[Outer Orbit, Just Past Saturn – AKA The Universe's Most Passive-Aggressive Meet-Cute]
Space is big. Like, really big. Infinite timelines, infinite dimensions, infinite chances for the universe to play cosmic matchmaker with the subtlety of a brick to the face.
Which is how you get two celestial warriors on a collision course somewhere past Saturn—because apparently, the Source has a very twisted sense of humor.
Enter Big Barda: seven feet of unapologetic muscle, war-torn armor, and mood swings that could destabilize a moon. She was flying with all the grace of a missile that had feelings. Her HUD pinged a contact just as her left gauntlet vibrated in that annoying "you've got mail, and it's probably a problem" way.
Incoming Target: BEKKA
Status: Graceful danger. Impeccable cheekbones. High probability of philosophical metaphors.
Threat Level: Emotional damage imminent.
Barda groaned. "Of course it's her. Because why have a normal day when you can have Bekka show up and ruin your orbit?"
A ripple shimmered through space up ahead like a tear in reality had rolled its eyes. Bekka stepped out of a Boom Tube like she was late to a diplomatic ball and too polite to say she hated the dress code.
Bekka didn't fly so much as float with purpose. Her armor sparkled like someone had polished the stars, and her expression had that calm, regal "I'm not mad, just disappointed in your entire civilization" thing going on.
Barda? Not impressed.
"Bekka," she greeted, in the same tone one might use for cold lasagna.
Bekka turned smoothly, hovering above a slow-moving asteroid like it was her personal red carpet. "Barda," she replied, with the serene poise of someone who practices yoga while the building's on fire.
They just stared for a second. You could feel the ancient grudge match simmering. Somewhere, a comet did a U-turn just to avoid the awkward.
Barda crossed her arms. "Don't tell me. Highfather sent you."
Bekka gave the world's most graceful nod. "Observation only. Per New Genesis."
"Per Granny," Barda muttered. "Which means I'm probably being live-streamed to a death cult. Fan-fraggin'-tastic."
Bekka's lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. "Check your boot. Granny loves hiding trackers there. She says it builds character."
"I did find something weird under my left heel." Barda's frown deepened. "Thought it was a cookie."
Bekka raised a brow. "Did you eat it?"
"Of course I ate it. I'm not wasteful. Besides, it tasted like betrayal and raisins."
They floated in silence again, the asteroid between them trying very hard not to exist.
"So. You're watching the boy too," Barda said.
Bekka nodded. "Seems we share an assignment."
"Wonderful." Barda cracked her neck. "Wanna get matching uniforms while we're at it?"
Bekka's voice was level. "Only if mine comes with a sarcasm deflector."
"Oh, I'll bring the sarcasm. And a mailbox. In case he starts monologuing."
"Still with the mailbox thing?"
"Hey, it worked on Kalibak."
Bekka winced. "Only because you hit him with the whole post office."
"He deserved it."
"And the fire?"
"Okay, technically not my fault. That satellite had poor trajectory insurance."
Bekka tilted her head, expression unreadable. "Still starting fights, I see."
Barda shrugged. "Only when I breathe."
Another beat of silence. But this time, it wasn't icy. Just… weathered. Like two soldiers standing on opposite sides of a battlefield, tired of pretending they weren't both bleeding.
"You still doing everything by the book?" Barda asked quietly. "Even after what New Genesis did? What they let happen to us?"
Bekka's gaze didn't flicker. "I do what's right. Even when the book's wrong."
Barda nodded slowly. Then scowled again, because being emotionally open wasn't in her battle manual. "You and your damn wisdom. Always made me want to punch a planet."
Bekka offered the faintest smile. "Still could. I hear Neptune's been mouthing off lately."
"Don't tempt me."
They hovered for a second more. Not enemies. Not exactly friends. Something in between. Something sharp and complicated and ancient.
Finally, Barda sighed. "Fine. We shadow him together. But I swear, Bekka, if you try to connect with his soul while I'm watching his fists—"
"You get the mailbox first," Bekka finished, deadpan.
Barda blinked. Then grinned. "You remembered."
"I have trauma," Bekka said sweetly. "It's hard to forget the time you bench-pressed a Star Cruiser because someone insulted your eyeliner."
"It was sharp!" Barda barked. "Like my trauma."
With that, the two turned in unison—muscles and grace, fury and calm, war and peace—and blasted off toward Earth.
Not as a team. Not yet.
But the universe had changed its angle.
Because now it was being watched by two goddesses—one with fists, one with firelight—and both with just enough history to make things interesting.
And somewhere in a perfectly normal high school cafeteria, a teenage demigod sneezed so hard he accidentally vaporized his lunch tray.
Because destiny?
Yeah, it just got personal.
—
Bathtub of Champions
aka That Time My Birthday Started With a Slow Burn (and Nearly Ended With Spontaneous Combustion)
Okay, so here's the scene: steamy bathroom, scalding-hot water, a redheaded goddess literally lounging on me like I'm her personal throne, and me—Harry James freaking Potter—officially eighteen years old and trying not to die of pleasure or pride. (Spoiler: it's a close call.)
The water around us hissed like it knew it wasn't the hottest thing in the room anymore. That honor went to Jean. Always Jean. Fiery, feral, and currently tangled around me like living flame.
She was draped across my chest, arms looped around my neck, legs lazily wrapped around my hips, and this smirk on her face—oh Merlin, that smirk. The kind of grin that says, Yes, I'm trouble. Yes, you like it. No, you will not survive me.
"Harry," she murmured, voice all smoke and sugar, "you know what day it is?"
"National Melt-Your-Boyfriend-Into-a-Puddle Day?" I guessed, running a hand down her spine. "Because you are nailing that role."
She rolled her eyes, but that devilish smile only deepened. "No, dummy. It's your birthday."
"Oh. Right." I blinked. "That thing. Where I get older and people pretend to like me more?"
Jean snorted. "Don't act surprised. You've been acting like a demigod with a fire fetish for weeks. It's about time you were legally allowed to wield that wand of yours in public."
I wiggled my eyebrows. "Wand, huh? Is that what we're calling it now?"
She laughed—the kind that could fuel a thousand bad decisions—and ground against me in a way that made the air evaporate right out of my lungs.
"Careful, flame-boy," she whispered, hot breath brushing my ear. "You're still inside me. I could ride you into next week if I wanted."
I swear to Merlin, every cell in my body stood at attention.
"I mean…" I cleared my throat. "Far be it from me to argue with a woman who can melt doorknobs with she's pissed."
She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "I did that one time."
"Yeah. And we still can't open the pantry without oven mitts."
Jean laughed again and tucked her damp red hair behind her ear, the strands clinging to her cheek like little fiery vines. "Guess what else?"
I narrowed my eyes. "There's more?"
"I'm the first of your girlfriends to wish you happy birthday."
I blinked. "That's… hot. And mildly terrifying. Because if you're first, that means—"
"The others are waiting." She rolled her hips for emphasis, the motion so sinfully slow it had to be banned in at least fourteen countries. "And we should probably let them wish you too…"
I groaned. Loudly. "You're trying to kill me. This is premeditated murder by libido."
She gave me a faux-innocent look. "Who, me? I'm just helping you make memories."
"Oh, I'm remembering things. Like how I've died three times already this morning."
Jean leaned in, pressing her lips to my jaw, then down to the spot just under my ear that made me lose all higher brain function. "One more round?" she murmured. "You know… for luck."
I cupped her hips, already answering with my body before my mouth caught up. "Technically, we're still in round one. It's just a very epic round."
She snorted, then kissed me—full, possessive, and with just enough teeth to make my spine sing. "Happy birthday, lover boy."
I kissed her back like it was a thank-you note written in tongue and molten magic. "This is definitely going in the highlight reel."
"You mean your autobiography?" she teased, sliding her fingers through my hair.
"No," I whispered against her lips. "My epic saga. You'll get a whole chapter."
She grinned, biting her lip, eyes glowing like twin suns. "Just one?"
"Well, maybe two. Depends on whether you survive what I do next."
And then, with a grin of my own, I flipped us—her gasp echoing through the steam like a spell gone right. She landed in the water with a splash and a laugh, arms already pulling me down on top of her like she'd planned for this.
"You're incorrigible," she said, breathless.
"You love it," I shot back.
She wrapped her legs around me. "I really do."
And right there, tangled in her heat, with the water boiling, the bathroom humming with leftover magic, and the sun just starting to peek through the fogged-up windows—I realized something important:
This was my beginning.
Not the Boy Who Lived.
Not the Chosen One.
Not the accidental demigod—now a God—superhero with duties, and expectations.
Just Harry. Eighteen. Alive. In love. And currently being devoured by a redhead who made volcanoes look lukewarm.
Best. Birthday. Ever.
—
Crater Day at Hot Buns Yoga
Earth Orbit — 11 Minutes After the Boy Got Thoroughly Birthdayed
Location: Over North America → Downtown Happy Harbor → Directly in Front of a Yoga Studio That Did Not Deserve This
So. Boom Tubes are supposed to be precise.
Clean. Controlled. Zero collateral damage.
Which made it extra funny (in a "someone's going to get punched" kind of way) when a fiery red streak and a cool silver arc tore across Earth's atmosphere like two angry paintbrushes arguing about abstract art — and crashed right outside a yoga studio.
A yoga studio. Called Hot Buns.
The explosion of energy shattered every window, vaporized three parking meters, and sent a very confused golden retriever into a midlife crisis.
Inside, a retiree in glitter leggings whispered reverently, "I think I just met God."
Her instructor, calmly upside down in a headstand, corrected her: "Two of them, actually."
Outside, in the middle of the smoking crater, stood two women who looked like they'd wandered out of a sci-fi fashion show themed Galactic Domination Chic.
Big Barda hit the ground first — seven feet of muscle, fury, and war-gremlin energy, all wrapped up in battle armor that could probably survive a black hole. Her hair was tied back in a no-nonsense braid, and her posture said I do not have time for your Earth nonsense.
Right beside her, floating half an inch off the ground and looking like she hadn't broken a sweat since the Big Bang, was Bekka.
Bekka didn't land. She descended. Gracefully. Like a philosophical thought. Her armor gleamed like moonlight on snow, and her expression could only be described as celestial-level disappointment in everything.
Barda dusted ash off her gauntlets and scowled at the crater. "Ten out of ten. Stuck the landing. Broke three sidewalks and possibly gravity."
Bekka glanced at the flickering neon sign hanging by a single chain. "Hot Buns Yoga." She read it aloud like it had personally offended her worldview.
"Yeah," Barda muttered. "Figures. Boom Tubes and butt jokes. Welcome to Earth."
She stomped the ground, and her axe buzzed on her back like a wasp that had read The Art of War. Her calves were still smoking.
"You said he was near Mount Justice."
Bekka gave a little shrug — the kind that said I'm ethereal, I don't GPS. "I said I felt him near Mount Justice. Space is fluid."
"This space just kicked me in the thighs."
"You're being dramatic."
"I am always dramatic," Barda snapped. "It's called a personality. You should try it."
Bekka didn't respond. Her gaze had gone distant — tilted eastward — her expression narrowing like she was tuning into a very old, very ominous radio station.
"I sense him," she said softly.
"Good. Let's boom back there, knock on the door, and see if he wants cookies or divine judgment."
Bekka didn't move.
"He's not alone," she murmured.
Barda squinted. "What? Sidekick? Parent? Villain monologuing in the shower?"
"No," Bekka said, voice hushed. "He's with her."
"Who's her?"
Bekka inhaled like the name itself tasted like thunder. "Death. The Endless."
Barda froze.
Like, froze froze. Which was rare, because Barda usually had two modes: punch or prepare to punch.
"You're telling me the kid — the one we're supposed to be watching for reasons no one explained clearly — is hooking up with Death herself?"
"Not just Death." Bekka's eyes narrowed. "There's another."
"Another what?"
"Presence. Ancient. Primordial. Like stardust and volcanoes had a baby."
Barda blinked. "So, let me get this straight. Our boy is not only in cosmic cuddle mode with Death, but he's also shacking up with some ancient elemental powerhouse who probably predates indoor plumbing?"
Bekka nodded. Calm. Completely unbothered. Like this happened every Tuesday.
"And you're fine with this?"
"I didn't say that."
"Because I skipped Fight Club for this, Bekka." Barda waved an exasperated hand. "Fight Club. On Apokolips. It was 'No Armor Night.' I had plans."
"We're not here to fight."
"We're not?" Barda crossed her arms. "Because everything about me screams violence and repressed feelings."
Bekka's lips twitched. "You hide it well."
"Thanks. I practice with sarcasm reps."
They stood in silence for a second — Bekka calm and unreadable, Barda doing angry stretches like she was about to suplex destiny — before Bekka spoke again.
"There's more."
"Of course there is," Barda sighed.
"He's loved."
Barda blinked. "Like… loved loved? With emotions and forehead kisses and all that sappy jazz?"
Bekka nodded. "Deeply. Blindingly. By both of them."
Pause.
Then Barda sat down in the smoking crater, plopped her axe beside her, and just stared at the cracked pavement.
"We're gonna die," she muttered. "We're absolutely going to die. Love? Death? Elemental goddesses? You know how that ends, right? Universe gets torn like a paper plate at a toddler's birthday party."
Bekka, still standing, gave the faintest smile. "Or it becomes something new."
"Oh yeah? And in the meantime, we get to be cosmic babysitters for a teenage demigod with enough hormones to power a sun?"
"Technically, he's eighteen now."
"Oh, great. Legal apocalypse. Even better."
—
Meanwhile – Mount Justice
Inside the Steamroom of Doom (a.k.a. Jean's Birthday Trap)
Harry sneezed. Again.
Jean — currently on top of him, half wrapped in a towel, looking like the Goddess of Glowing Redheads and Very Poor Impulse Control — paused mid-kiss.
"You okay?" she asked, brushing damp hair from his face.
Harry blinked. "Yeah. Just felt like someone up there was judging me. Like... cosmically."
Jean grinned. "Welcome to dating a fire goddess. You get judged."
"Pretty sure the judgment came from the orbit layer."
"Oh." She kissed his jaw. "Might've been my aunt. Or a comet. They're both nosy."
Harry kissed her back and smirked. "Just so we're clear — I'm definitely dying happy."
Jean's eyes flared, literally. "Round two?"
"Only if we don't tear the space-time continuum this time."
"Challenge accepted," she whispered, and pulled him back down into the heat.
—
Outside, Crater-Watching
Barda stood back up and dusted herself off. Her shoulders squared. Her axe hummed.
"Fine. Let's go."
"Change of heart?" Bekka asked.
"No," Barda growled. "But if the boy's tangled in love and death and destiny, someone needs to make sure he eats breakfast and doesn't explode."
Bekka nodded. "Parental energy. I like it."
"Don't start," Barda muttered. "Let's just go make sure our cosmic rom-com protagonist isn't getting seduced into a multiversal crisis."
Boom.
They vanished in a streak of light.
The crater smoked gently. The yoga studio's neon sign finally gave up and fell.
Somewhere, Destiny updated her status: It's complicated.
—
Mount Justice — 24 Minutes Post-Bathtub Shenanigans
Location: My Room (aka Ground Zero for Hot Girl Apocalypse)
Harry Potter's Birthday, Age: 18
Sanity Level: Currently Fragile
I should've known something was up the second Jean stopped trying to kiss me against the wall. Don't get me wrong — getting steam-attacked by a redhead in a towel is, like, top-tier birthday behavior. But then she paused mid-snog and gave me this very suspicious smile, like she'd just remembered she left a magical grenade under my pillow.
So when I opened my bedroom door and saw glitter.
Everywhere.
Everywhere.
I knew I'd been played.
Balloons. Banners. A glowing cake that I really hoped wasn't radioactive. And eight of my girlfriends standing in a semi-circle like a council of interdimensional hotties had gathered to judge my towel placement.
"Surprise!" they all shouted, like a supermodel jump-scare.
I blinked. Jean smirked beside me, towel still clinging to her like it owed her money. "Told you we missed something," she whispered, clearly not sorry.
Zatanna floated forward first — black fishnets, glitter eyeliner, and the kind of smirk that said you're lucky I like you, Potter. "Took you long enough," she purred, wand tucked behind her ear like a fashion statement for dangerously attractive witches.
"I was distracted," I replied, clutching my towel like it was the last Horcrux. "By the literal embodiment of fire and temptation. You left me with her."
"I volunteered," Jean added proudly. "As a public service."
Kara — floating upside down like gravity was just a suggestion — waved cheerfully. She was in Supergirl pajama shorts and a tank top that read "Kryptonian Cutie", which, frankly, felt like false advertising because she was way past "cutie" and deep in "interstellar goddess" territory. "I decorated the cake with lasers!"
I nodded slowly. "Because frosting was too mainstream?"
Kori bounced excitedly beside her, her hair glowing like a comet with ADHD. "I filled the balloons with solar energy! It was most joyful! Although one may have exploded in Mareena's face. My apologies."
"My hair is still floating," Mareena muttered from the corner. Regal as always, crown slightly crooked, sea-glass eyes narrowed like she was personally offended by helium.
"You look like a bubblegum queen," Deedee offered with a wink. Death herself, ladies and gentlemen — perky goth energy, black lipstick, and curves that broke the laws of mourning attire. "Happy deathday, hot stuff."
"It's birthday," Megan corrected, voice sweet and clueless in that perfect Disney Princess way. "But close!"
"Whatever," Tia said, sprawled on my bed like she owned it — which, legally speaking, was probably accurate. "I wrapped your present in reinforced steel because somebody has a track record of breaking things."
"I broke one bed," I said defensively.
Zatanna raised an eyebrow. "One bed, two chairs, my shower rod, and a pair of heels not even enchanted for combat."
"That last one was sabotage," I muttered.
"I warned you about the thighs," Tia added, stretching like a Greek statue come to life. "These hips don't lie. They file insurance claims."
Raven looked up from the corner, hoodie up, book glowing faintly with eldritch menace. "We spelled the room," she said, voice flat. "No one can teleport in or out."
"Just in case someone tries to steal you again," Megan chimed in, beaming. "Like last Thursday! Or that time with the weird clone cult."
"Oh yeah," I said. "That was awkward. Lot of robes. Very little personal space."
By now I was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by demi-goddesses, alien royalty, actual Death, and enough glitter to make Tinker Bell cry. Still holding the towel. Still damp.
"Okay. So let me get this straight." I pointed around the room. "You. Kryptonian. Can bench press a bus. You. Tamaranean. Can melt steel with your eyeballs. You're Death. You're a clone who could suplex Superman. You've got a crown. You're a chaos witch. You're a telepath. You're a demon spawn. And all of you just spent twenty minutes blowing up balloons?"
"Love is war," Zatanna said solemnly.
"War requires prep time," added Raven.
"And glitter," Kara mumbled. She was now tangled in a paper star and somehow still looked like a shampoo commercial.
Jean bumped her hip against mine, smirking. "We figured you deserved a break. No villains. No gods. No end-of-world nonsense. Just cake. Girls. And maybe… us, in pajamas."
Deedee leaned closer, twirling her umbrella like she was seconds from making a gothic musical number happen. "Spoiler alert — I don't own pajamas."
My brain short-circuited for a second.
Then Kara added, "Technically, I sleep in space."
"Oh good," I muttered. "No pressure at all. Just my birthday and a small army of women who could murder me with a look."
Jean wrapped her arms around my waist, tilting her face up toward mine. Her lips were still damp. So were mine. Good distractions had been had. "Cake's on the table. Presents are stacked. And I call dibs on the next twenty minutes."
"Like hell you do," growled Tia.
"I brought him towels," Jean said, faux-offended.
"I brought him protein shakes," Tia shot back.
"I brought him back from the brink of death!" Deedee chimed cheerfully.
"Girls," I interrupted, finally stepping forward, green eyes flashing in a way that shut everyone up.
(Okay. Maybe not shut up. But at least paused the competitive seduction.)
I turned a slow circle, taking it all in — the laughter, the sparkle, the way every one of them looked at me like I was something worth fighting for.
My voice dropped a notch — low, amused, and maybe just a little dangerous. "I am very flattered. Very aroused. Very confused. But mostly?"
I tugged the towel off my shoulder with a flourish, like I was about to deliver a TED Talk on Hot Nerd Energy.
"I want cake."
Zatanna snorted. "He's eighteen and still thinks with his stomach."
"I think with everything," I said with a wink.
"And he's our leader," Raven muttered. "God help the multiverse."
Kori floated forward, a cupcake in each hand. "We made extras. One has frosting. One has whiskey."
I took both. Obviously.
"Happy birthday, babe," Jean whispered against my neck.
"Happy me day," I corrected, licking frosting off my thumb. "Now—let's see how many of you actually wrapped your gifts and how many just plan on tackling me later."
Deedee grinned. "Why not both?"
Kara dropped from the ceiling.
Tia cracked her knuckles.
Megan giggled like she was about to build a blanket fort and destroy a city.
And me?
I just laughed.
Because honestly?
Best. Birthday. Ever.
—
Mount Justice – 63 Minutes into Operation: Birthday Bonanza
Location: Cafeteria, Now 147% More Magical Than OSHA Allows
Mood: Sugar High with a Side of Mild Horniness and Unapologetic Sass
Let me set the scene: Me, walking into the Mount Justice cafeteria flanked by the most dangerous, most jaw-droppingly attractive group of women this side of a Justice League calendar shoot. We were glowing—literally. Kori might've kissed me too hard and left stardust on my cheek. There were whipped cream incidents. Jean's hair was windswept and suspiciously tangled. Someone (I'm not naming names but her name rhymes with Patanna) had summoned a cloud of glitter that is probably still circulating in the air ducts.
So yeah. We weren't just late. We were main character energy late.
"Are we late?" Jean asked, red hair catching the light like some kind of mythic shampoo commercial.
Zatanna floated about an inch off the floor, her fishnets looking like they were woven from actual magic. "Chronologically, yes. Aesthetically? We're fashionably cinematic."
Kori, who had linked her arm through mine like I was her favorite earth trinket, grinned. "This is the correct amount of drama for a birthday!"
"You're wearing three sparkly ribbons and no pants."
"Exactly!"
Tia smirked beside me, blowing a bubble with her gum that smelled like atomic watermelon and danger. "If no one faints from the hotness, we've failed the assignment."
I patted her on the butt. "Then we're overachieving, babe."
We stepped into the cafeteria like we were walking into an award show hosted by Dionysus and sponsored by chaos.
Boom.
Confetti.
Magical fireworks.
A banner that read: "HARRY BLOODY POTTER IS LEGAL AND ARMED WITH MAGIC & CHEEKBONES!"
Which... okay, that was funny.
Hermione stood at the front like the general of this glittery battalion, clipboard in hand, wand behind one ear, and that feral I-have-planned-every-minute smile that said someone was about to get turned into a frog for ignoring the schedule.
"About time," Ron shouted, tossing a party hat at my face. "You done snogging your way through the League?"
"Not even halfway, Weasley," Deedee purred. "But don't worry. I left him hydrated."
Ginny gave Kara a fist bump. "Tell me he at least ate cake before getting frosting in inappropriate places."
"There was a lot of licking," Kara said, faux-innocent as she licked frosting off her thumb. Her blue eyes sparkled. She looked like trouble wearing a sunbeam.
Fred and George showed up with matching shirts that read: "Harry's Harem Support Crew – We Take Bribes in Butterbeer".
Neville hugged me like a champ. Lee Jordan set off confetti that made me look like I'd been glitterbombed by a sentient unicorn.
Then came the Young Justice crew.
Wally zipped past, grabbed a cupcake, winked. "You win, man. You're living every hormonal teenager's dream."
Dick Grayson handed me a drink. "Enjoy the peace before someone accidentally summons a karaoke demon."
"We don't talk about last year," Artemis muttered.
"I liked the demon," Zee said, dramatically offended. "He had range."
Kaldur gave me a small silver box with Atlantean script and the weight of wisdom. "May your tide be calm, your soul steady, and your birthday free of mystical interruptions."
"You are the only sane man here," I whispered.
Roy nodded at me from the punch bowl like a big brother who refused to be caught smiling. Cyborg (Victor, not the cereal mascot) raised his drink and announced, "Brace for Cake Four. It glows. Sarah made it."
"Why does everything here glow?" I stage-whispered to Hermione.
"Because you keep dating interdimensional babes with literal energy auras," she deadpanned.
Daphne Greengrass handed me a gift that radiated cold magic and reeked of old money. Tracey Davis blew me a kiss that probably should've come with a hazard label. Hannah and Susan hugged me so aggressively I nearly saw Merlin.
Connor Kent handed me a cupcake like it was a Kryptonian rite of passage. "You dated Death and lived. Respect."
"Lived? Barely," I said. "But worth it."
Sarah Simms snapped a photo as I blushed. "Memory insurance. Just in case you end up old, gray, and still finding glitter in weird places."
Jean wrapped her arms around me from behind and whispered in my ear, "She thinks you'll go gray. That's adorable."
Tia slung herself onto my lap the moment I sat, legs over mine like she owned the throne. "You know the rule, birthday boy. If you're not being sat on, you're doing it wrong."
"Careful," Mareena purred, joining us with a smirk and a sea-salt brownie. "He still has to walk later."
"Who says I plan to?" I smirked. "I've got eight magical girlfriends and zero shame."
Cue blushing. Cue laughter. Cue me being the luckiest boy in multiple worlds.
And then... someone summoned a piñata. Someone else gave it a lightsaber.
Wally and Ron got into a frosting-eating duel that ended with Wally running into a floating cupcake and Ron trying to duel it like a Slytherin assassin.
Fred tried transfiguring a gift bag into lingerie. Hermione nearly hexed him into the next time zone.
Megan tried to mind-link everyone for a group birthday message.
...and we all immediately regretted that decision.
Through it all, I just stood there, taking it in. This wasn't the cupboard under the stairs. This wasn't Number Four Privet Drive. This wasn't Hogwarts.
It was chaos. It was loud. It was over-the-top and glittery and full of people who loved me anyway.
It was mine.
It was home.
—
The room was humming—literally. Someone enchanted the ceiling to pulse with ambient lighting, and it was flickering between "romantic mood" and "alien disco rave." Pretty sure Victor was doing it on purpose. My ears were still ringing from Wally's attempt to beat Ron in a frosting-eating contest. (He lost. Badly. Mostly because Ron cast Engorgio on his stomach when no one was looking.)
I'd just accepted my third enchanted cupcake (it sang a sexy birthday song in French and tried to unbutton my shirt), when Kara took my hand.
No warning. No sass. Just her, golden and glowing, eyes softer than sunrise on Krypton.
"You owe me a dance, birthday boy," she said, smiling like she already knew I'd say yes.
"Do I?" I raised an eyebrow.
Kara leaned in, nose brushing mine. "Do you want me to throw you across the room?"
"Okay, see, that's cheating. I like that too."
She laughed, tugged me gently into the open space that had miraculously cleared itself (probably because Hermione cast a social-buffer charm so no one got body-slammed mid-sway). Music shifted—slow, jazzy, something that made my pulse do weird things.
And then she was in my arms. Or I was in hers. Honestly, with Kryptonians, you're never entirely sure who's holding who.
"You smell like frosting and danger," Kara whispered, her lips brushing my ear.
"I aim to please," I murmured back. "You smell like fire and hope and the reason most guys develop a cape kink."
Her laugh was full-body, sunshine and chaos. "You're lucky I love you."
"I'm luckier than I deserve." I meant it. Every word.
She rested her forehead against mine, swaying gently with the rhythm. Around us, the party quieted just enough—soft lights, distant chatter, someone (probably George) narrating dramatically from behind a punch bowl.
And then, from behind me—
"Ahem."
Jean, red hair shimmering like literal temptation, tapped Kara on the shoulder. "Mind if I cut in?"
Kara tilted her head, grinned. "You've got three minutes. After that, I start pouting."
They kissed my cheeks on either side like they were trying to melt me into soup, and suddenly I was dancing with Jean. Telepathic, devastating, slightly terrifying Jean.
Her hands slipped around my neck, her body pressed close, and her voice, when she spoke, was warm as firelight.
"Happy birthday, Harry."
"I'm having trouble breathing."
"Good. Means I'm doing it right."
Jean was smoother than whiskey and twice as dangerous. Her eyes were locked on mine like she was memorizing me for later, and something about the way her hips moved made my brain short-circuit.
"I may die," I whispered.
"You'll die happy."
Meanwhile, in what can only be described as The Opposite Corner of Emotional Tone—
"Okay, now pop it like this!" Zatanna instructed, hands on her hips, fishnets glittering under the ceiling lights.
Kori, looking deadly serious in a crop top made of stardust and cosmic delight, furrowed her brow. "Is this the twerk?"
"No," said Tia, chewing gum with all the menace of a blonde goddess in a nightclub. "That's the warm-up twerk. Now bend your knees. Lower. There you go."
And then Kori twerked.
The earth shook.
Wally, poor hormonal soul that he was, walked straight into a wall.
Artemis, not missing a beat, smacked the back of his head. "Eyes up, West."
"I'm trying," he croaked, still blinking. "But gravity betrayed me."
Megan, off to the side, was live-streaming the twerking lesson to Victor, Roy, and probably the entire Watchtower by accident. "This is educational!" she chirped, eyes wide and utterly delighted like a sugar-high anime character brought to life.
"Girl," muttered Raven, sipping something dark and probably cursed, "you've got the chaotic energy of a gremlin at a pop concert."
Megan beamed. "Thanks! You're like… Wednesday Addams but sexy."
"Thank you." Raven smirked, and somewhere, a bat probably exploded.
Back at the dance floor, Kara and Jean had merged into some sort of smug girlfriend chorus, and I was trying really, really hard not to pass out from sheer romantic overdose.
"You know," I said finally, looking at the storm of chaos, sparkles, and hormonal mayhem around me, "this is the weirdest birthday I've ever had."
Kara leaned into my side. "And the best."
Jean kissed the corner of my mouth. "Obviously."
Zatanna blew me a kiss across the room and shouted, "Wait 'til the midnight show!"
"Midnight show?" I blinked. "What midnight show?"
Megan raised a hand. "I may have summoned a minor chaos deity as your birthday surprise."
Hermione paled. "You what?!"
And just like that, I knew the night wasn't over.
Not even close.
---
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