# Xavier's Office – Late Afternoon
The sun dipped low over Westchester County, throwing molten light across the Xavier Institute's sprawling estate. Dragon-Born landed with the kind of precision that made it look like he'd been rehearsing in front of critics. His psychic wings folded in on themselves, dissolving into nothingness, while the starlit armor rippled away like liquid constellations peeling off skin.
What was left behind could hardly be called "only Harry Potter." He moved through the mansion's oak doors with the ease of someone born to stride through history, all broad shoulders, leonine grace, and eyes bright enough to make Renaissance painters weep with professional jealousy.
From the upper floor, voices drifted down. The familiar blend of tones told him exactly what was happening: a mission debrief. Jean's warm, honeyed contralto. Ororo's measured, melodic cadence. Logan's gravel poured over gravel. Scott's clipped military crispness. And beneath it all, that soft, resonant authority that could only belong to Charles Xavier.
Harry smirked faintly. The X-Men's brand of post-mission group therapy always sounded like someone was simultaneously writing field reports, solving a murder mystery, and auditioning for a particularly tense radio drama.
"—Pietro's psychological profile suggests profound abandonment trauma compounded by manipulative validation—"
"—molecular restructuring of the bridge took seventeen minutes, including evacuation protocols—"
"—kid was crying by the end. Don't know if that was therapy or mild war crime—"
Harry rapped once on the doorframe, leaning in with aristocratic nonchalance, the very picture of a man who had absolutely not been eavesdropping with delight.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Please tell me everyone returned alive, preferably without reducing Manhattan to smoldering rubble or creating an international scandal I'll be forced to explain over tea with the Prime Minister?"
Every head turned.
Charles Xavier's wheelchair rotated toward him, the Professor's sharp blue eyes warming with paternal fondness. Patrick Stewart incarnate, the man radiated gravitas even while sitting still. "Harry," Xavier said, smiling. "Your timing is impeccable, as always. We were just reviewing the rather... efficient conclusion of today's Brotherhood encounter. Please—join us."
Harry strolled in and collapsed into one of the armchairs with theatrical elegance, sprawling like a cat who'd just claimed ownership of expensive furniture.
Jean's smile hit him first. Bright, brilliant, and just dangerous enough to suggest she could juggle your mind like a Rubik's Cube while still managing to look like the friendliest person alive. "You didn't exactly leave much to debrief, you know," she teased. "We showed up, you broke three operations in under an hour, and Pietro looked two seconds away from curling up with a blanket and hot cocoa."
Harry gave her a look equal parts mock innocence and smug artistry. "Therapeutic intimidation, darling. Think of it as aromatherapy—only with fewer scented candles and a slightly higher risk of someone needing trousers with reinforced stitching."
Ororo arched an elegant brow, regal as ever, every inch the goddess in human form. "You have an... interesting definition of therapy."
Harry inclined his head with mock solemnity. "Oh, I assure you, Ororo, my bedside manner is impeccable. I simply find that fear, properly administered, has remarkable curative properties. Especially when applied to individuals who think collapsing bridges is a valid form of social commentary."
Scott, arms folded with military stiffness, couldn't resist the faintest curve of a smirk. "I've seen a lot of decisive takedowns. But I've never seen that. They didn't even fight. They just—surrendered. In stereo."
Harry gestured lazily with one hand. "Ah, but you see, Scott, the art of victory isn't in the fight itself. It's in convincing your opponent that fighting is a career path best left unexplored. Why waste energy trading blows when you can dismantle their resolve with a few well-chosen words and a glare polished to perfection?"
Logan, leaning against the wall like it was his personal property, let out a low chuckle and bit the end of his cigar. "Kid's not wrong. Scared the living hell outta 'em. One guy actually asked if he could call his mom. I haven't seen grown men beg like that since Nam." He gave Harry a long, appraising glance. "Got style, bub. Gotta admit, I thought you'd be more cape-and-corny one-liners. But no, you went full 'nightmare fuel meets motivational speech.'"
Harry shot him a lazy grin. "Thank you, Logan. Coming from a man whose idea of diplomacy involves claw marks and whiskey fumes, I'll take that as a glowing review."
Jean laughed, her hand brushing across her temple like she might need to shield herself from the sheer force of Harry's ego radiating into the psychic plane. "Honestly, it's terrifying how much fun you're having with this."
"Oh, Jean," Harry said, leaning forward conspiratorially, emerald eyes gleaming, "the day I stop enjoying myself is the day I've gone entirely mad. Until then, I fully intend to weaponize wit, intimidation, and cheekbones in equal measure."
Professor Xavier steepled his fingers, his expression somewhere between fond pride and thoughtful analysis. "What you project, Harry, isn't merely intimidation. It's something far more sophisticated—calibrated precisely to dismantle resistance without inflicting lasting harm. Quite extraordinary. Not unlike... performance art."
Harry raised his brows. "So you're saying I'm less 'superhero' and more 'psychological theater'? Perfect. Next time, I'll bring a spotlight and a fog machine."
Logan barked out a laugh. Ororo shook her head, hiding her smile. Jean rolled her eyes affectionately. Even Scott's lips twitched like he was fighting down the urge to grin.
Xavier, unbothered, simply inclined his head. "Whatever the medium, Harry, you're proving remarkably effective."
Harry leaned back, hands steepled behind his head, radiating satisfaction. "Well, Professor, as I always say: why settle for saving the world when you can save it with panache?"
Before Harry's quip could fully register—somewhere between "strategic analysis" and "deadpan stand-up routine for gods and generals"—the office door swung open.
Bobby Drake all but bounced into the room, his grin wide enough to suggest either recent exposure to hard drugs or the fact that he'd just seen something so extraordinary his brain hadn't quite processed it yet. His eyes, ice-blue and glinting with mischief, immediately locked onto Harry.
"Okay, official announcement," Bobby declared, hands in the air like he was about to lead a game show. "I nominate Dragon-Born for the Most Stylish Problem Resolution award. No contest. I've seen Jean literally move mountains—" he gestured with mock reverence toward Jean, who rolled her eyes with a grin, "—I've seen Storm redirect a hurricane like she was conducting an orchestra, and I once saw Logan dismantle a Sentinel squad with nothing but claws, attitude, and sheer refusal to die. But watching Fred get lifted into the air like a party balloon while Harry here calmly rewired his entire worldview with polite conversation? That was art. Michelangelo wishes he had your brushwork, man."
Jean gave Harry a sly smile, her voice warm and teasing. "He's not wrong. I mean, I've seen you terrify hardened criminals into therapy before, but today? You practically gave a TED Talk while holding a man fifteen feet in the air."
Harry arched a brow, leaning back in his chair with languid grace. "Darling, I was planning to submit it for continuing education credit. 'How to dismantle criminal intent with strategic banter and aggressive eyebrow deployment.' The syllabus practically writes itself."
Logan snorted, biting down on his cigar. "Hell, kid, you should charge admission. I'd pay good money to watch you scare grown men into callin' their moms."
"Careful, Logan," Harry said smoothly, his voice a velvet blade, "that sounded dangerously like a compliment. I wouldn't want to give anyone here the impression you've grown fond of me."
Logan growled low in his throat but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Don't push your luck, bub."
The growl was drowned out by Hank McCoy's entrance. The Beast padded in with his usual blend of scholarly enthusiasm and faintly amused dignity, adjusting his spectacles in that way that suggested he was already drafting three journal articles in his head.
"Quite extraordinary," Hank began, voice rich with professorial gravitas. "The biomechanical implications alone demand extensive study. Dragon-Born not only demonstrated gravitational manipulation at the molecular level, but also executed structural reinforcement repairs to the Williamsburg Bridge that frankly put the Department of Transportation to shame. I daresay it is now stronger than when first constructed."
Harry gave a theatrical little bow from his chair. "You're welcome, New York City. Feel free to name the improved structure after me. The Harry Potter Memorial Bridge has a certain ring to it."
"Memorial?" Jean said, her brow lifting. "You planning on dying soon?"
"Not at all," Harry replied cheerfully. "I simply think every monument sounds more dignified when the word 'memorial' is attached. Adds gravitas. Gravitas is important."
Ororo let out a low, melodic laugh, shaking her head with goddess-like serenity. "And modesty, I see, remains entirely optional."
Scott finally spoke, his tone clipped but respectful. "Bridge is stronger. Brotherhood down. Zero civilian casualties. That's a win in my book. Whatever Harry's methods are—" his gaze flicked to Harry, sharp but impressed, "—they're effective. I can't argue with results."
"High praise indeed," Harry murmured, smirking. "Scott Summers, the man who counts collateral damage like accountants count beans, has declared me efficient. Someone write this day down."
Scott's jaw tightened, but Jean's smirk betrayed her amusement.
Meanwhile, Xavier leaned forward, eyes sharpening with the particular intensity that meant his mind was running on ten different planes of analysis. "The psychology fascinates me most of all. Your aura didn't simply intimidate. It restructured perception itself—altered their very understanding of power hierarchies and acceptable behavior. One of our detainees even referred to the experience as—" Xavier allowed himself the faintest smile, "—'therapeutic terror.'"
Harry spread his hands modestly, though the glint in his emerald eyes betrayed him. "Therapeutic terror. Now that's a brand I can put on a business card. 'Harry Potter: He scares you better.'"
Bobby laughed so hard he nearly choked. "No, no, better: 'Harry Potter, Emotional Support Scarecrow.'"
Hank, without missing a beat: "I suspect the clinical community would prefer 'Psychological Motivator Utilizing Controlled Fear Response.'"
Logan puffed on his cigar. "I prefer 'British Pain in the Ass.'"
Harry leaned forward, smile slow and devastating. "Call me what you like, gentlemen. The important thing is—they'll never call me late to a battlefield."
That earned a low rumble of approval from Ororo, a reluctant chuckle from Scott, Jean's headshake of fond exasperation, Hank's murmured "delightful," Bobby's delighted "that's going on a T-shirt," and Logan's muttered, "Cocky bastard."
Xavier's calm voice cut through the laughter, warm and steady as ever. "Whatever terminology we settle on, Harry, you've given us all much to think about."
Harry tipped an imaginary hat. "That's what I do, Professor. Save the day, terrify the enemy, and leave my friends questioning whether they're at a tactical debrief or a comedy club."
The conversation was still humming with laughter and analysis when the office door opened again—this time with the kind of theatrical timing that would've made Shakespeare himself throw down his quill in despair.
Sirius Black leaned casually against the doorway, all broad shoulders, aristocratic angles, and that wolfish grin that could sell sin in bulk. His dark eyes gleamed with paternal pride, the kind that made Harry want to roll his eyes even as he secretly basked in it.
"I do hope I haven't missed the victory celebration," Sirius drawled, strolling in like the room had been waiting all day for his entrance. He dropped into a chair with noble ease, one leg draping over the armrest in utter disregard for decorum. "Because what my godson accomplished today was nothing short of magnificent. Three separate operations neutralized, intelligence gathered, and not a single civilian casualty—or, more impressively, a single insurance claim. A miracle in itself, given this lot's track record."
Logan grunted. "Hey."
Sirius waved dismissively, his grin widening. "Don't take it personally, Wolverine. I've read your files. The phrase 'property damage incident' is practically your middle name."
Logan's cigar bobbed dangerously as his teeth clenched. "Careful, Black."
"Or what?" Sirius countered silkily. "You'll growl at me until I surrender? Terrifying."
The tension in the room spiked—then broke into laughter when Harry chuckled low in his throat. He tipped his head at Sirius. "You've been rehearsing that, haven't you?"
Sirius smirked. "Of course. Delivery is everything."
Bobby practically vibrated with delight. "No, but he's right! Harry, you did the whole 'gentleman supervillain whisperer' thing. Polite as tea with the Queen, but every word made them reconsider their entire life. It was like watching Mary Poppins stage an intervention—with laser eyes."
Jean gave Bobby a fond swat on the arm, then moved toward Harry with that quiet grace of hers—part ballet, part subtle telekinesis smoothing her steps. Her green eyes softened, worry leaking through the tactical calm. "Any injuries?" she asked, her hand hovering just shy of his arm, as if she might examine him by touch alone. "Projecting at that level, holding that kind of presence—there are usually feedback effects. Strain. Headaches. Anything?"
Harry tilted his head toward her, his smile dazzling enough to make Logan mutter something profane under his breath. "Nothing I couldn't handle with proper breathing exercises and strategic ego management." His tone dropped to something softer, meant for her ears even if the room caught it anyway. "But I appreciate the concern. Truly."
Jean's lips curved, both fond and exasperated. "You're insufferable."
"Utterly," Harry agreed with a wink.
Sirius clapped his hands together, delighted. "See? That's the Black family influence. The Potter stubbornness gave him the power, but we gave him the panache." He gestured grandly toward Harry. "Watching him dismantle hardened criminals with British courtesy—it was like seeing a finishing school run by cosmic entities with excellent taste in drama."
Ororo arched a regal brow, her voice silk over steel. "Or like watching a man thoroughly enjoying his own reflection."
Harry placed a hand on his chest with mock offense. "Ororo, I'll have you know I never enjoy my own reflection. That would be narcissistic. I simply admire the craftsmanship."
That got a laugh from Bobby, a reluctant smirk from Scott, and a quiet, "Good lord," from Hank as he polished his glasses.
Scott, however, regained his composure quickly. "You realize, Potter, that you're setting a precedent. The team will expect every mission to go this cleanly now."
Harry's smirk widened into something positively dangerous. "Then I'll just have to keep surpassing myself, won't I?"
Logan growled again, though there was grudging admiration in it. "Cocky bastard."
"Accurate," Harry said smoothly.
Sirius leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, utterly relaxed. "That's my boy."
Xavier, who had been watching the entire exchange with that serene smile of his, finally spoke again, his voice warm yet weighty enough to anchor the room. "Gentlemen, ladies—if I may. What Harry accomplished today was not merely efficient. It was a demonstration of restraint, creativity, and a remarkable understanding of psychology. This is not just power. It is discipline. It is growth. And I, for one, am proud."
The room quieted at that, the weight of Xavier's words settling in like the closing notes of a symphony.
Harry inclined his head in genuine respect. "Thank you, Professor. Coming from you, that means more than I can adequately put into words." He let the silence hang for a beat—then ruined it with a grin. "But feel free to keep trying. I never tire of praise."
Sirius barked out a laugh. Jean groaned. Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. Ororo hid a smile behind her hand. Hank muttered something about "egos of mythological proportions." Bobby threw up his hands and declared, "I'm starting a fan club."
And Logan, with perfect timing, muttered around his cigar, "You're all idiots."
Xavier's fingers steepled, his gaze distant in that unnerving way telepaths got when they were clearly sifting through ideas they didn't entirely want to voice. The silence stretched, deliberate, until Harry finally arched a brow.
"Charles, old man, I know that look," Harry drawled, leaning back in his chair with the relaxed arrogance of someone who could fight a god in the morning and be late for brunch in Paris by noon. "That's the 'I'm about to hand you something wrapped in classified red tape and existential dread' face. Do get on with it before Logan decides to light a cigar indoors again."
"Already lit, bub," Logan grunted from the corner, smoke curling around his head. "And I don't see a no-smoking sign."
"Because civilized people don't need them," Harry shot back smoothly. "You light one more in my vicinity, and I'll transfigure it into a tutu."
Logan barked a laugh. "Try it, pretty boy."
Ororo intervened with the calm patience of a goddess among squabbling mortals. "Children. Please." Her accent turned the word into judgment itself.
Harry smirked but gestured toward Xavier. "All right, Professor. Hit me. Who needs the Harry Potter Special: wit, wisdom, and wildly inappropriate but strangely effective therapeutic intervention?"
Xavier's mouth quirked in that dry, knowing way of his. "Your… unique approach to calibrated psychological intervention has inspired a possibility. There is someone—a young woman—whose circumstances have proven… resistant to all conventional forms of help."
"Translation," Sirius rumbled from his spot against the wall, arms crossed, looking every inch the dangerous godfather your mother warned you about, "Charles is out of ideas and is about to recruit my godson to clean up the mess."
"Not a mess," Xavier corrected calmly, rolling his chair toward a secured filing cabinet that looked like it had more clearance than the Pentagon. "A life. One worth salvaging."
The drawer slid open with mechanical precision. He withdrew a file thicker than most novels, the cover stamped with classifications that practically screamed touch this without clearance and you'll vanish into a CIA black site faster than you can say habeas corpus.
"Her name," Xavier said, opening it with care, "is Wanda Maximoff."
Harry leaned forward, interest sharpening into something predatory. The photo showed a girl with dark brown hair, striking features, and eyes that could've cut glass with their intensity. But behind them—pain, isolation, and the kind of trauma you couldn't bottle up without the cork exploding spectacularly.
"Pretty," Sirius noted, deadpan. "And haunted. A bit of a family theme, eh, pup?"
"Age sixteen," Xavier continued. "Twin sister to Pietro Maximoff. Whom you met earlier, during his… ah… enthusiastic reinterpretation of Manhattan's traffic patterns."
"Enthusiastic?" Harry scoffed, lips twitching. "Charles, the lad turned rush hour into the bloody pod race from The Phantom Menace. I half-expected him to yell 'now this is podracing!' before he took out a taxi."
Bobby snorted, trying to hide it. "Kind of did, though."
Scott shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Not funny. He endangered lives."
Harry tilted his head, mocking Scott's stiffness. "Yes, Summers, we all know you've got the emotional range of a granite countertop, but perhaps unclench for thirty seconds? Might improve circulation."
Jean's lips curved, though she pretended to study the file. "Harry."
"What?" He gestured at Scott. "It's true. The man frowns like it's a superpower."
"Focus," Xavier said gently, though his eyes twinkled. "Wanda's abilities are… extraordinary. Her mutation manifests as reality alteration on a quantum level. She manipulates probability fields, reshapes matter at the subatomic scale, and—if theoretical models are correct—may be capable of rewriting localized reality itself if her emotional stability falters."
"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered, whistling low. "That's not a mutation, Charles. That's a weapon governments would sell their souls to control."
"They've tried," Xavier admitted, tone grave. "Which is why she is currently housed in a facility that is… less than ideal. Designed for containment, not healing."
Jean leaned forward, her voice thoughtful but tinged with empathy. "Her powers are tied to emotion, then. Trauma feeds instability. Therapy won't work if her subconscious is rewriting molecules to match her nightmares."
"Exactly." Xavier inclined his head in respect.
Hank adjusted his glasses, peering at the data with professorial gravitas. "Traditional psychopharmacology would be useless—the medication itself could be altered at ingestion. Even telepathic stabilization is compromised if the subject's subconscious perception reshapes consciousness itself. Fascinating… and profoundly dangerous."
Harry exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then he smirked. "So, let me see if I've got this right. You want me—me—to stroll into a maximum security facility, have a chat with a traumatised teenager who can accidentally turn Manhattan into a Picasso painting if she sneezes, and… what? Charm her into balance?"
"Something like that," Xavier said smoothly, though his eyes betrayed his concern.
Ororo's voice was quiet, steady, and commanding. "She needs trust. Compassion. A guide who will not fear her."
"And you," Sirius added with a crooked grin, "are reckless, arrogant, and too damn stubborn to be afraid of anyone. Sounds perfect."
Logan snorted smoke. "Or suicidal."
Harry leaned back, flashing that devastating Cavill smile. "Suicidal? No, Logan. I just make suicide look stylish."
Harry's easy smirk faded, replaced by a look of sharp calculation. His jaw flexed, aristocratic features hardening as he processed what Xavier was laying out: a life brutalized by trauma, powers that could bend existence itself, and the state's half-hearted solution of "lock her up and hope reality doesn't unravel on visiting hours."
"Where exactly is she being kept?" Harry asked, voice clipped, calm, dangerous. The kind of tone that meant he was already judging the ethics of the answer.
"The Ravencroft Institute," Xavier said with measured diplomacy, though his eyes betrayed disdain. "A federal facility designed for enhanced individuals whose psychological conditions render them potentially dangerous. It is intended for treatment rather than incarceration."
"Intended," Sirius muttered darkly from his corner, arms folded, posture radiating skepticism. "Which usually means it's actually a polite word for 'cage.'"
The name hung in the air like smoke from one of Logan's cigars—acrid, heavy, carrying the stench of institutional compromise.
Logan straightened from his post at the wall, nostrils flaring, the predator in him already recognizing the stink of something rotten. "Ravencroft." His voice was a low growl. "That place plays fast and loose with words like 'therapy' and 'rights.' Ask ten people in there what they do, you'll get eleven different answers, and none of 'em clean."
"Indeed," Xavier admitted, grim. "Which is precisely why I have hesitated to involve them further. Wanda requires care, not containment. But she also requires… someone singular. Someone who can engage her without fear."
His gaze cut to Harry like a surgeon's scalpel. The weight of it was unmistakable.
Harry exhaled, leaning back in his chair, long frame relaxed but eyes sharp as a drawn blade. "Let me guess, Charles. You want me to stroll into Ravencroft—armed with nothing but my charm, wit, and devastating jawline—and play reality-whisperer to a teenager who could turn Times Square into a Salvador Dalí painting if she has a bad day?"
Scott bristled, arms crossing. "This isn't a game, Potter. She's dangerous."
Harry tilted his head, lips quirking. "Oh, thank you, Summers. I was under the impression she was merely misunderstood. Good thing you're here to remind us all that nuclear bombs are, in fact, explosive."
Bobby choked on a laugh. "Oh my God—"
Scott's jaw flexed, but Jean touched his arm before he could fire back. Her voice was soft, precise, tinged with empathy. "Harry… Xavier's right. Wanda doesn't need more walls or soldiers. She needs someone who won't flinch when reality bends around her. Someone who can see her."
Harry studied her for a long moment before turning back to Xavier. "And you're saying you think I'm that someone?"
"Your aura today demonstrated remarkable calibration," Xavier said, voice steady but eyes burning with conviction. "Intimidation without cruelty. Authority without oppression. You established order without breaking spirit. Wanda may respond to that balance in ways she has not with others."
Hank adjusted his spectacles, peering at the thick file. "To be clear, any conventional methodology has failed. Pharmaceutical intervention is meaningless when compounds alter molecularly upon ingestion. Telepathic stabilization risks destabilizing the telepath themselves if her subconscious reshapes the framework of thought. Even physical restraints are… unwise."
"In other words," Sirius interjected smoothly, "they've tried everything civilized, nothing stuck, and now we're talking about Plan Potter."
Harry's lips twitched. "Catchy. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"
"Sounds like a suicide mission," Logan grunted, chewing his cigar.
"Correction," Harry said, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "It only sounds like one when you describe it. When I describe it, it sounds like a Tuesday."
Ororo's voice cut through the banter, low and regal. "She needs more than strength. She needs compassion. She must know someone sees her pain, not just her power."
Harry inclined his head toward her, something unspoken passing between them. Respect. Agreement.
Sirius leaned forward, eyes glinting with memory. "This isn't the first time you've dealt with a 'hopeless case,' pup. Remember Buckbeak? Everyone said he was unapproachable. You gave him dignity, respect, and walked away with his loyalty. This is the same—just… scaled up from talons and beaks to reality-warping probability fields."
Harry chuckled darkly. "So, what you're saying is… approach with respect, avoid sudden movements, and don't piss her off?"
"Exactly," Sirius said with a wolfish grin.
Logan muttered around his cigar, "Kid, if you can talk down a pissed-off animal, maybe you can handle a reality bomb in pigtails."
Harry's smirk returned, slow and dangerous. "Good. Then it's settled. Someone's got to untangle this mess, and it looks like the honor's mine. Ravencroft won't know what hit them."
He rose to his feet, coat falling around him like the wings of some dark, impossibly charming angel. "Now, Charles—be honest. You've been planning this little pitch since the moment you saw me break up Summers' training session with three words and a smile, haven't you?"
Xavier's lips curved into that faint, maddeningly calm smile. "Perhaps."
Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass. The silence in the office stretched taut, filled only by the faint tick of Xavier's grandfather clock and Logan's faint, disgruntled chewing of his cigar.
"There's one factor we've all conveniently danced around," Harry said at last, voice silk over steel, eyes glittering with that dangerous gleam that meant he'd spotted the elephant in the room and was about to name it.
Xavier's brow arched, dignified curiosity in every line of his face. "Which would be, my boy?"
Harry's smirk curved, aristocratic and devastating, like a man who knew he was about to detonate a conversational landmine. "That Pietro and Wanda Maximoff—" he paused for dramatic effect "—are Erik Lensherr's children."
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold as a weapon of mass destruction. You could practically hear Jean's brain stutter, Scott's mental whiteboard erase itself, and Hank's doctoral thesis drafts combust spontaneously.
"Bloody hell," Bobby blurted, eyes wide. "That would've been useful information about ten minutes ago!"
"Indeed," Xavier said at last, voice calm but eyes narrowing with scholarly weight. "That revelation does rather… complicate matters."
Jean pressed her lips together, green eyes troubled. "Magneto's children," she whispered. "That means any intervention we attempt isn't just about Wanda—it's about family loyalty. About legacy."
Scott's jaw clenched. "So, what? We go in, try to help her, and Magneto decides it's another excuse to pick a fight with humanity?"
Logan snorted, smoke curling from his cigar. "Kid, it ain't 'another excuse.' With Magneto, breathing is an excuse. This just gives him a personal one."
Ororo tilted her head, voice cool but weighted with quiet authority. "If Harry is correct, then leaving Wanda in Ravencroft is far more dangerous. Erik would not leave his daughter in chains if he discovered where she is."
"Which," Sirius interjected smoothly from his chair, leaning back with that Black family elegance that could make lounging look like a throne pose, "begs the very obvious question, pup: how do you know Pietro and Wanda's parentage? I don't recall any of Xavier's briefing packets mentioning bedtime stories from the House of M."
Harry's smile was pure sin, the kind that said oh, you're going to love this answer. He tapped the spot where his lightning bolt scar used to sit, casual as a man pointing out a watch. "Turns out, dear godfather, Voldemort left me more than a charming forehead accessory. Bit of knowledge came with the package. Useful stuff. None of the genocidal megalomania, thankfully."
Sirius blinked, then leaned forward with a grin that was equal parts pride and disbelief. "Wait—you're telling me you picked up Legilimency from him? You—who couldn't Occlude your way out of a paper bag?"
Harry gave him a deadpan look that could have withered stone. "Yes, Sirius. Irony is alive and well, and apparently squatting in my brain. I'm still rubbish at Occlumency, but ask me to skim the surface of someone else's thoughts, and suddenly I'm Merlin's gift to clandestine intelligence gathering."
Bobby let out a low whistle. "So… Pietro didn't just accidentally tell you Magneto's his dad. You just—what—downloaded it straight from his head like a human USB drive?"
Harry shrugged, elegant and infuriating. "Rummaged around a bit, yes. Honestly, the boy's mental defenses are about as subtle as his fashion choices. I barely had to nudge."
Scott glared. "You invaded his mind?"
"Don't pout, Summers," Harry drawled, leaning forward with that Cavill-level smirk. "You're acting like I broke into his diary and underlined all the embarrassing bits. I just confirmed what we all suspected but didn't want to say out loud."
Jean folded her arms, half exasperated, half amused. "You're impossible."
Harry winked. "And yet, so very useful."
Hank cleared his throat, clearly recalibrating the conversation back to academic analysis. "The ethical complications notwithstanding, Harry is correct. The parental connection exponentially increases both the stakes and the probability of intervention by Magneto himself. If Wanda's powers spiral, she will not only be dangerous on her own merit—she could also become a rallying point for her father's broader ideology."
"Which," Sirius said, spreading his hands with dramatic flair, "makes helping her not just a matter of compassion, but strategy. Because the last thing the world needs is a reality-warping teenager bonding with Daddy Dearest over shared trauma and revolutionary politics."
"Rather," Harry said, with that devastating British understatement that made everyone else groan.
Logan growled, "You're enjoying this."
Harry smirked. "Of course I am. We're discussing breaking into Ravencroft to liberate a reality-warping witch before Magneto uses her to redecorate the planet. If that doesn't sound like my kind of Tuesday, what does?"
The implications hung heavy in the room, the kind of silence that meant everyone was already imagining the fallout. But Harry's expression had settled into something serious, steady, the weight of it cutting through the banter.
"Make no mistake," he said quietly. "If we don't get to her first, Magneto will. And if she chooses him, reality itself may not survive the family reunion."
---
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