Xavier's Institute — Breakfast, Next Morning
Status: MageX in Session. Sass: Hot. Waffles: Cold. Team Roster: TBD.
Look, if you've never witnessed nineteen magical teenagers attempt to hold a strategy meeting over breakfast while simultaneously flirting, bickering, and engaging in tactical bacon redistribution, then you're missing out on one of life's great spectacles. It's like watching a very attractive, very dangerous nature documentary about apex predators who happen to be hormonal.
Harry Potter sat at the head of the long table they'd claimed as their unofficial war room, leaning back in his chair with the casual confidence of someone who'd faced down dark wizards and lived to tell the tale. His emerald-green eyes glinted with mischief as he surveyed his troops—hood pushed down, revealing that perfectly messy black hair that somehow looked effortlessly cool, his cloak draped over his shoulders like he was posing for the cover of *Wizard Weekly's* "Most Dangerous Bachelors" issue.
The seven core members of MageX sat closest to him: Jean Grey to his left, her red hair catching the morning light like fire; Susan Bones to his right, her auburn curls framing her face as she buttered her toast with surgical precision; Daphne Greengrass directly across from him, looking like she'd stepped out of a magazine even at eight in the morning; Luna Lovegood humming something that might have been about invisible creatures; Neville Longbottom looking more like a linebacker than the shy kid he'd once been; Cedric Diggory casually displaying the kind of shoulders that made underclassmen walk into walls; and the twins, Fred and George, already plotting something that would probably result in detention.
Everyone else clustered behind them, because when Harry Potter called a meeting, you showed up. Even if you weren't technically invited.
Harry stabbed his fork into his eggs with the precision of someone who'd spent years perfecting the art of looking intimidating while eating breakfast. When he spoke, his voice carried that calm, infuriatingly confident tone that made teachers nervous and enemies reconsider their life choices.
"Alright," he said, those green eyes scanning the table like a general surveying his troops. "X-Men field eight. We've got seven locked. I want names for the eighth slot. Let's hear it. And make it good."
Jean—whose left hand was suspiciously close to Harry's on the table, though she'd hex anyone who pointed it out—arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and added in her crisp, no-nonsense voice, "And for Merlin's sake, don't all shout at once."
Naturally, everyone immediately shouted at once.
"Ginny!"
"Fred, obviously!"
"George is better than Fred—"
"Excuse me, I'm clearly the funnier one—"
"Angelina would wipe the floor with Rogue!"
"Katie's faster than both of them!"
"Percy!"
"...Percy? Really?"
Harry raised one hand, and the table fell silent faster than you could say "Avada Kedavra." Well, almost silent—Luna was still humming something that definitely involved creatures that probably didn't exist.
"Okay," Harry said dryly, his gaze moving around the table like a spotlight. "Let's hear some actual arguments. Why you, not just why not your brother."
Ginny Weasley, seated next to Luna and radiating the kind of confidence that came from being the only girl in a house full of boys, leaned forward with fire in her brown eyes. "I can fly. I'm fast. I've been training with Bludgers longer than anyone here, and I don't flinch when things get ugly."
Fred Weasley, who'd inherited the family gift for dramatics, snorted loudly. "Pfft. Please. She flies like a Weasley. That's just barely better than Ron."
Ron Weasley, predictably, glared at his brother with a mouth full of toast and what was probably a very creative curse that couldn't be voiced in mixed company.
Angelina Johnson cut in smoothly, resting her chin on her hand and smiling like a predator who'd just spotted prey. "No offense, Potter, but you're gonna need muscle and finesse. Which is me. I've got the moves to take Kitty off her game and the reach to keep Tabitha from blowing up my eyebrows. Plus," she added with a wicked grin, "I look good doing it."
Susan Bones spoke up then, her voice carrying that cool, analytical tone that made professors sit up and pay attention. "It's true. Angelina has excellent reaction time. Her aura reads clean—she doesn't panic under pressure."
Daphne Greengrass, who was sitting perfectly straight and somehow making the act of buttering a roll look like high art, added without looking up, "Neither do I, but you don't see me bragging about it." She paused, then smiled slightly. "Yet."
Jean smirked and nudged Harry under the table with her knee, her voice carrying just a hint of teasing. "She's got a point."
Harry's grin widened, but he didn't look at Jean—because then he'd get distracted by those incredible green eyes, and they all knew it. The boy had priorities, but Jean Grey in the morning sunlight was a serious threat to his focus.
Meanwhile, Neville Longbottom—who'd grown into the kind of guy who could probably bench press a small car—spoke up, his voice more firm than it had been in their school days. "I'd rather we picked someone who can take a hit. Sam and Piotr are gonna be brutal. We can't just send in another flyer and hope for the best."
Cedric Diggory nodded, his claws idly tapping the table in a rhythm that somehow managed to be both threatening and musical. "Agreed. We need someone who won't fold the second Colossus gets close. Durability matters more than flash."
Tracey Davis raised her hand lazily from further down the table, her voice carrying that particular brand of Slytherin confidence. "Well then it's obvious. Me. I look better doing it than any of them, and I won't embarrass us on international television."
That earned groans from everyone within earshot, except Cho Chang, who actually looked like she was considering the logic.
"Not the worst argument," Cho murmured thoughtfully.
Alicia Spinnet, who'd been quietly demolishing a stack of pancakes, finally looked up. "What about actual combat experience? Half of you have never been in a real fight."
"Define 'real fight,'" Katie Bell interjected, her voice carrying the kind of edge that came from years of Quidditch matches that had devolved into aerial combat.
Hannah Abbott, who'd been following the conversation with wide eyes, finally found her voice. "Maybe we should consider magical compatibility? Some combinations work better than others."
Susan finally turned to Harry, her voice dropping to that slightly warmer tone she used when she was about to make a point. "You already know who you want, don't you?"
Harry's smirk deepened, the kind of expression that drove Jean and Daphne absolutely insane and made Susan want to either kiss him or hex him. "Maybe," he allowed, then looked around at all of them. "But I want to hear you fight for it. You're all good. But there's good..."
He leaned forward then, those emerald eyes flashing with something dangerous and electric.
"...and then there's *my* kind of good."
The table fell silent for a moment, the kind of silence that comes when someone reminds you exactly why they're in charge.
Jean rested her chin in her hand and watched him with fire dancing in her eyes. "You're infuriating, you know that?"
"Absolutely," Harry said without missing a beat.
Daphne slid her fingers under his other hand where it rested on the table, her usual icy composure never cracking even as her touch sent electricity up his arm. "Don't keep us waiting, darling," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough edge to be dangerous. "Pick your eighth. Or you'll make Susan and me impatient."
Susan gave Daphne a sideways look that was half threat, half smirk, the kind of expression that suggested she was calculating exactly how many hexes she could cast before anyone stopped her.
Harry let out a laugh that was sharp and warm all at once, squeezing both their hands—which just made Hermione Granger, three seats down, roll her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn't sprain something.
"Honestly," Hermione muttered, "it's like watching a very attractive soap opera."
Fred and George, meanwhile, had already produced quills and were scribbling odds on napkins with the efficiency of professional bookmakers.
"Put me down for a Galleon on Angelina," Fred announced loudly.
"No way, it's gonna be Ginny," George countered. "Family loyalty and all that."
"You're both wrong," Katie said confidently. "It'll be Alicia. Harry likes winners."
Ginny grinned, shaking her head but clearly enjoying being the center of attention. "Keep talking, Bell. See where it gets you."
Luna finally looked up from her orange juice, her dreamy voice cutting through the chatter like a knife through butter. "Oh, it'll be Angelina," she said matter-of-factly. "The Nargles told me. They're very good at predicting team selections."
Everyone stared at her. Even by Luna standards, that was specific.
Harry leaned back and muttered, just loud enough to carry across the table, "Well. That settles that."
Then he stood, his cloak swirling dramatically behind him—because Harry Potter had never met a dramatic moment he couldn't improve with better choreography—and addressed the table with that trademark troublemaker smirk that had been getting him into and out of trouble for years.
"Angelina," he said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that made people listen, "you're up. Everyone else?" He looked around the table, his grin widening. "You'll just have to try harder next time."
Angelina Johnson grinned wickedly, shooting a look down the hall toward where the X-Men were probably having their own breakfast strategy session. It was the kind of look that promised fireworks, explosions, and possibly property damage.
"This is gonna be fun," she said, cracking her knuckles.
And Harry?
Harry just tossed a wink at Jean that made her heart skip approximately seventeen beats, let Daphne kiss his cheek with the kind of casual intimacy that made half the Great Hall jealous, and gave Susan's hand one last squeeze that sent warmth shooting straight to her toes before striding out of the dining hall like the trouble-making, chaos-loving, devastatingly attractive king he was.
"Show-off," Susan muttered, but she was smiling.
"Completely," Jean agreed, watching him go with obvious appreciation.
"Absolutely," Daphne added, her voice carrying that particular note of affection reserved for people who drive you crazy in the best possible way.
Oh yeah. The X-Men had absolutely no idea what was coming for them.
—
At The Same Time
Status: Scott's Strategy Hour. Rogue: Unimpressed. Kitty: Done. Kurt: Bamfing Just to Stay Awake. Tabitha: About to Light Something on Fire. Wards: Mocking Him.
Now, if you want to witness a masterclass in how to turn a simple breakfast into an exercise in military-grade awkwardness, you need to observe Scott Summers attempting to rally his troops. It's like watching someone try to conduct a symphony orchestra made entirely of cats—technically possible, but probably not ending well for anyone involved.
Across the dining hall from the MageX table, at what had become known as the X-Men's unofficial war council, Scott Summers was busy doing what Scott Summers did best: acting like he was the last sane general in a room full of unruly soldiers who'd clearly never read a proper military manual.
Which would've been fine if everyone else at the table wasn't trying really, really hard not to roll their eyes so far back they could see their own brain stems.
"Alright," Scott was saying, leaning forward with his fingers steepled like some kind of angsty warlord who'd binge-watched too many tactical documentaries. His ruby-quartz visor caught the morning light as he swept his gaze across his team. "Here's the thing. We're going to need discipline. Focus. Teamwork. None of this... improvising nonsense. That's where they'll expect us to be weak."
His jaw was tight, his voice carried that particular brand of intensity that suggested he'd practiced this speech in the mirror at least seventeen times, and his expression screamed *I've got this all figured out, please validate my leadership skills.*
He gestured vaguely toward the MageX table, where Harry and his crew were clearly deep in their own strategy session—except the golden wards Fred and George had thrown up shimmered faintly in the air like heat waves rising off summer pavement. Every time Scott tried to lean in and eavesdrop, all he got was static, snatches of laughter, and something that sounded suspiciously like one of the twins whispering, "Nice try, Summers."
Which was clearly driving him up the wall and around the bend.
"They're cocky," Scott continued, adjusting his visor for what had to be the fourth time in two minutes. "And they're reckless. Potter especially. He's impulsive. He plays to the crowd. But he doesn't think long-term strategy. That's where we win—superior planning and execution."
Rogue, who was leaning back in her chair with her boots propped up on another seat and looking like she'd rather be literally anywhere else, muttered just loud enough to carry across the table, "Oh yeah, sugah. Ah'm sure we'll just bore 'em into submission with all this riveting tactical analysis."
Her Southern drawl dripped with enough sarcasm to power a small city, and she didn't even bother to hide her smirk.
Tabitha Smith, who was systematically demolishing a stack of pancakes while looking like she was three seconds away from setting something on fire just to liven things up, snorted a laugh and shoved another piece of bacon in her mouth.
"Can't hear you over all this exciting military strategy, Slim," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of chaos that made teachers nervous. "Are we gonna synchronize our watches next?"
Kitty Pryde glanced up from her phone, where she'd been scrolling through social media with the dedication of someone avoiding eye contact, and deadpanned, "Do I even have a job in this plan? Or am I just supposed to stand there and look adorable while you monologue?"
Scott didn't even blink, his expression remaining stoically serious. "You phase. Obviously. Disrupt their formations. Don't improvise."
Kitty blinked back at him, her expression flat. "Wow. So inspiring. Really feeling the team spirit here."
Kurt Wagner, who was perched on the back of his chair like some kind of blue acrobat, swished his tail idly and said in his soft German accent, "It does not feel very... how do you say... creative, ja? Perhaps we should consider—"
"It's not supposed to be creative, Wagner," Scott shot back, his voice carrying that particular edge of someone who'd had this argument before. "It's supposed to work. Creative gets people hurt."
"Oh, joy," Tabitha muttered, gesturing with her fork. "Can't wait to follow orders from the Guy Who Knows Best. This is gonna be like watching paint dry, except somehow more boring."
Sam Guthrie, who'd been quietly working his way through what appeared to be half the breakfast buffet, finally looked up and said in his easy Southern drawl, "Now hold on there, Scott. Maybe we could—"
"No maybes," Scott interrupted. "We stick to the plan. My plan. It's comprehensive."
Rahne Sinclair, who'd been watching this whole exchange with the kind of fascination usually reserved for car accidents, spoke up in her thick Scottish brogue, "Och, but what if they do somethin' we dinnae expect? 'Cause that Potter lad, he's got a reputation for pullin' rabbits out of hats."
"Then we adapt within the framework," Scott said firmly. "But we don't deviate from core strategy."
Even Piotr Rasputin, who normally had the patience of a saint and never said anything unless it was important, frowned faintly and rumbled in his deep Russian baritone, "Perhaps... little bit of flexibility would not hurt, da? In Russia, we say—"
"This isn't Russia, Piotr," Scott cut him off. "This is a tactical situation that requires discipline."
Scott clapped his hands on the table like that settled everything, the sound echoing across their section of the dining hall. "No more discussion. What helps is everyone sticking to the plan. My plan. Any questions?"
Rogue raised one gloved hand lazily, a single finger pointed toward the ceiling. "Yeah, sugah. How long do Ah gotta keep pretendin' this is actually a plan instead of just you havin' a control freak moment?"
That earned an actual giggle from Kitty, a muffled *bamf* of amusement from Kurt, and what might have been a snicker from Sam.
Scott's jaw twitched in that particular way that suggested he was counting to ten in his head. "We're here to win. Not to joke around. You think they're over there joking?"
All seven of them turned and looked over at the MageX table in perfect synchronization, like some kind of mutant-powered choreography.
Harry Potter was currently leaning back in his chair like a king holding court, while Jean Grey absentmindedly played with his hair, Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones flanked him like queens at a coronation, and the Weasley twins were animatedly scribbling odds on napkins while Luna Lovegood poured orange juice with one hand and drew what appeared to be a mythical creature on the tablecloth with the other. Everyone else was laughing and throwing out suggestions in between bites of toast, the whole scene radiating the kind of easy confidence that came from people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.
Tabitha raised her eyebrows and popped another grape in her mouth, her expression brightening considerably. "Yeah, Summers. Kinda looks like they're thriving over there. Almost like they're having... fun?"
"Fun doesn't win competitions," Scott said stiffly.
Rogue grinned wickedly and drawled, "Don't worry, Scott. When it all goes sideways—and honey, it will—Ah'll be sure to tell Harry you tried real hard with all your strategic plannin'."
"Oh, ha ha," Scott said, his voice getting even more wooden. "Very funny. You'll thank me when we're holding the trophy."
Kitty dropped her phone onto the table with a soft *thud*, finally smiling faintly. "Cheer up, Scott. At least when we lose, you can write a strongly-worded after-action report. Maybe PowerPoint presentation?"
"With charts," Tabitha added helpfully. "Lots of charts."
"And graphs," Kurt chimed in, bamfing from his chair to the table and back again. "Very official graphs."
Scott groaned and dropped his head into his hands, his carefully styled hair falling forward. "Why do I even bother?"
"Because you care," Piotr said gently, his voice carrying genuine warmth. "But perhaps... caring does not always mean controlling, da?"
At that exact moment, Fred and George's ward flickered faintly—and everyone at the table swore they heard Harry Potter's voice, faint but crystal clear, drift across the dining hall: "Nice try, Summers. You'll need to do better than that."
The ward shimmered once more, and then Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice added, "The Nargles say your aura is very... uptight."
And just like that, the entire X-Men table dissolved into snickers, giggles, and one very undignified snort from Sam.
Even Piotr was chuckling, his massive shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
Poor Scott never stood a chance. The boy was about to learn that you can't strategize your way out of being comprehensively out-charismaed by Harry Potter and his merry band of magical misfits.
This was going to be a very long day.
—
Danger Room — Noon
Status: Teams Assembled. Wardrobes: On Point. Trash Talk: Locked & Loaded. Logan: Already Annoyed.
Look, if you've never seen two teams of superpowered teenagers square off in a room specifically designed to test the limits of human endurance and good judgment, you're missing out on one of life's great spectacles. It's like watching the world's most dangerous fashion show, except everyone's armed and the runway might explode.
The Danger Room looked like a war zone waiting to happen—which, to be fair, was exactly the point. The vast metallic chamber stretched out in all directions, its surfaces gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights that made everything look like a scene from a very expensive science fiction movie. Holographic projectors lined the walls, ready to conjure up whatever nightmare scenario Professor Xavier's twisted imagination could devise.
Above, in the control booth that overlooked the arena like a modern-day gladiator pit, Logan leaned lazily against the console with a cigar already smoldering between his teeth. He was almost impressed at how dramatic these kids looked. Almost. Mostly he was just wondering how long it would take before someone did something spectacularly stupid and he'd have to go down there and sort it out.
Below, the two teams stood on opposite sides of the vast chamber, the silence between them sharp as adamantium claws and twice as dangerous.
On one side stood the X-Men—all sleek blues and yellows, looking exactly like they'd stepped out of Saturday morning cartoons that took themselves way too seriously. Scott Summers was front and center in his Cyclops gear, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight enough to crack stone. His ruby-quartz visor reflected the overhead lights, making him look like some kind of very intense, very uptight robot.
Behind him, Rogue casually adjusted her gloves with the kind of practiced ease that suggested she'd done this dance before. Her dark hair was pulled back in a style that managed to look both practical and effortlessly cool, and her expression suggested she was already three moves ahead of whatever Scott was planning.
Kitty Pryde cracked her knuckles and shifted her weight from foot to foot, her compact frame radiating nervous energy. She looked like she was trying to decide whether to phase through the floor or just walk out entirely.
Kurt Wagner bamfed back and forth restlessly, his blue form flickering in and out of existence like a hyperactive genie. Each teleportation left behind a small puff of sulfurous smoke that made the air smell like rotten eggs mixed with teenage anxiety.
Tabitha Smith was already spinning a little spark of plasma between her fingers like a cat with a ball of yarn, her expression bright with the kind of anticipation that usually ended with something catching fire. Her blonde hair caught the light as she grinned, and anyone with half a brain could see she was three seconds away from blowing something up just for the fun of it.
Sam Guthrie stood solid and ready, his posture suggesting he was prepared to blast off at a moment's notice. His Southern charm was somewhat undermined by the fact that he looked like he could punch through a brick wall without breaking a sweat.
Rahne Sinclair was practically vibrating with contained energy, her Scottish accent evident even in the way she held herself. She looked like she was fighting the urge to shift forms and start prowling around the room.
Piotr Rasputin, massive even in his human form, stood like a mountain of calm in the middle of all this teenage chaos. His Russian accent was subtle but unmistakable, and he had the kind of presence that made you feel safer just by being in the same room.
And then there was the other side.
MageX.
The moment they walked in, the temperature seemed to drop by about ten degrees, and not just because Daphne was unconsciously frosting the air around her. These weren't just teenagers in costumes—these were predators in elegant wrapping.
First came Harry—Marauder—and he looked every bit the part of someone who'd earned his reputation the hard way. His armor gleamed crimson and gold, the black and brown underlayers cutting a deadly silhouette that somehow managed to be both elegant and intimidating. His red hood stayed up, runes shimmering faintly along the edges to obscure his face in shadow that seemed to move independently of the light sources. The golden "M" on his chestplate glinted like a challenge, and even standing still, he somehow looked like he was already winning.
Beside him glided Jean—Phoenix—her emerald green and gold bodysuit catching the light like fire on water. Her golden Phoenix emblem blazed across her chest, wings spread wide as if ready to take flight. Her headpiece veiled her features in shimmering magic that made her look like something out of a fairy tale, if fairy tales involved incredibly dangerous women who could read your mind and probably set you on fire with a thought.
On either side of them came Susan—Veritas, sleek in yellow and black armored Quidditch gear that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood both fashion and function—and Daphne—Ice Queen, whose white-and-icy-blue suit gleamed like frost on a blade, her powers already creating delicate patterns of ice crystals across her exposed skin.
Cedric—Badger—stood solid and calm in his yellow and black armor, his claws flexing lazily at his sides. He had the kind of build that suggested he could probably bench press a small car, and his easy confidence suggested he'd probably done it before.
Neville—Thorn—loomed in earthy green and brown armor, looking every inch the tank everyone constantly underestimated. His transformation from the shy kid everyone remembered to this intimidating presence was one of those things that made you reconsider everything you thought you knew about people.
Luna—Halo—somehow managed to look whimsical and terrifying all at once, her royal blue and bronze suit glimmering under the lights like star-touched metal. Her magical radish earrings glowed faintly, and her hood hid everything else in shadow, making her seem like some kind of mystical oracle who might either bless you or curse you depending on her mood.
And finally—Angelina Johnson, whose red and gold armor caught the light like burnished copper. She had her broomstick casually balanced over her shoulder, and the cocky grin visible under her hood suggested she was looking forward to this more than anyone else in the room.
Even without knowing who was who, you could feel the magic rolling off them in waves. It was like standing too close to a thunderstorm—electric, dangerous, and absolutely impossible to ignore.
Scott's jaw tightened another notch when he saw them lined up like some kind of supernatural hit squad. His strategic mind was probably running through about seventeen different scenarios, and none of them ended well for his team.
Harry stepped forward first, hands loose at his sides, his hood shadowing his face just enough to make his grin seem sharper. When he spoke, his voice was magically disguised—lower, rougher, but still carrying that unmistakable infuriating confidence that made people want to either follow him into battle or punch him in the face.
"Well, well," he said, his tone carrying the kind of casual arrogance that suggested he'd already won and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up. "Nice of you to dress up for me, Summers. Cute visor. Does it come in grown-up sizes?"
Kitty made an audible choking sound, and even Rogue ducked her head to hide a smile that threatened to break her carefully maintained cool-girl facade.
Scott didn't take the bait—outwardly, anyway—but you could practically see his teeth grinding through his visor. "You're going to regret underestimating us, Potter."
Harry tilted his head slightly, like a predator curious about how much his prey would squirm before the end. "Oh, I'm counting on it. Should be entertaining."
"Entertaining?" Tabitha piped up, her plasma spark growing brighter. "Honey, we're about to school you so hard you'll need tutoring."
Jean's disguised voice carried a hint of amusement as she said, "That's adorable. Did you practice that one?"
"Oh, this is gonna be fun," Rogue drawled, her Southern accent thick with anticipation. "Can't wait to see what y'all are actually made of under all that pretty armor."
Daphne's icy blue aura shimmered faintly as she replied in her perfectly modulated voice, "Ice, mostly. Hope you don't mind the cold."
"Och, bring it on then," Rahne called out, her Scottish brogue thick with excitement. "Been itchin' for a proper scrap."
Luna's dreamy voice somehow carried perfectly across the room despite the hood. "The Nargles say this will be quite illuminating. They're rarely wrong about these things."
Kurt bamfed closer, his German accent evident as he said, "Perhaps we should focus on the competition, ja? Rather than the trash talk?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Angelina asked, spinning her broomstick with casual expertise. "Half the battle's psychological."
Logan's voice suddenly crackled over the PA system, rough and full of cigarette smoke and about seventeen different kinds of done with teenage drama.
"Alright, listen up, kids," he growled, his tone suggesting he'd rather be literally anywhere else. "Ground rules. First team to capture the other team's objective and get it back to their own zone wins. You can KO, pin, or trap your opponents to take 'em out—no permanent damage. We clear?"
MageX nodded almost in perfect sync, their movements eerily smooth and coordinated. It was like watching a well-oiled machine that happened to be made of teenagers and bad decisions.
The X-Men... mostly nodded. Scott nodded very seriously. Tabitha nodded while grinning maniacally. Kurt nodded while bamfing. It was less synchronized and more like a group of people who'd met in the hallway five minutes ago.
Logan smirked to himself and continued, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from years of dealing with superpowered teenagers who thought they knew everything.
"No killin'. No maimin'. No whinin'. Danger Room's set to Level Eight. You break somethin', I ain't fixin' it. And if you don't want me to come down there and show you how it's done, Summers..."
He paused for effect, letting his grin seep into his voice like poison into honey.
"...then don't screw it up. Begin when the buzzer sounds."
The PA cut off with a click that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
Below, Jean leaned just slightly closer to Harry, her disguised voice soft enough for only him to hear. "You're enjoying this way too much."
Harry's grin widened under the hood, and somehow you could hear it in his voice. "You love it."
"We all do," Susan added quietly, her voice carrying that particular warmth she reserved for moments like this. "Now go show him why you're in charge."
Daphne's icy blue aura shimmered faintly as she added, "Make it quick, darling. I have a nail appointment at three."
Harry cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders back as the buzzer began to count down, his body language shifting from casual confidence to predatory focus.
Three.
Two.
One.
His voice—distorted and magically amplified—cut through the Danger Room like a knife through silk.
"MageX... Hunt."
And with that single word, they moved.
The X-Men never stood a chance.
This was about to become a masterclass in the difference between a team that followed orders and a pack that moved like extensions of the same deadly mind. Scott's carefully planned strategy was about to meet Harry Potter's particular brand of beautiful chaos.
And honestly? It was going to be spectacular.
---
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