HELICARRIER – LEVEL 7, LANDING BAY – 9:03 AM
The X-Jet slid onto the landing bay like a ninja in a tuxedo—silent, sleek, and trying desperately not to stir the emotional hurricane already swirling around the Helicarrier. Harry stood waiting, hands jammed into his pockets with the kind of cool detachment only a guy who's survived a thousand psychic rollercoasters could pull off. His emerald eyes scanned the jet like a hawk that secretly enjoyed a good show.
The ramp hissed down, and out stepped Professor Charles Xavier—calm, composed, and radiating that unmistakable vibe of "I know exactly what's going on, and you don't." He adjusted his glasses with the precision of a man who'd memorized every crisis this team could throw at him. Behind him shuffled Scott Summers, wearing a scowl sharp enough to cut glass, the kind of expression that screamed, I'm only here because my therapist said it was good for me. You could practically hear his internal monologue: "Why is Harry here? Why is Jean not here? Why is everything terrible?"
Bringing up the rear was Hank McCoy, arms crossed, looking simultaneously like he wished he'd taken a vacation to a volcano and also ready to punch anyone dumb enough to mess with the team. You could tell Hank was the guy who'd explain the molecular composition of your face before shattering it with his own.
"Professor," Harry greeted smoothly, voice just on the edge of casual but sharp enough to slice through tension like a hot knife through butter.
"Harry," Xavier nodded, his eyes twinkling behind those signature glasses—like a chess master who just spotted a checkmate no one else saw. "We have our work cut out for us."
Scott shot Harry a look so pointed it could've been patented as a weapon. No words necessary—the message was loud and clear: You know exactly what you did.
Harry smirked, that perfect mix of charm and trouble lighting up his features. "Morning, Scott. You know me—I don't do easy. I do challenge."
Scott rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "More like heartbreak, but whatever."
Hank finally broke the silence with a weary sigh that sounded like it came from a man who's been studying both particle physics and human stupidity for decades. "If this is going to be a psychic crisis, I'm going to need triple espresso, minimal drama, and preferably no one exploding in tears."
Xavier's lips curved into a subtle smile, the kind of expression that said, You're all hopeless but lovable. "Madelyn Pryor is no ordinary case. Sinister's handiwork is more twisted than usual—fragile, fractured, fiercely loyal to a cause that isn't her own. Harry, your particular... talents will be indispensable."
Harry gave Scott a sideways glance, voice low and teasing, "See? Even the professor's got my back. You're just jealous."
Scott scoffed, folding his arms like a storm cloud gathering more thunder. "Jealous? Of you? Please. If she bites my head off, I'm blaming you. And no amount of your charming burns will save you."
Harry's grin widened. "Deal. But if I bite back harder, don't say I didn't warn you."
The X-Jet's engines hummed down, the team bracing themselves for the psychic circus about to unfold. Harry, as always, was the eye of the storm—equal parts savior, sarcastic mastermind, and master of savage burns. And honestly? No one was quite ready for the show he was about to put on.
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, CONTAINMENT FACILITY – 9:22 AM
The sterile white halls of the containment wing were the kind of place that looked like it should be calm and clinical, but instead smelled like tension mixed with too many nervous glances. You could almost hear the walls whispering, "Brace yourselves, this isn't your average day." Harry led the charge, trying to channel his inner Mr. Charming Guide but mostly flubbing it thanks to the electric awkwardness hanging around like an unwelcome guest at a family dinner.
"Jean's been holding up," Harry said quietly, eyes flicking between the team like a general scanning a battlefield. "But Madelyn… well, she's something else entirely. Like a soap opera with way too many plot twists—and no commercial breaks."
Hank McCoy let out a snort that was part amusement, part "I-can't-believe-I'm-stuck-with-this" grumble. "From what I've seen, Sinister didn't just cook up a clone—he churned out a whole damn soap opera with extra chaos on top. Genetic tampering, brainwashing, emotional breakdowns… it's a mess that would make daytime TV blush."
Professor Xavier, ever the dignified calm in the storm, sighed deeply, folding his hands as if weighing the fate of the universe on this conversation alone. "Madelyn Pryor was created to be the perfect copy. But the layers of brainwashing and genetic manipulation have rendered her dangerously unstable. Jean is counting on us to breach that conditioning, to pull Madelyn back from the brink."
Scott Summers leaned back against the wall, arms crossed with that familiar storm-cloud scowl, glancing sideways at Harry. "And here I was thinking my personal drama was complicated."
Harry arched a brow, smirk twitching at the corners. "Scott, you're just a simple guy. Me? I'm a full-blown season of a superhero soap opera—with magical guest stars, recurring villains, and plot twists that would make even Shakespeare raise an eyebrow."
Scott's eyes narrowed, voice dripping with mock pity. "Yeah, well, try not to get canceled mid-season."
Harry's grin deepened, emerald eyes flashing. "No worries. I'm the star and the scriptwriter. Plus, I'm pretty sure I've got the best lines."
Hank shook his head, muttering, "I just want to get through this without needing a PhD in emotional trauma."
Xavier's gaze softened, yet his voice held that unmistakable weight of command and hope. "We're not just here to survive this, gentlemen. We're here to fix it. Together."
As they rounded the corner, the door to the containment chamber loomed ahead—a threshold to the heart of the chaos. Harry took a breath, ready to dive back into the storm, where magic, madness, and a bit of savage wit would be his only weapons.
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, ISOLATION CHAMBER – 9:35 AM
(A room softly humming with psychic dampeners, bathed in blue light—the kind of calming spa lighting you'd use if your spa guest could kill you with a thought.)
Harry stepped into the chamber like it was just another Tuesday, hands in his pockets, cape flicking behind him like it had better places to be. His emerald eyes swept the room, locking immediately onto the girl in the middle: Madelyn Pryor, sitting cross-legged on the floor like a sulking goddess. Her fiery red hair spilled over her shoulders like it was contractually obligated to look dramatic. Her eyes? A blender mix of obsession, confusion, rage, and enough identity crisis to fuel a dozen therapy sessions.
And right beside her, standing tall in that heart-wrenching "please don't explode" stance, was Jean Grey—powerful, graceful, and looking like she was simultaneously trying to reason with her clone and ignore the smoldering, completely not subtle look Harry was sending her way.
"Madelyn," Jean said gently, voice smooth but taut, like someone trying to disarm a bomb made of feelings. "You're not who they told you to be. You're more than a pawn. More than just… a copy."
Madelyn's eyes sharpened, snapping to Jean with a slow, serpentine smirk that said, I've been rehearsing this comeback in my head for weeks.
"I am Jean," she purred. "Just... better. Stronger. Prettier. With less baggage and better taste in men."
Okay. That last one? Aimed like a heat-seeking missile right at Harry.
Harry, for the record, didn't flinch. He tilted his head, gave her a half-lidded smirk that could melt steel, and said, "Sweetheart, if you were really me, you wouldn't need to advertise it so hard. Confidence doesn't shout—it strolls in, makes a sarcastic remark, and wins the room. Like I just did."
Behind him, Scott Summers groaned dramatically. "Oh my god, why does he always do this? Why is he always right there with the one-liner?"
Hank, leaning against the wall with a coffee cup he definitely wasn't supposed to have in this containment zone, muttered, "Because he's Harry freaking Potter. And you, dear boy, are unfortunately stuck in a never-ending love triangle where you're the sad angle."
Scott made a strangled noise that might've been a protest… or maybe just the sound of a man watching the girl he loved flirt with his archrival again.
Jean, to her credit, didn't blush. Not visibly, anyway. She did, however, glance sideways at Harry with a flicker of a smile that was definitely not protocol-friendly.
"Harry," she said, voice clipped. "Focus, please."
"Oh, I'm focused," Harry replied smoothly, walking closer to the glass. "Focused on helping. And also focused on how your hair somehow looks like it's been styled by a team of angels mid-battle. Multitasking."
Madelyn's eyes narrowed. "So this is the famous Potter. The magical meatbag Jean can't stop thinking about."
"Well," Harry said, flashing her a grin that probably violated SHIELD's conduct policy. "I am hard to forget. Comes with the whole 'tragic backstory meets god-tier charm' package."
Professor Xavier, seated calmly in his hoverchair just off to the side, steepled his fingers and cleared his throat in a way that said, Please, for the love of mutantkind, don't turn this into a soap opera battle royale.
"Madelyn," he said in that signature Patrick Stewart rumble, "you are not here to compete. You are here to reclaim your identity. What Sinister has done to you was not your fault, and you have a choice now."
Madelyn hesitated. For a moment, the fire dimmed in her eyes. But then she looked at Jean again, and whatever was fragile in her face twisted into something crueler. "A choice? Between being the real Jean… or being second best?"
"You're not second to anyone," Jean said gently, stepping closer. "You're not me, Madelyn. You're you. And that's enough."
The words hung in the air like a heartbeat.
And then, of course, Scott had to ruin it.
"Jean, are you sure we should be this close? She might lash out. Maybe you should let me take point—"
"Oh, relax, Summers," Harry drawled. "She already tried to seduce me with death threats and emotional damage. If she was gonna lash out, she would've done it by now."
Scott turned bright red. "She what—? Wait, what? You didn't tell us she—"
"Relax, Scott," Jean interrupted, her tone light but eyes locked on Harry. "He handles emotionally unhinged redheads better than most."
Harry gave her a crooked grin. "It's a gift. Tragic, really."
The chamber hummed softly. The psychic barriers held steady. But within the walls, the tension coiled like a snake ready to strike—except this time, the snake had trust issues, a doppelgänger complex, and possibly a crush on the guy who just refused to take things seriously.
In short: this was about to get a whole lot messier. And Harry?
Harry lived for messy.
—
HELICARRIER – OBSERVATION ROOM – 10:05 AM
(One-way glass, dim lighting, tension thick enough to cut with an adamantium claw.)
Four men. One very messy psychic situation unfolding below. And enough emotional awkwardness in the air to power a mid-tier drama series for three seasons and a streaming spinoff.
Professor Xavier sat closest to the glass, his fingers gently steepled, that classic Patrick Stewart serenity plastered on his face — which, let's be honest, probably masked at least twelve levels of telepathic "I am too old for this hormonal nonsense."
Beside him, Hank McCoy was sipping a dangerously oversized cup of tea (yes, tea), trying very hard to pretend he wasn't part of the reality show slowly unraveling beside him. His expression said, I have two doctorates and yet somehow I'm stuck third-wheeling a psychic soap opera.
Then there was Scott Summers. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Eyes narrowed behind his visor like a laser sight. The guy was practically vibrating with bottled-up angst and the kind of rejection energy Taylor Swift could write an entire album about.
And finally, there was Harry Potter — tall, broad-shouldered, radiating that insufferably smug confidence that only came from surviving a childhood full of dark lords, time travel, and British boarding school politics. His emerald eyes gleamed as he watched Jean work below with Madelyn, but his smirk? That was reserved for Scott.
Scott finally broke the silence with a voice that tried to sound calm but instead landed somewhere between "gravelly brooding" and "someone took my puppy."
"Jean chose you over me."
Harry turned slowly, one brow arching like the universe had just delivered him a gift wrapped in insecurity and sprinkled with salt.
"You're like a five-year-old who just realized the ice cream truck skipped your street," he said, tone way too casual. "And now you're standing there holding an empty cone and blaming the guy who did get ice cream."
Scott shot him a glare so intense it probably singed the air.
"You know it's true," he growled.
Harry just shrugged, like he'd been accused of stealing hearts and was absolutely guilty. "Yeah, but you also know Jean's got a type. Fiery? Complicated? Occasionally telekinetically destructive? You're looking at the deluxe edition, Summers."
Down below, Jean — who was supposed to be focusing on Madelyn's very fragile psyche — flicked a glance up toward the observation glass and smirked. Not just a polite "boys, behave" smirk. Oh no. This one had teeth. And maybe a little heat.
"Scott," she said sweetly (and way too loud for a "private" psychic therapy session), "you're more than welcome to come back. But just… be ready to share the spotlight."
Harry grinned, slow and lethal. The kind of grin that said, She just called me the spotlight, and I'm absolutely framing that quote.
Scott made a noise that was either a groan or the last gasp of his self-respect.
"Sharing? With him?" he muttered, as if the idea personally offended the very foundation of his mutant DNA.
"Hey," Harry said, raising both hands in mock innocence. "I'm not that bad. I bathe regularly, save the world, do my own dry cleaning—unless I'm fighting a demon horde, in which case it gets scorched anyway. Plus, I've got an entire arsenal of Savage Burns I haven't even unleashed yet. Don't tempt me."
"I'm tempted to eject you from the Helicarrier," Scott grumbled.
"I mean, go ahead," Harry replied breezily. "But Jean might miss me. Psychically. Emotionally. Occasionally physically."
Hank cleared his throat loudly, without looking up from his tablet. "As the designated scientist in this dysfunctional quartet, I'd like to request a time-out before Scott tries to laser-blast someone and I have to clean up another melted wall."
Xavier, ever the peacekeeper, finally interjected with a dry chuckle.
"Gentlemen, as much as I enjoy the youthful... enthusiasm, perhaps we should remain focused on the objective: helping Madelyn. Not emotionally reenacting The Bachelor: Mutant Edition."
That earned a snort from Hank. Scott sulked. Harry, of course, smirked wider.
And Jean?
She kept working — her psychic energy glowing just a touch brighter — as if someone had just handed her a fresh bouquet of emotional chaos, and she was oddly okay with it.
Welcome to love, telepathy, and the Helicarrier: Mutant hearts. Savage burns. And exactly zero chill.
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, CONTAINMENT FACILITY – 11:00 AM
(AKA: The part of the Helicarrier where therapy meets chaos, clone drama simmers, and eye contact is deadlier than most weapons.)
The psychic session was still going strong — or as strong as you could expect when one of the participants had been genetically engineered to hate everyone in the room. Professor Charles Xavier, the embodiment of polite telepathic pressure (and Patrick Stewart–level dignity), sat poised like a psychic maestro at the edge of Madelyn's fractured mind, navigating memories like landmines.
Across the room, Jean Grey stood with her eyes closed, hands loosely clasped at her sides, aura glowing with that signature fiery intensity that screamed queen energy. Her expression was focused but warm — the exact face you'd want leading you out of a mental breakdown or into battle. Possibly both.
Harry?
Harry Potter was doing his thing.
Which is to say: leaning against a wall like it was a throne, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle, emerald eyes sharp and alert. Cloak of Levitation flicking slightly behind him even though there was zero breeze. The man had all the posture of someone who could break the tension with either a smirk or a sword, depending on the vibe.
He caught Jean's eye, and with the smallest twitch of his lips, mouthed:
You got this.
Jean's gaze softened instantly. That fierce, fire-kissed confidence flared in her expression, like the words had lit a match inside her chest. She gave him a nod — tiny, but powerful.
Scott saw it.
Of course Scott saw it.
He'd been standing behind Xavier, arms crossed, pretending to be focused on Madelyn but actually laser-locked on Jean the whole time. His visor couldn't show emotion, but the barely-audible sigh that escaped his lips said it all: "She smiled at him. Again. She used to smile like that at me."
Cue the internal emo soundtrack.
Meanwhile, Madelyn — who had been sitting rigid and unreadable for most of the session — slowly turned her head toward Harry. Not with that creepy, obsessive fixation she usually aimed at Jean. No, this look was… different. Curious. Intrigued. Like she'd just realized the mysterious, stupidly attractive wizard in the corner wasn't just background set dressing — he was interesting.
Her eyes lingered.
Harry, being Harry, noticed immediately. He gave her a single eyebrow raise, as if to say, Yeah, I saw that.
Then leaned just slightly toward Jean without looking away and whispered under his breath, "Your clone's staring at me."
Jean didn't open her eyes. "She has taste."
"Dangerous taste," he muttered. "But still — flattered."
Scott definitely heard that. And his arms crossed even tighter, which was impressive, considering he was probably one snark away from folding into a pretzel.
"Oh, great," Scott muttered, voice soaked in salt. "She's flirting with him now. That's just… perfect."
"Relax," Harry said without missing a beat, "she's not flirting. That was more of a who the hell is this guy and why do I want to kiss him or kill him kind of stare. I get it a lot."
Xavier, without looking up, dryly added, "In fairness, he's not wrong. Most of the women on this team have stared at Mr. Potter that way at some point."
"Guilty," Hank murmured behind his cup of tea.
Scott shot him a look. "Seriously?"
"What?" Hank shrugged. "I'm a scientist, not blind."
Below, Madelyn finally blinked and looked away, but the damage was done. The energy in the room had shifted, and everyone felt it. Including Jean — who finally opened her eyes and glanced at Harry, biting back a smirk.
Harry raised an eyebrow and leaned closer, voice low and wicked. "Careful, darling. You keep smiling at me like that, and Scott's gonna need therapy and a helmet."
Scott groaned. "I hate this team."
"You hate losing," Harry corrected, then added with a wink, "but we forgive you."
And with that, the Helicarrier's containment chamber returned to its regularly scheduled psychic programming — only now with a side of simmering tension, redhead rivalry, and enough romantic heat to fry a Cerebro interface.
One thing was certain: This session? Just got a whole lot more interesting.
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 7, CONTAINMENT CHAMBER – 10:22 AM
(Where minds are battlefields, trauma is the soundtrack, and telepaths should really come with warning labels.)
The lights dimmed automatically as Professor Charles Xavier's psychic signature rolled through the room — soft but steady, like the universe itself was politely asking you to take a seat and behave. Blue runes etched into the reinforced walls pulsed in time with the psychic dampeners, casting an eerie glow that made everyone look like they were standing inside a giant magical fish tank. Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely inaccurate.
Jean Grey stepped toward the containment field, all fiery grace and fierce compassion wrapped in the posture of someone who absolutely could launch you across a continent if provoked. Her red hair was pulled back in a battle braid, her eyes steady and locked onto the figure within — Madelyn Pryor, her clone, her shadow, her living trauma wrapped in a gorgeous package and dipped in barely suppressed rage.
From his place at the console, Harry Potter adjusted the controls with one hand and held a mug in the other that read "#1 Wizard, #2 Therapist." His emerald eyes flicked to the psychic readings on the screen, then back to Xavier, standing poised like a general at the edge of a psychic warzone.
"Lower the internal dampeners," Xavier said quietly, his voice calm but carrying that unmistakable Patrick Stewart authority that made everyone instinctively sit up straighter. "Just enough for a controlled link."
"Lowering to 42%," Harry replied, fingers dancing across the glowing interface. "Enough for a conversation. Not enough for a psychic lobotomy."
He glanced sideways at Scott Summers, who was standing just close enough to be involved but just far enough to look like he was pretending he wasn't pouting.
"Still your department, right?" Harry added, ever the king of the casual nuke.
Scott muttered something under his breath that probably translated to I hate this man with the heat of a thousand collapsing stars.
Hank, behind them, sipped his tea and offered cheerfully, "Actually, lobotomies are more of a 1940s thing. These days we prefer cognitive recalibration via synaptic relay induction."
Harry didn't look up. "Cool. If this goes south, you're explaining that to SHIELD legal."
The shimmering energy field between Jean and Madelyn pulsed, then thinned—like the psychic air between them was being vacuum-sealed. The temperature dropped a few degrees. The kind of cold that didn't touch your skin but slipped right into your bones.
Madelyn sat in the center of the room, one leg crossed over the other, posture regal and unsettlingly calm. Her eyes snapped to Jean's like magnets snapping into place — glowing faintly red, the same way headlights glow right before a crash.
"Oh," Madelyn purred, voice silky and sharp all at once. "You've brought your little minds to play. Should I be gentle? Or would that ruin the fun?"
Jean didn't flinch. "You don't have to fight anymore."
Madelyn blinked. For a flicker of a moment, she looked… young. Achingly young. Like a child caught between two mirrors, trying to figure out who she was supposed to be.
"Fight?" she said softly, tilting her head. "I don't fight, Jean."
Then her voice dropped, venom threading through every syllable.
"I survive."
"And I remember."
Her gaze flicked past Jean, right to Harry, and stayed there.
There was something different in her eyes this time — not obsession, not rage. Just curiosity. Interest. Like she was seeing him for the first time as more than just Jean's favorite magical backup dancer.
Harry, of course, noticed. Because Harry always noticed.
He leaned against the console, the dim blue light catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the emerald in his eyes practically glowing. He gave Madelyn a look — that particular half-smirk that said I see you seeing me. And I'm flattered but also very, very dangerous.
Scott, naturally, saw it too. And if looks could kill, Harry would've been a pile of British ashes on the floor.
Jean noticed everything.
And just slightly… smiled.
"Harry," Xavier said, not looking up, "please maintain focus."
"I am focused," Harry replied, not missing a beat. "I'm just multitasking. You'd be surprised how many things I can juggle at once — trauma, psychic clones, crippling emotional tension, and flirting with Jean. I'm basically a circus act."
"A dangerous one," Jean murmured, without turning her head.
"The best kind," Harry shot back, eyes never leaving Madelyn.
"Why does he always sound like a Bond villain?" Scott muttered.
"Because," Hank said, tapping a button on his tablet, "he basically is. If James Bond could do wandless magic, cook, and wear a Henley like it's tailored by the gods."
The containment field pulsed again — now humming louder, like it could feel the rising energy in the room.
"Here we go," Jean whispered, stepping fully into Madelyn's line of sight.
Across the psychic link, emotions crackled like lightning: pain, anger, confusion, envy — love twisted into something dangerous.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, standing between the fury of a clone and the heart of a telepath, was Harry.
Exactly where he always seemed to end up —
At the center of someone else's storm.
But perfectly dressed for it.
—
INSIDE THE MINDSCAPE
(Welcome to the mental plane. No seatbelts, no exits, and definitely no therapist on call.)
If reality was a painting, this place had been set on fire, dipped in glitter, and reassembled by someone who had clearly read too many gothic romance novels while crying. Jean Grey stood at the center of what looked like the skeletal remains of a cathedral — the kind you'd find on a haunted postcard or the final boss level of a horror video game.
The sky around them stretched out like an endless bruise — all indigo and storm clouds — while fragments of floating stained glass panels hovered in the air, each one flickering between memories. Some real. Some… Sinister. (In both senses of the word.)
"Well," Jean muttered, stepping onto a tile that wobbled like a bad idea in heels. "This is a whole vibe."
Every step she took sent a ripple through the dreamscape — the tiles shifted, reshaped, cracked, and spun like they were rearranging the past one footstep at a time. The architecture responded to her, not like it trusted her, but like it was watching and judging. Rude.
Across the cathedral — standing barefoot on nothing but a ribbon of unraveling memory — was Madelyn Pryor, looking like Jean's reflection if it had been raised on spite, fire, and a steady diet of abandonment issues. Her hair swirled in the wind like it had its own drama arc, and her form shimmered between herself and… something else. A familiar shadow. That same calculating smirk Jean had seen too many times in Sinister's red-eyed gaze.
"This isn't your mind," Jean said gently, trying not to trip on a moving floor tile. "It's what he made you believe."
Madelyn tilted her head, and her eyes flashed — a little sad, a little deadly. "No, Jean. This is my mind. It's what he built. Layer by layer. Memory by memory. Obsession... by design."
And suddenly, behind her, the stained glass glowed — scenes coming to life like a psychic movie reel from hell:
Scott, pining hopelessly after Jean.
Harry, gently holding Jean's face like she was the only star in his sky.
Jean, looking away — and always, always leaving Madelyn behind in the dark.
"He told me you abandoned me," Madelyn said, stepping forward. Her voice echoed now — Jean's, but rougher, with Sinister's cadence clinging to every word like mold. "That you forgot me. That I was just… a copy. Not good enough. Not real enough to deserve light."
Jean winced, the pain hitting hard and sharp. "Madelyn… You're not a copy. You're not a mistake. You're a person. He twisted everything. What he did—"
"What you did," Madelyn snapped, voice rising like a tidal wave crashing in slow motion. "You got everything. The powers. The friends. The X-Men club card. The ridiculous phoenix upgrade pack. And him."
Her gaze snapped toward one of the floating stained glass illusions — Harry, arm wrapped around Jean, head dipped toward her forehead, soft affection in his stupidly handsome face.
Jean's chest tightened.
"Madelyn, please—"
But it was too late.
The cathedral cracked.
Right down the middle.
And then all the light in the world decided to rage-quit.
"NO!" Madelyn screamed, her voice splitting into two tones — one hers, and one unmistakably belonging to the man who ruined them both. "You listen to me!"
The floor shattered into glowing shards of memory. The walls twisted into tendrils of shadow. The stained glass screamed as it exploded inward.
Sinister's laugh — sharp, cruel, smug — echoed around them, though his body never appeared.
Jean backed up, fire starting to flicker across her skin, her hair lifting in psychic winds. "Madelyn, you're stronger than him. He doesn't own you—"
But Madelyn's mouth opened… and his voice poured out.
"She is yours, Jean Grey," Sinister said, all velvet menace and condescension. "But she is mine too. And I do. Not. Let. Go."
Jean's fists clenched.
"Well, Sinister," she hissed through her teeth, "you're about to learn what happens when someone tries to play god in my house."
Behind her, fire began to burn through the shadows.
This cathedral may have been built by Sinister…
But Jean Grey?
She was about to burn it to the ground.
And honestly?
Madelyn Pryor was more than ready to watch the flames.
—
OUTSIDE – OBSERVATION ROOM
(Three minds enter. One nervous simp practically gnaws the furniture.)
The Helicarrier's Observation Room was quiet — but not the peaceful kind of quiet. More like the-eye-of-the-storm-while-waiting-for-your-psychic-ex-girlfriend-to-fight-her-clone-who's-possessed-by-a-genetic-supervillain kind of quiet.
Which, weirdly enough, had become normal for this team.
The wall-length screen flickered with psionic data, casting everyone's face in shades of violet and ghostly blue. In the center, a live mental feed glitched and shimmered like a dream trying not to unravel.
Scott Summers was planted at the front, leaning so far forward in his chair he might as well have been trying to crawl into the screen. His jaw was locked tight, like he was holding back a lecture, a confession, and a panic attack all at once.
"We should pull her out," he said. Again. For the third time in five minutes.
Harry Potter, who had been standing near the console with the relaxed poise of a man who'd faced dementors, demigods, and the DMV without flinching, didn't look up. His arms were crossed, his emerald eyes locked on the screen.
"You pull Jean out of a psychic battle," he said calmly, "you'd better be ready to catch whatever piece of Madelyn's trauma latches onto her spine and follows her out."
Scott frowned. "That's dramatic."
"That's accurate," Harry shot back.
From behind them, Hank McCoy sighed and set down his third cup of tea — which, considering the circumstances, might as well have been his emotional support beverage.
"Jean's mind is holding," Hank said, glancing at his readings. "But Madelyn's psyche is a labyrinth. And it's booby-trapped with Sinister's mental failsafes. It's like trying to untangle a Christmas light strand from Hell."
"So… we wait?" Scott muttered, clearly hating every nanosecond of it.
"Yes," Harry said, still calm. "We wait."
"You sound awfully sure," Scott added, giving Harry a sideways glance sharp enough to slice bread.
And that did it.
Harry finally turned.
No smirk. No teasing. Just raw certainty behind those green eyes — the kind that could gut you politely and still be invited to dinner afterward.
"Because Jean Grey," Harry said slowly, "is the strongest mind I've ever seen. And I've met literal gods, Scott. She's stronger than Sinister. Stronger than me. And definitely stronger than you."
Scott flinched like the words had physically hit him. Which, to be fair, they kind of had.
"She's not just powerful," Harry added. "She's terrifyingly brilliant. She's got empathy like a scalpel. She walks into someone's broken mind and starts rebuilding it. With love. You ever try loving someone out of their own trauma, Summers? It's not flashy. It's not loud. But it's god-tier hard."
Scott opened his mouth. Closed it again. Looked at the floor like it owed him an apology.
"Right," he mumbled. "Let's just hope she remembers that."
Harry gave him a long look, then tilted his head, the smirk finally returning like a lion stretching after a nap.
"Oh, she does," he said. "She just forgets how unfair that makes her. Especially to anyone still hung up on her."
Scott didn't respond.
Hank, without looking up, murmured, "Savage Burn: Level Omega."
Harry turned back to the screen.
Inside, the minds of two redheads battled for freedom, identity, and probably control of several high-tier emotional metaphors. But out here?
The ex-boyfriend had been roasted.
The tea had gone cold.
And Harry Potter was still undefeated.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!