# Westchester County - The Mall - Saturday Morning
The mall was a temple to American capitalism that would've made Gordon Gekko weep with pride—a sprawling monument to excess built on the philosophical foundation that "more" was always better than "enough," and if you weren't actively consuming, you were basically failing at citizenship.
Harry Potter stood at the entrance like a Victorian gentleman who'd just been informed he'd be attending a rave, his enhanced physique wrapped in one of Logan's flannel shirts that made him look like a lumberjack who'd gotten lost on the way to a GQ photoshoot. The jeans were Dudley's—held up by a belt doing overtime that would make construction workers jealous—and his expression suggested he was calculating the exact distance to the nearest exit and whether he could reach it before anyone noticed.
"Right," he said in that perfectly clipped British accent that could make reading a phone book sound like Shakespeare, "I'm going to need someone to explain why we're subjecting ourselves to this capitalist nightmare when I have perfectly functional clothing already. Multiple items of clothing, actually. Enough clothing to cover my body in all weather conditions and social contexts. This seems less like necessity and more like some bizarre American ritual sacrifice where my dignity is the offering."
Emma Frost—looking like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine's "how to dress rich without looking like you're trying" editorial in designer jeans that probably cost more than a used car and a silk blouse that suggested casual elegance was actually quite formal—fixed him with the kind of smile that predators probably gave gazelles right before dinner. "Babe, you're wearing your grandfather's rejected lumberjack fantasy and your cousin's charity donation rejects. That's not 'functional clothing'—that's a cry for help with fabric. We're staging an intervention."
"The lumberjack aesthetic is perfectly respectable," Harry protested with the kind of wounded dignity only a British person could muster. "It suggests rugged self-sufficiency and the ability to survive in wilderness conditions through superior axe-wielding capabilities."
"Sugar, you've never held an axe in your entire life," Rogue drawled from her position of careful distance, long sleeves and gloves despite the summer heat doing nothing to hide her amusement. Her Mississippi accent made every word sound like honey poured over gravel. "You're a wizard from England who spent three years at a castle school. Your survival skills involve waving a stick and hoping magic happens, not chopping wood."
"I could learn axe-wielding," Harry replied with the kind of optimistic determination that suggested he was definitely losing this argument but refused to admit it. "It's never too late to develop practical wilderness skills. Logan's been doing the lumberjack thing for over a century and he pulls it off magnificently. Surely I can achieve similar aesthetic success through genetic inheritance and determination."
"Logan pulls it off because he's actually *been* a lumberjack," Jean said with the patience of someone who'd clearly had this conversation before. Her copper hair caught the mall's fluorescent lighting like she was in a shampoo commercial, which was frankly unfair to everyone else. "Multiple times. In multiple countries. You're trying to pull it off through wishful thinking and borrowed clothes. That's not the same thing, sweetie."
"Also," Emma added with a slow smile that could melt steel, "Logan's got about a century of rugged lived experience to back up the aesthetic. You, gorgeous, have the lived experience of a boarding school student who occasionally fought dark wizards. It's sexy in its own way, but it's not *lumberjack* sexy. Different categories entirely."
"I'm not trying to be sexy," Harry protested, his face flushing slightly. "I'm trying to be *clothed*."
"Well, you're failing at both," Emma replied cheerfully. "But don't worry—by the time I'm done with you, you'll be successfully achieving both objectives. Consider it my personal mission."
"That sounds vaguely threatening," Harry observed.
"Only vaguely?" Emma pouted. "I'm losing my touch."
Hermione Granger—looking considerably more put-together than Harry in jeans that actually fit and a sweater that suggested she'd at least consulted a mirror before leaving—stepped up beside him with the kind of gentle determination that meant she was about to be reasonable and he was going to hate it. "Harry, love, we're trying to help. American high school has different social standards than Hogwarts. You can't show up looking like you've given up on participating in society. First impressions matter."
"Listen to your gorgeous girlfriend, Harry," Emma said with a grin that suggested she was enjoying this entirely too much. "She's got excellent instincts and even better bone structure. Seriously, Hermione, has anyone ever told you that you have absolutely killer cheekbones? Because you do. It's almost unfair."
Hermione's cheeks flushed pink. "I—that's—we're talking about Harry's wardrobe, not my facial structure."
"We can multitask," Emma replied smoothly. "I'm very talented at multitasking. It's one of my many gifts."
"Since when do you care about fashion?" Harry asked Hermione, desperately trying to redirect the conversation. "You're literally the girl who brought *A History of Magic* to a Yule Ball. Your dedication to practicality over aesthetics is legendary."
"That was *one time*," Hermione protested in that crisp British accent that made everything sound more authoritative, "and I've learned things since then. Such as: Americans are *ruthless* about appearances, and you need at least baseline competency in presentation or they'll eat you alive. I'm trying to prevent you from being socially murdered in your first week."
"How thoughtful," Harry said dryly. "Nothing says friendship like preventing social murder through forced shopping."
"We're helping!" Kitty Pryde bounced on her toes with the kind of manic enthusiasm that suggested she was having the time of her life watching Harry suffer. "This is what friends do—we drag you to malls against your will and make you try on clothes until you stop looking like a disaster. It's bonding!"
"This is kidnapping," Harry corrected. "Fashionable kidnapping, but kidnapping nonetheless."
"Kidnapping implies you're being taken somewhere against your will for nefarious purposes," Piotr rumbled in that thick Russian accent that made everything sound like he was narrating a Cold War thriller. He stood near the entrance with his arms crossed like a bouncer who'd been hired to prevent escape attempts—which, honestly, he probably had been. "This is intervention for your own good. Very different. Much more friendly. Like when Russian grandmother forces you to eat more food because you are 'too skinny' even though you are not skinny. Is loving concern, not attack."
"Feels the same from my perspective," Harry muttered.
Remy Lebeau pushed off from the wall with the kind of liquid grace that suggested he'd made being unnecessarily smooth his entire personality. His Cajun accent turned every word into a song. "Here's da t'ing, mon ami—you gonna be startin' at a new school in a few weeks, oui? Fresh start, nobody knowin' who you are or what you done. Dat means you get to make a first impression. Right now, your first impression gonna be 'dat poor boy's family forgot he existed.' We're fixin' dat before you traumatize da good people of Bayville High."
"I don't *want* to make a good first impression," Harry said with the kind of British stubbornness that had probably lost an empire. "I want to make an *adequate* impression that allows me to exist quietly without anyone bothering me. Why is that so difficult to understand?"
"Because 'adequate' in American high school means 'actively acceptable,'" Emma explained like she was teaching a particularly attractive child basic arithmetic. "You can't just show up in disaster clothes and expect to blend in. You'll stand out—badly. We're trying to get you to baseline acceptable so you can *then* be quietly left alone. This is strategic, babe, not cosmetic. Though honestly, with your face and build, the cosmetic aspect is just a pleasant bonus for those of us who appreciate aesthetic excellence."
"Are you always this shameless?" Harry asked.
"Always," Emma confirmed without hesitation. "It's part of my charm. Also, I'm a telepath, so I already know you're not actually that uncomfortable with the attention—you're just British about it."
"Being British about things is a perfectly reasonable response to uncomfortable situations," Harry replied with dignity.
"It's adorable," Emma said. "Both of you doing the whole British thing—Harry with the stiff upper lip routine and Hermione with the practical competence disguising secret romantic inclinations. It's like watching a period drama but with mutant powers and better wardrobes. Well, better wardrobes once we're *done* with you, anyway."
"I don't have secret romantic inclinations," Hermione protested, her face going even pinker.
"Sure you don't, gorgeous," Emma replied with a knowing smile. "And I'm not a telepath who can feel emotional resonance from twenty feet away. We're all just making things up as we go."
"I hate everything about this conversation," Harry announced to the mall at large. "The entire premise is philosophically corrupt. Why should my clothing choices impact my social acceptance? Why can't I just be judged on my sparkling personality and devastating wit?"
"Because humans are shallow visual creatures who make snap judgments based on surface-level information," Emma replied without sympathy. "It's not fair, it's not right, but it's reality. You can either complain about it being unjust or adapt to it and use it to your advantage. I strongly recommend the second option. Plus, and I mean this with complete sincerity—you're wasting genuinely good genetic potential by hiding it under your cousin's rejected wardrobe. It's like wrapping a Michelangelo in newspaper. Offensive to art and good taste simultaneously."
"I'm going to complain *while* adapting," Harry decided. "Seems like optimal strategy—maintains moral high ground while acknowledging practical necessity."
"Dat's actually pretty mature," Remy observed. "Most people just pick one approach and commit. You're hedgin' your bets. Very strategic."
"Don't sound so surprised," Harry said. "I'm capable of growth and adaptation when properly motivated by peer pressure and the threat of social catastrophe."
"Also when motivated by a gorgeous telepath who's offering to help you unlock your fashion potential," Emma added with a wink. "That's also valid motivation."
"You're incorrigible," Jean observed with fond exasperation.
"I prefer 'charmingly persistent,'" Emma corrected. "Sounds better in my eventual autobiography."
"Alright, people!" Emma clapped her hands like a coach rallying troops before battle. "Here's the game plan: we're hitting the department store first for basics—jeans that actually fit Harry's frankly impressive physique, shirts that don't look like hand-me-downs from someone three sizes larger, shoes that aren't held together by duct tape and prayers to various gods. Get the foundation right, *then* we build from there."
"What's wrong with my shoes?" Harry asked, looking down at the trainers that were definitely showing their age.
"*Everything*," Kitty said with feeling. "Everything is wrong with those shoes, Harry. They're offensive. They're making me sad just looking at them. They've given up on life. We're burning them later as an act of mercy and possibly as a public health service."
"They're functional!" Harry protested.
"They're a crime scene," Rogue corrected in that slow Mississippi drawl that made insults sound almost affectionate. "Sugar, those shoes have given up on life. They're only still on your feet through spite and stubbornness, which I respect as qualities, but that doesn't make them acceptable footwear. Let them go. Give them peace. Give *us* peace from having to look at them."
"Everyone's a critic," Harry muttered.
"Everyone's *correct*," Emma corrected. "There's a difference. Come on, beautiful people—department store is this way. Let's transform our reluctant British hero into someone who looks like he's heard of the twenty-first century."
Kitty grabbed Harry's hand with determination that suggested she'd practiced this maneuver. "Come on, big guy. Department store is this way. Let's get you sorted before you can think of more excuses or escape routes."
"This is definitely kidnapping," Harry announced as he was towed toward the department store with Hermione flanking him on the other side and the rest of their intervention squad forming a tactical perimeter. "If I disappear, tell Logan I went down with dignity and a strongly worded complaint about consumer culture."
"Logan *knows* where you are," Jean called from behind them. "He approved this mission. Said you needed proper clothes and he wasn't qualified to help with 'things that aren't flannel or leather.' Direct quote."
"Betrayed by my own grandfather," Harry muttered with theatrical despair. "The cruelty of genetics. The tragedy of family. I should write a memoir: 'How I Survived Fashion Fascism—A British Wizard's Guide to American Retail Trauma.'"
"I'd read that," Emma said. "But only if you include shirtless photos on the back cover. You know, for marketing purposes."
"You're *terrible*," Hermione said, but she was fighting a smile.
"I'm *honest*," Emma corrected. "There's a difference. Also, Hermione, don't pretend you wouldn't appreciate the shirtless photos. I can feel your emotional response to that mental image from here."
Hermione's face went scarlet. "That's—you can't just—that's *private*!"
"Not from a telepath it's not," Emma replied cheerfully. "Consider it an occupational hazard of befriending someone who can read emotional resonance. On the bright side, I'm very discreet about what I share. Your secrets are safe with me, gorgeous."
"I'm surrounded by chaos," Harry said. "My life has become chaos."
"Your life was *always* chaos, mon ami," Remy pointed out. "You just had different kinds of chaos before. Now you got fashion chaos and Emma-flirting-with-everyone chaos. Is very American."
"I want to go back to the British chaos," Harry announced. "British chaos was simpler. More straightforward. Less flirting."
"British chaos involved a genocidal dark wizard trying to murder you annually," Hermione pointed out with characteristic precision. "I'm not sure that counts as 'simpler.'"
"At least I understood the rules," Harry replied. "Dark wizard tries to kill me, I try not to die, eventually someone wins. Clear objectives. Clear stakes. This shopping situation has unclear objectives and I don't understand the victory conditions."
"Victory condition is you walk out with clothes that make you look like you belong in this century," Kitty explained. "And maybe also with Emma having successfully flirted with you and Hermione enough times to make everyone adorably uncomfortable. That's the unofficial secondary objective."
"I'm not adorably uncomfortable," Harry protested.
"You absolutely are," Emma confirmed. "It's part of your charm. You do this thing where you get all flustered and British about it, and it's genuinely delightful. Makes me want to say increasingly outrageous things just to watch you react."
"Please don't," Harry said.
"Too late," Emma replied. "I've already committed to the bit. You'll just have to suffer through my shameless appreciation of attractive British teenagers with heroic complexes and excellent bone structure. It's your burden to bear."
They reached the department store—a massive retail cathedral that probably had its own zip code and definitely had more square footage than some British towns. Emma immediately went into what could only be described as Tactical Shopping Mode, pulling items from racks with decisive efficiency that suggested she'd done this before and had *Opinions*.
"Right," she said, holding up several pairs of jeans that appeared to be exactly Harry's size despite never having asked him what his size actually was. "These first. Dark wash for versatility, lighter wash for casual summer vibes, black for evening or anything requiring slight formality. All properly fitted to *your* body, not your cousin's completely different body. And by 'properly fitted,' I mean they're going to actually showcase the physique you've been hiding under terrible clothes like it's a crime."
"How do you know my size?" Harry asked suspiciously.
"Telepathy and visual assessment," Emma replied without shame. "I can gauge your measurements just by looking at you—which I've been doing quite thoroughly, for the record—and Jean double-checked through gentle telepathic verification of your spatial awareness of your own body. Very efficient. No measuring tape required. No awkward touching. Well, no awkward touching *yet*. The day is young."
"That's horrifyingly invasive," Harry observed.
"That's *practical*," Emma corrected. "Would you prefer we made you stand still while someone measured you with tape like you're being fitted for a bespoke suit? Because that's the alternative, babe. I'm offering you the dignified option where you just accept my expertise and move forward with minimal trauma."
"No, I definitely don't prefer that," Harry admitted. "Your method is invasive but efficient. I can live with invasive efficiency."
"That's the spirit!" Kitty said cheerfully. "Embrace the violation! It's easier that way!"
"That's terrible advice for literally any other context," Harry pointed out.
"Good thing we're just talking about clothes shopping then, innit?" Hermione said with that British precision that made everything sound more official, though her accent was definitely stronger than usual—possibly because Emma kept looking at her like she was something delicious on a menu.
"Both of you with the accents," Emma said with obvious appreciation. "It's genuinely unfair. You could be reading technical manuals and you'd still sound sophisticated and appealing. Meanwhile Americans just sound like we're constantly asking questions even when we're making statements. The linguistic disparity is tragic."
"You sound fine," Jean assured her.
"I sound *rich*," Emma corrected. "That's different from sounding sophisticated. It's a different frequency entirely."
Piotr handed Harry the stack of jeans with the solemnity of someone passing over sacred artifacts. "Dressing rooms are that direction. Try these on. Report back on fit. Do not attempt escape through back exit—I am blocking it. Is for your own good, like when Russian grandmother blocks door until you eat all your food."
"I wasn't going to escape," Harry lied.
"You were *absolutely* considering it," Jean said with gentle amusement. "I can feel your calculation of escape routes through our empathic connection. You're plotting trajectories like you're planning a tactical retreat. It's adorably transparent. Just try on the jeans, honey."
"Everyone can read my mind and emotions," Harry observed. "This is what happens when you befriend telepaths. Privacy becomes theoretical concept rather than actual reality."
"Da's why you gotta befriend non-telepaths too," Remy pointed out. "Balance da social portfolio, mon ami. Remy can't read your mind at all—Remy just reads body language and makes educated guesses based on your facial expressions and tendency to look at exits like they're salvation."
"Very comforting," Harry said dryly.
"Remy aims to comfort," Remy replied with a grin.
Harry accepted the denim with the resignation of someone who'd recognized defeat, and headed toward the dressing rooms with Hermione providing escort. Emma called after them: "If you need help with buttons or zippers, just shout! I'm very helpful with clothing-related challenges!"
"She's terrible," Hermione muttered as they walked.
"She's *something*," Harry agreed. "I'm not sure what, but definitely something."
The fitting area was aggressively bland—fluorescent lighting that made everyone look vaguely ill, mirrors designed to highlight personal insecurities, and those ridiculous half-doors that provided the illusion of privacy while ensuring everyone could hear everything.
"This is deeply uncomfortable," Harry announced from inside the fitting room while wrestling with jeans that actually fit. "Why are there so many variations? They're *pants*. They have two leg holes and a waist. How complicated can this possibly be?"
"Very complicated, apparently," Hermione replied from outside, where she'd stationed herself like a guard preventing desertion. "American fashion involves numerous micro-variations in cut, style, and fit that create meaningful social distinctions. It's fascinating from an anthropological perspective, really—the amount of cultural meaning embedded in essentially similar garments."
"I hate it," Harry said. "I hate all of it. These fit brilliantly but I hate the principle of caring about whether they fit brilliantly."
"But they *do* fit brilliantly?" Hermione prompted.
"They do fit brilliantly," Harry admitted grudgingly through the door. "Better than anything I've worn in my entire life. They actually look like they were designed for my body rather than stolen from someone else's wardrobe and modified through hope and denial. It's weird. Good weird, but weird."
"Come out and show us," Hermione requested. "Emma wants to verify the fit, and if we don't show her she'll probably just read our minds to see the results anyway."
"I heard that!" Emma called from somewhere nearby. "And you're absolutely right! I have no shame about using my powers for fashion-related reconnaissance!"
Harry emerged wearing the dark wash jeans and his existing shirt—the combination highlighting exactly how badly his current wardrobe was failing him. The jeans fit perfectly, showcasing his enhanced physique in ways that suggested actual design rather than accidental adequacy. The shirt, by contrast, looked like something he'd borrowed from a much larger person and then forgotten to return for several years.
Emma studied him with the focus of an art critic examining a questionable painting, then let out a low whistle. "Okay, so the jeans are *perfect*. Like, genuinely perfect. They fit like they were custom-made for you, which in a way they were because I have excellent visual assessment skills. The shirt, however, is an abomination against fashion and good taste that we're addressing immediately. It's like you're wearing a tent. A tragic, oversized tent that's hiding all your good features."
"My good features?" Harry repeated warily.
"Yes, Harry, your good features," Emma said with exaggerated patience. "You have good features. Excellent features, actually. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, actual muscle definition from all that training—you're built like a superhero and dressing like someone's unemployed uncle. It's a *waste*. Try the other pairs and meet us in the shirt section. Also—wear those jeans out. Don't put back on those tragic denim crimes you arrived in."
"They're not that bad," Harry protested weakly.
"Sugar, they're held together by a belt and divine intervention," Rogue called from somewhere nearby. "They're absolutely that bad. My eyes hurt just remembering what they look like. Wear the new jeans and spare us all the suffering."
"Everyone's being very dramatic about my previous jeans," Harry observed.
"Everyone's being *accurate* about your previous jeans," Kitty corrected. "There's a difference."
Harry retreated to try on the remaining pairs—which all fit equally well and were equally disconcerting in their comfort—and eventually emerged wearing the dark wash pair with price tags still attached like some kind of retail stigmata.
"This feels like theft," he observed.
"It's not theft if we're purchasing them," Emma replied. "It's called 'wearing new clothes out of the store' and it's completely normal. Now, shirts. You need approximately ten—mixture of plain t-shirts in colors that complement your skin tone and eye color, a few with subtle patterns that don't scream 'trying too hard,' and some button-downs for situations requiring minimal formality."
"That's excessive," Harry said.
"That's a *minimal functional wardrobe*," Emma corrected. "Most people own way more than ten shirts. You're actually operating below average, which suggests either deliberate minimalism as lifestyle choice or complete inability to care about wardrobe management. I'm guessing the second one."
"The second one," Harry confirmed. "Complete inability to care. But I'm told that caring is now mandatory for successful social integration, so I'm attempting to care through peer pressure and threatened social catastrophe."
"Peer pressure works!" Kitty said happily. "Who knew?"
"Everyone knew," Jean said with amusement. "That's why peer pressure is a thing."
"Also," Emma added while pulling shirts from racks with practiced efficiency, "I'm personally invested in you looking good because I have to look at you regularly and I prefer looking at attractive things. Consider it enlightened self-interest. I'm helping you for my own benefit as much as yours."
"How generous," Harry said dryly.
"I *am* generous," Emma agreed. "Generous and honest about my motivations. It's a winning combination. Hermione, what do you think—blue or green for first shirt? I'm thinking blue brings out his eyes but green works with his overall coloring."
Hermione studied the two shirts Emma was holding with the kind of analytical focus she usually reserved for academic texts. "Blue for everyday wear—it does bring out his eyes rather nicely. Green for when he wants to look slightly more put-together. Both are good options."
"Look at you with fashion opinions," Emma said approvingly. "I'm corrupting you already. It's delightful. Soon you'll be offering unsolicited style advice and judging people's shoe choices. It's a slippery slope."
"I'm not being corrupted," Hermione protested. "I'm providing objective analysis based on color theory and practical considerations."
"Sure you are, gorgeous," Emma replied with a knowing smile. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with wanting Harry to look his best. Nothing at all. Purely objective analysis."
Hermione's face went pink again. "You're *impossible*."
"I'm *fun*," Emma corrected. "There's a difference. Okay, Harry—start trying these on. We need to see how they fit and whether they work with your general aesthetic, which we're currently defining as 'British hero with reluctant participation in American consumer culture.'"
They spent the next forty-five minutes in what could only be described as Systematic Shirt Selection Hell. Harry tried on approximately three dozen options, providing feedback that ranged from "this feels like wearing a cloud made of excellence" to "this makes me look like I'm trying to sell you insurance for your soul" to "I don't understand why this costs forty dollars when it's literally just fabric with arm holes."
Emma provided running commentary on each option: "Too tight in the shoulders—next." "Perfect fit but the color washes you out—next." "Oh, that's *good*—that's staying." "You look like you're going to a job interview at a law firm—absolutely not."
"You're very demanding," Harry observed after the fifteenth shirt.
"I have *standards*," Emma corrected. "There's a difference. Also, I'm ensuring you don't walk out of here with a mediocre wardrobe when you could have an excellent wardrobe with minimal additional effort. You'll thank me later."
"Will I though?" Harry asked.
"Yes," Emma said confidently. "When you show up at Bayville High looking like you understand basic fashion principles and multiple people express interest in getting to know you better, you'll think back to this moment and mentally thank me for my service. It's inevitable."
"She's not wrong," Remy interjected. "Remy's seen dis happen before. Emma helps someone with wardrobe, suddenly dat person's got three times da social attention. Is like magic but wit' capitalism instead of spells."
"Fashion economics are complicated, mon ami," Remy explained when Harry questioned the pricing of a particularly expensive plain white t-shirt. "You ain't just payin' for fabric—you payin' for brand recognition, quality construction, proper stitching dat won't fall apart after two washes, and da social capital dat comes wit' wearin' recognized brands. It's stupid and real at da same time. Welcome to America—we make everything complicated and expensive."
"I hate capitalism," Harry announced.
"Dat's very progressive of you," Remy replied. "But you still need shirts, and dese are good shirts dat gonna serve you well in multiple contexts. Just accept dat commerce is complicated and move forward wit' purchases. Also accept dat Emma's gonna keep flirting wit' you and Hermione regardless of your comfort level—dat's just how she operates."
"I'm very consistent," Emma confirmed. "It's one of my better qualities. That and being absolutely right about fashion choices."
"And so humble," Jean observed.
"Humility is overrated," Emma replied. "Confidence based on actual competence is much more useful."
By the time they finished with basic wardrobe construction—jeans, shirts, new shoes that weren't held together by hope and spite, hoodies for layering, and several other items Harry didn't entirely understand but was assured were necessary—he looked like he'd survived a battle. Piotr had been accumulating shopping bags like he was preparing for extended siege, his massive frame making the carrying capacity look easy.
"We're not done," Emma announced cheerfully, and Harry's face went through several emotions in rapid succession.
"I'm sorry, *what?*" Harry's voice had that particular British quality of polite horror. "We're not done? I have clothes now. *Multiple* clothes. An unreasonable quantity of clothes that could outfit several people. What else could possibly be required?"
"Training clothes," Emma replied like this should've been obvious. "You can't train in regular jeans and cotton t-shirts—you need athletic wear designed for movement, moisture management, and not falling apart when you do superhero landings or whatever it is you people do during Danger Room sessions. Also pajamas that aren't Logan's extras or your cousin's rejected sleepwear. Also accessories—belt, watch, bag for carrying things that isn't a plastic grocery sack."
"I have a backpack," Harry protested.
"You have a *school* backpack," Emma corrected. "That's different from a general-purpose bag for casual contexts. Come on—athletic store is this way. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can stop watching you suffer, which is becoming less entertaining and more concerning."
"I'm being held hostage," Harry announced dramatically. "This is what hostage situations feel like. I understand now why people cooperate with their captors—it's just *easier* than continued resistance. Stockholm syndrome is making sense to me now."
"You're being dramatic," Hermione said, but her tone was fond.
"I'm being *British*," Harry corrected. "We invented being dramatic about minor inconveniences. It's our cultural heritage, right up there with tea and queuing and apologizing when other people bump into us. I'm honoring my ancestors through excessive complaining."
"Your ancestors would be so proud," Emma said with amusement. "Come along, gorgeous—athletic store awaits. And then lunch, which I'm using as motivational incentive to keep you moving."
"Lunch?" Harry's entire demeanor changed. "You're promising lunch? Substantial lunch with actual food?"
"The best lunch," Emma confirmed. "I know a place. Great food, excellent atmosphere, and they won't judge us for showing up with seventeen shopping bags and a traumatized British teenager. It's perfect."
"You should have led with the lunch promise," Harry said. "Would've improved my cooperation significantly."
"Noted for next time," Emma replied. "Though hopefully there won't be a next time because we're getting you fully outfitted today. One comprehensive shopping trauma is better than multiple smaller shopping traumas spread over time."
"Is Russian approach to problems," Piotr agreed. "Deal with difficulty all at once, like removing bandage quickly. More painful in moment but over faster."
The athletic wear store was somehow even worse because it involved technical specifications, performance fabrics, and sales associates who wanted to discuss "moisture-wicking capabilities" and "compression technology" like these were normal conversation topics rather than barely comprehensible technical jargon that belonged in engineering discussions, not clothing purchases.
"Da compression shorts gonna help wit' muscle support during high-intensity movement," Remy was explaining while holding up items that looked vaguely medical. "Keeps everything secure, reduces muscle vibration, helps wit' blood flow. Is actually useful, not just fancy marketing. Trust me on dis—Remy knows athletic wear."
"I don't trust anyone anymore," Harry replied. "My trust was murdered by capitalism approximately two hours ago. I'm operating purely on survival instinct and the promise of eventual lunch."
"You're doing great, big guy," Piotr rumbled supportively, placing one massive hand on Harry's shoulder with gentle pressure. "Very brave. Much courage. Like Russian hero facing impossible odds with dignity and excessive complaining. Is very inspirational."
"Thank you, Piotr," Harry said with genuine gratitude. "Your support means everything in this dark time. You're the only one who understands my suffering."
"Remy understands your suffering," Remy protested. "Remy's been on da receiving end of Emma's shopping interventions before. Is traumatic but effective. You survive, you look better, you attract more attention—is whole cycle."
"I don't *want* more attention," Harry said.
"You say dat now," Remy replied. "But when you show up at school and people actually notice you in positive ways instead of ignorin' you or judgin' you for bad clothes, you gonna change your tune. Mark Remy's words."
"I'm marking them," Harry said. "I'm marking them with skepticism and British doubt."
They finished selecting training clothes—multiple sets of shorts in various lengths, moisture-wicking shirts in different styles, compression garments Harry didn't entirely understand but was assured would be useful, new athletic shoes that cost more than some used cars and apparently contained space-age technology in the soles—and moved toward final purchases.
"So just to be clear," Emma said while they were looking at pajamas, "you've been sleeping in Logan's extra flannel shirts? Like, that's been your actual sleepwear situation?"
"It's comfortable," Harry defended. "Flannel is very comfortable. Practical, warm, doesn't require any thought—just grab a shirt and some pants and you're sorted."
"Harry," Emma said with exaggerated patience, "you're a teenage boy with a functioning metabolism and presumably normal body temperature regulation. You don't need to sleep in flannel designed for a man who runs hot and has a healing factor. You need actual pajamas designed for actual humans. This is non-negotiable."
"Everything today has been non-negotiable," Harry observed. "I haven't successfully negotiated anything. My negotiation record is zero wins, seventeen losses, and mounting trauma."
"Eighteen losses," Emma corrected, pulling pajama sets from a display. "Because you're also getting these and you're not arguing about it. Blue or gray?"
"I don't care," Harry said, having reached complete decision paralysis. "Those are fine. That's fine. All pajamas are fine. I've transcended caring about fabric choices. I'm operating on a higher plane of consciousness where material concerns no longer register."
"He's broken," Kitty observed with concern. "We broke Harry Potter. Is that bad?"
"He'll recover," Emma said confidently. "People always recover from shopping trauma. Usually within twenty-four hours. Sometimes forty-eight if the shopping was particularly intense."
"You're handling this very well," Hermione assured him.
"I'm having an out-of-body experience," Harry replied. "I'm watching this happen to someone else and that person is handling it well. I'm just floating above observing the tragedy."
They purchased a belt that actually fit his waist rather than Dudley's waist, a simple watch that told time without being unnecessarily complicated, and a casual messenger bag that could hold books, notebooks, and whatever other items normal teenagers carried that Harry had never owned.
"We're done," Emma finally announced, surveying their accumulated shopping bags with obvious satisfaction. "You now have a functional wardrobe appropriate for American teenage existence. Nothing too flashy, nothing that will make you stand out negatively, sufficient variety for different contexts and social situations."
"I have clothes," Harry said, staring at the bags with the expression of someone who'd just survived something harrowing. "Multiple clothes. So many clothes. An overwhelming quantity of clothes."
"You have a normal amount of clothes," Kitty corrected. "Maybe slightly below average for American teenagers but adequate for functioning in society without looking like you've given up."
"I'm not sure I can carry all of these," Harry observed, looking at the substantial pile of shopping bags that Piotr had been managing.
"That's why we brought Piotr," Remy explained. "He can carry approximately everything. Very useful for shopping missions that involve purchasing multiple items."
They made their way back toward the mall exit, navigating through crowds of people engaged in their own shopping missions. Harry moved with the kind of exhausted resignation of someone who'd survived something challenging and was beginning to process what had just occurred.
"That was horrifying," he announced as they reached the parking lot. "Genuinely one of the most overwhelming experiences of my life, and I've fought a basilisk. Shopping is worse than basilisks."
"Shopping isn't worse than basilisks," Hermione corrected gently. "You're just overwhelmed by novel experiences and decision fatigue. You'll feel better after lunch."
"Lunch?" Harry repeated with hope. "Are we having lunch? Please tell me we're having lunch. Food would improve everything about this situation."
"We're absolutely having lunch," Emma confirmed. "There's a restaurant nearby that serves excellent food and will allow you to recover from your shopping trauma before we return to the Institute."
"You're the best," Harry told her with genuine gratitude. "I take back everything negative I've ever thought about you. You're providing lunch. That makes you wonderful."
"I know," Emma replied with satisfaction.
As they loaded shopping bags into the vehicle Emma had borrowed for this mission—a sleek SUV that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries—Harry found himself grudgingly grateful for the intervention despite his continued conviction that shopping was torture designed by capitalism to extract money from unsuspecting victims.
He had clothes now. Real clothes that fit his actual body, that looked appropriate for his age and context, that would allow him to integrate into American high school without being immediately identifiable as someone who had no idea what he was doing.
That was worth some temporary suffering.
Probably.
He'd reassess that conclusion after lunch.
---
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