The Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters maintained the kind of pre-dawn quiet that belonged in cathedrals and libraries—hushed, expectant, and faintly sacred. Harry Potter found himself awake at half-past five, staring at a ceiling that was both completely foreign and oddly comforting. The guest quarters were luxurious in an understated way that would have made the Dursleys weep with envy: Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like sleeping on clouds, furniture that cost more than most people's cars, and a view of manicured grounds that stretched toward distant forests like something from a postcard.
He'd slept better than he had in months, which was saying something considering he'd just been cosmically remodeled and hurled across dimensional boundaries. Apparently, his new physiology came with upgraded recovery systems—no more tossing and turning, no nightmares featuring red eyes and high, cold laughter. Just deep, dreamless sleep that left him feeling like he could wrestle a dragon and win.
The problem was that his internal clock had been thoroughly scrambled by interdimensional travel. His body insisted it was time to be awake and alert, while his brain pointed out that dawn was still an hour away and normal people didn't start their days before the sun remembered it had a job to do.
"Right then," he murmured to the elegant crown molding, his voice carrying that particular brand of dry British wit that had gotten him through five years of magical disasters. "Early bird gets the worm, and all that rot. Though I suppose in a place like this, the worms probably have superpowers too. Might as well have a proper look around before I accidentally declare war on the local wildlife."
He slipped into jeans that hugged his newly enhanced physique like they'd been tailored by Savile Row's finest, and a dark grey sweater that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that somewhere between yesterday morning and this morning, he'd been upgraded from 'scrawny teenager' to 'walking recruitment poster for the benefits of cosmic enhancement.' The clothing fit perfectly in that slightly unsettling way that suggested either excellent guesswork or mildly invasive surveillance.
"Note to self," he said to his reflection as he padded barefoot toward the door, "ask McCoy if telepathic tailoring is a standard service, or if I should be concerned about the privacy implications of magically fitted trousers."
The hallway beyond was dimly lit by what appeared to be automatic sensors, each fixture glowing to life as he approached and fading again once he'd passed. The technology was subtle but impressive, like everything else he'd seen so far. It reminded him of Hogwarts, if Hogwarts had been designed by someone with actual funding and a working knowledge of physics.
The mansion felt different at this hour. During the day, it hummed with the controlled chaos of teenage energy and academic pursuit. But in these quiet moments before dawn, it revealed its true nature: a haven built by someone who understood that sanctuary meant more than just four walls and a roof. Every detail spoke of careful thought—the way the corridors curved to create cozy alcoves, how the windows were positioned to catch every scrap of natural light, the abundance of plants and artwork that made the space feel lived-in rather than institutional.
Harry found himself drifting through the halls like a particularly well-dressed ghost, his enhanced senses cataloguing everything with the thoroughness of someone who'd learned that survival often depended on knowing your environment. The building's bones were old—probably nineteenth century, he guessed—but the infrastructure was cutting-edge. Climate control that adjusted itself room by room, security systems that would make Gringotts jealous, and what looked suspiciously like holographic displays built into the very walls.
"Bloody hell," he whispered appreciatively. "Xavier's got better tech than the Ministry of Magic, and they're supposedly the pinnacle of wizarding innovation. Though given that the Ministry's idea of cutting-edge technology is a self-stirring cauldron, that's perhaps not saying much."
He paused before a portrait of a stern-looking gentleman in Victorian dress, whose painted eyes seemed to follow his movement with the kind of intensity that suggested either exceptional artistry or mild haunting. The nameplate read "Nathaniel Essex" in elegant script.
"Well, Nathaniel," Harry said conversationally, his voice carrying that particular tone of polite interest that upper-class Brits used when making small talk with the potentially dangerous, "hope you don't mind the company. I'm what you might call the new kid, though I suspect I'm technically older than most of your usual residents. Dimensionally displaced, cosmically enhanced, and currently suffering from what I can only describe as supernatural jet lag."
The portrait, being significantly less enchanted than those at Hogwarts, offered no response beyond that unsettling painted stare.
"Right. Not much for conversation, are you? Fair enough." Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose dead Victorians have heard stranger things than interdimensional refugees. Probably had tea with them, knowing this place. Though I have to say, your expression suggests either chronic indigestion or deep philosophical concerns about the nature of existence. Possibly both."
He continued his wandering, eventually finding himself in what appeared to be the mansion's main atrium. The space soared three stories high, crowned by an elaborate skylight that would flood the area with natural light once the sun remembered its manners. Even in the pre-dawn gloom, the architecture was breathtaking—classical proportions married to modern sensibilities, creating something both timeless and thoroughly contemporary.
A grand staircase curved upward from the center of the space, its banister polished to mirror brightness and lined with what appeared to be actual marble. Portrait galleries lined the upper levels, featuring what Harry assumed were important figures from the school's history. The whole effect was rather like standing in the foyer of a very expensive hotel, except this hotel came with the implicit promise that the guests might accidentally level city blocks while working on their homework.
"Merlin's beard," Harry breathed, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "And I thought Hogwarts was pretentious. This place looks like it was decorated by someone who thought Versailles was a bit too understated."
Harry was contemplating the engineering required for that skylight—and wondering whether it was designed to withstand the occasional bout of teenage superhuman tantrum—when he heard it: the soft pad of bare feet on marble, moving with the careful stealth of someone trying very hard not to wake anyone. He turned toward the sound, curious about who else was awake at this ungodly hour.
What he saw made him freeze like a startled deer.
A young woman—girl, really, probably fifteen or sixteen—was creeping down the staircase with the exaggerated care of someone engaged in covert operations. She wore pajama shorts that were criminally brief and revealed long, coltish legs that belonged in renaissance paintings, paired with a tank top in a shade of green that perfectly matched her eyes. The tank top had clearly been slept in and clung to curves that made Harry's enhanced physiology suddenly feel like a significant disadvantage in terms of maintaining his composure.
Her auburn hair was an absolute disaster, sticking up at angles that defied several laws of physics and possibly challenged Einstein's theory of relativity. She had the slightly unfocused expression of someone who wasn't entirely awake yet, combined with the kind of natural, unconscious grace that suggested she had no idea how absolutely stunning she was.
She was, quite simply, beautiful in that fresh-faced, girl-next-door way that made poets write very bad verse and teenage boys walk into stationary objects.
Harry Potter, being a teenage boy himself—albeit one who'd been recently upgraded to supernatural specifications and now looked like he'd been personally carved by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired period—promptly demonstrated his continued membership in that demographic by walking straight into a potted plant.
The crash was magnificent. The plant—some sort of decorative fern that had probably cost more than the entire annual budget of the Dursleys' household—toppled over with the theatrical flair of a dying opera singer. Soil exploded across the pristine marble floor in a spray of earth and ceramic fragments, while Harry flailed wildly in an attempt to catch both himself and the pot, succeeding only in making the disaster more comprehensive and infinitely more embarrassing.
He landed hard on his backside, covered in dirt and plant matter, while pottery shards scattered around him like shrapnel. The sound echoed through the atrium with the finality of a cathedral bell, ensuring that anyone within three floors would be fully aware that someone had just made a spectacular fool of themselves.
The girl on the stairs stopped mid-step, eyes wide with alarm that quickly shifted to poorly suppressed amusement. Her hand flew to her mouth, but he could see the smile threatening to break free behind her fingers.
"Oh," she said, her voice carrying just a hint of laughter that sounded like silver bells being gently shaken. "Oh my."
Harry sat in his patch of destruction, dirt in his hair and what felt like half the potting soil down his shirt, and gave her his most charming smile—the one that had gotten him out of trouble with McGonagall exactly zero times but always seemed worth trying. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that he was currently wearing half a fern as a hat.
"Good morning," he said with the kind of dignity that only worked when you were sitting in a pile of broken pottery, his accent crisp and distinctly upper-class despite the circumstances. "Lovely day for destroying expensive landscaping, don't you think? I was just demonstrating the advanced combat techniques they teach at Hogwarts. Plant warfare is apparently more challenging than I anticipated."
She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes were definitely dancing now, bright blue and sparkling with mirth. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, but—" She gestured helplessly at the carnage surrounding him.
"No, no, laugh away," Harry said, pushing himself to his feet with as much grace as he could muster while covered in soil. His enhanced physique made the movement fluid despite the circumstances, and he couldn't help but notice the way her eyes tracked the motion. "I'm sure it's quite the sight. New student makes spectacular first impression by declaring war on the local flora. I'll probably make the school newsletter. 'Potter vs. Plant: A Cautionary Tale About Pre-Dawn Navigation.'"
"Are you hurt?" she asked, genuine concern creeping into her voice as she came down the last few steps. There was something endearingly motherly about the question, despite the fact that she was clearly younger than he was.
"Only my pride, and that was never in particularly good shape to begin with." He brushed dirt off his jeans, which only succeeded in smearing it around more effectively. "Though I suspect I'll be getting a lecture about respecting the sanctity of potted plants. Probably delivered by someone with very strong opinions about proper hallway navigation and the dangers of wandering around unsupervised."
She was closer now, and Harry found himself momentarily distracted by the way the dim lighting caught the red in her hair, turning it copper and gold and several other colors that probably had names he didn't know. Her eyes were the kind of blue that reminded him of summer skies and deeper things—the sort of blue that poets spent their entire careers trying to describe and never quite managed.
"I don't think Professor Xavier will mind," she said gently, her voice carrying a warm quality that made something tight in Harry's chest loosen. "He's quite understanding about accidents. We've all had our share of... mishaps."
"Speaking from experience?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow in a way that had been known to cause hearts to flutter and occasionally stop entirely.
Her cheeks flushed pink, a delicate color that somehow made her even more beautiful. "Let's just say the greenhouse still bears certain scars from my first week here."
"What happened?" Harry leaned against the wall with studied casualness, crossing his arms in a way that absolutely did not show off his enhanced physique. Not at all.
"I may have accidentally... set fire to the prize-winning orchids during a particularly vivid nightmare." She bit her lower lip in a way that was absolutely devastating. "Turns out psychic flames and delicate flowers don't mix well. Professor McCoy was very understanding, but I think he's still mourning the loss of his hybrid tea roses."
Harry blinked, his casual pose forgotten. "Psychic flames?"
She bit her lower lip again, suddenly looking uncertain in a way that made Harry want to reassure her immediately. "I'm... I have telepathic and telekinetic abilities. Among other things. The fire is new, and I'm still learning to control it. It's... complicated."
The moment she mentioned fire, Harry felt something deep in his chest stir—a warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with recognition. It was like hearing a familiar song played in a different key, or seeing a constellation from an unfamiliar angle. Power calling to power.
And from the way her eyes suddenly sharpened, pupils dilating slightly as her head tilted in unconscious listening, she felt it too.
"You're..." she began, then stopped, uncertainty flickering across her features. "There's something about you. Something familiar. Like..." She frowned, searching for words. "Like hearing an echo of your own voice, but deeper somehow. Stronger."
Harry's enhanced senses picked up the subtle changes in her body language—the slight shift in her stance, the way her breathing had become more controlled, the faint scent of ozone that seemed to cling to her skin. Most telling of all was the way the air around her seemed to shimmer with barely contained energy, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt.
"You feel it too," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
She nodded slowly, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "It's like... like you carry a piece of the same fire I do. But that's impossible. The Phoenix Force is unique, and I'm the only one who—" She stopped, eyes widening as the implications hit her.
"Phoenix Force," Harry repeated, and now his voice carried a weight that made the words ring in the vast space of the atrium. "Tall, gorgeous, tendency to speak in cosmic riddles and remake people from the ground up? Flames that burn without consuming, except when they decide to consume everything? That Phoenix Force?"
Her hand went to her throat as if she could physically feel the power stirring there. "You've met her."
"More than met. She's the reason I look like I've been personally carved by Michelangelo and fed nothing but protein shakes for a year." Harry stepped closer, and the warmth between them intensified, like standing near a banked fire that was suddenly remembering how to burn. "She enhanced me. Made me something more than human so I could survive in this reality. Apparently, cosmic entities have very strong opinions about proper preparation for interdimensional travel."
"Enhanced you how?" Her voice was barely above a whisper now, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever spell was weaving itself around them.
Harry glanced around the empty atrium, then back at her with a roguish smile that could have powered small cities. "Would you like me to show you? Fair warning—it's a bit dramatic. I'm still getting used to the whole 'cosmic power' thing, and subtlety was never my strong suit to begin with. My Hogwarts professors can attest to that, assuming any of them survived the experience."
She nodded, taking a step back to give him room, but her eyes never left his face.
Harry closed his eyes and reached for that place inside himself where the Phoenix's gift lived—not the raw, wild magic he'd been born with, but something deeper and infinitely more dangerous. "Right then. Try not to be too impressed. I'm still getting used to the whole 'living legend' thing, and my ego's already dangerously oversized."
The armor flowed across his skin like liquid midnight, each scale catching and reflecting the dim light until he seemed to glow from within. The transformation was fluid, organic, like watching mercury flow uphill. Each scale was a work of art in its own right—black as the space between stars but shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire that pulsed with his heartbeat.
Then came the wings, unfurling from his shoulders in a display of pure psychic energy that filled the atrium with warm, living radiance. They weren't physical constructs but something deeper—crystallized thought given form, power made manifest. The light they cast was warm and inviting, like standing in a shaft of perfect sunlight.
When he opened his eyes, they blazed like they were lit from within, and his voice carried a resonance that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"Well?" he asked, and even that simple word carried power. "What's the verdict? Impressive enough to forgive the whole 'destroying your landscaping' incident?"
She was staring at him with something approaching awe, her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide. "My God," she breathed. "You're beautiful."
Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks—a rather ridiculous response from someone currently armored in dragon scales and sporting wings made of crystallized thought. "I'm told the Phoenix has excellent taste in renovations. Though I have to say, she didn't ask before starting the whole 'cosmic makeover' process. Bit presumptuous, really, but I suppose when you're a cosmic force of creation and destruction, concepts like 'informed consent' become more like 'gentle suggestions.'"
"She does." The girl's voice carried a certainty that spoke to personal experience. "Though she's never... I mean, I've felt her presence, her influence, but she's never appeared to me directly. Never spoken to me face-to-face. I wasn't even sure she was really there until recently."
"Count yourself lucky," Harry said with rueful humor, letting just a hint of his natural charm show through the cosmic grandeur. "She has opinions. Lots of them. And she's not particularly concerned with human concepts like 'consent' or 'asking permission before rewriting your genetic code.' Very much a 'act first, explain later' sort of cosmic entity. If she explains at all."
The girl laughed, a sound like silver bells that made something warm unfurl in Harry's chest. "That sounds like her. I've been learning to work with the power she's given me, but it's... overwhelming sometimes. Like trying to contain the sun in a teacup."
"What's your name?" Harry asked, letting the wings fold back into nothingness while keeping the armor. Somehow, standing there in his enhanced form felt right with her—like he didn't need to pretend to be smaller or weaker than he was.
"Jean," she said, then smiled with the kind of shy warmth that could stop traffic and probably had. "Jean Grey."
"Harry Potter," he replied, offering a slight bow that managed to be both formal and slightly mocking—a distinctly British combination of respect and gentle mockery. "Interdimensional refugee, cosmic experiment, and apparently the universe's answer to the question 'what happens when you give a moderately competent wizard delusions of grandeur and unlimited power?'"
"Moderately competent?" Jean raised an eyebrow that could have been trademarked for devastating effect. There was something delightfully challenging in her tone.
"Well, I did manage to defeat a dark wizard or two," Harry said with studied modesty. "Though I'm told that was more luck than skill. My former headmaster was quite insistent on that point. Something about 'reckless endangerment of yourself and others' and 'flagrant disregard for school property.' Very ungrateful, considering I saved the school. Multiple times."
"Multiple times?" Jean's smile widened, and Harry felt his heart do something athletic in his chest.
"Oh yes. First year was a possessed professor trying to steal an ancient artifact. Second year, basilisk in the plumbing—sixty-foot snake with a killing gaze. Third year was a falsely accused godfather and a pack of soul-sucking demons. Fourth year, resurrection of the aforementioned dark wizard during what was supposed to be a friendly sporting competition. Fifth year..." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "Fifth year was the Department of Mysteries, which is how I ended up here."
"That's quite a resume," Jean said softly. "And you said you're only moderately competent?"
"My Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would disagree," Harry replied with a self-deprecating grin. "According to her, I'm a 'dangerous delinquent with no respect for authority and a disturbing tendency toward vigilantism.' I prefer 'proactive problem solver with flexible interpretations of rules and regulations.'"
Jean laughed again, and the sound was like music. "I like your interpretation better."
"I'll bet you do." Her eyes traveled over the armor with frank appreciation that made Harry's enhanced physiology suddenly feel like both a blessing and a curse. "How long have you been here?"
"About twelve hours. Arrived yesterday evening in what I'm told was a rather spectacular fashion. Apparently, interdimensional travel isn't known for its subtlety. There was fire, there was falling from great heights, and there may have been some property damage. Standard Tuesday for Harry Potter, really. There's nothing normal about my life."
"Neither are you, from what I can see." She gestured at the destroyed plant, then at his current appearance. "Do you always make such memorable first impressions?"
"Only on days ending in 'y,'" Harry replied with a grin that could have powered small cities. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've destroyed expensive landscaping while meeting a beautiful girl. Usually, it's the other way around—I meet the girl, then things explode. This is actually an improvement on my track record. Progress, one might say."
Jean's cheeks turned pink again, but she was smiling. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Potter."
"Please, just Harry. 'Mr. Potter' makes me sound like I should be wearing a bowler hat and lecturing people about the importance of proper tea service. Or possibly running for Parliament. Both equally terrifying prospects."
"Just Harry, then." She took another step closer, and Harry could see flecks of gold in her green eyes that seemed to shift and dance like tiny flames. "What were you doing wandering the halls at this hour? Insomnia?"
"Dimensional jet lag," Harry admitted with a rueful chuckle. "My internal clock is thoroughly confused about what time it's supposed to be. Apparently, cosmic enhancement doesn't come with an automatic adjustment for interdimensional travel. My body thinks it's time to be awake and alert, while my brain is pointing out that dawn is still an hour away and normal people don't start their days before the sun remembers it has a job to do. What about you? Sneaking around in your pajamas doesn't seem like standard pre-dawn behavior, though I have to say, you make it look remarkably elegant."
"Nightmares," she said simply, and something in her voice made Harry's protective instincts snap to attention like a guard dog hearing an intruder. "They've been getting stronger lately. More vivid. Sometimes it's easier to be awake than to risk... well, let's just say psychic flames and dormitories don't mix well. The school's insurance policy is probably quite specific about that sort of thing."
Harry's expression softened, the playful banter fading into genuine concern. "The Phoenix power. It's hard to control when you're not fully conscious, isn't it?"
She nodded, looking suddenly younger and more vulnerable. "It wants to burn. Not destructively, but... completely. Like it wants to remake everything from the ground up. And when I'm asleep, when my guards are down..." She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.
"It gets ideas," Harry finished quietly. "I know the feeling. When the Phoenix enhanced me, she didn't just change my body. She changed how I process magic, how I interact with the world around me. Sometimes I feel like I could reshape reality with a thought, and that's absolutely terrifying. Power without wisdom is just destruction waiting to happen."
"Exactly." Relief flooded her features at being understood. "Everyone here is so kind, so patient, but they don't really understand what it's like to carry something that's simultaneously part of you and completely beyond you. Like having a wild animal sleeping in your chest—beautiful and powerful, but always ready to wake up and remind you that you're not really in control."
"Want to know a secret?" Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean that made his head spin. "The Phoenix Force isn't just power. It's alive. Conscious. And it has opinions about how that power should be used."
Jean's eyes widened. "You can feel her? As a separate presence?"
"Sometimes. Usually when I'm pushing the boundaries of what I can do, or when I'm in danger. She's... protective. Maternal, almost, but in the way that volcanoes are maternal. Lots of warmth and creative energy, with the occasional tendency toward spectacular destruction. Very much a 'I love you so much I'll burn down the world if someone threatens you' sort of cosmic parent."
"That's exactly what it's like," Jean breathed. "Like having a cosmic parent who loves you enough to burn down the world if someone threatens you. I never thought... I mean, I felt something there, but I wasn't sure if it was really separate from me or just... wishful thinking."
They stood there for a moment, sharing the kind of understanding that came from recognizing kindred spirits. Around them, the pre-dawn quiet felt less empty and more expectant, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
"So," Harry said eventually, letting the armor melt away until he stood before her in simple jeans and sweater, looking perfectly human except for the slight glow that seemed to emanate from his skin and the way his green eyes held depths that hadn't been there before, "what do you do when the nightmares get too intense? Besides wandering around mansion corridors in your pajamas, I mean. Not that I'm complaining about the pajamas—they're quite fetching."
Jean glanced down at herself as if just remembering her state of undress, and her blush deepened to a shade that could have started its own fashion trend. "Oh God, I must look like a complete disaster. Bedhead and wrinkled pajamas—definitely not how I wanted to meet the mysterious new student everyone's going to be talking about."
"For what it's worth," Harry said gently, his voice carrying that particular quality that made hearts flutter and occasionally stop entirely, "you look beautiful. Bedhead and all. In fact, I'd say the bedhead rather adds to your charm. Very... accessible goddess, if you will."
She looked up at him through her lashes, and there was something in her expression that made Harry's breath catch and his enhanced physiology suddenly feel like a significant disadvantage. "You're very sweet."
"I'm really not," Harry replied honestly, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I'm reckless, prone to dramatic gestures, and have a documented tendency toward spectacular property damage. My former professors have extensive files on the subject. But you make me want to be better than I am. Which is terrifying, considering we've known each other for all of ten minutes."
"We've known each other for all of ten minutes," Jean pointed out, but there was something soft in her voice.
"Yeah, well," Harry's grin was crooked and self-deprecating, "I've always been a fast worker. Usually gets me into trouble—and occasionally gets me out of it again. But occasionally it pays off in spectacular fashion. I'm hoping this is one of those occasions."
Jean laughed again, and the sound seemed to chase away the shadows that had been lurking in her eyes. "I think I like trouble. Especially when it comes with an English accent and interdimensional credentials."
"In that case, Miss Grey," Harry said with a theatrical bow that would have made his etiquette tutors weep with pride, "I believe we're going to get along splendidly. Though I should warn you—I come with a rather extensive collection of enemies, a tendency toward heroic stupidity, and what my godfather calls 'an alarming disregard for personal safety.' Package deal, I'm afraid."
"I think I can live with that," Jean said softly. "After all, I come with cosmic fire, psychic powers, and a tendency to accidentally incinerate things when I have bad dreams. We might just balance each other out."
The sound of footsteps echoing through the hallways made them both turn. Someone was approaching—probably drawn by the crash of Harry's spectacular introduction to the potted plant.
"We should probably explain about the botanical carnage," Jean said, gesturing toward the scattered remains of the fern. "Before someone assumes we're under attack by houseplant terrorists or interdimensional gardening enthusiasts."
"Right you are," Harry agreed, then paused with a mischievous glint in his green eyes that promised trouble. "Unless you'd prefer to let them wonder. I bet we could come up with some truly spectacular explanations. Interdimensional plant monsters? Psychic garden warfare? The revenge of chlorophyll? I once convinced my cousin that gnomes were plotting to overthrow the government through strategic lawn decoration."
"You're terrible," Jean said, but she was fighting a smile that threatened to break free at any moment.
"Absolutely terrible," Harry agreed cheerfully. "It's part of my charm. Along with the cosmic powers, devastating good looks, and ability to destroy expensive landscaping while making witty conversation. Very specialized skill set, really. Not many people can pull it off with proper British flair."
"Your charm is having cosmic powers and looking like you walked off a movie poster," Jean pointed out, though her tone suggested she wasn't particularly complaining about either development.
"That's just the packaging," Harry replied with mock seriousness, striking a pose that showed off his enhanced physique to devastating effect. "The real charm is my sparkling personality, razor-sharp wit, and ability to make complete disasters seem like charming character quirks. Plus, I make an excellent cup of tea. Essential skill for any proper British gentleman, cosmic powers or no cosmic powers."
The footsteps were getting closer—definitely heading their way. Jean glanced toward the sound, then back at Harry with something that might have been regret.
"I should probably go get dressed. Properly dressed, I mean. Before whoever's coming decides I've completely abandoned all sense of decorum and started wandering around in my underwear."
"Probably wise," Harry agreed, though he made no move to step away from her. In fact, he seemed to be finding excuses to stay exactly where he was. "Though for the record, I think you look perfect exactly as you are. Like some sort of pre-dawn goddess who's decided to grace us mortals with her presence."
"Flatterer," Jean accused, but her smile was warm enough to power small cities.
"Guilty as charged," Harry replied without the slightest hint of shame. "Though in my defense, it's hardly flattery if it's demonstrably true."
She started toward the stairs, then paused and looked back at him over her shoulder in a way that should have been illegal in at least seventeen countries. "Harry?"
"Yes?" His voice had gone slightly rough around the edges.
"I'm glad you're here. Even if you do have a tendency toward property damage and making me forget how to form coherent sentences."
"I'm glad I'm here too," Harry said softly, and for a moment his mask of playful charm slipped to reveal something deeper and more vulnerable. "More than I thought I would be. This place... you... it feels like maybe I've found something I didn't even know I was looking for."
She smiled—bright and warm and full of promise—and then she was gone, padding up the stairs with that same careful stealth she'd used coming down. Harry watched until she disappeared around the corner, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst.
But as he waited for whatever faculty member was about to discover him standing in a pile of destroyed pottery at half-past five in the morning, he found himself smiling. For the first time since arriving in this strange new reality, he felt something that wasn't just relief or gratitude or grim determination.
He felt hope.
And maybe, just maybe, something that felt suspiciously like the beginning of falling in love.
The footsteps rounded the corner, revealing a rumpled-looking Logan in flannel pajama pants that had seen better decades and a tank top that was probably older than Harry was. His hair was even more ridiculous than usual, sticking up at angles that suggested either a very restless night or a recent encounter with a small explosive device. He took in the scene—Harry standing in the middle of botanical destruction, dirt still clinging to his clothes but looking oddly satisfied with life—and snorted.
"Let me guess, bub," Logan growled, his voice carrying that particular gravelly quality that suggested he'd either been smoking cigars since birth or had gargled with industrial solvent, "interdimensional jet lag?"
"Something like that," Harry replied, his smile never wavering. There was something almost luminous about his expression, like he'd just discovered the answer to life, the universe, and everything, and it had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant.
"Uh-huh." Logan's keen nose picked up traces of feminine scent and psychic energy, and his expression grew knowing in the way that suggested he'd seen this particular drama play out before. "And I suppose you just happened to run into that plant all by yourself? No witnesses, no accomplices, just you versus the forces of decorative vegetation?"
"Completely unprovoked attack," Harry confirmed with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for state funerals and tax audits. "The fern was clearly lying in wait. Probably been planning it for hours. Very cunning, your local plant life. I suspect it may have been in league with the soil—there was definitely coordination involved."
"Sure it was." Logan crouched down and began gathering the larger pieces of pottery with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd cleaned up after more than his share of disasters. "You know, kid, if you're gonna start knockin' over the furniture every time you meet a pretty girl, we're gonna need to invest in some cheaper landscaping. Maybe some of that plastic stuff. Harder to destroy, easier to replace."
Harry's cheeks reddened, but his grin only widened in a way that suggested he wasn't even slightly ashamed of whatever had just transpired. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Logan. I was simply exploring the architectural marvels of this fine institution when I was brutally assaulted by hostile flora."
"Course you were," Logan said with the kind of dry skepticism that came from decades of dealing with people who thought they were cleverer than they actually were. "And I'm sure the fact that you smell like Jean Grey's shampoo is just a weird coincidence."
"I have an excellent sense of smell," Harry replied with dignity that would have been more convincing if he hadn't been standing in a pile of potting soil. "Perhaps I simply noticed the pleasant floral scents that pervade this well-maintained establishment."
Logan straightened, ceramic shards in his palm, and fixed Harry with a look that could have curdled milk at fifty paces. "Just remember—Jean's a good kid. Smart, powerful, and deserves better than some interdimensional pretty boy who's gonna break her heart when he figures out how to get home."
The smile faded from Harry's face, replaced by something more serious. "I'm not going home, Logan. Can't, actually. The rules of dimensional travel are quite specific about that sort of thing."
"You sure about that?"
"Completely." Harry met Logan's eyes steadily. "This is my reality now. These are my people. And if Jean Grey wants to give me a chance, I'm not going anywhere."
Logan studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright then. But if you hurt her—"
"You'll introduce me to your claws in a very personal way," Harry finished. "I get it. And Logan? I'd deserve it."
"Good." Logan's expression softened slightly. "Now help me clean up this mess before Storm sees it and decides to lecture us both about responsibility and proper care of institutional property."
Harry knelt down and began gathering pottery fragments, but his mind was elsewhere—following a red-haired girl up a grand staircase, thinking about phoenix fire and cosmic connections and the way her smile could light up even the darkest corners of a pre-dawn mansion.
Yeah, he thought as he worked. He was definitely going to like it here.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!