I've been a cop for twenty years," George had told Aurora during their first meeting, his voice carrying the measured tone of someone accustomed to giving testimony. "I know the difference between normal good instincts and something genuinely unusual. What Gwen can do... it's not normal."
"Can you give me a specific example?" Aurora had asked, making notes in her professional portfolio.
"Last month, she was playing in the park when she suddenly grabbed a toddler and pulled him away from the swing set. Three seconds later, one of the swings broke and would have hit the kid right where he'd been standing. When I asked her how she knew, she said the chain 'looked wrong' even though I examined it later and the failure point was completely internal."
"Miss Stacy's magical profile is quite remarkable," Aurora had explained to the Parker family during one of their coordination meetings. "Enhanced reflexes, improved balance and coordination, and what appears to be an innate ability to understand the connections between seemingly unrelated events. She'd make an excellent Auror someday, if that's the path she chooses."
"An Auror?" Peter had asked, looking up from the homework he was definitely not doing while listening to the adults talk.
"A magical law enforcement officer," McGonagall had clarified. "They investigate magical crimes and apprehend dark wizards."
"Like magical police?" MJ had said with immediate interest.
"Something like that, yes."
Gwen had fit into the group as naturally as if she had always been part of it, her investigative instincts perfectly complementing Peter's scientific approach and MJ's intuitive understanding. Within weeks of her first meeting with the others, she and Peter had developed a friendship based on their shared fascination with understanding how things worked—whether those things were magical abilities, complex problems, or the social dynamics of their expanding friend group.
---
The Growing Community
What none of the adults had quite anticipated was how naturally the six children would bond once they were all aware of their magical abilities. Monthly gatherings had been arranged, ostensibly for "acclimatization and preparation," but in practice they had become elaborate playdate-slash-study sessions where six magical children worked out their abilities together under the watchful eye of various professors.
The first official gathering had been held at the Parker house on a Saturday afternoon in October, with all six children, their parents, and Professor McGonagall crowded into the living room for what Aurora had described as "preliminary compatibility assessment."
Ned had immediately attached himself to Harry with the enthusiasm of someone who had found his perfect complement. Where Harry was intuitive and impulsive, Ned was methodical and careful. Where Harry's magic burst out in moments of strong emotion, Ned's magic seemed to flow constantly in small, helpful ways.
"It's like having a magical assistant," Peter had observed, watching Ned somehow convince a stubborn jar of pickles to open for Harry without even touching it.
"I prefer to think of it as collaborative magic," Ned had replied seriously, then grinned with the infectious happiness that characterized most of his interactions. "But yeah, Harry and I just... work well together."
"How does that work exactly?" Gwen had asked with the systematic curiosity that she brought to all interesting problems. "The collaborative magic thing? Are you sharing magical energy, or complementing each other's abilities, or..."
"I think we're just really good at understanding what the other person needs," Harry had said thoughtfully. "Like, when I get frustrated because something isn't working the way I want it to, Ned always knows how to help me think about it differently."
"And when Ned gets overwhelmed by all the magical stuff happening around him, I can help him focus on just one thing at a time," Harry had added.
Professor McGonagall, who had been taking notes throughout this exchange, had looked up with evident satisfaction.
"That kind of intuitive magical cooperation is quite rare," she had told the parents who were watching this interaction with various degrees of amazement. "It suggests that these children will be able to support each other through the more challenging aspects of magical education."
Felicia had taken longer to integrate, her natural wariness warring with genuine fascination for this group of children who seemed so effortlessly accepting of magical weirdness. But MJ's straightforward friendship and Peter's scientific curiosity about her abilities had gradually won her over.
The breakthrough had come during their third group meeting, when Peter had spent an entire afternoon asking Felicia detailed questions about exactly how her probability manipulation worked, with the genuine scientific interest of someone trying to understand a fascinating new phenomenon rather than the fearful curiosity of someone confronted with something dangerous.
"You know what I like about you guys?" Felicia had said during that meeting, after she had successfully taught Peter how to influence coin flips through careful magical suggestion and MJ had taken dozens of photos to document the process. "You don't act like I'm scary or dangerous just because my magic is weird."
"All magic is weird," Harry had replied matter-of-factly. "That's what makes it magic instead of just... regular stuff."
"Besides," Peter had added with the logical directness that characterized his approach to most problems, "your magic isn't any weirder than mine. I can stick to walls and lift things that should be way too heavy for me. That's pretty weird too."
"And I dream about things before they happen," MJ had contributed. "Which is definitely weird."
"And I can talk to snakes," Harry had said cheerfully. "Which is apparently really weird even by magical standards."
Gwen had fit in as if she had always been part of the group, her investigative instincts perfectly complementing Peter's scientific approach and MJ's intuitive understanding. Within months, she and Peter had developed a friendship based on their shared fascination with understanding how things worked—whether those things were magical abilities, complex problems, or the social dynamics of their expanding friend group.
"I think," Ben had confided to May after one particularly chaotic but successful gathering where six magical children had somehow managed to reorganize their entire living room furniture using various combinations of their abilities, "we're watching something pretty special here."
"You mean six magical children who are definitely going to give their teachers heart attacks?" May had replied with fond concern, surveying the living room that now looked like it had been arranged by someone with a completely different understanding of how furniture was supposed to work.
"I mean six children who are going to change the magical world," Ben had said quietly, watching Peter explain to Ned and Gwen exactly how he had managed to stick the coffee table to the ceiling while Harry and MJ worked together to make sure it would stay there. "Maybe both magical worlds."
---
## Present Day - The Morning of Departure
Now, two years later, the Parker household was in the kind of organized chaos that only occurred when multiple families were trying to coordinate something unprecedented while managing the emotional complexity of a major separation.
It was 6:30 in the morning, and the Parker living room looked like a staging area for a very unusual military operation. Trunks sat by the front door, packed with carefully selected belongings and labeled with the kind of detailed organization that May Parker brought to all important endeavors. Suitcases for the parents were stacked nearby, because this wasn't just a drop-off—this was a full family expedition to see Diagon Alley and get their first real look at the magical world their children would be inhabiting.
Ben stood in the kitchen, making his fourth pot of coffee of the morning while trying to project an air of calm competence that wasn't entirely authentic. He was wearing his best khakis and a button-down shirt that May had ironed specifically for this occasion, because even though they were traveling by magical means to a magical destination, some things required proper preparation.
"Peter!" he called toward the staircase. "You ready up there? Professor McGonagall said the Portkey doesn't wait for anybody, and I don't want to find out what happens if we miss our magical flight!"
"Almost ready!" Peter's voice drifted down from his bedroom, followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. "I'm just trying to fit everything into my trunk!"
"What exactly is 'everything'?" May called back, appearing in the kitchen doorway with her hair pulled back and wearing the kind of practical outfit she usually reserved for particularly challenging days at the hospital. "Because we went over the packing list seventeen times, and everything on that list should fit in your trunk with room to spare."
"Well," Peter's voice carried the defensive tone of someone who knew they were about to be caught doing something they weren't supposed to be doing, "the official packing list didn't account for all the extra stuff Harry wanted me to take."
Ben and May exchanged a look that conveyed entire volumes of parental communication about the ways in which their children consistently exceeded expectations for creative problem-solving.
"What kind of extra stuff?" May asked with the patient tone of someone preparing to solve a logistical problem.
Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, his nine-year-old face wearing an expression of determined helpfulness that both adults recognized as a warning sign.
"Just important stuff!" Harry called down. "Like extra photos of all of us, and letters for Peter to open when he misses home, and emergency chocolate, and the compass Uncle Ben gave him, and—"
"And about fifteen other things that seemed really important when we were packing them last night," Peter finished, appearing next to Harry with his hair sticking up in all directions and his trunk balanced precariously in his arms.
"Harry," May said gently, "sweetie, Peter can't take everything. His trunk has to fit on the magical transportation, and he needs room for all the school supplies he's going to buy today."
"But what if he needs something we didn't think of?" Harry asked with the serious concern of someone who had been worrying about this possibility for weeks. "What if magic school is completely different from what we imagined and he needs something important that we forgot?"
Ben set down his coffee and walked over to the bottom of the stairs, looking up at both boys with the expression of someone who understood that this conversation was about much more than overpacking.
"Harry," he said quietly, "come down here for a minute."
Harry carefully navigated the stairs, his expression showing the kind of careful control that suggested he was working hard to be mature about something that was actually making him quite anxious.
Ben crouched down so he was at Harry's eye level, a gesture that had become routine for important conversations over the past five years.
"You know what I think?" Ben said conversationally. "I think you're worried that if Peter doesn't have everything he might possibly need, something bad might happen to him."
Harry nodded seriously, not quite trusting his voice.
"And I think you're trying to solve that problem by making sure he has everything you can think of that might help him."
Another nod.
"That's very thoughtful of you," Ben continued. "And it shows how much you love Peter and want him to be okay. But you know what's going to help Peter more than having extra stuff?"
"What?" Harry asked quietly.
"Knowing that he has a little brother who believes in him," Ben said with quiet conviction. "Knowing that he has a family who trusts him to figure things out and handle whatever comes up. Knowing that we're proud of him and confident that he can take care of himself and his friends."
Harry considered this with the seriousness he brought to all important information.
"So I should stop trying to pack extra stuff for him?" he asked.
"I think you should trust Peter to know what he needs," Ben replied. "And trust that if he needs something he doesn't have, he's smart enough and resourceful enough to figure out how to get it or do without it."
"But what if—"
"Harry." Ben's voice was gentle but firm. "What if we focus on what we know instead of what we're worried about? We know Peter is smart. We know he's got good friends who will help him. We know the professors at Hogwarts have been teaching children for a very long time and they know how to keep them safe. We know that Professor McGonagall wouldn't be taking him somewhere that wasn't safe."
Harry nodded slowly, processing this logic with the careful attention he gave to all of Ben's important advice.
"Okay," he said finally. "But I still want him to have the emergency chocolate. Just in case."
Ben smiled, ruffling Harry's hair with paternal affection. "I think emergency chocolate is always a good idea."
Peter, who had been listening to this exchange from the top of the stairs, came down carrying a much more reasonably sized trunk.
"I kept the emergency chocolate," he told Harry seriously. "And the letters, and one photo of all of us. But I left the compass here so you can take care of it while I'm gone."
"Really?" Harry asked, brightening considerably.
"Really. That way I'll know it's safe, and you'll have something of mine to look after until I come home for Christmas."
May, who had been watching this interaction with the expression of someone trying not to cry at 6:45 in the morning, cleared her throat and announced with determined cheerfulness, "Breakfast is ready! And we need to eat quickly because the other families are going to be here in thirty minutes."
The kitchen table had been expanded with folding chairs to accommodate what May had privately started thinking of as "the magical breakfast summit." She had made enough pancakes, eggs, and bacon to feed a small army, because she had learned over the years that nervous energy required substantial fuel.
Harry, his anxiety somewhat relieved by his conversation with Ben, had recovered enough appetite to apply himself seriously to his breakfast. Peter was eating with the mechanical efficiency of someone whose stomach was too nervous for proper appetite but who understood the practical necessity of fuel.
"So," Ben said conversationally, buttering his toast with the kind of careful attention that suggested he was also managing his own anxiety, "who wants to remind me exactly what we're doing today? I want to make sure I understand the schedule."
"Portkey to Scotland at eight o'clock," Peter recited with the precision of someone who had reviewed this schedule multiple times. "Tour of Hogwarts with Professor Dumbledore. Lunch at the castle. Another Portkey to London. Shopping in Diagon Alley. Dinner somewhere in magical London. Portkey back to New York tomorrow morning."
"And we're staying where tonight?" May asked, consulting the notes she had written on a piece of paper that was now covered in multiple colors of ink representing various conversations and clarifications.
"The Leaky Cauldron," Peter replied. "Which is apparently a magical inn that's been around for like five hundred years and serves as the entrance to Diagon Alley."
"A five-hundred-year-old inn," Ben repeated thoughtfully. "That's older than our entire country."
"A lot of the magical world is older than our country," Harry added with nine-year-old matter-of-factness. "Professor Dumbledore told me that Hogwarts has been around for over a thousand years."
"A thousand years," May said softly. "That's... that's hard to even imagine."
The doorbell rang, cutting through their morning routine with the sharp reminder that this was actually happening, right now, today.
"That'll be the Watsons," Ben said, checking his watch with the precision of someone trying to maintain control over an inherently uncontrollable situation. "Right on time."
May opened the front door to reveal Philip and Madeline Watson, both wearing the kind of carefully selected outfits that suggested they had also spent considerable time thinking about what was appropriate for a day in the magical world. Behind them, MJ bounced slightly on her toes with nervous energy, her red hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and her backpack obviously stuffed with art supplies.
"Good morning!" Madeline called with the bright cheerfulness of someone working hard to project confidence. "Are we ready for our magical adventure?"
"As ready as we can be for something we've never done before," Ben replied with a grin, stepping aside to let them in.
Philip immediately gravitated toward the coffee pot with the focused intensity of someone who had been up late the night before making lists and contingency plans.
"I have questions," he announced without preamble, which was such a characteristic Philip Watson opening that everyone in the room immediately smiled.
"Of course you do," May said fondly. "What kind of questions?"
"Practical questions," Philip replied, accepting a mug of coffee with the gratitude of someone receiving a life-saving medication. "For instance, what's the exchange rate between American dollars and magical money? Are there magical customs regulations we need to be aware of? Do they have magical passports? What happens if someone gets motion sick during Portkey travel?"
"Dad," MJ said with fond exasperation, "you've been researching this for six weeks. Don't you already know the answers to most of those questions?"
"I know what the books say," Philip corrected. "But I want to know what the practical reality is going to be like. There's often a significant difference between theoretical knowledge and applied experience."
Madeline rolled her eyes affectionately. "He's been like this since Professor McGonagall first mentioned international magical travel. I caught him trying to research the physics of Portkey transportation at two in the morning last week."
"Did you find anything interesting?" Peter asked with genuine curiosity.
"Nothing conclusive," Philip replied with the disappointed tone of someone whose research had failed to yield satisfactory results. "The magical physics literature available to non-magical researchers is surprisingly limited."
"Probably because most of it doesn't make sense without actually being able to do magic," Harry suggested helpfully.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Philip muttered into his coffee.
The doorbell rang again, and this time it was George and Helen Leeds with Ned, followed immediately by the Hardy family, and finally the Stacys, until the Parker living room was full of nervous parents and excited children and enough luggage to supply a small expedition.
George Stacy, wearing his off-duty clothes but somehow still managing to look like a cop, took one look at the organized chaos and immediately appointed himself logistics coordinator.
"Alright," he announced with the authoritative tone that had served him well through twenty years of managing complex situations, "let's do a quick headcount and make sure everyone has everything they need before the professor gets here. Kids over here, parents over there, luggage by the door."
"I like him," Ben murmured to May, watching George efficiently organize eleven people and approximately seventeen pieces of luggage into something approaching manageable groups.
"He reminds me of you," May replied, "when you're trying to manage one of Peter's science fair projects."
Walter Hardy, who had been quietly observing this family chaos with the analytical eye of someone accustomed to assessing security situations, spoke up with his precise British accent.
"Has anyone actually done magical travel before, or are we all about to experience this together?"
"All together," Helen Leeds replied with nervous laughter. "Though Professor McGonagall assured us that it's perfectly safe, even if it's not particularly comfortable."
"Define 'not particularly comfortable,'" Felicia's mother requested with the tone of someone who liked to be prepared for unpleasant experiences.
Gwen, who had been listening to this adult conversation with the focused attention she brought to all potentially useful information, looked up from where she was double-checking her packed belongings.
"Professor McGonagall said it feels like being grabbed behind the navel and yanked through space really fast," she reported with characteristic precision. "She also said it's over in about thirty seconds and that the main side effect is mild disorientation."
"Mild disorientation," George repeated with the skeptical tone of someone who had learned to be wary of official descriptions that used the word 'mild.' "In my experience, when officials say 'mild,' they usually mean 'you're going to hate this but it won't kill you.'"
"That's... probably accurate," Walter agreed with dry humor. "I've found that magical authorities have a tendency toward understatement when describing unpleasant experiences."
Ned, who had been quietly organizing his own belongings with the methodical care he brought to all important tasks, looked up with genuine concern.
"What if someone throws up during the magical travel?" he asked with the practical worry of someone who had a sensitive stomach. "Like, is that a normal thing that happens, or would that be really embarrassing?"
"Oh honey," Helen said immediately, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder with maternal reassurance, "I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time, if it happened. These professors have been doing this for years."
"Besides," Peter added with the logical optimism that characterized his approach to most problems, "we're all going to be experiencing it together. If someone gets sick, we'll all be too busy dealing with our own weirdness to judge anybody else."
"That's actually a really good point," MJ said thoughtfully. "We're going to be too busy being amazed and terrified and excited to worry about normal embarrassing stuff."
"Plus," Felicia added with a slight grin, "if my luck magic works the way I think it does, probably none of us will throw up anyway. The universe seems to like arranging things so that embarrassing stuff doesn't happen to people I'm friends with."
"Really?" Harry asked with immediate interest. "Your magic can do that?"
"I think so?" Felicia replied, sounding slightly uncertain. "It's hard to tell exactly how it works, but good stuff tends to happen around me, and bad stuff tends to... not."
"That's amazing," Ned said with genuine admiration. "My magic mostly just makes animals like me and helps me understand complicated things. Your magic actually changes how the world works."
"All magic changes how the world works," Philip interjected with the precision of someone who had spent considerable time thinking about magical theory. "The question is whether it changes reality temporarily, or whether it influences probability, or whether it operates according to principles we don't understand yet."
"Dad," MJ said with fond exasperation, "maybe save the magical physics discussion for after we've actually experienced magical travel?"
"That's an excellent point," Philip agreed. "Direct observation should precede theoretical analysis."
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