# Aboard the X-Jet - 30,000 Feet Above the Atlantic
The aircraft's interior hummed with the quiet efficiency of advanced engineering, all sleek curves and subtle lighting that seemed designed to make impossible flight feel like routine travel. Through the reinforced windows, the English countryside spread below them in patchwork quilts of green and gold, growing smaller and more distant with each passing moment.
Hermione sat rigidly in her seat, her amber eyes fixed on the diminishing landscape with the kind of focused intensity that suggested she was trying to memorize every detail before it disappeared entirely. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles showed white against her skin, and despite her best efforts at maintaining composure, tears tracked steadily down her cheeks.
Harry noticed immediately—of course he did. Three years of friendship had taught him to read her moods with the precision of someone who cared more about her wellbeing than his own comfort. He unbuckled his safety harness and moved to the seat beside her with that fluid grace that still seemed foreign to his transformed body.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice carrying none of its usual theatrical charm, just warm concern and absolute sincerity. "Talk to me. What's going on in that brilliant head of yours?"
Hermione didn't look at him immediately, her gaze still fixed on the window as though sheer force of will could slow their departure from everything familiar. When she finally spoke, her voice was thick with tears she was trying not to shed.
"It's different this time," she said quietly. "Leaving for Hogwarts—that always felt temporary. A term away, then Christmas holidays, then Easter break, then summer. But this..." She gestured vaguely at the aircraft around them, at the vast ocean they were crossing. "This feels permanent. Like I'm leaving everything behind and becoming someone else entirely."
Harry studied her profile—the determined set of her jaw, the way her wild hair caught the afternoon light, the tears she was trying so hard not to acknowledge—and felt something fundamental shift in his chest. This brilliant, brave, extraordinary young woman had spent most of her life being braver than anyone had a right to expect, carrying burdens that would have crushed lesser people, and now she was facing another impossible transition with characteristic grace despite her obvious fear.
"Hermione," he said, and there was something in his voice—something deeper than friendship, warmer than casual concern—that made her finally turn to look at him. "You're not becoming someone else. You're becoming more yourself than you've ever been allowed to be."
She met his eyes—those impossible green depths shot through with molten gold—and saw something there that made her breath catch. There was love in his gaze, but not the comfortable affection of long friendship. This was something newer, deeper, more complex. Something that made her pulse skip and her carefully maintained composure waver dangerously.
Harry seemed to recognize the moment for what it was—a threshold, a choice point where honesty mattered more than safety. He leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious than she'd ever seen it.
"Before we cross this ocean," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute truth, "before we arrive at whatever our future holds, there's something I need you to know. Something I should have said weeks ago, months ago, but I was too much of a coward to risk changing what we had."
Hermione's heart began beating so hard she was certain he could hear it. "Harry..."
"Let me say this," he continued gently but with unmistakable determination. "Without hope or agenda, without expecting anything in return. I like you, Hermione. Have liked you as a friend for years, obviously, but in the past year—maybe longer—that liking turned into something else. Something more."
His green-gold eyes never wavered from hers, and she could see the vulnerability beneath his calm exterior, the courage it was taking to speak these words without knowing how she would respond.
"I'm attracted to you," he said simply. "To your intelligence, your courage, your absolutely uncompromising moral compass. To the way you organize color-coded revision schedules and the way you defend house-elves and the way you look when you're passionate about something you believe in. To all of it, all of you."
Hermione's breath hitched, and she felt tears of an entirely different sort beginning to well in her eyes.
Harry reached out slowly, carefully, giving her every opportunity to pull away, and took one of her clenched hands in both of his. His touch was warm, steady, anchoring.
"We can go as slow as you want," he continued, his voice soft but absolutely certain. "As slow as you need. We can pretend this conversation never happened if that's what you prefer. But I needed you to know, needed to say it before we start this new chapter of our lives, that you hold a place in my heart that is only for you. That will always be only for you."
His thumb traced gentle circles across her knuckles, and his expression held depths of sincerity that made her chest tight with emotion.
"No matter what happens—no matter what powers we develop or what challenges we face or how extraordinary our lives become—my feelings for you will not change or diminish. They're not dependent on circumstances or convenience or proximity. They're just... part of who I am now. Part of who I choose to be."
For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet hum of the aircraft's engines and Hermione's slightly unsteady breathing. She stared at their joined hands, at the way his fingers cradled hers with such careful tenderness, and felt something in her chest that had been wound tight for months finally begin to relax.
"Harry," she whispered, finally looking up to meet his eyes again. "I... I've been terrified that I was the only one feeling this way. Terrified that I was imagining things that weren't there, reading too much into glances and moments and the way you sometimes look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
His smile was soft and achingly gentle. "You weren't imagining anything. I've been looking at you differently for months. Thinking about you differently. Wanting things I didn't know how to ask for."
"What kind of things?" she asked, though her voice was barely audible.
Harry's expression grew more serious, but there was warmth in his eyes that made her feel safe even as her pulse raced. "The right to hold your hand when you're scared. The right to comfort you when you're upset. The right to be proud of you in ways that go beyond friendship. The right to..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "To love you, Hermione. In all the ways that matter."
The simple honesty in his voice nearly undid her. She turned her hand in his grip, threading their fingers together with a sense of rightness that made everything else seem to fall into place.
"I want that too," she admitted quietly. "All of it. I've wanted it for longer than I've been willing to admit, even to myself. But Harry... I'm scared. We're already facing so many changes, so many unknowns. Adding this to the mix..."
"Makes it more complicated," he agreed readily. "But maybe it also makes it more stable. Maybe having something constant—something that doesn't depend on external circumstances—is exactly what we need while everything else shifts around us."
Storm's voice drifted back from the pilot's area, though she was clearly giving them privacy while remaining aware of their conversation. "We're approaching the halfway point of our flight. Weather systems are holding steady, and we should arrive right on schedule."
Harry glanced toward the front of the aircraft, then back at Hermione with a smile that held promise and patience in equal measure. "We don't have to figure everything out right now. We don't have to make decisions or set timelines or analyze the implications to death—though knowing you, you'll probably want to create a detailed strategic plan by Thursday."
That earned him a watery laugh. "Possibly by Wednesday, actually. I've been thinking about this more than is probably healthy."
"Good," he said with genuine warmth. "Think about it all you want. Talk to Storm about it if you need perspective from someone with more experience. Write lists if it helps—you know how much you love your lists. But don't torture yourself with uncertainty about where I stand. That part is settled. That part is sure."
Hermione squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his steady presence and the absolute conviction in his voice. "Thank you. For telling me. For being brave enough to say what I couldn't figure out how to say myself."
"Thank you for not running screaming in the opposite direction," Harry replied with a return of his lighter tone, though his eyes remained serious. "Though I suppose that would be difficult at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic."
"Inconvenient timing, certainly," she agreed with a small smile. "But I'm glad you told me now. Before we arrive, before we get caught up in new routines and new people and all the chaos of settling into extraordinary circumstances."
Harry lifted their joined hands and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, the gesture so tender it made her heart ache in the most wonderful way. "Whatever happens next, we face it together. As friends, as partners, as... whatever this becomes. Together."
Hermione felt the last of her tears dry on her cheeks, replaced by something that felt remarkably like hope. Through the aircraft windows, the sun was beginning to set over the Atlantic, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that seemed to promise new beginnings and infinite possibilities.
"Together," she agreed softly, and for the first time since they'd left England, the future didn't seem quite so uncertain.
—
In the cockpit area of the X-Jet, what should have been a private moment between two teenagers navigating their first real conversation about feelings had become an inadvertent performance for an audience of some of the most powerful and experienced individuals on the planet. The aircraft's communication system—designed for tactical coordination during missions where every word could mean the difference between life and death—had picked up their quiet conversation with the kind of crystal clarity that left nothing to interpretation.
Storm sat in the pilot's seat with her hands resting motionless on the controls, her dark eyes fixed on the instrument panel but her attention entirely focused on the voices drifting through the comm system. Her expression held the kind of maternal warmth mixed with professional assessment that came from years of helping young mutants navigate the collision of extraordinary circumstances and perfectly ordinary human emotions.
Charles Xavier had positioned his wheelchair near the navigation console where he could monitor both their flight path and the conversation unfolding behind them. His pale blue eyes held depths of understanding and gentle amusement as he listened to Harry's careful, honest declaration and Hermione's quietly vulnerable response. His fingers were steepled before him in that characteristic gesture of thoughtful consideration, though there was satisfaction in his expression that suggested this development was neither unexpected nor unwelcome.
Logan occupied the co-pilot's seat with his boots propped on the instrument panel in a way that should have made Storm nervous but somehow seemed perfectly appropriate for someone who had been flying in various aircraft since before most of the current technology had been invented. His weathered features showed the kind of gruff approval that came from recognizing genuine courage—the kind it took to speak honestly about feelings when the stakes were high and the outcome uncertain.
Sirius had claimed the navigator's position, though his attention was entirely focused on the conversation rather than their heading. His grey eyes held the bright satisfaction of someone whose matchmaking instincts had been vindicated by events, mixed with the protective warmth of a godfather who was genuinely pleased by his godson's emotional maturity.
Albus Dumbledore sat near the communication station with his hands folded, his blue eyes twinkling with the kind of benevolent understanding that came from decades of watching young people discover the complicated intersection of extraordinary abilities and perfectly ordinary human hearts. His expression suggested he found the entire situation both touching and mildly entertaining in the way that wise old men found most of human nature amusing rather than concerning.
For several long moments after Harry's quiet declaration of feelings and Hermione's whispered response, the forward section remained in respectful silence. Each of the adults processed what they had heard with the kind of careful consideration that came from understanding exactly how significant such moments were in the lives of extraordinary young people.
It was Logan who broke the silence first, his rough voice carrying a note of grudging approval that suggested he had been genuinely impressed by what he'd witnessed. "Kid's got more guts than I gave him credit for," he observed quietly, his tone pitched low enough not to carry to the rear of the aircraft. "Takes real brass to lay your cards on the table like that, especially when you don't know how they'll be received."
Storm nodded, her musical voice warm with approval and professional satisfaction. "He handled that beautifully. No pressure, no expectations, just honest communication about his feelings and respect for her need to process at her own pace. That's exactly the kind of emotional maturity that bodes well for both their personal relationship and their ability to handle the challenges ahead."
Her dark eyes held the satisfaction of someone who had correctly assessed the situation and was pleased to see young people exceeding expectations. "And Hermione's response—that vulnerability, that willingness to admit her own feelings despite her fear of complications—shows remarkable courage in someone who typically prefers to have all variables analyzed before making decisions."
Charles leaned back in his wheelchair with the expression of someone whose understanding of human nature had been confirmed by events. His cultured voice carried notes of both personal affection and professional assessment as he considered what they had witnessed.
"What strikes me most," he said thoughtfully, "is the fundamental stability of what they've created. This isn't adolescent infatuation or proximity-based attraction. This is genuine affection that has developed over years of shared experiences, mutual respect, and demonstrated loyalty. The kind of foundation that can support whatever extraordinary circumstances they face in the future."
His pale eyes held the wisdom of someone who had seen countless young people navigate the treacherous waters of developing abilities and developing relationships simultaneously. "The fact that Harry chose this moment—when they're leaving everything familiar behind—to establish that emotional foundation suggests a level of strategic thinking about relationships that most adults never achieve."
Sirius's grin was bright with the satisfaction of someone whose fondest hopes had been exceeded by reality. His grey eyes danced with the kind of mischievous pleasure that had probably gotten him into considerable trouble during his school years, though now it was tempered by genuine protectiveness and approval.
"James would be absolutely beside himself," he said with obvious delight, his voice carrying decades of friendship and shared history. "He spent months working up the courage to ask Lily on their first date, rehearsing speeches and contingency plans like he was preparing for a military campaign. Harry just... did it. Honest, direct, respectful. No games, no manipulation, just pure Gryffindor courage applied to matters of the heart."
His expression grew more serious as he considered the implications of what he had witnessed. "And the timing—establishing this connection before they arrive at Xavier's, before they get caught up in new routines and new people—that's brilliant strategy. It gives them a stable foundation while everything else shifts around them."
Dumbledore's chuckle was soft but filled with genuine warmth, his blue eyes bright with the kind of paternal pride that transcended blood relationships. "Indeed, Sirius. Though I suspect Harry's approach owes less to strategic planning and more to simple recognition that honesty and timing matter when dealing with someone as intelligent as Miss Granger."
His expression grew more contemplative as he considered the broader implications of what they had heard. "What pleases me most is the fundamental respect evident in both their approaches to this situation. Harry's willingness to accept whatever response she gave, Hermione's recognition that her fears about timing don't diminish the validity of her feelings—this suggests emotional maturity that will serve them well in whatever challenges await."
Storm's attention was divided between the aircraft's controls and the ongoing conversation, her weather-sense automatically monitoring atmospheric conditions while her mind processed the human dynamics playing out behind them. When she spoke, her voice carried the authority of someone who had helped countless young people navigate exactly these situations.
"The most encouraging aspect," she observed, "is how naturally this development fits into their existing relationship dynamic. They're not trying to become different people or reshape their friendship into something unrecognizable. They're simply acknowledging feelings that have developed organically over time and creating space for those feelings to grow safely."
Her dark eyes held the satisfaction of someone whose professional assessment had been validated by events. "That kind of organic development, that recognition of existing compatibility—it suggests a relationship that can weather whatever extraordinary circumstances they face. They're not going to be distracted from their responsibilities or their individual growth. If anything, this connection will probably enhance their ability to handle challenges."
Logan shifted in his seat, his weathered features showing the kind of protective approval that came from recognizing something worth defending. His rough voice carried notes of both personal affection and tactical assessment as he considered what he had witnessed.
"What I like," he said gruffly, "is that the kid isn't trying to be something he's not. He's not putting on airs or pretending to be more sophisticated than he is. He's just... Harry. Honest, direct, willing to put himself on the line for someone he cares about. That's the kind of character that matters when everything goes to hell."
His hazel eyes held depths of hard-won wisdom as he continued. "And she's smart enough to recognize genuine feeling when she sees it. Not getting caught up in overthinking or analyzing it to death—though knowing her, she'll probably have a comprehensive strategic plan by next week—just accepting that sometimes the heart knows things the mind hasn't figured out yet."
Charles nodded approvingly, his pale eyes bright with understanding and satisfaction. "Logan raises an excellent point about authenticity. Both Harry and Hermione are being genuinely themselves in this situation—not trying to impress or manipulate or present false versions of who they are. That kind of honesty is the foundation of relationships that can withstand extraordinary pressure."
His expression grew more serious as he considered the challenges ahead. "They're going to face situations that would strain any relationship—external pressures, training demands, the simple complexity of learning to control abilities that most people can't even imagine. Having this foundation of honest communication and mutual respect will be essential for both their personal happiness and their professional effectiveness."
Sirius leaned forward, his expression bright with curiosity mixed with protective concern. "What I want to know is how we handle this going forward. Do we pretend we didn't overhear? Give them space to develop this naturally? Offer guidance when they ask for it?"
His grey eyes held the complexity of someone trying to balance multiple roles—godfather, mentor, friend, protector—while respecting the autonomy of young people who were rapidly becoming adults in extraordinary circumstances.
"Because on one hand, they deserve privacy and the right to navigate this at their own pace. On the other hand, they're about to enter an environment where personal relationships can have professional implications, where their emotional state affects their ability to control potentially dangerous abilities."
Storm's laugh was soft and musical, carrying decades of experience managing exactly these kinds of situations. "We do what we've always done, Sirius. We provide support when they ask for it, guidance when they need it, and space when they don't. We trust their judgment while remaining available for consultation."
Her dark eyes sparkled with gentle humor as she continued. "Though I suspect Hermione will want to discuss the psychological and logistical implications at length within the next forty-eight hours. She's not someone who leaves emotional developments unanalyzed for long periods."
"And Harry will probably panic at least twice about whether he's handling things correctly," Logan added with gruff fondness. "Kid's got excellent instincts, but he's also got a terminal case of wanting to do right by people he cares about. He'll second-guess every decision until someone reassures him he's not screwing it up."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with the satisfaction of someone whose understanding of human nature had been confirmed by events. "Then we make ourselves available for consultation while respecting their autonomy. We celebrate their courage in being honest with each other while supporting whatever pace of development feels right to them."
His expression grew more serious as he considered the broader implications. "Most importantly, we ensure that this personal development enhances rather than complicates their professional training. Young love can be either a source of strength or a dangerous distraction, depending on how it's handled."
Charles leaned forward, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent decades helping extraordinary young people balance personal relationships with professional responsibilities. "In my experience, relationships that develop organically between individuals who already have established trust and mutual respect tend to enhance rather than complicate their professional effectiveness. They have motivation to protect each other, to excel for each other, to grow together rather than apart."
His pale eyes held the wisdom of someone who had seen both the best and worst outcomes in such situations. "The key is maintaining open communication—not just between them, but between all of us. If we notice concerning developments, we address them directly and supportively. If we see opportunities to provide guidance, we offer it without being intrusive."
From the rear of the aircraft, they could hear the quiet murmur of continued conversation—Harry and Hermione talking softly about practical matters, their voices carrying the kind of comfortable intimacy that came from years of friendship now enhanced by acknowledged romantic feelings.
Storm smiled, her expression holding all the warmth of someone who had successfully helped young people navigate one of life's most significant transitions. "Listen to them. Already settling into this new dynamic naturally, comfortably. This is how it should happen—not with drama or uncertainty, but with recognition of something that was already there, waiting to be acknowledged."
Logan's rough chuckle carried genuine affection and approval. "Kid's got good instincts. Both of them do. They're gonna be just fine."
As the X-Jet continued its journey across the Atlantic, carrying its precious cargo of extraordinary young people toward their uncertain but promising future, the adults in the forward section returned their attention to flight operations and arrival preparations. But there was satisfaction in the air, a sense of witnessing something important and beautiful—two remarkable individuals taking their first steps into a relationship that had the potential to enhance everything they would become.
—
The comfortable silence that had settled between them after Harry's declaration was gradually giving way to something that felt more like their old dynamic—familiar, easy, but now underlaid with a warmth that made even ordinary conversation feel somehow more significant. Hermione had shifted in her seat to face him more directly, their joined hands resting on the armrest between them, and her amber eyes held a mixture of residual emotion and returning curiosity.
"So," she said, her voice steady now though still soft, "while we're in the middle of honest conversations about significant life developments, there's something else we should probably discuss. Something practical that's going to come up the moment we arrive at Xavier's."
Harry's eyebrows rose with interest, his green-gold eyes catching the afternoon light streaming through the aircraft's windows. "Let me guess—you've been researching Institute protocols and discovered seventeen different administrative requirements we haven't considered yet?"
"Actually, no," Hermione replied with a slight smile that suggested she found his assumption both accurate and mildly insulting, "though now that you mention it, I probably should review their enrollment procedures more thoroughly. This is about something more immediate. Something we're going to need the moment we start training with other mutants."
She paused, clearly organizing her thoughts with characteristic precision. "Harry, we need codenames. Proper ones. Not just 'the boy with the phoenix fire claws' or 'that girl who can manipulate time.' Professional designations that reflect our abilities without sounding like we named ourselves after our favorite breakfast cereals."
Harry blinked, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to genuine consideration. "Codenames. Right. Because 'Harry Potter' is already fairly distinctive, and adding 'who occasionally sets himself on fire while growing bone weapons' to the end would make introductions unwieldy."
"Exactly," Hermione said, warming to the subject with the enthusiasm she typically reserved for particularly challenging research problems. "Plus, the Institute has protocols for operational security. When you're on missions or training exercises, you use codenames to protect both your identity and your teammates' safety. It's standard practice for all students with active field duties."
She shifted slightly in her seat, her free hand gesturing as she began what Harry recognized as her lecture mode. "The psychology behind codename selection is actually quite fascinating. The name you choose influences how others perceive your abilities, how you perceive yourself in professional contexts, and how effectively you can maintain operational discipline during high-stress situations."
Harry's smile took on that fond, slightly amused quality that appeared whenever Hermione began analyzing subjects with academic thoroughness. "Of course you've researched the psychological implications. Did you happen to compile a comprehensive list of historical precedents and effectiveness ratings while you were at it?"
"I may have done some preliminary analysis," Hermione admitted with dignity that was only slightly undermined by the defensive note in her voice. "There are patterns worth noting. Names that reflect core abilities rather than secondary characteristics tend to be more memorable and professionally useful. Names rooted in classical mythology or historical precedent carry more gravitas than made-up words or obvious combinations."
She paused, clearly working through her mental catalog of research. "Names that sound too aggressive can create perception problems with civilian populations, while names that sound too gentle can undermine tactical respect from opponents. It's a delicate balance between accurate representation and strategic positioning."
Harry leaned back in his seat, his expression thoughtful as he processed this information. "So what you're saying is that 'Captain Stabby McFirehands' would be both tactically inappropriate and professionally embarrassing?"
"Among other problems, yes," Hermione replied with the kind of patient tolerance usually reserved for explaining basic concepts to particularly slow students. "Though I appreciate your commitment to accuracy in that particular suggestion."
She turned toward him more fully, her amber eyes bright with the kind of focused intensity that appeared when she was working through complex problems. "This is important, Harry. The name you choose becomes part of your professional identity. It affects how other mutants relate to you, how government liaisons classify your threat level, how historians will record your contributions to whatever comes next."
Harry studied her face, noting the way her entire posture had shifted into what he privately thought of as her 'academic crisis management' mode. "You've been thinking about this for a while, haven't you?"
"Since about three hours after my transformation manifested," she admitted. "I kept thinking about how Professor Xavier introduces himself—never as Charles, always as Professor Xavier or Professor X in professional contexts. The name carries weight, suggests authority and expertise rather than just personal identity."
Her expression grew more serious as she continued. "We're about to enter an environment where we'll be training alongside students who have been developing their abilities for years. Some of them probably have codenames that they've been using since childhood. We need to establish ourselves as serious professionals, not just new students who need basic remedial work."
Harry nodded slowly, his tactical instincts engaging as he considered the social and professional implications of what she was describing. "Right. So we need names that suggest competence and experience rather than rookie enthusiasm. Names that other students will respect rather than find amusing or pretentious."
"Exactly," Hermione said with obvious relief that he was taking the issue seriously rather than treating it as an opportunity for increasingly creative jokes. "And ideally, names that we can grow into rather than grow out of. Something that will still feel appropriate when we're older, more experienced, potentially taking on leadership roles ourselves."
She pulled her hand free from his and began counting off points on her fingers with characteristic precision. "Classical references tend to age better than contemporary slang. Single words or simple combinations are more memorable than complex phrases. Names that reflect core abilities rather than secondary characteristics provide better strategic flexibility as our powers develop."
Harry watched her organize the problem with the same systematic approach she brought to every challenge, and felt that familiar surge of affection and admiration for her brilliant mind. "Have you given any thought to specific options? For either of us?"
Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly, suggesting she had indeed spent considerable time on this particular research project. "I may have compiled a preliminary list. Several preliminary lists, actually. Organized by mythological origin, linguistic roots, and tactical implications."
"Of course you have," Harry said with warm amusement. "Let's hear them, then. Starting with your ideas for me, since I suspect you've been more thorough about my options than your own."
She shifted in her seat, clearly moving into presentation mode despite her obvious embarrassment about the amount of thought she'd put into this. "For you, the primary considerations are the phoenix fire aspect and the retractable claws. Both elements need representation for accuracy, but the challenge is combining them without creating something that sounds like a rejected comic book villain."
Harry nodded encouragingly, though his eyes danced with barely suppressed mirth. "Please tell me you didn't seriously consider 'Phoenix Claw' or 'Fire Talon' or something equally straightforward."
"Those were on the initial brainstorming list," Hermione admitted with dignity, "along with several other options that I rejected for various reasons. 'Pyroclaws' sounds like a medical condition. 'Flametalon' sounds like a particularly aggressive chicken. 'Ignition' ignores the claws entirely."
She paused, clearly working through her mental notes with characteristic thoroughness. "'Ember' is too gentle for someone with your... dramatic tendencies. 'Blaze' lacks the sophisticated edge that reflects your actual tactical capabilities. 'Inferno' suggests destructive rather than protective applications."
Harry leaned forward, genuinely curious now about the depth of analysis she'd brought to this problem. "What about mythological references? You mentioned those tend to age better."
"Phoenix itself is too obvious and already claimed by several mutants historically," Hermione replied immediately. "Prometheus has the fire association but suggests theft and punishment rather than natural ability. Helios implies solar powers rather than flame generation. Hephaestus suggests crafting rather than combat applications."
She began ticking off options on her fingers again. "I considered various combinations that preserve both elements while maintaining linguistic elegance. Pyroclaw—straightforward but perhaps too clinical. Fyreclaw—archaic spelling adds gravitas while maintaining clarity. Flamestrike—dramatic but perhaps too aggressive for your actual personality."
Harry blinked, his attention catching on one particular option. "Fyreclaw. With the archaic spelling."
"It maintains the essential elements while suggesting historical depth," Hermione explained, her academic enthusiasm overriding her embarrassment about the thoroughness of her research. "The archaic 'y' spelling references medieval and classical texts, implying education and cultural awareness rather than simple aggression. It's distinctive without being pretentious, memorable without being overly dramatic."
She paused, studying his expression with the kind of analytical attention she typically reserved for experimental results. "It also provides tactical flexibility as your abilities develop. 'Fyre' can encompass various applications of phoenix fire—healing, purification, combat, illumination—while 'claw' clearly indicates close-quarters capabilities without limiting strategic options."
Harry tested the name silently, considering how it felt in his mind, how it might sound during introductions or tactical briefings. "Fyreclaw," he said aloud, and something about the combination felt right in a way he couldn't quite articulate. "I... actually like that. It sounds professional without being pretentious. Classical without being archaic. And it covers both major abilities without making either seem secondary."
Hermione's expression brightened with obvious pleasure and relief. "Really? You don't think it's too elaborate? Or too obvious?"
"No, I think it's exactly right," Harry replied with growing certainty. "It sounds like the kind of name that belongs on official reports and tactical briefings. Something that other professionals would take seriously. And the archaic spelling adds exactly the kind of weight you were talking about—suggests education and historical awareness rather than just flashy abilities."
He grinned, his expression taking on that familiar mischievous quality. "Plus, I can already imagine Snape's reaction when he hears that Harry Potter chose a codename with archaic spelling. He'll probably spend weeks analyzing the linguistic implications and grudgingly approving of the classical references."
Hermione laughed, the sound bright with genuine amusement and obvious affection. "Only you would choose a professional designation based partly on its potential to confuse our former Potions master."
"Secondary consideration only," Harry protested with mock dignity. "Primary factors were tactical utility and professional gravitas, exactly as you recommended. The Snape confusion potential is just a delightful bonus."
His expression grew more serious as he leaned forward. "Your turn, then. What options have you considered for yourself?"
Hermione's flush deepened, suggesting this part of her analysis had been even more thorough and possibly more personal than her work on Harry's options. "My situation is more complex. Time manipulation is... difficult to capture in a single word or simple combination. Too clinical and you sound like a academic thesis. Too dramatic and you sound like a science fiction villain."
She began organizing her thoughts with visible effort, clearly working through extensive mental notes. "The obvious options are problematic for various reasons. 'Timekeeper' suggests maintenance rather than manipulation. 'Chronos' is too masculine and historically associated with destructive rather than constructive applications. 'Tempo' implies musical rather than temporal associations."
Harry nodded encouragingly, recognizing her need to work through the analysis systematically. "What about less obvious approaches? Mythological references that capture the concept indirectly?"
"That's where I found the most promising options," Hermione said, her voice taking on the tone she used when discussing particularly fascinating research discoveries. "Classical mythology offers several figures associated with memory, time, and knowledge that could work without being too literal."
She began counting off possibilities on her fingers. "'Mnemonic' captures the memory and learning aspects but doesn't clearly indicate temporal abilities. 'Chronos' I mentioned—too aggressive and masculine. 'Thalia' relates to memory and arts but suggests performance rather than practical application."
Harry watched her work through the options, noting the way her entire posture shifted when she reached what was obviously her preferred choice. "There's one you like best, isn't there?"
"Mnemosyne," she said quietly, and there was something almost reverent in the way she pronounced the classical name. "Greek goddess of memory and mother of the nine Muses. The name encompasses memory, knowledge, learning, and inspiration—but more than that, it represents the connection between memory and creation, between preserving the past and building the future."
Her amber eyes grew more animated as she continued, clearly passionate about this particular choice. "Mnemosyne wasn't just about remembering things—she was about understanding how memory shapes reality, how knowledge of the past informs present decisions and future possibilities. The philosophical implications are perfect for someone whose abilities involve manipulating temporal fields."
Harry studied her expression, noting the way she seemed to grow more confident and assured as she explained the mythological significance. "It's sophisticated without being pretentious. Classical without being archaic. And it suggests intellectual depth rather than just flashy abilities."
"Exactly," Hermione said with obvious relief that he understood the reasoning behind her choice. "Plus, it's distinctive enough that there's unlikely to be confusion with existing codenames, but familiar enough that educated people will recognize the reference and understand the implications."
She paused, her expression growing slightly uncertain despite her obvious enthusiasm for the choice. "Although I do worry that it might be too... intellectual? Too obviously chosen by someone who reads classical mythology for recreational purposes?"
Harry's laugh was warm and genuinely delighted. "Hermione, you are someone who reads classical mythology for recreational purposes. You've been doing it since first year. Why would you choose a name that didn't reflect who you actually are?"
His expression grew more serious as he continued. "Besides, intellectual sophistication is exactly the impression you want to create in a professional environment. It suggests depth of knowledge, analytical thinking, strategic planning—all qualities that are genuinely valuable in tactical situations."
He reached out to take her hand again, his touch warm and reassuring. "And more than that, it's beautiful. The name itself is beautiful, the mythology is beautiful, and the connection to your actual personality and interests is beautiful. It's perfect for you."
Hermione's expression softened, and she squeezed his hand gently. "You really think so? You don't think other students will find it pretentious or overly academic?"
"I think," Harry said with absolute conviction, "that other students will recognize intelligence and sophistication when they see it. I think they'll respect someone who chose a name with real meaning rather than just picking something that sounds impressive. And I think anyone who doesn't appreciate the thought and research you put into this decision probably isn't worth impressing anyway."
His green-gold eyes held depths of sincerity as he continued. "You are brilliant, Hermione. You are scholarly and analytical and deeply knowledgeable about subjects most people never even encounter. Why would you choose a name that downplays those qualities? Why would you pretend to be less than you are?"
Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes—happy tears this time, tears of relief and gratitude and something that felt remarkably like being truly seen and appreciated for exactly who she was. "Thank you," she said softly. "For understanding. For supporting my choice even though it's probably more elaborate than strictly necessary."
"It's exactly as elaborate as you are," Harry replied with fond certainty. "Which is to say, exactly as elaborate as the situation requires and no more. Mnemosyne and Fyreclaw—we sound like we belong on the same team. Classical, sophisticated, but ready for whatever practical applications the situation demands."
Hermione smiled, testing the combination in her mind and finding it satisfying in ways she couldn't quite articulate. "Professional partners with complementary skill sets and compatible operational philosophies."
"Among other things," Harry said with a grin that held promise and warmth in equal measure.
From the front of the aircraft, Storm's voice drifted back with professional efficiency. "We're beginning our descent into New York airspace. Estimated arrival in twenty minutes. You might want to review the Institute orientation materials Professor Xavier provided."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look—part excitement, part nervousness, part shared understanding that they were about to step into their future together, armed with new names that reflected both their abilities and their aspirations.
"Ready, Mnemosyne?" Harry asked with theatrical formality.
"Ready, Fyreclaw," she replied with equal gravity, though her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Whatever waited for them at Xavier's Institute, they would face it together—as partners, as friends, as something more that was still developing between them. With names that honored both their heritage and their potential, and with the kind of honest foundation that could support whatever extraordinary circumstances lay ahead.
The Age of Miracles was about to welcome its newest members, and they were arriving in style.
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