The Three Broomsticks – 12:30 PM
Current mood: Sugar high, mild chaos, 80% Butterbeer, 20% snark.
The MageX team didn't just sit at the Three Broomsticks—they conquered it. The largest corner booth was theirs. Claimed like a territory in Risk, defended like a fortress in Call of Duty. It had extra chairs dragged from who-knows-where, at least three floating candles overhead that weren't supposed to float, and a magical "No Adults Allowed" sign blinking in Slytherin green and Gryffindor red. Rosmerta just smiled and left them to it, probably praying no one summoned another indoor blizzard like last time.
Butterbeer foam clung to nearly every upper lip like a poorly-applied moustache. The air smelled like roasted cinnamon, old wood, and barely-contained teenage hormones.
Daphne—legs long, eyeliner sharp, attitude lethal—was currently sitting in Susan's lap like a throne.
"The bench was cold," she said loftily, stealing a sip of Susan's cider. "Also, my girlfriend's a human furnace."
Susan, in a chunky red jumper that matched her hair, didn't even flinch. "You just wanted an excuse to keep your hands in my coat pockets."
Daphne smirked. "And it's working."
Across the table, Hermione tried valiantly to restore order by distributing a stack of enchanted parchment labeled Light Reading For The Holidays: A Curated Hermione Granger Experience. She'd even color-coded the subjects.
Fred took one look and shouted, "NERD!" like it was a war cry.
George followed with, "Burn the scrolls!"
"I hexed them to be flameproof," Hermione said without looking up. "And yes, I knew you'd try."
Neville, who'd just ordered a comforting cup of tea, gave it a cautious sip—only to immediately cough and sputter as Tracey grinned from across the booth.
"Hexed it to taste like firewhisky," she said sweetly, twirling a stirrer.
Neville blinked, cheeks pink. "Honestly… not bad."
"See?" Tracey said. "I'm basically a bartender."
On the quieter end of the booth, Cho was curled against Cedric like a Christmas card come to life, all cozy knits and soft glances. Katie was teasing them under her breath while simultaneously trying to balance a Butterbeer bottle on her wand.
Meanwhile, Jean had gone full movie star mode—boots up on Harry's lap, cider in hand, head tilted like she was bored and judging everyone simultaneously. Her red curls caught the fairy lights just right, making her look like she belonged on a poster that said "Warning: May Cause Spontaneous Crushes".
Harry, for his part, was leaning back against the booth like he owned it. Casual. Calm. His fingers were resting on Jean's ankle like he had nothing better to do than flirt and win snowball fights—and honestly, that was his entire schedule for the day. His emerald eyes were lazy and sharp at the same time, like he was thinking about snogging Jean and also secretly planning to overthrow the Ministry.
"You know," Jean said, one perfectly arched brow rising, "you keep looking at me like I invented chocolate."
Harry took a slow sip of Butterbeer. "You didn't?"
Jean smiled like a cat who'd just found the cream. "Flatter me again and I might let you pick tonight's movie."
Susan groaned loudly from across the booth. "Ugh, flirt quieter, please. Some of us are trying to drown in cinnamon, not public displays of hormonal smugness."
Daphne sipped her drink and murmured, "Some of us are trying to drown in her."
Susan elbowed her, blushing furiously. "Still smoother than Potter."
"Hey!" Harry protested, placing a hand over his heart. "I'm very smooth. Ask the snowball I hit Pansy with. Dead center. Right in the ego."
Ron choked on his Butterbeer laughing and snorted it through his nose. "Mate, you once complimented Fleur and walked face-first into a door. A glass door. You apologized to the door."
"That was years ago," Harry muttered. "I've evolved. My charm is now legally classified as a dangerous substance in six countries."
Hermione patted his shoulder like he was a mildly embarrassing house-elf. "And I'm secretly a Kneazle with a secret life as a jazz pianist."
Angelina, flipping through the Broomstick Brew Menu: Seasonal Mischief Edition, raised a brow. "To be fair, Potter has upgraded his flirting. It's less tragic now. Still deeply punchable, but in a charming way."
"I give it a seven out of ten," Alicia chimed in, stealing a breadstick. "Mostly because Jean is basically doing half the heavy lifting."
Jean raised her cider. "You're just jealous I'm the hot redhead with a monopoly on tall, dark, and jawline."
Harry gave her ankle a light squeeze. "She's not wrong."
Tracey tossed a leftover Zonko's snow-pebble across the table. It missed Harry and hit Neville in the shoulder. He yelped.
"This," George announced, climbing onto the bench like he was about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue, "is exactly what Hogwarts should be—booze-free brawling, sarcastic bonding, and tragic flirting."
Fred raised his glass. "To tragic flirting!"
Everyone clinked Butterbeers.
Rosmerta peeked over, winked at Harry, and said, "Last call for normal behavior, kids. After this, I'm charging a chaos fee."
—
Outside, On the Way Back to Hogwarts – 2:00 PM
Weather report: 100% chance of flurries, sneak attacks, and emotionally compromising snowball combat.
The path back to Hogwarts should've been peaceful. Snow drifted gently from the sky in that cinematic, Hallmark-movie-meets-Hogwarts way. Students ambled along with bags of Honeydukes loot, Zonko's chaos devices, and at least three confiscated Muggle toys Tracey had charmed into projectile-launching mode.
It was all going great—until they passed the Shrieking Shack.
Fred popped up from behind a snowy log like a deranged elf on caffeine. "Brothers and sisters! The time has come. Operation: Fluffy Doom is a go!"
George let out a war cry, yeeted the first snowball, and all hell promptly broke loose.
Neville screamed and ran. Ron dove behind a snow-covered barrel. Hermione shielded herself with a Protego Maxima so powerful it rebounded the snowball into George's face.
"HA!" she yelled, smug. "Knowledge is power!"
Meanwhile, Jean yanked Harry down behind an ancient pine tree, her wand already out, boots crunching in the snow, red curls wild in the wind like she was starring in a music video titled Hot Witch at War.
She had snow in her hair, fire in her eyes, and a smirk that said, I'm going to win, look amazing doing it, and possibly hex your socks off if you get in my way.
"Battle plan, General Potter?" she asked, breath fogging between them.
Harry looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth surviving for. Emerald eyes locked on hers, hair dusted in snow, cloak thrown dramatically over one shoulder like the leading man in a fantasy romance who also knew 53 ways to kill you with a candy cane.
"Flank them from the east," he said. "No prisoners. If I fall, avenge me with maximum flair."
Jean grinned and kissed his cheek, her lips cold but her expression warm. "Always. And if you die, I'm reanimating you and grounding you for being dramatic."
"That's fair."
They emerged from cover like war gods blessed by Cupid and Chaos. Jean lobbed an enchanted snowball that exploded in sparkles. Harry followed it up with a rapid-fire barrage that knocked Ron's hat clean off.
"Oi!" Ron yelled. "My mum knitted that!"
"Should've ducked faster!" Harry called back. "Tell her to enchant it next time!"
Off to the side, Daphne and Susan glided by in style—lounging on a conjured sled drawn by illusory Thestrals with glittering antlers and matching sunglasses.
"I told you conjuring reins made of licorice would make this more festive," Daphne purred, stretching like a smug cat.
Susan adjusted her sunglasses with a casual finger. "You just wanted to eat them later."
"Guilty."
Tracey, meanwhile, had gone full rogue agent. She'd enchanted a snowman to stand guard along the path. Any poor soul in Slytherin green who walked past got loudly booed.
"BOOOO! TRAITOROUS TASTE IN SCARVES!" it screamed at Millicent Bulstrode, who flipped it off and walked faster.
"I regret nothing!" Tracey cackled from a tree branch above, dressed like a snow ninja with earmuffs. "Art is pain!"
Somewhere in the distance, a snow angel began forming itself with no visible cause—just glitter and soft winds. It took shape slowly, arms outstretched, smile wide, and Fred Weasley's actual face embedded in the snow with devil horns made of red sugar sticks.
Alicia pointed at it, deadpan. "That's either cursed or a marketing scheme."
"Both," said Angelina, sipping Butterbeer from a conjured thermos. "Definitely both."
George stared at it, impressed. "It winked at me. Twice. Might be sentient."
"I vote we leave it offerings," Katie added, tossing a Chocolate Frog at its feet.
Harry and Jean regrouped near the lake, panting and snow-covered. Her coat was missing a button. His gloves were full of glitter.
"Victory?" she asked, eyes gleaming.
"Pyrrhic," he said, brushing a streak of pink snow off her cheek. "But you look amazing doing it, so I'll allow it."
Behind them, Ron shrieked as Neville accidentally summoned a sentient snow shovel. Again.
Hogwarts loomed in the distance, lit up like a castle-shaped Christmas card. Laughter echoed on the wind, spells sparkled in the air, and somewhere far above, the sky snowed gently like it didn't know how to stop.
And honestly? No one wanted it to.
—
Hogwarts Castle – That Evening
Status: Bellies full. Chaos contained. Scarves tangled. Mood: Pure, spellbound serotonin.
The Great Hall had gone full fairy-tale.
Twinkling candlelight floated above enchanted holly garlands. The giant Christmas tree—taller than Hagrid, wider than Goyle's ego—was dressed in shimmering icicle charms and hundreds of tiny glowing phoenix feathers that made the ornaments blink like starlight. A soft melody, something halfway between Celestina Warbeck and a lullaby, hummed through the room, weaving between tables like it belonged there.
And the presents. Oh, the presents. They sparkled under the tree like treasure chests wrapped by wizards on way too much hot cocoa. One had a tag that literally read: "To Tracey: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS OR UNTIL YOU'RE BORED ENOUGH TO CAUSE A SCANDAL." (It would last until breakfast.)
Ginny and Luna had rejoined the group with all the grace of two girls who knew they'd been sort of excluded and were completely planning emotional revenge. Luna floated over like a snowflake in motion—white boots, dazed smile, a Zonko's snowglobe in her hand that played a hauntingly off-key rendition of "Deck the Halls" while tiny Fred-and-George figurines rode a collapsing Ferris wheel inside it.
"I have forgiven you all," Luna announced. "Except the basilisk who keeps trying to eat my hairbrush. But that's unrelated."
"Peace offering," Fred said, bowing low and presenting her with a literal mistletoe crown. "Zonko's Limited Edition: Makes you irresistible to mooncalves and misunderstood poets."
Luna beamed like a Christmas star. "Perfect."
Ginny, wrapped in a Gryffindor throw blanket, arched a brow as George handed her a cocoa mug so spiked it could've been classified as flammable. "You're lucky I like sugar and chaos," she said. "Otherwise I'd have hexed your eyebrows off for leaving me behind."
"You say that like we wouldn't prank each other either way," George said, grinning.
Harry watched it all from his spot on the overstuffed rug in front of the fire—an unofficial Gryffindor-Slytherin-Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw united front of students who had, against all odds, survived both Zonko's and each other.
Jean sat tucked into his side, legs curled under her, wearing one of his hoodies like it was a crown. Her head rested on his shoulder, red curls spilling down the fabric. She was still carrying glitter in her eyelashes from earlier. He didn't mention it. He thought it made her look like a Christmas comet with attitude.
"You know," she said lazily, toying with the drawstring of his hoodie, "I forgive you for the snowball in my ear. But only because you have excellent taste in cuddle positions."
Harry smirked, one hand drifting to her hip. "Strategic cuddle positioning is part of the battle plan. Surprise snuggles win wars."
She tilted her head up. "Oh yeah? And what's your strategy for when I steal all the blankets at 2AM?"
"Pray to Merlin," he said solemnly, "and accept my fate like a man."
Meanwhile, on the couch beside them, Daphne was sprawled like a magazine model in icy blue—her head in Susan's lap, legs dangling off one armrest, a peppermint stick balanced on her lower lip.
"I told you I'd make you love sled rides," she murmured.
Susan rolled her eyes fondly, brushing a hand through Daphne's golden hair. "You conjured Thestrals that snorted glitter. That wasn't a sled ride. That was a parade."
"Potato, glitter horse."
Tracey was building a candy cane fort. She wasn't explaining why. No one asked.
Ron, slightly pink from the fire and the cocoa-spiking incident, was loudly recounting his "heroic" evasion of a Fred-launched snowball.
"And then I ducked—perfect timing—and Neville took the hit."
"Because you pushed me," Neville muttered, sipping tea and still sneezing glitter.
"Strategic sacrifice," Ron insisted. "Basic battle tactics."
"Basic cowardice," Hermione corrected, flipping a page of her Holiday Law and You pamphlet. She wasn't even reading anymore. She just liked holding it for moral superiority.
Cedric and Cho sat by the window, watching snowflakes drift against the glass like it was their own private rom-com ending. Katie, pretending not to care, kept muttering, "Disgusting," while simultaneously leaning on Angelina like a sleepy cat.
Alicia was scrolling through her charmed camera, giggling at a photo of Jean riding Harry like a human snowplow during the ambush.
"I swear, the weirdest part of today was still that snow angel with Fred's face," she said. "Who enchanted that?"
No one answered.
Fred looked mildly insulted. "You act like I need magic for my face to become eternal."
"Please," George added. "You're only immortal until Mum sees the receipt for that Zonko's bill."
Laughter crackled through the Hall. Warm. Loud. Alive.
And Harry just… watched. Let it soak in. The red, gold, green, and blue scarves tangled across the floor like Hogwarts itself had exhaled and relaxed for the night. The pile of shoes in the corner. The cocoa mugs half-drunk. The mix of ancient magic and adolescent noise that somehow worked.
Tomorrow, the world might expect them to be legends. Heroes. Adults.
But tonight?
Tonight they were just teenagers.
Magical, chaotic, slightly-dangerous, deeply-connected teenagers with peppermint breath, tangled hearts, and a tendency to hex authority figures for fun.
And right now? That was enough.
—
The Great Hall — Later That Night
Status: Feast mode activated. Banter at DEFCON 1. Cuddle radius dangerously close to critical. Mood: Hogwarts actually feels like home.
The feast wasn't just a meal. It was an event — the kind of event that makes you question if Hogwarts secretly hired a sugar-fueled goblin chef with a flair for the dramatic. Tables groaned under honey-glazed hams so shiny you could check your reflection, roast chickens stuffed like they were training for the Quidditch World Cup, and cauldrons bubbling with mysterious stews that may or may not have been mildly sentient.
Someone (Fred, obviously) had enchanted the mashed potatoes to sing Christmas carols. Off-key. In four-part harmony. And no one had the heart to put a stop to it. It was basically the Hogwarts version of a caroling train wreck — delightful, loud, and entirely unavoidable.
Fred Weasley, as usual, was the unofficial MVP of chaos. A rogue pumpkin pasty, levitating like it had a mind of its own, found a way into his lap. Fred just grinned like he'd been chosen by destiny (or at least by some very sneaky magic). George was nearby, snickering like he already had a dozen ways to retaliate.
Harry sat like a king (or at least a very chill lord) at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Jean—who radiated sass and fire-red curls catching every flickering candle—and Hermione, who was giving the whole scene the kind of judgmental side-eye only a master of moral superiority could pull off. Ron, packed with food to the point of imminent explosion, glared at his plate like it was a ticking bomb daring someone to knock it over.
Jean was in full "lion tamer" mode, feeding Harry roasted potatoes like he was a particularly cute beast who might snap if she didn't keep him well-fed.
"Open," she cooed, voice thick with mock seduction, "and say 'Chosen One.'"
Harry arched a perfectly sculpted brow, emerald eyes sparkling like a pair of emeralds that just learned how to smirk. "You do realize I'm going to turn that nickname into a running joke, right?"
Jean's smirk deepened. "You mean you haven't? Amateur."
Daphne drifted over, cool as a glacier wrapped in silver-blue. Her jumper screamed Queen of Chill but her eyes promised just enough trouble to keep things interesting. She slid into the seat beside Susan, who was deeply engaged in some low-key flirtation war with Hannah and Cedric. Susan's hand never left Daphne's waist, and the look they exchanged could have melted the snow outside — or at least summoned a heat wave.
Jean eyeballed Daphne's pudding like it personally offended her. "Why the death glare, Daph?"
Daphne scoffed, voice dripping with theatrical disdain. "It's an insult to desserts everywhere. This trifle has all the structural integrity of a collapsing Quidditch tower."
Susan chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of golden hair away. "Eat it. Complaining won't make it taste better."
Across the table, Tracey balanced a bread roll on Neville's head. Neville looked like he was about to sneeze himself into next week and didn't even notice. Ron, meanwhile, was mid-battle with Hermione over whether mistletoe enchantments were a legitimate "breach of magical consent."
"It is a breach!" Hermione insisted, wand flicking dangerously close to a hex. "Consent matters, Ron!"
Fred was lighting napkins on fire like a pyromaniac artist who'd been given free reign. McGonagall hovered nearby, casting daggers with her eyes and muttering about calling Dumbledore if Fred so much as singed a curtain.
Desserts disappeared. Yawns slipped in like sneaky little ghosts. Cloaks were tossed over shoulders. The feast was winding down, but the chaos? That was eternal.
—
Hogwarts Foyer — Post-Feast Flirt & Farewell
Status: Butterbeer buzz: 65%. Flirtation levels: High. Emotional capacity: Exceeded.
Forecast: Clear skies, probable smooching, and at least one snarky one-liner per minute.
The oak doors creaked open, and a whoosh of icy wind swept into the warm castle, smelling like snow, pine needles, and Fred's lingering pumpkin pasty incident (he swore it was the poltergeist, but nobody believed that lie twice).
Students poured out into the entrance hall in packs—yawning, whispering, giggling. Somewhere, Peeves was singing Jingle Hex Your Hogsmeade Brooms off-key, probably on purpose. The night had that quiet, post-feast hush that made even the ghosts look sleepy.
Jean Grey—flame-haired goddess of sass and subtle chaos—looped her arm through Harry's like it was second nature. And honestly, it kind of was now. Her curls were wild, her boots were heeled, and her expression screamed Main Character Energy. If Hogwarts had an Instagram, she would've broken it already.
"Alright," she said, tilting her head toward the waiting crowd of girls, "time for the nightly goodbye parade. Ready, Chosen One?"
Harry raised a brow. Classic smolder. "Let's make it uncomfortably romantic. Full cringe. Bonus points if someone gags."
"You're such a menace," Jean said, bumping his hip.
"Correct," he said, without hesitation. "A hot, emotionally literate menace. With dimples."
Their first stop: Susan Bones, who was currently holding a full conversation with Hannah Abbott and Cedric Diggory without breaking eye contact with Daphne Greengrass, who stood just close enough to imply property rights.
"Hey, Red," Harry said, strolling up like he had a theme song playing. "Leaving already? I was just about to offer you a dance under the mistletoe. Jean gave me a thirty-second permission slip and everything."
Susan blinked, then grinned, her cheeks already red from the cold—or possibly the flirt. "Tempting, but I'm trying to keep the Hogwarts gossip mill under 700 decibels tonight."
Jean leaned over. "Good luck with that. Fred's planning to spike the hot cocoa with Amortentia. I had to hide the ladle."
Susan rolled her eyes and gave Harry a peck on the cheek. "Goodnight, heartthrob. Don't let her talk you into breaking curfew again."
"I'm innocent," Jean said, completely deadpan. "In spirit."
"Debatable," said all three of them in unison, including Cedric, who hadn't even been part of the conversation until that moment.
Cedric gave Harry a bro-nod. "General Potter," he said.
"Captain Diggory," Harry replied. "Tell your Hufflepuffs I respect their bravery and their baking skills."
"Will do. You'd be a Hufflepuff if you weren't so full of secrets and snark."
"Which is why I'm Gryffindor," Harry shot back, smirking.
Hannah waved them off cheerfully and dragged Susan toward the dorms like she'd just been given VIP escort duty. Susan looked back once, eyes lingering on Daphne, who watched her go like she was already counting the minutes till morning.
Jean looked between them and sighed dramatically. "They're so cute I almost threw up in my own mouth."
"You say that like you don't turn into a human furnace anytime I look at you."
"That's because I am a human furnace, Potter."
And then: Daphne. Ice-blonde hair, silver scarf, and resting Slytherin royalty face that had boys trembling and girls texting at 3 AM.
She sauntered over like a supermodel who moonlighted as a Bond villain. Tracey Davis was trailing behind her, dressed in all black like she was about to rob the Astronomy Tower for spare telescope parts.
Daphne stopped just shy of Harry and Jean and held out her hand like she expected it to be kissed. So Harry did. Because of course he did.
"Miss Greengrass," he said smoothly, "You look like a frostbitten dream wrapped in sarcasm and sharp eyeliner."
Daphne raised one flawless brow. "And you look like a Gryffindor who got tackled by a snow golem and liked it."
"He did," Jean said. "He moaned a little."
"I was groaning," Harry said.
"You moaned," Jean and Daphne said in unison.
Tracey snorted from behind them. "Honestly, you four are the reason Slytherins think love is a psychological weakness."
"I thought you were the reason," Daphne deadpanned without missing a beat.
Tracey threw her arms up and stomped off toward the dungeons. "Uncalled for. Also true. But uncalled for!"
Daphne turned back to Jean and Harry. She gave Jean a kiss on the cheek—just the right amount of innocent-but-don't-test-me—and then cupped Harry's jaw with her cold, gloved fingers.
"Don't wait up too long," she whispered. "And don't let her steal all your kisses. Save one for me."
"Only if you promise to dream about me," Harry said with a wink.
"I don't dream," Daphne replied with a smirk. "I plan."
Then she was gone, scarf trailing like a movie ending, heels clicking, and Harry very aware that his heart had done a stupid little backflip.
He turned to Jean, who was already watching him with that I-saw-that-and-I'm-still-winning smile.
"You okay?" he asked, gently nudging her shoulder as they started walking toward Gryffindor Tower.
"I mean," she said, voice breezy, "you did just get kissed by your other girlfriend, but I'm cool. Very chill. Not remotely jealous."
Harry grinned. "You sure? You're radiating the energy of someone two seconds from hexing a suit of armor."
"Oh, I am, but only because I think it would be funny."
They wandered through the halls, candlelight flickering over stone walls. It was quiet now, the kind of quiet that only happened at Hogwarts after a feast, when even the portraits were half-asleep and the suits of armor were too stuffed with Christmas magic to move.
They stopped at the corner before the Fat Lady's portrait.
Jean turned to him, voice low. "Tomorrow, we teleport into a school full of powered teenagers who can lift trucks, read minds, and explode by sneezing. Excited?"
"Jean," Harry said, "we just spent three hours throwing exploding snowballs, dodging levitating pies, and watching Fred charm a pudding into doing jazz hands. Xavier's is going to feel like nap time."
She smiled, soft this time. Just her and him and the warmth in their hands.
"I'm glad it's us," she said. "The four of us. You make Hogwarts home."
Harry leaned in, his voice quiet, teasing, but honest. "You're not so bad for a telepathic fire goddess with resting smirk face."
And he kissed her. Slow. Soft. And just long enough for the portraits nearby to politely turn away and mutter something about youth these days.
When they pulled apart, Jean raised an eyebrow. "Still think you're the tragic one?"
"I am the tragic one," Harry said dramatically. "I have feelings and emotions and a jawline that could cut glass."
Jean shook her head, laughing as she opened the common room door. "Come on, Potter. Before you start monologuing about your trauma again."
"Too late," he called after her, "I've already started composing the sad poetry in my head. I'm thinking iambic pentameter this time."
And just like that, they disappeared into the tower—two teenagers, hands linked, hearts full, and absolutely, definitely not ready for what Christmas break had in store.
—
At The Same Time — Xavier's Institute — Sub-Level Gym
Status: Punching Bag: Praying for mercy.
Scott Summers: Brooding like it's his full-time job.
Narrative Tone: Part angry Shakespeare monologue, part rejected teen soap opera lead.
Scott Summers wasn't technically allowed in the gym after midnight.
Then again, Scott Summers also wasn't technically supposed to melt a training bot in the Danger Room last week, and nobody had brought that up—yet. So he figured the punching bag could take the hit. Or fifty.
He threw another punch.
WHAM.
The bag jerked on its chain like it was ready to file a complaint. But Scott didn't stop.
"Of course she's bringing him back here," he muttered under his breath. "Of course she is. Why wouldn't she?"
WHAM.
"She leaves for a few months. Goes across the pond. Some magical Hogwarts scholarship or whatever. And then boom—suddenly she's betrothed. Betrothed!"
He stopped just long enough to roll his eyes.
"Seriously. Who even uses that word anymore? Did they time travel? Did they fall into a Bridgerton episode? Is there a tea party where we duel with gloves and talk about dowries?!"
He slammed his fist into the bag again. This time it made a noise like a dying goat. Which felt appropriate.
"Oh, and it's not just him." Scott made air quotes even though no one was watching. "It's him and two other girls. Because why stop at one, right? Why not go full fantasy novel protagonist while you're at it?"
The punching bag creaked ominously. It was leaning slightly now. Like it was considering early retirement.
Scott didn't care.
"I've known Jean for years. I helped her through her first power freakout. I covered for her when she snuck out of campus to get milkshakes. We were supposed to be endgame. Summers and Grey. Classic combo. Like peanut butter and laser beams."
His voice cracked a little on that last part, but he powered through it with rage and sarcasm—his two most well-developed muscles.
"And then he shows up. Mister 'Mysterious Past.' Mister 'I survived a war and wear tragic scars like fashion accessories.' Mister Harry Potter."
He said the name like it tasted bad. Like it was laced with glitter and smugness and magical superiority.
Scott's fists blurred as he launched into a flurry of jabs. The bag groaned.
"He's got the accent. He's got the eyes. He's got the tragic backstory. And apparently now he's got my—no, the girl. Oh, and two others. Because why the hell not?"
WHAM.
Chain snapped.
The punching bag fell to the floor with a loud THUD, rolled once, and stayed there like it had officially given up on life.
Scott stared down at it, chest heaving.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. It didn't help. Everything still felt hot. Unfair. Stupid.
"I was supposed to end up with her," he said quietly. "That was the plan."
He glanced up at the mirror on the far wall. His reflection stared back: tall, lean, hoodie sweat-soaked, jaw clenched so tight it could crack marble. His ruby-quartz shades glowed faintly, like his eyes were waiting for permission to explode something.
"I was supposed to be the one she chose."
He sank down onto the floor, arms over his knees, forehead resting against them.
"She didn't even say goodbye properly. Just 'Tell Scott I'll write. I need space.'"
He exhaled slowly, voice rough now.
"Yeah, sure, Jean. You just needed a thousand kilometers of space. And a wizard with a hero complex."
The gym was silent except for the low hum of the lights. Even the broken punching bag didn't dare make a noise now.
Scott tilted his head back, resting it against the wall. The ceiling above was blank steel. He stared at it like it might offer a clue to whatever cosmic joke this all was.
"She's coming back tomorrow," he muttered. "With him. With them."
He could already picture it: the Blackbird swooping in like a rock star entrance. Jean stepping out first—confident, glowing, like the world bent slightly around her. And right behind her, of course, The Boy Who Apparently Gets Engaged Like It's a Team Sport.
Harry Freaking Potter.
Scott closed his eyes.
"Great," he said flatly. "Just great."
A pause.
Then, just as deadpan:
"Hope someone warns the Danger Room. Because I'm gonna need it."
---
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