# The Next Morning – Departure and New Arrangements
The Leaky Cauldron at seven in the morning looked like Black Friday had collided with Comic-Con, gotten into a fight with a pet store, and somehow developed magical properties in the process. Trunks were stacked everywhere in precarious towers that defied both physics and common sense—some nearly toppling over because Ned had insisted on bringing his entire collection of "essential" comfort items (which apparently included seventeen different varieties of stress balls, a complete set of Star Wars figurines, and something he kept referring to as his "emergency snack reserve"). Pet carriers created a symphony that would have made Beethoven weep—meows, hoots, squeaks, the occasional indignant purr from Felicia's particularly dramatic cat Princess (yes, that was actually her name), and what sounded suspiciously like Felix the Pygmy Puff attempting to beatbox.
Five American families clustered around their luggage like generals planning D-Day, if D-Day had involved significantly more emotional support animals and at least three separate arguments about whether magical comic books counted as educational materials.
Aurora Sinclair stood near the fireplace looking like she'd stepped out of a particularly glamorous Ministry recruitment poster—the kind that made government work seem like it came with red carpets, award ceremonies, and a personal styling team. Her robes were midnight blue with silver threading that caught the morning light just so, her clipboard glowed with a faint magical aura that suggested it was powered by pure organizational excellence and possibly caffeine, and she had that air of effortless authority that could make international magical travel sound like the opening number of a Broadway musical about bureaucracy.
Which, frankly, Harry thought as he watched her organize chaos with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm, would probably be a pretty good musical.
McGonagall, meanwhile, looked like she'd already graded three stacks of essays, reorganized her desk drawers twice, personally inspected the structural integrity of every trunk in the room, and was now genuinely offended by the very concept of luggage chaos before seven AM. Her robes were so perfectly pressed they could have been used as a ruler, her bun was so precise it looked like it had been engineered by architects, and her eyes were sharp enough to cut glass, diamonds, and probably several international treaties.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor between Ben and May, methodically feeding strips of bacon to Minerva the owl (not the professor), who was perched regally on the back of his chair like she owned the establishment, half of London, and possibly a small percentage of the British magical economy. At nine years old, he had grown into his height just enough that his limbs didn't look quite so gangly, but he still moved with that particular loose-limbed ease of a kid who hadn't quite figured out where all his joints were supposed to go. His emerald green eyes—the kind of vivid green that made people do double-takes and wonder if they made contacts in that color—tracked every movement in the room with an intensity that seemed far too mature for his age, cataloguing details with the methodical precision of someone who knew that paying attention was the difference between understanding and being left behind.
His dark hair had reached that perfect stage of controlled chaos that looked effortless but probably took actual effort to achieve, falling across his forehead in a way that managed to look both boyish and somehow distinguished. When he concentrated, which was often, a little line appeared between his eyebrows that made him look like a very serious young professor contemplating a particularly challenging theorem.
"Okay," Harry said conversationally to Minerva, his voice carrying that slightly deeper tone that suggested he was hitting one of those growth spurts where kids started sounding almost like the adults they'd eventually become, "so far we've got magical transportation, magical hotels, magical schools, magical government paperwork, and now apparently magical scheduling systems. I'm starting to see a pattern here." He scratched Minerva under her chin with the kind of gentle precision that suggested he'd been around animals his whole life. "What do you think? Are magical tax forms a thing? Because honestly, that might be where I draw the line. Even magic has limits."
Minerva hooted what sounded distinctly like agreement, or possibly a request for more bacon. With owls, Harry had learned, the two were often indistinguishable.
"Harry," May laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair with the kind of fond exasperation that suggested this was a familiar conversation, "I don't think you have to worry about taxes for a few more years."
May Parker looked exactly like the kind of person who could manage a household of teenagers while maintaining both her sanity and her sense of humor—which was to say, she looked like she had superpowers. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun that somehow looked deliberate rather than chaotic, her jeans and sweater combination managed to look both practical and stylish, and she had that particular brand of patient authority that suggested she could handle pretty much anything short of an actual apocalypse, and even then she'd probably have contingency plans.
"You say that now," Harry said with the grave seriousness that only nine-year-olds could muster when discussing matters of profound importance, "but I bet there's a whole department at the Ministry just for Underage Wizard Tax Preparation. Department of Tiny Person Revenue or something. With forms that are literally designed to be impossible to understand because they're written entirely in bureaucratic riddles."
"Kid's got a point," Ben chuckled, the sound warm and fond in the way that suggested he'd been dealing with precocious children for years and found it more entertaining than exhausting.
Ben Parker had that particular quality that made people automatically trust him—the kind of steady, unflappable presence that suggested he'd been the designated adult in every crisis situation he'd ever encountered and had never once complained about it. His graying hair was neatly combed but still managed to look approachable, his button-down shirt and khakis were the uniform of a man who knew how to dress for any occasion, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that suggested he smiled more often than not.
"If they can make moving staircases that are apparently designed to torment students, they can definitely overcomplicate tax season. Probably with forms that literally move around while you're trying to fill them out."
Peter Parker was vibrating with barely contained energy in a way that suggested he'd had approximately three cups of coffee, two energy drinks, and was now physically incapable of staying still for more than thirty seconds at a time. His hair was doing that thing where it defied all known laws of physics and styling products, sticking up in twelve different directions despite his obvious attempts to tame it with what appeared to be an entire container of gel. He kept fidgeting with everything within reach—his wand (which he'd somehow managed to get ink stains on despite owning it for less than twenty-four hours), his backpack straps, the sleeve of his jacket, the corner of a nearby napkin, and what looked suspiciously like a small piece of string he'd found somewhere.
His brown eyes were bright with the kind of manic enthusiasm that suggested he was running seventeen different trains of thought simultaneously and all of them were traveling at maximum speed toward Exciting Destination Unknown. When he got particularly animated, which was most of the time, his voice cracked slightly in a way that suggested his body hadn't quite caught up with his brain's enthusiasm levels.
"Do you think," Peter said, bouncing slightly on his toes in a rhythm that seemed to match whatever hyperactive song was playing in his head, "that when they say 'magical practice facilities,' they mean like... actual practice? Like spell practice? With moving targets? Or obstacles? Or maybe—oh God, what if they have like magical training dummies? Like the kind that fight back? That would be so—wait, do you think they have magical obstacle courses? Like American Ninja Warrior but with magic? Because that would be literally the coolest thing in the entire history of cool things."
He paused for approximately half a second, his eyes widening as another thought occurred to him.
"Or what if it's like a magical gym? With equipment that adapts to your skill level? Or responds to your emotional state? Or—oh man—what if the equipment is alive? Like, sentient magical training equipment that gives you personalized feedback and maybe occasional life advice?"
"Peter," Gwen interrupted without looking up from her book, her voice carrying that particular brand of fond exasperation that suggested she'd been managing Peter's enthusiasm for years and had developed it into an art form, "breathe. You're going to hyperventilate before we even get there, and then we'll have to explain to the magical paramedics why our friend spontaneously combusted from excitement."
Gwen Stacy had that particular combination of intelligence and confidence that made her seem older than her fifteen years, but in a good way—like she'd figured out how to be competent without losing her sense of humor about it. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail that somehow still managed to look polished, her clothes were the kind of casually put-together combination that suggested she'd mastered the art of looking effortlessly stylish, and she had a way of multitasking that bordered on supernatural. She could carry on a conversation, read a book, mentally organize a complex project, and keep track of Peter's anxiety levels all simultaneously without seeming stressed about any of it.
"I'm not hyperventilating," Peter protested, his voice climbing into that higher register that suggested he was, in fact, at least approaching hyperventilation territory. "I'm just... enthusiastic. There's a difference. A significant difference. A scientifically measurable difference."
"The difference being?" MJ asked, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow with the kind of precision that suggested she'd been practicing that exact expression in mirrors and had now perfected it to the level of performance art.
MJ Watson had red hair that seemed to have been designed specifically to catch light in the most dramatic way possible, and the kind of sharp, expressive features that made every emotion look like it belonged in a movie scene. She moved with the controlled grace of someone who'd spent years in dance classes and theater rehearsals, and had a way of making even casual observations sound like perfectly timed punchlines. Her green eyes were bright with intelligence and just a hint of mischief that suggested she was always three steps ahead of whatever conversation was happening around her.
"Enthusiasm involves more hand gestures," Peter said with complete seriousness, demonstrating with an elaborate wave that nearly knocked over Ned's carefully balanced stack of comic books, sent a small avalanche of stress balls rolling across the floor, and somehow managed to startle Princess the cat, who responded with an indignant yowl that suggested Peter had personally offended her entire species.
"Hey!" Ned protested, diving to rescue his comics while simultaneously clutching Felix the Pygmy Puff protectively against his chest. "Watch the classics! These are first editions! Signed first editions! Some of them are literally irreplaceable!"
Ned Leeds had that particular brand of enthusiastic nerdiness that made him simultaneously endearing and slightly overwhelming. He was shorter and rounder than the other boys, with dark hair that always looked like he'd been running his hands through it while concentrating on something important, and expressive dark eyes that lit up whenever anyone mentioned anything even remotely related to his extensive list of interests, which included but was not limited to: comic books, science fiction, fantasy novels, collectible card games, video games, theoretical physics, and apparently now magical creatures.
Felix, perched on his shoulder, had somehow learned to coordinate his color changes with Ned's emotional state, currently cycling through excited shades of orange and yellow that made him look like a tiny, fluffy sunset.
"Ned," Felicia said, examining her nails with the casual precision of someone who knew they were perfect and was just double-checking to make sure the universe was still functioning correctly, "you realize you can probably buy magical comic books now, right? Like, comics where the characters actually move and probably have opinions about their storylines? That's either going to be the coolest thing ever or absolutely terrifying."
Felicia Hardy had that particular kind of beauty that looked effortless but probably required a significant amount of behind-the-scenes maintenance—silvery-blonde hair that fell in perfect waves, blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with perpetual mischief, and the kind of natural grace that made everything she did look like it had been choreographed. She had a way of delivering observations that were simultaneously completely casual and devastatingly accurate, like she'd been people-watching her entire life and had developed it into a superpower.
Ned's eyes went wide enough that they probably qualified as a medical condition. "Oh my God. Magical comic books. That's... that's..." He turned to Felix, his voice dropping to an awed whisper. "Did you hear that? We're going to live in the future. The actual future. With interactive entertainment media."
Felix squeaked what might have been agreement, excitement, or a demand for more treats. With Pygmy Puffs, Ned had discovered, it was often all three simultaneously.
"The future of entertainment," Ned continued, his voice taking on the reverent tone usually reserved for religious experiences, "where fictional characters can literally argue with you about plot holes. This is either going to revolutionize storytelling or create the first documented cases of people getting into actual fistfights with comic book characters."
"Why not both?" MJ asked cheerfully.
Aurora clapped her hands once, the sound crisp and commanding in that particular way that suggested she'd been trained in both public speaking and possibly crowd control. The effect was immediate—every conversation stopped, every head turned, and even the pets seemed to pay attention.
"Before we arrange your departure," Aurora announced, her voice carrying that elegant authority that suggested she could make reading the phone book sound like the opening keynote at a major conference, "we must address a few matters regarding magical practice and education during your stay in London."
"Uh-oh," Ned muttered, now clutching Felix like a furry stress ball with surprisingly effective calming properties. "That's the voice teachers use right before they tell you the fun part's illegal."
"Or expensive," MJ added, because at fifteen she'd already developed a healthy skepticism about authority figures who smiled too much and used phrases like "we must address."
"Or both," Gwen said, still not looking up from her book but clearly paying attention to every word. "It's definitely going to be both."
Harry, meanwhile, had gone very still in that particular way he had when adults were About To Explain Things That Would Probably Change Everything. His green eyes fixed on Aurora with laser focus, and even Minerva seemed to sense the shift in attention, turning her head to watch the proceedings with both amber eyes, her beak slightly open in what might have been anticipation or possibly just the owl equivalent of holding her breath.
"What kind of matters?" Ben asked, his voice carrying that warm but no-nonsense tone that suggested he'd been through approximately seventeen parent-teacher conferences, four different school disciplinary hearings, and at least one very awkward conversation with a guidance counselor, and wasn't easily intimidated by educational bureaucracy, magical or otherwise.
"The Trace," McGonagall announced crisply, like she was announcing a particularly difficult pop quiz that everyone should have been studying for but probably hadn't.
Five teenage heads swiveled toward her in perfect synchronization, like they'd been choreographed.
"Oh no," Peter said immediately, his voice climbing toward panic with impressive speed. "That sounds bad. That sounds really bad. Is it bad? It's bad, isn't it? On a scale of one to ten, how bad are we talking? Because my anxiety response is calibrated for like a seven, but if this is a nine or a ten I need to mentally prepare for—"
"Peter," May interrupted gently, reaching over to pat his shoulder with the practiced calm of someone who'd been managing Peter's anxiety spirals for years, "maybe let them explain before you assume the worst?"
"But I'm really good at assuming the worst," Peter protested, his hands gesturing wildly in a way that suggested his body language was now operating independently of his brain. "It's like my superpower. Well, one of them. I also have really good reflexes, an inability to shut up when nervous—which, fun fact, is most of the time—and an uncanny ability to find the most complicated possible solution to any simple problem."
"We've noticed," MJ said dryly, but her expression was fond rather than exasperated.
"The Trace," McGonagall continued, with the patience of someone who'd spent decades dealing with anxious teenagers and had developed immunity to dramatic outbursts, "is the magical monitoring system for underage wizards."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as every parent simultaneously entered Protective Mode.
"Monitoring?" Walter Hardy straightened, his voice taking on that edge that suggested his protective instincts were kicking in and his mental threat assessment protocols were now fully operational.
Walter had the kind of presence that suggested he'd spent years in situations where paying attention to details was literally a matter of life and death. His dark hair was shot through with silver in a way that made him look distinguished rather than old, his clothes were casual but somehow still looked like they'd been chosen with tactical considerations in mind, and his eyes were the kind of sharp, assessing blue that seemed to catalog everything in a room within the first thirty seconds of entering it.
"What kind of monitoring? Are we talking general location tracking, or full surveillance? Because I need to know if we're entering into some kind of magical privacy agreement that none of us have actually read the fine print on."
"The legal kind," Aurora assured him quickly, her diplomatic training clearly kicking into high gear. "It detects any underage magic performed in non-magical households."
"Which means," Gwen said, already connecting dots with the methodical precision of someone who'd inherited her father's analytical mind and her mother's practical intelligence, "anything we do at home will ping alarms. Magical alarms. Which are probably significantly more alarming than regular alarms."
"Precisely," McGonagall confirmed with the kind of crisp efficiency that suggested this conversation happened roughly once per semester and she'd perfected her explanation down to the most essential points.
The silence that followed was the particular kind of silence that happens when five teenagers simultaneously realize they've just been handed a really elaborate set of restrictions, and are now mentally calculating the various ways this could impact their immediate life plans.
"So," MJ said slowly, flopping dramatically onto the nearest bench with all the theatrical despair of a teenager who'd just been told that Christmas was cancelled, Easter was postponed, and Halloween had been replaced with Tax Preparation Day, "we just... don't get to use magic for six weeks? That's like buying art supplies and being told you can't open them until further notice. It's like being given a musical instrument and told you can only look at it. It's like—"
"It's like buying a PS5 and leaving it in the box," Ned added, looking genuinely horrified at the concept, his voice taking on the kind of existential despair usually reserved for discussions of mortality and the heat death of the universe. "Forever. Just... staring at it. Knowing it's there but not being able to—"
He shuddered, apparently unable to complete the thought.
"Or like learning to drive and then being told you can only sit in the car with the engine off," Peter added, starting to pace in small circles with increasing speed, his gestures becoming more animated with each word. "Which would be torture. Pure torture. I mean, we just learned magic exists, we have wands, we know there are spells, and now we can't—we're supposed to just—how are we supposed to—"
"Peter," Ben interrupted gently, his voice carrying that particular tone of calm authority that suggested he'd been the designated adult in countless emergency situations and had never once lost his cool, "you're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling," Peter said, still pacing and now gesticulating in a way that probably qualified as its own form of interpretive dance. "This is just my normal response to arbitrary authority and delayed gratification. This is me being completely reasonable about unreasonable circumstances."
"This is definitely spiraling," Gwen observed, looking up from her book with the clinical interest of someone who'd been studying Peter's anxiety patterns for years and could now predict them with scientific accuracy.
"Seconded," MJ agreed, raising her hand like she was voting in a formal parliamentary procedure.
"Thirded?" Ned offered hesitantly.
"That's not a word," Felicia said, still examining her reflection in the back of a spoon with the casual vanity of someone who knew they looked good from every angle and was just enjoying the confirmation.
"It should be," Ned muttered. "If 'seconded' is a word, then 'thirded' should be a word. Basic linguistic logic."
"Linguistic logic and actual English don't always overlap," Gwen pointed out.
"They should," Ned said stubbornly.
Harry, who had been listening with that intense focus he brought to everything important, raised his hand tentatively, like he was in class and wasn't entirely sure if his question was appropriate but was going to ask it anyway because the need to understand was stronger than his uncertainty.
"Um, excuse me? What exactly happens if someone uses magic accidentally? Like, if you're not trying to, but it just... happens? Because I'm pretty sure magic doesn't always wait for permission."
His voice was steady but curious, carrying that particular quality that suggested he was thinking through the practical implications of everything he was hearing and finding several potential logical inconsistencies that needed addressing.
McGonagall's expression softened slightly, her sharp eyes taking on a warmer cast that suggested she approved of students who asked thoughtful follow-up questions.
"Accidental magic is treated differently, Mr. Potter. Intent matters in magical law, just as it does in mundane legal systems."
"But how do they know if it's accidental?" Harry pressed, his analytical mind clearly working through the logistics with the methodical precision of someone who needed to understand the rules before he could figure out how to work within them. "I mean, couldn't someone just say everything was an accident? What's stopping people from claiming that everything they do is unintentional?"
"The Trace detects the magical signature," Aurora explained, her professional interest clearly piqued by the question. "Accidental magic has a very different pattern than intentional spellcasting. It's rather like the difference between a sneeze and deliberately blowing your nose—both involve your respiratory system, but the physiological patterns are completely different."
"That's..." Harry paused, processing this information with visible concentration. "Actually really cool. And also kind of terrifying. So there's basically a magical lie detector that runs automatically whenever anyone under seventeen does magic?"
"More like a magical intent detector," Aurora corrected. "It's not concerned with truth or falsehood, just with whether magic was performed deliberately or spontaneously."
"Welcome to magic," MJ said dryly, though her tone carried more excitement than actual complaint. "Where everything is cool and terrifying in equal measure, and apparently the government has better technology than most science fiction movies."
Aurora's smile was pure diplomatic reassurance, the kind of expression that had probably been perfected through years of explaining complicated magical bureaucracy to confused non-magical families and anxious teenagers.
"Fortunately, MACUSA anticipated this exact concern."
Ned perked up immediately, Felix responding to his emotional shift by cycling through hopeful shades of blue and green. "So... loopholes?"
"Alternative arrangements," Aurora corrected, her eyes twinkling in a way that suggested the distinction was mostly semantic and she knew exactly what Ned had meant.
George Stacy, who had been listening with the professional attention of someone who'd spent his career dealing with jurisdictional complications, regulatory nightmares, and bureaucratic workarounds, leaned forward with obvious interest.
George had the kind of weathered, no-nonsense presence that came from years of dealing with everything New York City could throw at him, usually while maintaining both his sanity and his sense of humor. His graying hair was cut short in a style that suggested he'd given up on fashion in favor of practicality, his clothes were the uniform of someone who needed to be ready for anything at any time, and his eyes were sharp with the particular kind of intelligence that came from years of solving problems under pressure.
"What kind of alternative arrangements? Because I've dealt with enough interdepartmental cooperation agreements to know that 'alternative arrangements' usually means someone found a really creative way to interpret the regulations."
"There is a magical district in New York," Aurora explained, her voice taking on the tone of someone who was about to deliver very good news, "where underage magic is permitted under supervision."
The room erupted.
"A magical district?!" Peter's eyes went wide enough to probably qualify as a medical emergency. "Like, an actual magical district? With actual magic happening in actual New York? Where?! How have I lived in New York my entire life and never noticed a magical district?!"
"How big is it?" Gwen asked immediately, her practical mind already working through the implications.
"Is it hidden?" Felicia wanted to know, her expression suggesting she was already calculating the potential entertainment value of a secret magical neighborhood.
"Can we live there?" MJ asked hopefully, her voice carrying the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discussions of summer vacation and surprise pizza parties.
"Do they have magical pizza?" Ned asked, because when you're dealing with potentially world-changing information, it's important to keep your priorities straight. Felix squeaked what might have been agreement with this line of questioning.
"What about magical bagels?" Harry added, grinning. "Because if we're talking about magical New York food, bagels are definitely part of the conversation."
Phillip Watson, meanwhile, had actually pulled a leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket and was scribbling notes with the focused intensity of someone who'd just discovered the most fascinating case study in the history of urban planning.
Phillip had that particular Jeff Goldblum quality of seeming to be thinking about seventeen different things simultaneously, all of them fascinating, and somehow managing to make every single thought sound like it was part of a broader theoretical framework that was just beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals. His dark hair was perpetually slightly disheveled in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time running his hands through it while thinking, his clothes had the rumpled elegance of someone who cared about looking presentable but not enough to actually iron anything, and his eyes had the slightly manic gleam of someone whose brain was constantly making connections that other people couldn't see.
"Fascinating," he murmured, his voice taking on that particular Jeff Goldblum cadence that made every observation sound like it was part of a broader philosophical inquiry into the nature of existence itself. "A magical enclave embedded within the urban matrix of Manhattan. Is this structured like Little Italy? More of a hidden Chinatown situation? Or perhaps—oh, this is interesting—an experimental socio-economic microcosm, a la the theoretical frameworks proposed by Jacobs and Lynch in their respective analyses of urban development patterns, but with the added complexity of, uh, actual magic as a governing principle rather than just economic or cultural—"
"Dad," MJ interrupted, covering her face with her hands in the universal gesture of teenagers whose parents were being embarrassing in front of their friends, "please don't try to urban-plan the wizards."
"Why not?" Phillip asked, genuinely puzzled by this objection, his pen pausing mid-scribble. "Urban planning is just applied sociology with better maps. Magic is just... applied physics with better special effects and possibly some principles we haven't discovered yet. There's probably significant overlap in the fundamental—"
"Philip," Madelyn Watson said gently, her voice carrying that particular tone of affectionate exasperation that suggested this was a familiar conversation and she'd developed strategies for managing it.
Madelyn had the kind of elegant, understated beauty that suggested she'd been stunning when she was younger and had aged into something even more impressive—a woman who knew exactly who she was and was completely comfortable with it. Her red hair was a darker, more sophisticated shade than MJ's, pulled back in a style that looked effortlessly polished, and her clothes had the kind of casual elegance that suggested she could transition seamlessly from a parent-teacher conference to a business meeting to a dinner party without missing a beat.
"Maybe save the theoretical framework analysis for after we actually see the place?"
"But the preliminary theoretical framework is crucial for proper observational methodology," Phillip protested, his voice taking on the passionate intensity of someone defending a fundamental principle of scientific inquiry. "If we don't establish our analytical baseline, how can we properly assess the—the integration patterns, the infrastructure adaptations, the sociological implications of—"
"Honey," Madelyn interrupted, reaching over to gently close his notebook, "you're doing the thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you turn everything into a dissertation topic."
Phillip looked down at his notebook, which now had approximately three pages of notes, what appeared to be a rough sketch of a neighborhood layout, several arrows connecting different concepts, and what might have been the beginning of a bibliography.
"Oh," he said, blinking with the kind of surprise that suggested he genuinely hadn't realized he'd been doing it. "The thing."
"The thing," Madelyn confirmed fondly, her smile warm with the kind of affection that came from years of loving someone whose brain worked at approximately twice the speed of normal human conversation.
Walter Hardy, meanwhile, had crossed his arms and was looking at Aurora with the professional assessment of someone who'd spent a career evaluating security systems, threat levels, and the reliability of information provided by authority figures.
"How secure is this district? Are we talking hidden-in-plain-sight secure, where non-magical people just don't notice it, or straight-up invisible secure, where it literally doesn't exist in the same physical space? Because the security implications are completely different depending on which approach we're dealing with."
"Both," McGonagall replied curtly, in the tone of someone who'd been asked this question approximately a thousand times and had learned that the shortest answer was usually the most effective.
"Both?" Walter pressed, his professional curiosity clearly engaged. "That's... actually impressive from a security standpoint. What kind of protocols are we talking about? Perception filters? Cognitive redirects? Physical displacement? Some kind of dimensional pocket situation?"
"Magic," McGonagall said flatly, with the kind of finality that suggested this was as detailed as the explanation was going to get.
Peter lit up like he'd just been plugged into a wall socket and someone had turned the voltage up to eleven. "So it's like a perception filter! Cognitive camouflage! That's—oh my God, that's so cool. How does it work? Is it based on individual psychology or mass psychological manipulation? What about people with enhanced awareness? Or really good observational skills? Or—ooh, what about cameras? Do cameras see it? Or do they just... not? And what about satellite imagery? GPS systems? What happens if someone tries to map the area? And what about—"
"Magic," McGonagall repeated, somehow managing to put even more finality into the word, like she was dropping a verbal anvil on the conversation.
Peter opened his mouth again, clearly prepared to launch into a detailed analysis of the theoretical implications of magically-enhanced urban camouflage, the potential applications for modern surveillance technology, and probably several related topics that would take approximately forty-five minutes to cover thoroughly.
Aurora raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.
Peter's mouth snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked audibly. He continued to vibrate slightly, like a shaken soda bottle with the cap still on, but managed to stay quiet.
"Thank you, Mr. Parker," Aurora said graciously, her tone warm but carrying just enough authority to suggest that while she appreciated intellectual curiosity, there was a time and place for theoretical discussions, and this wasn't it. "Practical applications first. Theoretical metaphysics later."
"When later?" Peter asked hopefully, his voice slightly higher than usual with barely contained enthusiasm. "Like, specific timeframe later? Because I have a lot of questions about theoretical metaphysics. And applied magical physics. And the intersection between magic and technology. And—"
"We've noticed," Gwen said, but her tone was fond rather than exasperated.
"After you've mastered the basics," Aurora continued smoothly, like she hadn't just verbally administered the educational equivalent of a mild sedative to Peter's curiosity spiral. "Within this district are practice facilities, qualified instructors, and resources designed precisely for students like yourselves."
"Instructors?" Gwen leaned forward, her interest clearly piqued by the promise of actual structured education. "As in, actual people who will teach us actual magic? Not just... here's a wand, figure it out and hope nothing explodes?"
"Precisely," Aurora confirmed, looking pleased by the question.
"What kind of instructors?" Harry asked, because even at nine he had developed excellent follow-up questions and a systematic approach to gathering information. "Are they like teachers? Or more like... I don't know, coaches? Personal trainers? Professors?"
"A bit of both," Aurora explained. "Professional magical educators with experience in both theoretical instruction and practical application. Think of them as specialists in magical pedagogy."
"Magical pedagogy," Phillip muttered, already reaching for his notebook again before catching Madelyn's expression and stopping. "That's... that's actually a fascinating concept. The intersection of educational theory and supernatural—"
"Philip," Madelyn said warningly.
"Right. Later," Phillip agreed, though he looked like it was physically painful to table the discussion.
MJ's eyes sparkled with anticipation, her theatrical background clearly kicking in as she imagined the dramatic possibilities. "When do we start? Please tell me it's soon. Please tell me we don't have to wait around being ordinary for weeks while bureaucracy happens."
"This afternoon," Aurora said, with the precise timing of someone who knew exactly what kind of impact that information would have and was prepared to manage the resulting explosion of excitement.
The reaction was immediate, explosive, and loud enough to startle Princess the cat, who had been napping peacefully until thirty seconds ago.
"TODAY?!" Felicia gasped, sitting up straight with the kind of genuine excitement that she usually reserved for particularly successful pranks or unexpectedly good gossip. "Are you serious? Like, actual today? This afternoon today? Not theoretical future today?"
"This afternoon," Aurora confirmed, her smile widening at their enthusiasm.
"The universe is literally obsessed with us," Felicia declared with absolute conviction, grinning like Christmas, her birthday, and the invention of chocolate had all coincided on the same day. "This is the best timeline. We are definitely living in the best possible timeline."
"Or MACUSA just has a really efficient scheduling department," Walter muttered, though he was fighting a smile that suggested he found their excitement more endearing than annoying.
"Same thing," Felicia replied with the kind of unshakeable confidence that suggested she'd decided this was true and no amount of logic would convince her otherwise.
George Leeds, who had been quietly processing the logistical implications with the methodical precision of someone who'd spent years managing complex family schedules, raised his hand like he was in a business meeting.
George had the kind of practical, no-nonsense presence that suggested he'd spent years solving problems, managing resources, and keeping everything running smoothly, usually while everyone around him was panicking about things that had perfectly reasonable solutions if you just thought them through logically. His clothes were neat but not flashy, his expression was alert but calm, and he had the air of someone who'd learned that most crises were just planning failures in disguise.
"What kind of magical transportation?" Helen Leeds asked, with the careful precision of someone who'd spent years managing the practical details of her family's life. "Because if it involves anything that goes faster than a normal car, I need to know now so I can prepare mentally."
"Floo Powder," McGonagall said briskly. "Through the fireplace network."
"Floo Powder?" Ned squeaked. "Like, actual fireplace travel? We're going to travel through fire?"
"Magical fire," Aurora corrected. "Perfectly safe."
"Define perfectly safe," Helen said, her voice taking on that particular parental tone that suggested she was already mentally calculating insurance implications.
"No one has ever been seriously injured using the Floo Network," McGonagall said with professional reassurance.
"What about non-seriously injured?" May asked, because she'd learned to ask follow-up questions when dealing with anything involving teenagers and potential hazards.
"Minor singes. Occasional soot inhalation. The rare case of emerging from the wrong fireplace," McGonagall admitted. "All easily remedied."
"The wrong fireplace?" Ben asked, his voice climbing toward concern. "How wrong are we talking?"
"Different building. Occasionally different neighborhood. Very rarely different city," Aurora said smoothly.
"Different city?" several parents said in unison.
"Very rarely," Aurora emphasized. "And there are protocols in place for such eventualities."
"What kind of protocols?" George Stacy asked, his cop instincts clearly engaged.
"Magical tracking. Immediate location assistance. Emergency transport back to the intended destination," McGonagall rattled off.
"So we might accidentally end up in Cleveland," MJ said thoughtfully.
"Very unlikely," Aurora assured her.
"But possible."
"...Technically possible."
"Cool," MJ said, completely unbothered. "I've always wanted to see Cleveland under mysterious circumstances."
Ben raised his hand with the careful politeness of someone who'd been through approximately fifty parent-teacher conferences and knew how to navigate bureaucratic explanations. "What about safety protocols for the actual magic practice?"
"Proper stance, wand control, containment fields," McGonagall listed briskly, like she was reading from a checklist she'd memorized decades ago.
"Containment fields?" Peter asked, eyes lighting up again. "What kind of containment fields? Energy-based? Physical barriers? Temporal displacement?"
"Magical barriers designed to prevent spells from affecting unintended targets," Aurora explained patiently.
"But what's the theoretical basis—" Peter started.
"Peter," May interrupted gently. "Maybe save some questions for the actual instructors?"
"But these are important questions!" Peter protested. "I need to understand the foundational principles before we start practical application! What if I accidentally—"
"You won't," Gwen said firmly. "You're not going to accidentally anything. You're going to follow directions and be careful and not overthink yourself into a panic attack."
"I don't have panic attacks," Peter said. "I have... heightened awareness responses."
"That's just panic attacks with better branding," MJ observed.
"Emergency procedures?" May asked, because she was constitutionally incapable of not worrying about worst-case scenarios when it came to the safety of teenagers.
"Standard reversals, accident containment, basic magical first aid," Aurora assured her. "Plus immediate access to St. Mungo's—that's our primary magical hospital—should anything more serious occur."
"Which it won't," McGonagall added firmly.
"But if it did," George Stacy said, because he was constitutionally incapable of not thinking through contingency plans.
"It would be handled by trained professionals with decades of experience in magical emergency medicine," Aurora said smoothly.
George nodded approvingly. "Sounds more organized than half the police academy training programs."
"Magic education follows the same principles as any other technical training," McGonagall said with professional pride. "Structure, supervision, safety."
"Plus," Aurora added with a slight smile, "significantly better special effects."
And then—Harry, who had been listening to the entire conversation with that intense focus he brought to everything that mattered, raised his hand tentatively.
"Will I be able to come too?"
The room went completely still.
Every adult head turned toward him. Every teenager stopped mid-fidget. Even Felix the Pygmy Puff seemed to pause in his eternal quest for treats.
Harry's green eyes were earnest and clear, but his voice carried a weight that seemed too mature for his nine-year-old frame—calm, steady, with just a hint of steel underneath the boyishness that suggested he'd already thought through every possible objection and had counter-arguments prepared.
"I know I'm too young for real spells," he continued, his words careful and deliberate. "But I just... I want to see. To understand what they're learning. So I'm ready when it's my turn."
The silence stretched for a moment, filled with the kind of parental mental calculation that happened when a kid asked for something that was simultaneously reasonable and completely unprecedented.
May and Ben exchanged one of those looks that married couples develop after years of wordless communication—half worry, half pride, with a significant component of 'how did we end up with the kind of kid who makes requests like this?'
Aurora hesitated, her diplomatic composure wavering slightly. "Harry, these sessions are specifically calibrated for eleven-year-old magical students. The content, the pace, the expectations..."
"I don't have to do magic," Harry said quickly, his words tumbling out with the kind of earnest intensity that suggested he'd been rehearsing this argument in his head. "I just want to learn what they're learning. Watch how they do it. Listen to the explanations. So when I get my letter, I won't be starting from nothing."
It wasn't a plea or a whine or the kind of manipulative begging kids sometimes tried when they wanted something. It was quiet, determined logic presented with the kind of matter-of-fact confidence that suggested he genuinely couldn't imagine why anyone would object to such a reasonable request.
McGonagall studied him with those sharp eyes that had been evaluating young wizards for decades, her expression thoughtful. "Observation," she said slowly. "Questions. Theory. No hands-on spellcasting."
Harry nodded eagerly. "Just learning. I'm really good at learning."
"Educational exposure could indeed be beneficial," Aurora said, her professional interest clearly piqued. "Early familiarity with magical theory and methodology..."
"Really?!" Harry lit up like he'd just been told Christmas had been moved to next week, his carefully maintained composure cracking to reveal the excited nine-year-old underneath.
"Yes," Aurora confirmed with a warm smile. "You may observe and participate in the theoretical discussions."
Harry's grin could have powered the entire Leaky Cauldron. "This is gonna be the best six weeks ever."
Peter immediately reached over to high-five him, nearly knocking over his own chair in the process. "Told you, dude—you're already one of us."
MJ leaned over to ruffle Harry's already messy hair with genuine affection. "The team wouldn't be complete without you, Kid Lightning."
"Kid Lightning?" Harry asked, grinning.
"You've got the reflexes," MJ said with a shrug. "Plus the hair. It works."
Felicia smirked, examining her nails with satisfied precision. "See? Even the universe agrees you belong with us."
"Or," Walter said dryly, though he was clearly fighting a smile, "two professors just gave up arguing with a nine-year-old who makes better logical arguments than most adults."
"Same thing," Felicia replied with absolute conviction, and this time even McGonagall's lips twitched toward what might have been amusement.
"So," Ned said, clutching Felix and looking around at the group with genuine excitement, "we're all going to learn magic together?"
"Apparently," Gwen said, closing her book and looking more animated than she had all morning.
"This is either going to be amazing," Peter said, bouncing on his toes again, "or we're going to accidentally discover new and creative ways to set things on fire."
"Why not both?" MJ asked cheerfully.
"Both sounds good," Harry agreed, his green eyes bright with anticipation.
As Aurora began organizing the logistics of trunk shrinking and pet transportation, the atmosphere in the room shifted completely. The nervous energy transformed into something else—excitement, anticipation, the kind of electric buzz that happened when a group of people realized they were about to embark on something genuinely extraordinary.
It didn't feel like leaving anymore. It felt like beginning.
Six weeks of training, of learning magic for real, of becoming something more than they'd ever imagined possible. Together.
And Harry—Harry wasn't waiting on the sidelines anymore. He was stepping into the current of magic alongside the rest of them, looking like he'd always belonged there.
Aurora checked her glowing clipboard one final time, her smile radiant with professional satisfaction. "Ready?"
"Ready!" five teenage voices chorused with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for snow days and unexpected pizza.
"And me," Harry added firmly, his voice carrying just enough quiet determination to make it clear this wasn't a request anymore—it was a statement of fact.
Aurora's smile was knowing, warm, and just slightly conspiratorial. "Yes, Harry. And you."
---
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