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Chapter 5 - Chapter 4

The drive to Manhattan in Logan's beat-up truck was an education in itself. Sirius found himself pressed against the passenger door, one hand gripping the oh-shit handle while the other clutched his seatbelt with the desperate fervor of a man who'd survived Azkaban only to potentially die in vehicular homicide committed by a Canadian with anger management issues and an apparent death wish.

"Jesus Christ, Logan!" he shouted over the roar of an engine that sounded like it had been maintained with duct tape and stubbornness. "Are we going to a business meeting or attempting to break the land speed record? Because if it's the latter, I should probably mention that I haven't updated my will recently!"

Logan took a corner at a speed that defied several laws of physics and at least two commandments, his cigar clenched between his teeth at an angle that suggested either supreme confidence or complete resignation to whatever fate had in store. "Relax, Black. I've been drivin' these streets since before you were born. Never killed a passenger yet."

"'Yet' being the operative phrase," Sirius muttered, watching the scenery blur past at velocities that made Quidditch look like a leisurely Sunday stroll. "And might I point out that surviving twelve years in Azkaban only to die in a traffic accident would be cosmically unfair, even by the standards of my usually spectacular luck?"

"You'll be fine," Logan grunted, narrowly avoiding a collision with a taxi driver who apparently shared his views on traffic laws being more like friendly suggestions. "Besides, this guy we're meetin'? He doesn't like to be kept waiting. And trust me, you don't want to see Marcus when he's pissed off."

The truck screeched to a halt outside what appeared to be a perfectly respectable antique shop in the Village, its windows displaying the kind of tasteful historical artifacts that suggested either legitimate business or very sophisticated money laundering. The brass nameplate by the door read "Blackwood Acquisitions - Fine Historical Pieces" in elegant script that managed to convey both respectability and discretion.

"Marcus Blackwood," Logan explained as they approached the shop, the mokeskin pouch tucked securely inside Sirius's jacket. "Been in the business for thirty years, got connections from here to Hong Kong, and he's learned not to ask stupid questions about where interesting items come from. Perfect for our needs."

The shop's interior was a testament to the kind of careful curation that came from decades of knowing what wealthy collectors wanted before they knew they wanted it. Medieval weapons hung alongside Renaissance paintings, while display cases showcased everything from ancient coins to what appeared to be genuine Egyptian artifacts. The whole place smelled of old money, older secrets, and the kind of discretion that was purchased by the hour.

Marcus Blackwood himself was a study in contradictions—a man in his sixties with silver hair that belonged in boardrooms and hands that showed the calluses of someone who'd learned his trade through practical experience rather than theoretical study. His suit was Savile Row quality, but his eyes held the sharp awareness of someone who'd spent decades evaluating items that might or might not be entirely legal.

"Logan," he said warmly, rising from behind an antique desk that probably cost more than most people's cars. "Always a pleasure. And this would be your associate?"

"Sirius Black," Sirius replied, offering his hand with the kind of aristocratic charm that had once made him legendary at Ministry social functions. "Logan tells me you specialize in items with... complex provenance histories."

Marcus's handshake was firm, and his smile held the kind of professional appreciation that suggested he'd immediately recognized a kindred spirit. "Indeed I do, Mr. Black. Complex provenance is rather my specialty. Logan mentioned you might have some coins for evaluation?"

Sirius glanced at Logan, who nodded, then withdrew the mokeskin pouch and carefully extracted exactly one hundred galleons, arranging them on Marcus's desk with the precise spacing of someone displaying valuable merchandise. The gold caught the shop's ambient lighting and threw it back transformed, each coin gleaming like a miniature sun.

Marcus's eyebrows rose steadily as he took in the display, his professional composure giving way to something approaching awe. "My word. These are... extraordinary."

He picked up one of the coins, examining it with the kind of focused intensity that came from decades of distinguishing genuine artifacts from elaborate fakes. His fingers traced the intricate designs—the Gringotts seal, the serial numbers, the distinctive weight and balance that spoke to centuries of goblin craftsmanship.

"The goldwork is exceptional," he murmured, producing a jeweler's loupe and examining the coin more closely. "The purity is remarkable—this is easily twenty-two carat, possibly higher. The craftsmanship is unlike anything I've seen from European mints. The styling suggests medieval origin, but the precision of the detail work is extraordinary. Where on earth did you acquire these?"

"Salvage operation in the Caribbean," Logan said smoothly, his voice carrying the kind of casual authority that came from years of practice lying to people with badges and authority. "Family property that went down in a hurricane back in the eighteenth century. Been sitting on the ocean floor for the better part of three hundred years until Mr. Black here decided to invest in some deep-sea recovery work."

"Fascinating," Marcus said, though his tone suggested he was more interested in the coins than their supposed history. In his line of work, interesting stories were often less important than legitimate documentation and marketable provenance. "The preservation is remarkable for items supposedly exposed to salt water for centuries. Usually, we see significant corrosion damage from extended maritime exposure."

"Sealed containers," Sirius replied with the confidence of someone who'd spent years making convincing explanations for impossible circumstances. "Lead-lined chests, properly waterproofed. My ancestors were quite paranoid about protecting family assets. Probably learned the techniques from Dutch merchants who were experts at preserving valuable cargo during long sea voyages."

Marcus nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. "Sensible precautions. And you're looking to sell all one hundred pieces?"

"As a test run," Sirius confirmed. "I want to see how the market responds before committing to larger quantities. No point flooding the market and depressing values."

"Very wise," Marcus agreed, setting the coin back on the desk with the careful reverence due to valuable merchandise. "Based on gold content alone, I could offer you eight hundred per coin—that's considerably above current spot prices, but the historical value and exceptional craftsmanship justify the premium. However..." He paused, his expression growing more speculative. "I believe I could do considerably better if you're willing to be patient."

"How much better?" Logan asked, his tone carrying the kind of interested skepticism that came from years of negotiating deals that existed in legal gray areas.

"I have a client who collects medieval currency," Marcus explained, his fingers steepled as he calculated possibilities. "A private collector who appreciates exceptional pieces and doesn't ask inconvenient questions about documentation. For coins of this quality, with this level of preservation and craftsmanship, I believe he'd pay fifteen hundred per piece. Possibly more if the full collection maintains this standard of quality."

Sirius felt something loosen in his chest. At fifteen hundred per coin, one hundred galleons would net them one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—more than enough to establish themselves comfortably while they waited for Xavier's contacts to arrange their legal documentation.

"That sounds very reasonable," he said carefully. "What kind of timeframe are we looking at?"

"Two weeks, perhaps three," Marcus replied with the confidence of someone who'd made similar arrangements many times before. "Long enough for me to contact my client, arrange authentication through discrete channels, and handle the financial transfers without attracting unwanted attention from individuals who might ask awkward questions about large cash transactions."

"Authentication?" Logan's tone sharpened slightly. "What kind of authentication?"

Marcus waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing invasive or likely to cause complications. Metallurgical analysis to confirm gold purity, comparison with known examples of medieval coinage, that sort of thing. Standard procedures for establishing provenance without requiring extensive documentation. My client prefers to rely on expert evaluation rather than bureaucratic paperwork."

"And if the authentication raises questions we can't answer?" Sirius asked, though his tone suggested more curiosity than concern.

"Then we adjust our story accordingly," Marcus replied with the kind of philosophical acceptance that came from decades of creative problem-solving. "Perhaps they're reproductions rather than originals—exceptional reproductions that are valuable in their own right. Or possibly they're from a private mint that was producing commemorative pieces for wealthy collectors. There are always explanations for interesting items, Mr. Black. The key is finding explanations that satisfy everyone's need for plausible deniability."

The three men spent another twenty minutes working out the practical details—how payment would be handled, what kind of documentation would be provided, what story they'd tell if anyone asked inconvenient questions about the sudden appearance of medieval gold coins in the New York antiquities market.

By the time they left Marcus's shop, Sirius felt considerably more optimistic about their prospects for establishing themselves in this reality. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars wouldn't make them wealthy, but it would provide the foundation they needed to build new lives without constantly worrying about basic necessities.

"Good choice, picking Marcus," he told Logan as they walked back toward the truck. "He strikes me as the sort of man who understands that some questions are better left unasked."

"That's why I've been doing business with him for fifteen years," Logan confirmed. "Never had a deal go sideways, never had anyone come asking awkward questions afterward. Professional discretion you can actually rely on."

"Speaking of professional discretion," Sirius said as they reached the truck, "what's the story with Harry and the Grey girl? Because I've seen that look before, and it usually ends with property damage and very awkward conversations about appropriate behavior."

Logan snorted as he started the engine. "Kid's got it bad, that's for sure. And Jean... well, let's just say she's been spendin' a lot more time on her appearance since your boy showed up. Could be interesting."

"Or catastrophic," Sirius muttered, settling back into his seat and preparing for another death-defying journey through New York traffic. "Potter men have a documented tendency toward spectacular romantic complications. James managed to spend six years pursuing Lily before she finally agreed to date him, and their courtship involved more property damage than the Goblin Wars."

"Harry seems a bit smoother than that," Logan observed, taking a corner at what most people would consider a criminally reckless speed.

"That's what worries me," Sirius replied. "James at least had the courtesy to be obviously hopeless for several years before Lily fell for him. Harry's got natural charm, cosmic enhancement, and apparently the kind of face that makes sensible girls forget how to form coherent thoughts. Recipe for disaster, if you ask me."

Logan's grin was visible in the rearview mirror. "Should be fun to watch, then."

"Logan," Sirius said with the weary patience of someone who'd learned that 'fun to watch' and 'likely to end in catastrophe' were often the same thing, "remind me to update my life insurance policy when we get back. Something tells me I'm going to need it."

---

The Xavier Institute's grounds were a masterpiece of landscape architecture that seemed to have been designed by someone who believed that education should take place in surroundings that inspired both intellectual achievement and occasional bouts of poetry. Rolling lawns stretched toward distant tree lines with the kind of pristine perfection that suggested either very dedicated groundskeeping staff or possibly some sort of horticultural magic that didn't technically count as mutation but probably should have.

Jean walked beside Harry with the easy grace of someone completely comfortable in her environment, pointing out various features of the estate with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested genuine pride in her school rather than just polite tour guide obligation. Her ponytail swayed with each step, catching the late morning sunlight and reflecting it back in shades of copper and gold that made Harry wonder if perhaps cosmic enhancement came with side effects that included involuntary poetry composition.

"The mansion itself dates back to 1847," she was explaining as they approached a particularly impressive fountain that featured what appeared to be dolphins engaged in elaborate aquatic choreography, "though Professor Xavier has made extensive modifications over the years. The original structure was built by a railroad baron who apparently believed that having money meant you should spend it on things that made your neighbors feel inadequate."

"Judging by the architecture," Harry replied, his green eyes taking in details with the kind of appreciative attention that suggested both good breeding and genuine interest, "I'd say he succeeded admirably. This place makes Hogwarts look positively understated, and Hogwarts was built by people who thought 'too many staircases' was a myth rather than a design flaw."

Jean laughed, the sound carrying that particular warmth that made Harry's enhanced physiology feel like both a blessing and a curse. "Wait until you see the interior. Professor Xavier's renovations included things like a fully equipped medical bay, advanced computer systems that probably violate several international treaties, and a basement level that's classified at a level I'm not technically cleared to discuss."

"Classified basement levels," Harry repeated with the kind of mock solemnity that had once convinced Hermione he was taking their Defense Against the Dark Arts studies seriously. "Because naturally, every good educational institution needs mysterious underground facilities. It's probably in the accreditation requirements somewhere—'Must provide adequate classroom space, library facilities, and at least one secret level that makes students wonder what exactly they've gotten themselves into.'"

"Something like that," Jean agreed with obvious amusement. "Though I should probably mention that most of the students are home for the summer break. You'll only meet a few people during today's tour, which means you can get oriented without having to deal with the full social dynamics of a school filled with teenagers who can manipulate reality in various creative and occasionally destructive ways."

"How many students are we talking about, normally?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about the scope of Xavier's educational enterprise.

"About sixty, ranging in age from twelve to eighteen," Jean replied as they approached what appeared to be a perfectly manicured garden that probably required its own staff of dedicated horticulturists. "Each with different abilities, different backgrounds, different reasons for being here. Some come because their families can't handle their mutations, others because they need to learn control before they accidentally hurt someone, and a few because they've been identified as potential threats by government agencies that prefer not to discuss their activities in public."

"Government agencies," Harry said, his tone growing more serious. "I take it this reality's approach to people with extraordinary abilities involves considerably more paranoia than support?"

Jean's expression darkened slightly, storm clouds gathering behind her green eyes. "There are registration acts being proposed in Congress, special task forces designed to monitor and control mutant activities, and research programs that are supposedly aimed at 'understanding' mutations but sound suspiciously like weapons development. It's... complicated."

"Complicated," Harry repeated, recognizing the weight behind that particular word. "In my experience, 'complicated' usually means 'people with power are making decisions that affect people without power, and those decisions are rarely in the powerless people's best interests.'"

"Exactly." Jean's voice carried a note of surprised appreciation, as if she hadn't expected someone from another reality to understand the political nuances quite so quickly. "Most people don't grasp the broader implications. They see mutants as either threats to be contained or resources to be exploited, rather than as individuals who just happen to have abilities that don't fit into conventional categories."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, both processing the implications of living in a world where extraordinary abilities were viewed with suspicion rather than wonder. Harry found himself thinking about the wizarding world's approach to secrecy—not perfect, certainly, but at least based on the principle that magical people deserved to live their lives without constant government oversight.

"On a more pleasant note," Jean said, clearly making an effort to shift the conversation back to lighter topics, "let me show you the greenhouse. Dr. McCoy has been working on some fascinating botanical experiments that involve genetic modification and accelerated growth patterns. Nothing dangerous," she added quickly, seeing Harry's expression, "just impressive demonstrations of what's possible when you combine advanced science with mutation-enhanced capabilities."

The greenhouse was a marvel of architectural engineering—a soaring glass structure that seemed to capture and amplify every available photon of sunlight while maintaining precisely controlled environmental conditions through technology that Harry suspected involved considerably more than conventional HVAC systems. Inside, the air was warm and humid with the kind of earthy richness that spoke to serious horticultural dedication.

Plants filled every available space in a riot of colors and textures that suggested either very careful curation or possibly the botanical equivalent of controlled chaos. Harry recognized some species from his Herbology classes at Hogwarts, but others were clearly products of scientific experimentation that produced results Professor Sprout could only dream about.

"Impressive," Harry said, genuinely admiring the scope and sophistication of McCoy's botanical laboratory. "Though I have to ask—after my spectacular encounter with the potted fern this morning, should I be concerned about the possibility of aggressive plant life?"

"These are considerably better behaved than Dr. McCoy's prize-winning orchids," Jean assured him with amusement. "Though I should probably mention that some of them respond to telepathic contact. Nothing dramatic, just... awareness. It's rather like having conversations with very patient, very slow individuals who think in terms of seasons rather than minutes."

"Telepathic plants," Harry mused, running his finger along the leaf of what appeared to be a rose bush with blooms in colors that definitely didn't appear in any conventional gardening catalog. "This reality keeps getting more interesting. In my world, the plants that responded to mental contact usually wanted to eat you, which rather limited the scope of meaningful conversation."

"These are much more civilized," Jean said, though something in her expression suggested there were stories behind that statement. "Though I should warn you that some of them have rather strong opinions about proper care and feeding. Dr. McCoy spent three weeks apologizing to his hybrid tomatoes after accidentally using the wrong fertilizer mixture."

They were examining what appeared to be a vine that was growing in mathematical patterns when Harry heard footsteps approaching through the greenhouse—purposeful, slightly hesitant, carrying the distinctive rhythm of someone who was trying to appear casual while actually conducting reconnaissance.

"Jean?" The voice that called out was young, male, and carried just a hint of nervous energy that suggested its owner was not entirely comfortable with whatever social situation he was about to navigate. "Professor Xavier said you were giving the tour to our new... oh."

The young man who rounded the corner of a display case filled with what appeared to be luminescent orchids was exactly what Harry would have expected if someone had described "the kind of student who takes academic achievement very seriously and probably has strong opinions about proper study habits." He was perhaps sixteen, with the kind of neat brown hair that suggested regular visits to a barber who understood that conservative styling was a virtue, and clothes that were practical without being fashionable—the uniform of someone who prioritized function over form.

But it was his eyes that caught Harry's attention—or rather, the distinctive red-tinted glasses that covered them. The eyewear was clearly specialized equipment rather than a fashion choice, suggesting abilities that required technological assistance to manage safely.

"Scott," Jean said with the kind of warm friendliness that suggested genuine affection without any romantic undertones whatsoever—a distinction that Harry's enhanced senses detected with the precision of a finely tuned instrument, much to his relief, "I'd like you to meet Harry Potter. Harry, this is Scott Summers. He's one of our senior students and probably the most responsible person you'll meet at the school."

Scott stepped forward with the kind of formal precision that suggested either natural courtesy or extensive etiquette training, extending his hand with a smile that was polite, welcoming, and only slightly strained around the edges. "Harry Potter. Jean mentioned you'd be joining us. Welcome to Xavier's School."

Harry accepted the handshake with his most charming smile—the one that had gotten him out of detention with McGonagall exactly zero times but always seemed worth attempting anyway. "Scott Summers. Pleasure to meet you. Jean's been giving me the comprehensive tour, complete with warnings about telepathic plants and classified basement levels. I'm beginning to understand why this place has such an interesting reputation."

"Jean gives excellent tours," Scott replied, his tone carrying what might have been just a hint of something that wasn't quite jealousy but lived in the same neighborhood and probably shared the same postal code. "Very thorough, very... comprehensive."

The pause before 'comprehensive' was tiny—barely noticeable unless you happened to have enhanced senses that picked up subtle variations in vocal stress patterns and the kind of body language that suggested internal conflict between polite social behavior and less charitable emotional responses.

"She's been wonderful," Harry agreed with the kind of genuine enthusiasm that probably made Scott's day considerably more complicated than he'd hoped. "I was just telling her how impressed I am with the facilities here. The greenhouse alone is more sophisticated than anything we had at my previous school, and that place was supposedly one of the premier educational institutions in magical Britain."

"Magical Britain?" Scott repeated, his tone carefully neutral in the way that suggested he was processing information that didn't quite fit into conventional categories.

"Long story involving dimensional travel and cosmic enhancement," Jean explained smoothly, though something in her voice suggested she was enjoying Scott's obvious discomfort with the situation. "Harry's from a reality where magic is real, organized, and taught in formal educational institutions."

"Magic," Scott said slowly, his expression behind the red-tinted glasses impossible to read but his body language suggesting the kind of skepticism that came from years of dealing with individuals whose abilities were extraordinary but still technically within the bounds of advanced physics.

"Would you like a demonstration?" Harry asked with the kind of polite interest that suggested he was completely oblivious to the social undercurrents of the conversation. "Nothing dramatic—I'm still getting used to the whole 'cosmic enhancement' thing, and I'd rather not accidentally destroy Dr. McCoy's botanical experiments during what's supposed to be a friendly introduction."

Before Scott could respond, Harry raised his hand and spoke a single word with the kind of casual authority that belonged in ancient texts and legendary tales: "*Orchideous.*"

A bouquet of flowers materialized in his palm—not the simple conjuration Scott might have expected, but a perfect arrangement of roses, lilies, and exotic blooms in shades that belonged in fairy tales rather than botanical reality. The flowers were flawless, their petals soft as silk and glowing with their own subtle radiance, as if Harry had somehow convinced light itself to take up residence in their cellular structure.

"Merlin's beard," Harry muttered, staring at the bouquet with something approaching wonder. "That's never worked quite like that before. Usually, I get a handful of slightly wilted daisies and a headache. Cosmic enhancement apparently comes with significant improvements to basic conjuration work."

He offered the flowers to Jean with a smile that could have powered small cities and probably solved several energy crises simultaneously. "A small token of appreciation for the excellent tour, even though we're only halfway through it."

Jean accepted the bouquet with the kind of genuine delight that made her face light up like she'd just been handed the solution to world hunger wrapped in perfect gift paper. The flowers seemed to glow brighter in her hands, responding to her Phoenix-enhanced abilities with their own subtle radiance.

"They're beautiful," she said softly, and something in her voice made Harry's enhanced physiology feel like both a blessing and a curse. "Thank you."

Behind his red-tinted glasses, Scott's expression was impossible to read, but his posture had shifted to something that suggested he was recalculating his assessment of Harry Potter and coming up with answers he didn't particularly like. "That's quite a... demonstration," he said carefully, his tone professionally polite in the way that suggested considerable effort was being invested in maintaining social civility.

"Basic conjuration work," Harry replied with the kind of casual modesty that was probably more irritating than outright boasting. "Though the cosmic enhancement seems to have improved my precision considerably. Usually, magical flowers last about twenty minutes before fading back to whatever pocket dimension they came from. These might actually maintain cohesion for several hours, depending on the local magical field strength."

"Local magical field strength," Scott repeated, and something in his tone suggested he was beginning to understand that Harry Potter represented complications that extended considerably beyond simple interdimensional immigration.

"Every reality has its own relationship with what you might call fundamental forces," Harry explained, apparently oblivious to the way Scott's jaw was tightening behind his glasses. "Magic, in my experience, is just another form of energy manipulation—like telekinesis or pyrokinesis, except it operates on frequencies that most scientific instruments can't detect. The Phoenix Force seems to have enhanced my ability to manipulate those frequencies while maintaining the theoretical framework I learned during my wizarding education."

"Fascinating," Scott said, though his tone suggested he found the subject considerably less fascinating than professionally concerning. "And you'll be staying at the school while you... adjust to our reality?"

"For the foreseeable future," Harry confirmed cheerfully. "Professor Xavier has been extraordinarily generous about providing accommodation while we establish ourselves legally. Jean's volunteered to help me catch up on the conventional education I missed—apparently, wizarding schools don't cover subjects like modern history, basic sciences, or anything else that might be useful for functioning in a reality where you can't just magic away your problems."

"Jean's an excellent tutor," Scott said, his voice carrying undertones that suggested personal experience combined with feelings that were probably best left unexplored in polite company. "Very... dedicated to her students' success."

"I'm looking forward to it," Harry replied with a smile that suggested he was entirely sincere about his educational enthusiasm and completely oblivious to the subtext that was making Scott's life significantly more complicated than it had been an hour earlier.

The three of them stood there for a moment, surrounded by genetically modified plants and social dynamics that were becoming increasingly complex by the minute. Jean clutched her conjured bouquet with obvious pleasure, Harry maintained his expression of polite interest and devastating charm, and Scott tried to figure out how his peaceful summer at school had suddenly become a romantic drama that he was apparently losing before he'd even realized he was competing.

"Well," Jean said finally, breaking the silence with the kind of bright enthusiasm that suggested she was either oblivious to the tension or finding it more amusing than problematic, "we should probably continue the tour. Harry still needs to see the library, the computer lab, and the recreational facilities. Plus, I promised to show him where the good coffee is hidden, which is essential information for surviving academic life here."

"The good coffee?" Harry asked with the kind of interest that suggested proper caffeine sources were a matter of genuine concern.

"Professor Xavier keeps a private stash of imported beans in his office," Jean explained with conspiratorial delight. "Ethiopian, hand-roasted, probably worth more per pound than most people's rent. He's very selective about who gets access, but I think interdimensional refugees qualify for special consideration."

"I'll have to remember to express proper gratitude for all these courtesies," Harry said, his tone carrying the kind of formal appreciation that suggested good breeding combined with genuine respect for hospitality. "Professor Xavier has been extraordinarily kind to complete strangers who arrived without warning and immediately began destroying expensive landscaping."

"He's like that," Scott said, and for the first time his voice carried genuine warmth rather than professional politeness. "Professor Xavier believes in helping people who need help, regardless of how complicated their circumstances might be. It's one of the things that makes this place special."

"It shows," Harry replied, and something in his tone suggested he understood the value of sanctuary offered without conditions or expectations. "In my experience, that kind of generosity is remarkably rare. Most people want to know what you can do for them before they'll consider what they might do for you."

The three of them resumed walking, heading toward what Jean identified as the library—a destination that Harry was genuinely looking forward to, given that most of his educational experience had involved libraries that contained books on subjects like 'Advanced Potion-Making' and 'The Dark Arts: A Complete Historical Overview' rather than anything resembling conventional academic materials.

But as they walked, Harry found himself acutely aware of Scott's careful attention to every interaction between himself and Jean. The other young man was polite, helpful, and entirely appropriate in his behavior, but there was something in his posture that suggested the kind of protective vigilance that came from deeper feelings than simple friendship.

Not jealousy, exactly—Scott was too well-mannered for anything so obvious. But definitely the kind of careful observation that suggested Harry Potter had just become a factor in equations that had previously been considerably simpler.

Which, given Harry's track record with interpersonal complications, was probably exactly what should have been expected.

After all, at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, even the simple process of giving tours to new students had a way of becoming significantly more complex than anyone anticipated.

---

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!

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