An hour later, Harry found himself seated in what could only be described as the office of someone who collected degrees the way other people collected stamps—if stamp collectors had a particular fondness for chaos theory and architectural impossibilities. Professor Charles Xavier's study was a masterpiece of academic achievement barely contained within four walls that seemed to bend the laws of physics through sheer intellectual force.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under the weight of volumes in at least a dozen languages, their leather spines creating a rainbow of scholarly ambition that stretched from Aristotelian philosophy to quantum mechanics. The massive mahogany desk—a piece that had probably witnessed more dissertations than most universities—had surrendered entirely to the academic equivalent of entropy, disappearing beneath layers of research papers, student files, and what appeared to be blueprints for technology that belonged in science fiction novels rather than educational institutions.
Sirius occupied the chair beside him with the kind of elegant sprawl that suggested he'd been personally tutored in the ancient art of making expensive furniture look even more expensive through sheer presence alone. His dark hair had been tamed into something approaching respectability—a minor miracle that probably involved either advanced chemistry or mild coercion—and he'd traded his battle-worn robes for clothes that Xavier had provided with the mysterious efficiency that seemed to characterize everything about this place.
The charcoal slacks and navy sweater fit well enough to suggest either excellent guesswork, sophisticated scanning technology, or measurements taken while he'd been unconscious—a possibility that Sirius had accepted with the philosophical resignation of someone who'd learned that unconsciousness was often the most peaceful part of any given day.
The mokeskin pouch sat on Xavier's desk between them like a small, unassuming landmine—the kind of object that looked harmless until someone mentioned its potential for reshaping local economics. Harry had watched Sirius's eyebrows climb toward his hairline when he'd explained about the dimensional barriers preventing their return, performing a slow-motion dance of surprise that would have been amusing under different circumstances.
Those same eyebrows had descended into thoughtful calculation when the subject of practical necessities had come up—minor details like money, documentation, and the bureaucratic nightmare of not existing in a reality that took existence very seriously indeed.
"Right," Sirius had said with the kind of philosophical acceptance that came from twelve years in Azkaban teaching a man to appreciate the relative nature of unfortunate circumstances, "so we're officially non-persons in a world where non-persons tend to have difficulties with things like bank accounts, employment, and not being arrested for the heinous crime of existing without proper paperwork. Wonderful. Though I suppose it could be worse—at least this world's prison system probably doesn't employ soul-sucking demons as guards. That's got to count for something in the cosmic balance of things."
"The American correctional system has its own unique challenges," Xavier had replied with the kind of diplomatic understatement that suggested intimate familiarity with bureaucratic horrors, "but you're correct that they don't employ dementors. Though some of the administrative procedures come remarkably close."
Now Logan leaned against the office doorframe with his customary air of barely contained violence wrapped in flannel and denim, examining one of the gold galleons with the intensity of a man who'd spent several decades learning to distinguish genuine artifacts from elaborate fakes—usually while people shot at him. The coin caught the morning light and threw it back in patterns that belonged in fairy tales rather than economic systems, each gleam suggesting stories that involved dragons, goblins, and exchange rates based on magical creature byproducts.
"Well," Logan said finally, his gravelly voice carrying a note of grudging respect that he typically reserved for fine whiskey and well-crafted weapons, "I gotta hand it to you, Black. When you said the Blacks always carry enough money to buy a small country, you weren't kidding around. This is solid gold, and old as hell. Museum quality stuff. Hell, probably belongs in a museum, come to think of it."
Sirius's smile carried just a hint of the arrogance that had gotten him into spectacular trouble at Hogwarts and several other educational institutions that preferred not to discuss the incidents in polite company. "The Black family motto has always been 'Be prepared for anything, including sudden exile from your native reality.' Very practical people, my ancestors. Paranoid, megalomaniacal, occasionally completely insane, and prone to dramatic gestures involving dark magic and property destruction, but undeniably practical when it came to portable wealth."
"How much are we talking about here?" Harry asked, eyeing the pouch with the newfound interest of someone who was beginning to understand that survival in this reality might depend on more than his ability to produce fire from his fingertips. He'd never paid much attention to the finer details of wizarding currency—when you spent most of your childhood thinking a fifty-pence piece represented untold riches, the concept of carrying around actual gold coins seemed like something out of a particularly elaborate fever dream.
Sirius upended the pouch onto Xavier's desk with the casual flair of someone performing a magic trick, and the resulting cascade of gold made a sound like metallic rain falling on mahogany. Galleons scattered across the desk surface, each one gleaming like a miniature sun and bearing the intricate designs that suggested the goblin mints took their craftsmanship very seriously indeed.
"Rough count?" Sirius said, his tone suggesting he was enjoying the theatrical effect of five thousand gold coins catching the morning light, "About five thousand galleons. Give or take a few dozen, depending on whether you count the ones that have been slightly defaced by emergency spell-casting. Nothing ruins the mint condition of currency quite like using coins as improvised magical focuses during life-or-death situations."
Logan whistled, a sound that suggested he was rapidly recalculating his initial impression of their financial situation and coming up with numbers that involved significantly more zeros than he'd anticipated. "Five thousand coins? Jesus. Even if they're just worth their weight in gold, that's... that's more money than most people see in a lifetime."
"More than enough to get you established," Xavier finished, though his expression suggested he was doing mental calculations that involved considerably more than simple precious metal values—the kind of mathematics that included variables like federal attention, tax implications, and the inevitable bureaucratic complications that arose when large amounts of undocumented wealth suddenly appeared in reality. "Though Logan raises a valid point about provenance. In this reality, the sudden appearance of five thousand gold coins that shouldn't exist according to any known historical records tends to attract attention from people with badges, guns, and very pointed questions about tax evasion."
"We'll have to be smart about it," Logan said, settling into the chair across from Xavier's desk with the fluid grace of a predator finally deciding to rest—though the alertness never left his eyes, suggesting that relaxation was always a temporary state that could be abandoned at a moment's notice. "Claim you found them at an archaeological site—old family property, maybe. Something that's been in the family for generations but never properly catalogued. Sell them in small batches through different dealers, different cities, maybe spread it out over six months to a year. Might take a while, but it'll keep the feds from wondering where two guys with no documentation suddenly acquired what amounts to a dragon's hoard."
"The federal authorities," Xavier clarified with the patient tone of someone who'd spent decades explaining the complexities of modern government to individuals whose previous experience with bureaucracy involved significantly fewer forms and considerably more magic, "have a notably dim view of undocumented wealth. Particularly when it involves precious metals, historical artifacts, and individuals who cannot adequately explain their origins. They tend to assume the worst about such situations, and their assumptions generally involve words like 'smuggling,' 'money laundering,' and 'international conspiracy.'"
Sirius nodded with the kind of understanding that came from spending twelve years as a fugitive from a government that had wanted him kissed by soul-sucking demons, an experience that tended to provide valuable insights into the relationship between authority and paranoia. "Right. Low profile, gradual conversion, probably several different identities spread across multiple states. I can work with that—it's not like I haven't had practice being someone else. Though I have to ask, what's the current market rate for turning medieval gold coins into something more immediately useful, like documentation that proves we exist and aren't figments of someone's particularly elaborate imagination?"
"Documentation will be the considerably larger challenge," Xavier admitted, his fingers steepling in front of him with the precision of someone who'd spent decades coordinating complex operations that existed in the gray areas between legal and necessary. "Logan has contacts who can help with the financial conversion—people who understand that sometimes valuable items appear in circumstances that don't fit neatly into standard commercial categories. But establishing legal identities in the modern world requires more than money. Birth certificates, social security numbers, educational records, employment history—the entire bureaucratic infrastructure of existence that most people acquire automatically by having the courtesy to be born in the correct reality."
Harry raised an eyebrow with the kind of aristocratic precision that suggested noble breeding combined with years of practice dealing with bureaucratic absurdity. "Please tell me you're not suggesting we embark on careers as professional forgers. I've had enough of being wanted by the government for things I didn't actually do."
"Nothing quite so dramatic or potentially incriminating," Xavier replied with a slight smile that suggested he'd navigated these waters before, probably more frequently than anyone should have to. "I have colleagues in various government agencies who occasionally assist with... unusual situations. Refugees whose homelands no longer exist, witnesses in protection programs whose previous lives need to disappear entirely, individuals whose circumstances don't fit neatly into standard bureaucratic categories and who need to be inserted into society with minimal questions asked. Your situation, while admittedly unique in its specifics, is not entirely without precedent in terms of the solutions required."
"Meaning?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested he was beginning to suspect that Xavier's definition of 'colleagues' might involve people whose business cards were notably vague about their actual job titles.
"Meaning I can make some calls to people who owe me favors, most of whom work in departments that officially don't exist and handle situations that never happened," Xavier said with the matter-of-fact delivery of someone discussing the weather rather than potential federal crimes. "It will take time—probably several months to create backgrounds comprehensive enough to withstand casual scrutiny—and it won't be cheap, but within six months you should have everything you need to function as legal residents of this reality. Complete with educational records that explain your somewhat unusual skill sets without mentioning interdimensional travel or magical education."
"And in the meantime?" Sirius asked with the practical concern of someone who'd learned that the period between 'current crisis' and 'workable solution' was often where the most interesting problems arose.
"In the meantime, you're guests of the school," Xavier replied smoothly. "Which brings us to another matter entirely, and one that I suspect will prove considerably more complex than simple documentation fraud." His expression grew more serious, taking on the weight of someone preparing to deliver news that was significant in ways that weren't immediately obvious. "Harry, I took the liberty of using Cerebro to scan for your mutant signature while you were unconscious. The results were... illuminating."
"Cerebro?" Sirius asked, his tone carrying the kind of polite interest that suggested he was filing this information under 'potentially important things to remember later' while simultaneously calculating how many new ways this reality could surprise them. Given their track record with surprising realities, this was probably a reasonable precaution.
Xavier gestured toward what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary wall panel, which responded to his touch by sliding back with the silent efficiency of advanced technology to reveal a bank of monitors, control systems, and equipment that belonged in the kind of science fiction films where the heroes saved the world through superior computer graphics. The display suggested capabilities that made Hogwarts' magical monitoring systems look like children's toys constructed from parchment and wishful thinking.
"A device I designed to locate and identify mutants anywhere in the world," Xavier explained, his voice taking on the cadence of someone who'd given this particular lecture many times before, though rarely to audiences who'd recently survived interdimensional travel. "It amplifies telepathic abilities to a global scale, allowing me to detect the distinctive brain patterns associated with active or dormant X-genes. Think of it as a very sophisticated magical detector, except it detects genetic potential rather than spell residue."
"X-genes?" Harry leaned forward with genuine curiosity, his green eyes brightening with the kind of intellectual interest that had once made Hermione declare him 'almost educable' during their better moments at Hogwarts. "I'm assuming this isn't a reference to particularly exciting chromosomes."
Xavier's smile carried the warmth of a teacher who'd found a genuinely interested student. "The genetic marker that causes mutation—the biological foundation for abilities that transcend normal human limitations. In most cases, the genes remain dormant until adolescence, when various factors can trigger manifestation. Stress, trauma, extreme emotion—the catalysts vary significantly, but the result is the same. Abilities that allow individuals to manipulate reality in ways that conventional science insists should be impossible."
Sirius was studying the equipment with the kind of fascination that suggested his years as a member of the Order of the Phoenix had given him a healthy appreciation for sophisticated detection systems, particularly ones that didn't rely on temperamental magical creatures or artifacts that occasionally exploded without warning. "And you found Harry on this... Cerebro device? Despite the fact that he's from another dimension entirely?"
"I did indeed," Xavier said, and something in his tone suggested the discovery had been significant in ways that extended beyond simple identification. "He registers as a mutant, Class Five. What we classify as Omega Level—a designation that represents the theoretical upper limit of human genetic potential."
"Which means?" Harry asked, though something in Xavier's carefully measured tone suggested this wasn't entirely good news. In his experience, phrases like 'theoretical upper limit' and 'unprecedented' were usually followed by complications that involved explosions, government attention, or both.
"It means you're in very exclusive company," Xavier replied with the careful precision of someone delivering information that needed to be absorbed gradually. "Omega Level mutants represent perhaps a dozen confirmed cases worldwide—individuals whose abilities operate on scales that challenge our understanding of physical law. At this school, only two students carry that classification: Jean Grey and Bobby Drake. And now, apparently, you."
"Jean," Harry repeated, and something in his voice—a subtle warming, a note of particular interest—made Sirius glance at him with the sudden alertness of someone who'd spent years learning to recognize the signs of his godson developing complicated feelings about individuals who were likely to complicate their lives in spectacular fashion.
"Miss Grey, yes," Xavier said, his smile holding just a hint of knowing amusement that suggested he'd noticed the way Harry's expression had changed at the mention of her name. "I believe you've already made her acquaintance? Logan mentioned something about early morning encounters involving what he described as 'decorative vegetation and property damage on a scale that suggested either natural disaster or teenage romance.' His words, not mine."
Harry's cheeks reddened slightly, but he met Xavier's gaze with the kind of steady composure that suggested noble breeding combined with years of practice handling embarrassing situations with dignity. "We met briefly during what could generously be described as unusual circumstances. She seems... remarkable. And remarkably patient with individuals who accidentally destroy landscaping while learning to control interdimensional fire powers."
"She is indeed both remarkable and patient," Xavier agreed with paternal warmth. "As are you, apparently. The Phoenix Force has enhanced abilities you already possessed, amplifying them to unprecedented levels while somehow maintaining the essential nature of your mutant gifts. The question now is what you intend to do with those abilities—and whether you'd be interested in learning to use them more effectively."
"Well," Harry said slowly, his tone carrying the careful consideration of someone who'd learned that major life decisions deserved proper thought, "I suppose that depends on whether you'll have me. As a student, I mean. Though I should probably warn you that my academic record is somewhat... unconventional."
Xavier's eyebrows rose with the kind of polite interest that suggested he was accustomed to unconventional academic records and found them more amusing than concerning. "You wish to attend the school?"
"If you'll have him," Sirius interjected, his voice carrying the kind of parental authority that managed to be both protective and supportive simultaneously, "though I should probably mention that Harry's education has been... specialized in ways that don't translate well to standard academic environments. Hogwarts doesn't exactly prepare students for functioning in the real world. No mathematics beyond basic arithmetic, no sciences that don't involve magical creatures or potion brewing, no modern history, no literature that wasn't written by dead wizards with questionable social views. He can tell you seventeen different ways to brew a potion that'll regrow missing bones, recite the complete genealogy of every major wizarding family in Europe, and identify the optimal wand movements for transfiguring a beetle into a button, but ask him about algebra, basic chemistry, or how to balance a checkbook and you'll get a blank stare that could power small cities."
Harry grimaced with the kind of rueful self-awareness that came from years of discovering the gaps in one's education at particularly inconvenient moments. "It's considerably worse than Sirius is making it sound, actually. I can recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood from memory, explain the theoretical framework for human transfiguration, and discuss the political implications of the goblin rebellions with reasonable authority, but I couldn't calculate compound interest if my life depended on it. Wizarding education is remarkably thorough in its own narrow way, but completely useless for functioning in a reality where people expect you to understand things like 'economics' and 'basic scientific principles' and 'why you can't just magic away your problems.'"
"Not entirely useless," Xavier said thoughtfully, his expression suggesting he was already seeing possibilities that hadn't occurred to anyone else in the room. "Your magical education would translate to advanced degrees in several theoretical sciences, if we could find ways to present the knowledge in terms that don't involve mentioning magic explicitly. Transfiguration alone represents mastery of principles that our most advanced physicists are only beginning to explore—molecular manipulation, energy-matter conversion, the theoretical framework for reshaping reality at the subatomic level."
"Try explaining that to a university admissions board," Harry replied with the kind of dry British humor that could cut glass, "'Yes, I know I don't have traditional qualifications, but I can turn a desk into a pig, and the pig will have perfect molecular cohesion and retain the desk's essential properties for up to six hours depending on the phase of the moon. Surely that counts for something in your chemistry program?'"
Logan snorted with amusement, the sound carrying appreciation for both the humor and the underlying frustration. "Kid's got a point. Academia's funny about things like 'accredited institutions' and 'documented coursework.' Bunch of snobs, if you ask me."
"Indeed he does have a point," Xavier agreed with the patient understanding of someone who'd spent decades navigating the intersection of extraordinary abilities and conventional expectations. "Which is why I'm prepared to offer you a place here—not as a traditional student, since you're clearly beyond that level in terms of personal development, practical experience, and the kind of life skills that most of our students won't acquire until they're significantly older, but as someone who can benefit from our educational resources while contributing to the school community in meaningful ways."
"Contributing how?" Sirius asked with the kind of protective suspicion that suggested years of learning to be wary of adults who offered Harry opportunities that sounded too good to be true—a category that had historically included 'tournaments that try to kill you,' 'mysterious professors with hidden agendas,' and 'government positions that involve fighting dark wizards without proper support or legal protection.'
"Teaching, primarily," Xavier replied with the calm assurance of someone who'd already thought through the practical implications. "Harry's combat experience, tactical knowledge, and understanding of defense against hostile forces would be invaluable for our older students—particularly those who are approaching the age where they'll need to make decisions about how to use their abilities in an increasingly complex world. Defense Against the Dark Arts, if you will, adapted for a reality of mutant abilities rather than magical creatures, government persecution rather than dark wizards, and situations where the primary goal is protecting innocent people rather than winning wars."
Harry blinked, his expression shifting to something between surprise and genuine interest. "You want me to teach? At seventeen?"
"You've been teaching for years already," Xavier pointed out with gentle accuracy, "whether you realized it or not. Every time you've led your friends into dangerous situations and brought them out alive, every tactical decision you've made under pressure, every moment when you've had to choose between your own safety and protecting others—that's been teaching, just without the formal classroom structure. Age, Mr. Potter, is considerably less relevant than experience, and your experience in dealing with hostile forces while protecting civilians is more extensive than that of most professional security consultants."
"Besides," Logan added with a grin that suggested he was warming to the idea, "half the staff here started teaching before they were old enough to drink legally. Xavier's got a thing for recruiting people who've learned important lessons the hard way and can pass them on to kids who might not have to learn them quite so hard themselves."
"But first," Xavier continued smoothly, "we need to address the gaps in your conventional education. Storm can help with languages—she speaks six fluently and has an excellent grasp of the cultural contexts that make language learning actually useful rather than just academic. Hank can cover the sciences, mathematics, and anything else that requires actual academic credentials rather than hard-won practical experience."
"And modern history, literature, that sort of thing?" Harry asked, his tone suggesting he was beginning to see the shape of a comprehensive educational plan that might actually prepare him for functioning in this reality.
Xavier's smile widened with the kind of paternal warmth that suggested he'd been looking forward to this particular revelation. "For that, I had someone else in mind." He pressed a button on his desk intercom with the casual efficiency of someone who'd been coordinating complex educational programs for decades. "Jean? Could you join us in my office, please? We have some new arrivals I'd like you to meet."
Harry's enhanced hearing caught the sound of footsteps in the hallway—light, quick, purposeful—and something in his chest tightened with anticipation that had nothing to do with his Phoenix-enhanced abilities and everything to do with the memory of auburn hair, green eyes, and a smile that had made early morning feel like the best possible time to be alive.
When Jean appeared in the doorway, she looked considerably more put-together than she had during their pre-dawn encounter—her auburn hair was brushed to a shine that caught the office lighting and pulled back in a neat ponytail that somehow managed to be both practical and elegant. She'd traded her pajamas for dark jeans that fit well enough to suggest either excellent personal shopping or helpful telepathic insights into what looked good, and a forest green sweater that matched her eyes with the kind of precision that couldn't possibly be accidental.
The overall effect was of someone who'd taken the time to look her best while making it appear completely effortless—a combination that Harry found considerably more devastating than interdimensional travel and government persecution combined.
"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Her voice carried that warm, slightly musical quality that had made Harry's enhanced physiology feel like both a blessing and a curse during their previous encounter, though now it seemed to resonate in frequencies that were purely pleasant rather than overwhelming.
"Indeed, my dear," Xavier said with the kind of paternal satisfaction that suggested he was about to orchestrate something he'd been planning for some time. "Jean, I'd like you to meet our guests. This is Sirius Black," he gestured to Sirius, who rose from his chair and offered a courtly bow that managed to be both respectful and slightly theatrical—the kind of gesture that suggested aristocratic breeding combined with a healthy appreciation for dramatic effect, "and Harry Potter."
Jean's eyes met Harry's across the office, and her smile carried just a hint of shared conspiracy that made the morning sunlight streaming through Xavier's windows seem considerably brighter than mere photons should have been able to manage. "Harry and I have already met, actually, though I don't think we were properly introduced at the time. Too busy dealing with what Scott rather dramatically described as 'botanical carnage of unprecedented scope and impressive destructive creativity.'"
"No, we were mostly focused on preventing the mansion from being consumed by interdimensional fire," Harry agreed, rising from his chair with the kind of fluid grace that suggested both excellent physical conditioning and years of practice making good impressions under difficult circumstances. "Harry Potter, at your service. Properly this time, and with significantly better control over my tendency to accidentally incinerate landscaping."
"Jean Grey," she replied, stepping forward to accept his offered hand with a smile that could have convinced entire governments to switch to renewable energy sources. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. And don't worry about the landscaping—it needed updating anyway, and your fire was actually quite beautiful once we got past the immediate panic about property destruction."
The handshake lasted perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary for formal introductions, and Harry was acutely aware of details that his enhanced senses processed with the kind of precision that would have been embarrassing if anyone else could have observed the data: the warmth of her palm against his, the way her fingers were long and elegant without being delicate, the faint scent of her shampoo that he'd identified so accurately during their previous encounter, the way her pulse quickened slightly when their skin made contact.
More than that, he was aware of something that felt almost like an electrical current running between them—not the dangerous energy of his Phoenix abilities, but something warmer, more subtle, more fundamentally human despite the extraordinary circumstances that had brought them together.
"Jean," Xavier continued, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents crackling between his students with the intensity of a small lightning storm, "Harry will need extensive tutoring in conventional academic subjects before the new term begins. His previous education was... specialized in ways that don't translate directly to standard curricula. I was hoping you might be willing to help bring him up to speed in areas like modern history, literature, and the kind of cultural knowledge that most students acquire through osmosis rather than formal instruction."
"Of course," Jean said immediately, though her eyes never left Harry's face, as if she was trying to read something there that wasn't immediately obvious to casual observation. "What subjects do you need help with specifically? I mean, besides the obvious gap between magical education and conventional academics."
Harry's smile carried the kind of self-deprecating charm that had once made Hermione declare him 'dangerously likeable when he's not being noble and self-sacrificing about everything.' "Practically everything that doesn't involve waving a wand, memorizing the properties of magical plants, or explaining why certain combinations of ingredients explode when you look at them wrong. Mathematics beyond basic arithmetic, sciences that don't involve magical creatures, modern history that extends beyond wizarding wars, literature that wasn't written by dead wizards with concerning views about blood purity—I'm essentially starting from scratch academically, despite five years of what technically counted as secondary education in an accredited magical institution."
"That's quite a comprehensive challenge," Jean said thoughtfully, and something in her expression suggested she was already making mental lesson plans while simultaneously calculating how much time they'd need to cover the essential basics. "But definitely manageable with the right approach. How much time do we have to work with?"
"The new term begins in six weeks," Xavier replied with the calm efficiency of someone coordinating complex educational schedules. "Enough time to cover the essential basics and identify areas that will need more intensive work throughout the semester."
"Six weeks," Jean repeated, and something in her tone suggested she was viewing this as an interesting puzzle rather than an impossible task. "We'll need to work intensively—probably several hours a day to cover that much ground effectively. Are you prepared for that level of commitment? Because I should warn you, I have a reputation for being thorough when it comes to academic preparation."
Harry met her gaze steadily, aware that they were discussing something considerably more complex than just academic tutoring—something that involved spending extensive time together, getting to know each other's thought processes, and building the kind of intellectual intimacy that could either be wonderfully productive or devastatingly distracting. "Completely prepared. I've never been afraid of hard work, particularly when it involves learning things I should have learned years ago, and I honestly can't think of anyone I'd rather learn from."
The compliment hit its mark with the precision of a well-aimed arrow—Jean's cheeks colored with a soft pink that made her green eyes seem even more luminous, and her smile grew warmer with the kind of genuine pleasure that suggested compliments from attractive young men with green eyes and interdimensional backstories were not an everyday occurrence.
"In that case," she said, her voice carrying a note of anticipation that suggested she was looking forward to the challenge, "I think we'll manage just fine. Though I should probably warn you that my teaching style tends to be... comprehensive. I believe in understanding the context behind information, not just memorizing facts."
"Given that my previous education involved a lot of memorizing facts without much context," Harry replied with that devastating smile that suggested both intelligence and humor, "comprehensive context sounds like exactly what I need. I'm looking forward to discovering what I've been missing."
The exchange carried undercurrents that had nothing to do with academic planning and everything to do with two attractive young people discovering mutual interest under circumstances that were both unusual and potentially complicated. The air in Xavier's office seemed to shimmer with possibility, as if reality itself was adjusting to accommodate the electromagnetic field generated by teenage attraction combined with extraordinary abilities.
Sirius cleared his throat with the delicate precision of someone who'd witnessed this particular dance many times before and was torn between amusement and the protective instincts that came with being responsible for a teenager whose romantic interests had historically involved significant complications. "Well then, that settles the education question rather neatly. What about more practical matters? Living arrangements, legal documentation, that sort of thing?"
"The mansion has extensive guest quarters," Xavier replied with the kind of casual generosity that suggested hosting interdimensional refugees was well within the normal parameters of school operations. "You're both welcome to stay as long as necessary while we arrange your documentation and help you establish yourselves in this reality."
"That's extraordinarily generous," Sirius said, though his tone carried a note of caution that suggested years of learning that generosity often came with hidden costs or unexpected complications, "but Harry and I have never been particularly comfortable accepting charity, even under unusual circumstances. We'd prefer to contribute something meaningful in return for your hospitality."
"As I mentioned, Harry's teaching abilities would be valuable to our older students," Xavier replied smoothly. "As for you, Mr. Black—what particular skills do you bring to the table? I'm assuming your background extends beyond simply being Harry's guardian and financial advisor."
Sirius's smile carried just a hint of the predatory charm that had made him legendary among both allies and enemies during his years as both an Auror and a fugitive—the kind of expression that suggested dangerous competence wrapped in aristocratic manners and a healthy appreciation for controlled chaos. "I was an Auror before circumstances forced an unplanned career change into professional fugitive. Combat training, tactical planning, investigative work, security assessment—the kind of skills that come from years of hunting dark wizards who tend to respond to law enforcement with extreme prejudice. I spent twelve years in Azkaban learning every conceivable method of survival in the most inhospitable environment imaginable, followed by two years on the run as one of Britain's most wanted fugitives, and another year as a member of a paramilitary organization fighting a terrorist insurrection led by a dark wizard with delusions of immortality and a concerning fondness for mass murder."
He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued, "I'm quite good at keeping people alive in hostile situations, identifying security vulnerabilities before they become lethal problems, and planning tactical responses to threats that don't follow conventional rules of engagement. I also have extensive experience with the psychological impact of long-term stress on individuals with extraordinary abilities, and I understand the particular challenges that come with protecting people who are simultaneously powerful enough to reshape reality and young enough to make catastrophically poor decisions about when and how to use those abilities."
"That," Logan said with evident approval and what might have been professional respect, "sounds damned useful. Especially the part about catastrophically poor decisions—we get a lot of those around here."
"I thought you might appreciate it," Sirius replied with a grin that suggested he and Logan were going to get along splendidly, particularly when it came to the shared understanding that came from years of keeping dangerous people alive despite their best efforts to the contrary. "I've had considerable practice with that particular challenge."
Xavier nodded with the kind of thoughtful consideration that suggested he was already seeing how Sirius's skills would integrate into the school's existing security infrastructure. "Security consulting, then, with a particular focus on protecting individuals whose abilities make them targets for hostile organizations. We can always use someone with your expertise—the mansion is well-defended, but it never hurts to have fresh eyes examine our protocols and identify potential vulnerabilities we might have overlooked."
"Sounds perfect," Sirius agreed with the satisfaction of someone who'd found a way to be useful rather than simply grateful. "When do we start?"
"Immediately, if you're ready for it," Xavier replied with the kind of practical efficiency that characterized most of his administrative decisions. "Though I'd suggest you both take today to rest and acclimate to your new circumstances. Tomorrow we can begin in earnest—Jean can start Harry's academic assessment, Logan can show you the practical aspects of converting your gold into more useful currency, and I can begin making the necessary calls to establish your legal existence in this reality."
"Speaking of which," Logan interjected, carefully scooping the scattered galleons back into their mokeskin pouch with the precise movements of someone handling valuable contraband that needed to be kept secure and discrete, "I know a guy in Manhattan who specializes in... unusual acquisitions. Discrete, professional, and he's learned not to ask inconvenient questions about provenance or the theoretical impossibility of medieval currency appearing in modern markets. We can drive down this afternoon if you want to get the process started."
"I'll come with you," Sirius said immediately with the kind of protective instinct that came from decades of learning that family fortunes needed careful supervision, especially when they involved interdimensional currency conversion and potentially federal crimes. "Never wise to let strangers handle the Black family treasury unsupervised, even when it's technically the Black family treasury from another dimension entirely. There are standards to maintain."
"What about you, Harry?" Jean asked, her tone carefully casual in the way that suggested the question was considerably more important to her than she was letting on. "Any interest in a comprehensive tour of the grounds? I could show you around, help you get oriented before classes start, maybe explain some of the local history and architectural significance. Fair warning, though—I have a tendency to get enthusiastic about details that most people find either charmingly educational or insufferably academic."
Harry's smile was brilliant enough to power small cities and probably solve several energy crises simultaneously. "Jean Grey, I have survived five years of Hermione Granger's impromptu lecture series on everything from goblin rebellions to the twelve uses of dragon's blood, delivered with the kind of passionate intensity that most people reserve for religious conversion or political revolution. I think I can handle your enthusiasm for local history and architectural significance." His voice dropped to that warm, intimate register that made hearts flutter and logical thinking become significantly more difficult, "Besides, I suspect I'm going to find everything about you charming rather than insufferable."
Behind them, Sirius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Merlin preserve us all from teenage romance and the property damage that inevitably follows," while Logan just shook his head and wondered when his life had become a combination of interdimensional refugee assistance and relationship counseling.
But as Harry and Jean disappeared through the office doorway, their voices already blending into the kind of easy conversation that suggested the beginning of something significant, both older men had to admit that there were worse problems to have than young people falling in love in spectacular fashion.
After all, at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, 'spectacular' was just another word for 'Tuesday.'
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