# Three Days Later
## Ravencroft Institute – Westchester County, New York
The Ravencroft Institute squatted against the Hudson Valley landscape like a Gothic cathedral that had fallen on particularly hard times and decided to take up institutional psychiatry as revenge. The stonework managed the impressive feat of being both historically imposing and bureaucratically soul-crushing, while the barred windows struck that perfect balance between "therapeutic environment" and "definitely not getting out without paperwork."
Harry Potter stepped from Xavier's sedan with the fluid grace of a man who had once faced down a basilisk before breakfast and considered most other challenges to be mild inconveniences. His emerald eyes swept the grounds with the calculating precision of someone mentally cataloguing seventeen different ways to dismantle the security systems currently humming around them like mechanical wasps.
"Well," he drawled, his voice carrying the sort of upper-class dryness that could cure leather, "nothing quite says 'healing sanctuary' like enough defensive infrastructure to repel a small alien invasion. I'm half expecting Daleks to emerge from the shrubbery demanding tea and biscuits."
Professor Xavier wheeled up the reinforced ramp beside him, every inch the distinguished statesman entering hostile territory with diplomatic immunity. "The administrators here operate under extraordinary pressures, Harry. Government oversight, liability concerns, the ever-present specter of congressional hearings. It encourages certain... architectural choices."
Harry adjusted his charcoal suit cuffs with theatrical precision. "Translation: they're absolutely terrified of their own patients. Fascinating therapeutic approach—start with the assumption that everyone's a homicidal maniac and work backwards from there. Very confidence-building."
"The insurance premiums alone," Xavier murmured with dry humor, "could fund a small university."
The lobby confirmed Harry's worst suspicions about institutional design. The polished linoleum gleamed with the sort of militant efficiency that screamed "state contract winner," while fluorescent lights hummed their ancient song of bureaucratic despair. Even the magazines were tethered to the coffee table with metal cables, as if *Good Housekeeping* was one therapeutic breakthrough away from becoming an improvised weapon.
"Good Lord," Harry muttered, eyeing a potted ficus that appeared to be bolted to its stand. "Are they expecting a violent uprising led by *Better Homes & Gardens*? Should I be concerned about the feng shui turning militant?"
Before Xavier could respond with his trademark diplomatic smoothness, an office door opened with the sort of authoritative click that suggested paperwork was about to become everyone's problem.
Dr. Elizabeth Brennan emerged like a woman who had long ago declared war on chaos and was winning by sheer force of organizational will. Her lab coat was pressed to military specifications, her silver-streaked auburn hair pulled back in a bun so precise it could have been installed by German engineers, and her pale blue eyes carried the particular exhaustion of someone who had spent too many years explaining why reality-warping teenagers couldn't simply be talked through their feelings.
"Professor Xavier," she said, extending a hand with the brisk efficiency of someone who had learned to conduct seventeen meetings before lunch. "Thank you for coming. Your expertise with Miss Maximoff's case may prove... invaluable." Her gaze shifted to Harry with the clinical precision of a scientist cataloguing a potentially interesting specimen. "And this is?"
"My research associate, Dr. Harry Potter," Xavier replied with the sort of gravitas that made forged credentials seem utterly reasonable. The Cambridge doctorate in psychology, specializing in trauma-linked enhanced behavior, had been among the easier favors called in from old friends who understood that sometimes paperwork was merely a suggestion. "Don't be deceived by his apparent youth, Elizabeth. He's something of a prodigy. His insights into patients whose abilities stem from emotional dysregulation have proven... extraordinary."
Harry inclined his head with the sort of courtly charm that suggested he'd learned manners from someone who'd personally known Elizabeth I. "Dr. Brennan. Delighted to meet you. I assure you, I'm considerably better company than my credentials suggest, and infinitely more entertaining at faculty mixers."
Her lips twitched before settling back into professional neutrality. "Miss Maximoff presents unique challenges. Seventeen different therapists have attempted conventional treatment approaches."
"Seventeen?" Harry's eyebrow arched with theatrical interest. "That sounds less like psychiatry and more like Defense Against the Dark Arts staffing patterns. Tell me they left voluntarily rather than in easily portable pieces."
"Neither," Brennan replied with the weary humor of someone who had explained this particular absurdity too many times. "Her abilities manifest during therapy sessions. Unconscious probability manipulation. One therapist's session notes spontaneously transformed into Sokovian poetry. Another discovered his office furniture had been... creatively rearranged into what appeared to be an avant-garde critique of institutional authority."
Harry whistled appreciatively. "So your patient unconsciously rewrites reality when she's anxious, bored, or professionally unimpressed. Which means the therapeutic relationship becomes both the battlefield and the ammunition. Absolutely delightful professional hazard."
"Precisely why we need outside consultation," Brennan continued as they approached the first security checkpoint. "Traditional therapeutic frameworks assume reality remains reasonably stable during treatment. With Miss Maximoff, reality appears to be more of a... collaborative process."
They passed through escalating levels of security that would have made airport screeners weep with envy. Metal detectors gave way to electromagnetic scanners, which yielded to something that looked like Tony Stark had gotten into a heated argument with Doctor Strange in a defense contractor's break room.
"Impressive paranoia infrastructure," Harry observed, submitting to a retinal scan with amused cooperation. "Is that modified Stark technology, or something more esoterically terrifying?"
"Both, unfortunately," Brennan admitted. "We've learned through trial and error. Considerable error."
"Translation," Harry said with dangerous cheerfulness, "someone escaped in a manner spectacular enough to require redesigning your entire security paradigm."
Brennan's jaw tightened fractionally. "Several someones. Though most eventually returned voluntarily. The outside world tends to be considerably less forgiving of enhanced individuals than institutional care."
"How refreshingly honest," Harry murmured. "Most places would have called it 'patient integration challenges' and left it at that."
They finally reached Observation Room 7, which managed to look both therapeutically inviting and subtly prison-like—soft lighting and ergonomic furniture that concealed enough restraint systems to handle a minor apocalypse.
And there she was.
---
Wanda Maximoff was smaller than Harry had expected, though he'd learned not to trust size when it came to dangerous individuals. Sixteen years old but carved lean by trauma, stripped of the soft edges that should have belonged to that age. Her dark hair fell in careful waves around a face that had learned to show nothing dangerous, while her eyes carried the deliberate emptiness of someone who had decided emotions were weapons too risky to wield.
She wore committee-approved therapeutic neutral—dark jeans, a burgundy sweater that practically radiated "non-threatening institutional comfort." No logos, no drawstrings, no loose threads. Just enough humanity to avoid accusations of cruelty, carefully scrubbed of anything that might conceal contraband or double as improvised weaponry.
"She's been stable for the past week," Brennan explained quietly. "No major reality alterations. Only minor probability adjustments. The coffee machine in the common area now produces perfect cappuccinos regardless of settings, and her room maintains exactly seventy-two degrees despite HVAC fluctuations."
Xavier leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying decades of experience with extraordinary young people. "Unconscious environmental regulation. A survival mechanism rather than aggressive manifestation. That suggests considerable self-control."
"Until you consider," Brennan countered with scientific precision, "that she could theoretically adjust global probability fields if her emotional state deteriorated significantly. The potential cascade effects keep our insurance providers in a state of chronic cardiac distress."
Harry studied the girl through the reinforced glass, his enhanced senses reading the emotional landscape she carried like scars. Not paranoia, not fear of external threats—this was deeper. Fear of herself, fear of what she might become if she dared to feel too much or want too much or simply be too much. Her emotional terrain had been systematically scorched and salted by years of being told her heart was a loaded weapon.
It made him furious in the quiet, dangerous way that suggested someone was about to have a very bad day.
"Dr. Brennan," Harry said, his voice carrying the sort of pleasant menace that made smart people nervous, "I'll need to speak with her privately. No recordings, no observers, no clipboards taking notes. Just patient and consultant."
Brennan blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the directness. "That is absolutely against facility protocol. Observation is mandatory during all patient interactions. For everyone's safety."
Harry turned his head slowly, offering a smile that suggested he'd learned charm from someone who'd personally invented it. "Protocol exists to keep staff safe from patients. With profound respect, Doctor, if Miss Maximoff experiences a significant loss of control in that room, your cameras, your notes, and your emergency procedures will be approximately as useful as an umbrella in a nuclear winter. Whereas I..." He adjusted his cufflinks with casual precision. "I am considerably better insurance than anything your risk management department can imagine."
Xavier's lips curved into the faintest smile, though his diplomatic tone remained flawlessly reasonable. "Perhaps a compromise? Visual monitoring without audio recording. You could confirm safety protocols without compromising therapeutic confidentiality."
Brennan folded her arms, studying both men with the skepticism of a scientist who had been burned by charm and confidence before. "You're asking me to take a significant leap of professional faith based on credentials that were faxed to me yesterday morning."
Harry's grin turned absolutely radiant. "Dr. Brennan, Cambridge alumni are many things—pretentious, insufferably well-read, historically significant—but we're rarely incompetent at our chosen professions. And between you and me..." He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice to conspiratorial warmth. "If I'd attended Oxford, this conversation would already be on fire and someone would be demanding satisfaction at dawn."
Brennan made a sound that might have been laughter if she'd allowed herself such luxuries during working hours. "You're absolutely insufferable."
"Thank you," Harry replied with genuine pleasure. "I've worked very hard to perfect the technique."
Her gaze flicked to Xavier, clearly hoping for some anchor of institutional sanity. Xavier, naturally, was sanity incarnate wrapped in diplomatic immunity. "Elizabeth," he said gently, "sometimes progress requires allowing those who see differently to attempt unconventional approaches. If we keep Miss Maximoff locked within the boundaries of institutional caution, we may never reach her at all."
Brennan pressed her lips together, caught between professional obligation and the small, carefully guarded ember of hope she hadn't dared acknowledge in months. Finally, she nodded with crisp decisiveness. "Visual monitoring only. But if there's any indication of destabilization—"
Harry cut in smoothly, his tone shifting to something that carried absolute certainty. "Everyone in this facility will remain perfectly safe. On that, Doctor, you have my complete and unequivocal word."
The security lock disengaged with a heavy metallic thunk—the sound of institutional rules bending just enough to allow possibility through the door.
Harry straightened his jacket and stepped forward, his reflection briefly visible in the reinforced glass before he crossed the threshold into Wanda Maximoff's carefully contained reality.
"Show time," he murmured to himself, and entered the room like a man who had never met a problem he couldn't solve with sufficient application of wit, charm, and carefully controlled magical intervention.
—
# Lower Manhattan – Marcus Blackwood Antiquities
The brass bell above the door released its cultured chime as Sirius Black swept through the entrance like he owned not just the shop but the entire block it sat on. His long coat billowed behind him with theatrical precision, dark hair catching the afternoon light as he surveyed the interior with the casual arrogance of old money and older breeding. Every movement carried the fluid confidence of a man who'd never met a room he couldn't command.
Logan followed three steps behind, hands buried in the pockets of a leather jacket that looked like it had survived more wars than most countries. His gait was loose, predatory—the kind of walk that suggested he was constantly calculating exit strategies and the best angles to throw a punch. His eyes swept the shop's corners automatically, cataloging threats that probably didn't exist but might.
Marcus Blackwood glanced up from his perch behind a mahogany counter that belonged in a Dickens novel, jeweler's loupe catching the light as it hung from his eye. He was bent over what appeared to be an illuminated manuscript, studying it with the reverent concentration of a surgeon examining a patient's heart. The afternoon sun streamed through tall latticed windows, turning his silver-touched hair into something approaching a halo—though anyone who knew Marcus would find that comparison deeply ironic.
"Ah," Marcus said, removing the loupe with practiced elegance and setting it aside as though it were made of spun glass. "Punctuality. How refreshingly continental of you both." His accent was crisp as fresh snow, each syllable precisely carved. "I trust the morning treated you kindly? No unfortunate encounters with New York's more... energetic citizenry?"
Sirius slid into the offered chair like liquid mercury, his frame arranging itself with aristocratic ease. "The city's been remarkably well-behaved, Marcus. Though I suspect that has more to do with Logan's reputation preceding us than any sudden outbreak of civility among the locals."
"Damn right," Logan muttered, staying firmly planted on his feet and leaning against what looked like a cabinet worth more than most people's houses. "Word gets around when you toss a couple muggers through a brick wall. Suddenly everybody's got better manners."
Marcus's smile was thin, amused. "How wonderfully direct. I do appreciate clients who understand the value of... deterrence." He straightened his already perfect cufflinks, silver catching the light. "But gentlemen, I suspect you're here for more pleasant business than discussing urban sociology. Your numismatic collection, if memory serves?"
"Indeed," Sirius said, one eyebrow arching with elegant expectation. "My godson's birthday approaches rather rapidly, and I find myself in need of what you might call liquid assets. Something distinctly American to mark our rather... unconventional new beginning in this fair city."
Logan snorted, the sound carrying enough sarcasm to fill a small auditorium. "Translation: he wants to blow a fat stack of cash on something shiny that'll make the kid's jaw drop. Maybe buy him a pony."
"A pony?" Sirius turned toward Logan with theatrical horror. "My dear Logan, you wound me. I was thinking more along the lines of a small yacht. Or perhaps a helicopter."
"Jesus, Black." Logan's grin was sharp as broken glass. "Kid's turning sixteen, not getting crowned king of Manhattan. Though knowing you, you'd probably throw him a coronation just for the hell of it."
Marcus cleared his throat delicately, though his eyes sparkled with genuine amusement. "Fascinating as this debate over gift-giving philosophy may be, I believe you'll find my news quite... encouraging." He reached beneath the counter, producing a leather portfolio that looked old enough to have personal relationships with several centuries. "My collector was extraordinarily pleased with your medieval specimens. The craftsmanship, the preservation, the historical authenticity—all exceptional by any reasonable standard."
Logan straightened slightly, interest sharpening his features. "Yeah? How pleased we talking here? 'Thank you' card pleased, or 'here's a sack of money' pleased?"
"The latter, I'm delighted to report." Marcus opened the portfolio with ceremonial care. "Two thousand dollars per coin. Final offer, no negotiation required."
Logan gave a low whistle that could have summoned dogs three blocks away. "That's a hell of a jump from the fifteen hundred you quoted last week, Marcus. What happened—you discover they were blessed by the Pope or something?"
"Nothing quite so dramatic, though your collection apparently represents previously undocumented examples of regional medieval artisanship." Marcus adjusted his tie with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. "My client is preparing a research paper for the Journal of Medieval Numismatics—"
"Hold up," Logan interrupted, his grin turning predatory. "That's a real journal? No offense, but it sounds like something you'd find in the bathroom at a monastery. Right next to 'Contemplative Quarterly' and 'Advanced Hymnal Design.'"
Sirius couldn't contain his chuckle. "Logan, please. Try to contain your cultural philistinism for at least five minutes. Some people value history more than beer and the therapeutic benefits of bar fights."
"Hey, history's great," Logan shot back, flexing his hand in a way that made his knuckles crack ominously. "But history doesn't punch back when you're having a bad day. Beer's got your back. Beer understands."
"Gentlemen," Marcus said smoothly, "while I appreciate this philosophical discourse on the merits of alcohol versus academia, perhaps we might return to the matter at hand?" He tapped the portfolio with one manicured finger. "Academic recognition tends to inflate market values considerably. Two thousand per piece is actually conservative—my client insisted I convey his enthusiasm in no uncertain terms."
Sirius's grin widened into something that would have made sharks nervous. "One hundred coins at two thousand each. Two hundred thousand dollars." He rose from the chair with fluid grace, his coat flaring slightly as he extended his hand. "Marcus, you've proven every bit as professional as Logan suggested. I foresee a long and mutually beneficial relationship."
Logan muttered under his breath, "Translation: you didn't try to screw us over. Yet."
Marcus took Sirius's hand with a grip that was firm without being aggressive, his smile remaining perfectly calibrated. "This afternoon, if it suits your schedule. Funds transferred directly to the accounts we established—completely legitimate, fully traceable, and guaranteed to satisfy even the most inquisitive federal investigators. You'll be men of considerable means, both on paper and in practice."
"Perfect," Sirius said, his eyes gleaming with something approaching dangerous delight. "I believe it's time my godson received something appropriately extravagant. Something that screams 'Welcome to America' with appropriate volume and style."
"Just promise me it won't have wings," Logan said dryly. "Kid's got enough ways to get himself killed without adding aviation to the mix."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Wings?"
"Don't ask," Logan and Sirius said in perfect unison.
---
## Streets of Lower Manhattan
The brass bell gave one final, dignified chime as the shop door closed behind them, the city immediately swallowing them back into its symphony of honking horns, shouting vendors, and general urban chaos. Sirius adjusted his coat with the automatic precision of a man who'd been dressing himself stylishly since before most people were born, while Logan immediately produced a cigar from some pocket dimension in his jacket and lit it with the satisfied air of a man who'd just concluded profitable but mildly shady business.
He blew out the first curl of smoke, squinting at Sirius through the blue-gray haze. "So what's the birthday master plan, Black? Kid's hitting sixteen. That's driving age over here, in case your British education skipped American teenage milestones."
Sirius blinked as though Logan had just suggested they buy Harry a small island. "A car? At sixteen?" He tilted his head, dark hair falling across his forehead with practiced casualness. "In Britain, at that age you might receive a watch. Perhaps some books if your family believes in intellectual development. A bottle of very expensive whiskey if they believe in practical education. But a car seems rather... excessive."
"Different continent, different customs," Logan said, the cigar bobbing at the corner of his mouth as he talked. "Over here, sixteen means wheels. Independence. Freedom to make spectacularly bad decisions at high speed. Everything a kid with superpowers shouldn't have but absolutely needs." He pointed the cigar at Sirius for emphasis. "Besides, Harry's not exactly average anymore. Kid can't fly everywhere without people asking awkward questions. Needs something that blends in while still making a statement."
"And nothing," Logan continued, warming to his theme, "absolutely nothing says 'American dream' like your first set of wheels. It's like a rite of passage. Kid without a car in high school might as well be invisible."
Sirius's expression shifted, intrigue replacing bewilderment. "An automobile. Distinctly American. A symbol of new beginnings wrapped in style, power, and performance." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, the gesture somehow making him look like a Renaissance prince considering a particularly complex chess move. "What would you recommend, Logan? You've survived this country far longer than I have."
Logan chewed on his cigar like it was fuel for deep philosophical thought. "Let's see. Kid's got taste—inherited from you, probably. He's got power—magical and otherwise. He's got a flair for dramatic entrances that'd make Shakespeare jealous. He's also sixteen, which means hormones, adrenaline, and decision-making skills that make toddlers look mature."
He stopped walking, grin spreading across his face like sunrise over a particularly violent landscape. "So we need something that makes him look like a rock star but won't turn him into street pizza if he sneezes wrong while doing sixty."
"And your recommendation?" Sirius prompted.
"Mustang," Logan said with the reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. "Classic American muscle. Distinctive, loud enough to announce his arrival three zip codes away, fast enough to keep up with whatever reflexes that magic gave him. Nothing—and I mean nothing—says 'welcome to America, kid' like a goddamn Mustang."
Sirius repeated the word slowly, like he was tasting fine wine. "Mustang. Named for the horse, I presume?"
"Horse, fighter plane, symbol of untamed freedom—take your pick," Logan said, smoke curling around his grin. "Either way, it's pure American badass. And I might know a guy. Tony runs a salvage yard out in Queens. Deals in classics, restoration projects, stuff that looks like junk but's got championship bloodlines. Perfect place to find something with character."
Sirius's eyes lit up with the kind of dangerous enthusiasm that had historically resulted in Hogwarts professors developing stress-related drinking problems. "How much work are we discussing? Because if you're suggesting I roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty—"
"Depends on what Tony's got lying around," Logan interrupted. "But here's the thing, Black—you said your magic makes mechanical work easier, right? My buddy's projects would take regular people months to rebuild properly. But with your... cheat codes?"
"I could have something extraordinary ready within days," Sirius finished, his grin turning positively wolfish. "And there's something to be said for the satisfaction of creating my godson's gift rather than simply purchasing it off some showroom floor."
"Exactly," Logan said, nodding approvingly. "Plus, working on cars is therapy. Keeps your hands busy, keeps your brain from spiraling into whatever dark corners it likes to visit when you're not paying attention. Not that you'd know anything about brooding, of course."
Sirius chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "You'd be surprised, Logan. Before Azkaban, I owned a flying 1959 Triumph Bonneville. I spent almost as much time tinkering with the engine as I did riding the bloody thing through the Scottish Highlands at thoroughly inadvisable speeds."
Logan stopped dead in his tracks, staring. "You had a flying motorcycle?"
"Of course," Sirius replied with aristocratic nonchalance. "Doesn't everyone? I thought it was standard equipment for anyone with a reasonable sense of adventure and a healthy disregard for physics."
Logan barked out a laugh that startled several pigeons into flight. "Yeah, you're gonna fit right into American car culture, Black. They'll eat you alive—the good kind of alive. The crazy Brit who thinks slapping wings on motorcycles is a casual weekend project."
"Excellent," Sirius said, his tone crisp with decision. "When can we visit this salvage yard of yours?"
"Right now, if you want. Tony's always there—lives and breathes that place. Owes me a few favors too, so he'll cut us a deal." Logan's grin turned predatory around his cigar. "Only one condition: whatever we find, it's gotta be street legal. Last thing we need is Harry getting pulled over for driving a death machine with rocket boosters and a suspicious lack of proper paperwork."
"Understood," Sirius said with just a touch too much innocence. "Though I make no promises about additional features that might be invisible to law enforcement."
Logan exhaled smoke through his laughter. "That's what I like about you, Black. Reckless as hell, but you've got class about it. Come on—let's go shopping for the kind of trouble that comes with horsepower."
---
## Queens Salvage & Restoration – Tony Benedetto's Kingdom of Chrome and Dreams
Tony Benedetto's salvage yard looked like the Smithsonian had gotten into a drunken brawl with a junkyard and somehow emerged victorious. Every decade of American automotive history sat in careful rows, from chrome-drunk '50s land yachts that could double as aircraft carriers to muscle cars that still smelled like Detroit gasoline and teenage rebellion. European exotics whispered cautionary tales about rich men who thought money could substitute for driving skill, while pickup trucks sat with the patient dignity of working-class heroes who'd earned their retirement.
"Smells like money, regret, and motor oil," Logan observed, cigar smoke curling as he surveyed the organized chaos. "Basically, heaven for guys with too much testosterone and not enough sense."
Tony himself emerged from beneath a '70 Plymouth 'Cuda like some grease-stained automotive deity, coveralls that had seen more action than most war correspondents, wiping his hands on a rag that appeared older than several of the cars surrounding them. He was built like a man who'd been wrestling with carburetors since the Kennedy administration and usually won, his face carrying that lived-in charm of someone who'd seen hustlers, dreamers, and desperate men all trying to buy their way into cool.
"Logan!" Tony bellowed, spreading his arms like they were meeting at a family reunion instead of in a graveyard of Detroit steel. "You beautiful, hairy bastard! I thought you forgot about me completely. What, you find another mechanic? You cheatin' on me with some fancy uptown garage?"
Logan's grin could have powered half of Queens. "Come on, Tony. You know you're irreplaceable. You're like my barber, my priest, and my bartender all rolled into one incredibly loud, incredibly Italian package."
"But smellier," Tony added cheerfully, giving Logan a bear hug that left several new grease stains on the Canadian's already abused leather jacket. "You don't call, you don't write, you don't even send Christmas cards—what am I, chopped liver over here?"
"Nah, Tony. You're Italian—more like prosciutto. Premium grade."
Tony barked out a laugh that could have shattered windows three blocks away, then turned his attention to Sirius with the appraising look of a man evaluating a Ferrari that had just rolled up without an appointment. "And who's this guy? Looks like you dragged European royalty out of a GQ photoshoot. He modeling or something?"
Sirius stepped forward with fluid grace, extending his hand like he was granting an audience rather than meeting a mechanic. "Sirius Black. Logan tells me you're the man to see about exceptional machines—the kind that have stories worth telling."
Tony's handshake was firm, honest, callused from decades of coaxing life out of supposedly dead steel. "Tony Benedetto, but everybody calls me Tony. Any friend of Logan's is family, and family don't pay retail." He looked Sirius up and down again, clearly trying to figure out exactly what species of rich guy had wandered into his domain. "So what're we looking for here, Mr. Black? Daily driver? Weekend toy? Full-blown automotive pornography that makes grown men weep?"
Sirius's smile could have charmed the chrome off a bumper. "Birthday present for my godson. He's turning sixteen, which I'm told is significant in American culture. It needs to be distinctly American, with appropriate performance characteristics, substantial style, and just enough inherent danger to keep a young man properly interested in life."
Tony let out a whistle low enough to wake sleeping engines. "Sixteen, huh? First car's like first love, you know what I mean? Gotta have personality—enough to make him proud, not so much it kills him before he learns how to handle it." He gestured broadly at the automotive wonderland surrounding them. "So what're we talking budget-wise? You looking to spend Honda money or are we playing in the Ferrari leagues?"
"Flexible," Sirius said with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather rather than potentially massive expenditures. "I'm far more interested in finding the right car than in counting coins. Quality over economy."
Logan muttered around his cigar, "Translation: he's got more money than sense and doesn't know what a coupon looks like."
"Even better!" Tony said, his grin widening. "In that case, you boys follow me. I got something special in the back—real special. Fair warning though: she ain't pretty right now. Needs work. Serious work. Most people take one look and run screaming back to the Toyota dealership."
"Sounds like my kind of project," Sirius said, curiosity sparking in his eyes like flint striking steel.
They followed Tony deeper into the automotive maze, past gleaming survivors and hopeless wrecks, through narrow pathways between towering stacks of parts and possibility, until he stopped at a covered bay that looked like it was hiding secrets.
"Now," Tony said with the reverence of a priest unveiling a sacred relic, "before I show you this beauty, you gotta understand—she's been waiting. Waiting for the right guy, the right project, the right level of crazy." He grabbed the canvas tarp with both hands. "Gentlemen, feast your eyes on American muscle car royalty."
With a theatrical flourish that would have made Houdini proud, Tony yanked away the cover.
Beneath it, like a predatory beast in hibernation, crouched a midnight-black monument to automotive aggression. Even covered in dust and neglect, the lines were pure poetry written in steel—aggressive, gorgeous, dangerous as a loaded gun with racing stripes.
"Gentlemen," Tony announced with the pride of a father introducing his firstborn, "1969 Mustang Boss 429. Original Big Block engine, Drag Pack competition suspension, factory-built street monster. Loudest, meanest, most beautiful thing Ford ever had the balls to put on four wheels and call street legal."
Logan actually stopped chewing his cigar, his eyes widening like he'd just witnessed a miracle. "You're shitting me. That's a genuine Boss Nine? An actual, factory-original Boss 429?"
Tony's grin could have illuminated half of Queens. "Picked her up at an estate sale in Westchester. Old guy bought her brand new in '69, drove her exactly six months until his wife threatened divorce proceedings over the noise complaints from three counties. Parked her in his garage for thirty-seven years, covered her up, and forgot she existed."
"Thirty-seven years," Sirius breathed, circling the car with the reverence usually reserved for examining religious artifacts. His fingers traced the dusty paintwork like he was reading braille written in automotive history. "Magnificent. But you mentioned she needs work?"
"Oh, she needs everything," Tony said cheerfully. "Engine needs to be completely torn down and rebuilt, transmission's shot, brakes haven't worked since Reagan was president, tires are basically fossils, interior looks like a family of raccoons threw a decade-long party, electrical system's from the stone age." He shrugged with magnificent nonchalance. "Basically, everything that makes a car actually go, stop, or turn."
Logan puffed contemplatively on his cigar. "Translation: it's a gorgeous corpse with championship bloodlines."
"Hey!" Tony wagged a finger like he was scolding a child. "Show some respect here. This ain't just a car—this is automotive history. A legend. You don't fix machines like this, you resurrect them. But I ain't gonna lie to you—it ain't cheap, and it definitely ain't easy. We're talking months of work, serious money, and the kind of dedication that makes your wife question your sanity."
Sirius's grin turned positively feral, like a wolf spotting particularly interesting prey. "Fortunately, I have access to some... unconventional resurrection methods. Time might not be quite the obstacle you'd expect."
Tony raised his eyebrows. "That right? Well, usually a project like this—even in this condition—I'd be asking twenty-five, maybe thirty grand minimum just for the privilege of heartbreak. But she's been taking up valuable real estate for two years, and I was starting to think I'd never find the right brand of lunatic willing to take her on." He glanced at Logan with obvious affection. "For Logan's friend? Fifteen grand. And I'll throw in all the original paperwork, factory manuals, and the box of spare parts I've been hoarding like some kind of automotive squirrel."
Sirius didn't hesitate for even a heartbeat. "Done. When can we arrange payment and transportation?"
Logan shook his head, grinning around his cigar. "Tony, you're gonna kick yourself when this maniac has her purring like a kitten in a week."
"Nah," Tony said, his expression turning oddly serious. "Some cars are meant to gather dust, you know? They're happy being pretty lawn ornaments. But machines like this?" He patted the Mustang's hood with genuine affection. "They're meant to scare the neighbors, piss off the cops, and remind people what real American muscle sounds like when it's properly motivated. This beast deserves to live again."
Sirius looked at the Mustang with an expression that was part hunger, part reverence, part barely contained excitement. For the first time since arriving in this strange new reality, he felt something beyond mere adaptation—he felt genuine anticipation. Tools in hand, sweat on his brow, magic flowing through metal and machinery, coaxing a legend back from mechanical death.
"One month until Harry's birthday," he murmured, already calculating the work ahead. "Plenty of time to perform miracles."
Logan chuckled, clapping him on the back hard enough to stagger a smaller man. "Kid's gonna lose his goddamn mind when he sees this thing. And Tony? Don't say I never brought you interesting people."
Tony spread his arms wide, grinning at both of them with the joy of a man who'd just witnessed something beautiful being born. "What can I say, Logan? You bring me the best kind of trouble. The kind that makes noise, goes fast, and scares the hell out of everybody in the neighborhood."
"Speaking of neighborhood," Sirius said thoughtfully, "I don't suppose you know anywhere I could work on this project? Somewhere with appropriate tools, space, and neighbors who won't call the authorities when things get... loud?"
Tony's grin turned positively diabolical. "Funny you should ask. I got a workshop out back—used to be my personal restoration bay before I got too busy with the regular business. Fully equipped, soundproofed, and the kind of privacy that doesn't ask too many questions about unusual working hours or... unconventional methods."
"Perfect," Sirius said, his eyes gleaming with anticipation that bordered on dangerous. "When can we begin?"
"Right now, if you want," Tony said. "Let me get the paperwork started, and we can have her moved into the workshop today. Fair warning though—once you start on a project like this, it gets in your blood. You might find yourself out here at three in the morning, covered in grease, talking to the engine like it's your best friend."
Logan nodded sagely. "That's when you know you're really living, Black. When you're too obsessed with something beautiful to sleep."
Sirius looked at the Boss 429 again, his reflection distorted in the dusty windshield, and for the first time in months, felt like he was exactly where he belonged.
---
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!