BACK INSIDE THE MIND
(Cue Round Two: Emotional Clarity vs. Manufactured Madness. Ding ding.)
The cathedral — or what was left of it — swayed on invisible currents in the mental plane, like it wasn't sure whether to stay together or finish collapsing in dramatic slow motion. The stained-glass windows flickered erratically, flashing moments from Madelyn's warped memories like a psychic Instagram reel from hell.
Jean Grey stood at the center, hair dancing in the astral breeze, her boots resting on a floating tile that didn't look particularly interested in supporting her weight. Her eyes burned gold — not Phoenix fire this time, but something quieter. Kinder. Less "space goddess of rebirth," more "high school counselor who also moonlights as a Jedi."
She faced Madelyn, who had backed herself into the fractured altar, wild-eyed and bristling with fury and sadness and every other color in the emotional trauma rainbow.
"I'm not here to fight you," Jean said, her voice calm but sharp enough to slice through denial. "I'm here to save you."
Madelyn's laugh was a brittle thing — all sharp edges and bad memories.
"Oh, please. I don't want saving," she snapped, arms outstretched like a tragic villain monologuing on a soap opera cliffhanger. "I want to be you! The original! The chosen one! The girl who gets the powers, the praise, the guy, the everything!"
Jean didn't flinch. She just tilted her head a little, like she was seeing something new — and heartbreaking.
"No," Jean said softly, stepping forward. "You don't want to be me."
She raised one hand, glowing golden at the fingertips.
"You want to be seen. And I do. I see you, Madelyn."
Something cracked. Not in the cathedral — in the air. The shadows paused mid-creep, like they were waiting for a cue. Madelyn froze, eyes darting, expression confused.
Then came the light.
Not Phoenix flame — not cosmic fire or world-ending drama. Just a warm, golden shimmer that pulsed outward from Jean like a heartbeat made of sunrise. Her psychic energy wasn't trying to dominate. It didn't burn. It soothed.
It reached out gently — not to consume, but to embrace.
Madelyn blinked. Her projection flickered — she was still her, but not just Sinister's puppet anymore. The edges softened. Her posture wavered.
"You're... real?" she whispered, like she couldn't quite believe it.
Jean nodded, a faint smile breaking through the steel. "And so are you."
Madelyn stared at her like she was seeing herself for the first time — not a clone, not a shadow, not a footnote in someone else's origin story. Her.
And just like that, the shadows started to dissolve — not fleeing in fear, but fading like old ghosts finally told they could rest. The stained glass settled into whole pictures. The floor tiles stopped wobbling like indecisive Jenga pieces. For once, the cathedral breathed.
Madelyn dropped to her knees.
Not like she was surrendering.
Like she was exhausted.
Jean didn't hesitate. She went down with her, the hem of her coat brushing against ancient psychic dust, and reached out — not to delete, not to overwrite, not to fix.
Just to hold.
Madelyn stared at her hands like they were made of starlight.
"You're not supposed to hold onto the broken parts," she whispered.
Jean smiled, bittersweet and brilliant. "That's exactly what we do, Maddie. We hold them. Until they stop hurting."
The dreamscape stayed still.
For the first time since it began, no one screamed.
No one shattered.
And two red-haired girls knelt in the ruins of their trauma… finally not alone.
—
OUTSIDE – 10:47 AM
(Three minds return. One clone takes her first real breath — and someone's about to break their emotional piñata.)
Jean Grey stumbled back into her own skin with a gasp, like someone yanked her from the eye of a psychic hurricane. One hand shot out, pressing against the glass like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her eyes, still glowing faintly with that fierce golden light, scanned the room — and then locked onto Harry.
Inside the containment chamber, Madelyn was no longer suspended midair, screaming like the world was ending. Instead, she was curled on the cold floor, chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths — not quite whole, but definitely here. Present. Grounded.
Professor Xavier exhaled like he'd been holding the weight of the world in his lungs for far too long.
"She's… grounded," he said softly, voice cracking just a little. "Not healed. Not whole. But no longer Sinister's puppet."
Scott Summers took a step forward, looking like he wanted to say something profound but was instead stuck in the emotional equivalent of a traffic jam.
"Jean," he asked, voice rough but hopeful, "you okay?"
Jean gave a single, firm nod — and then, just like that, her gaze flicked directly to Harry.
His emerald eyes met hers with that trademark blend of quiet confidence and something warmer — a smile that said, Told you so.
"Told you you'd win," he murmured.
Without hesitation, Jean closed the distance and walked straight into Harry's waiting arms. The kind of embrace that made the rest of the room forget to breathe for a second.
Scott's jaw literally dropped. Somewhere deep inside, an emotional piñata exploded — and he looked like he'd just gotten beaned by every piece.
Before anyone could process, the door swung open with a dramatic whoosh and Tonks bounced in, her trademark mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief.
"So, uh… does this mean we've got another sister-wife now? Or is this just a really complicated game of psychic musical chairs?"
Madelyn groaned, voice muffled but clear enough to cut through the tension.
"You people are exhausting."
Harry snorted, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Welcome to the family," he said, voice low enough that only Jean and Tonks could hear the delicious promise hidden beneath the words.
Jean's smile deepened, and Tonks winked — the kind of look that said, Oh, this is going to be fun.
Meanwhile, Scott just stood there, still trying to piece together what just happened — and maybe wondering if he should start taking notes on how to actually compete with Harry.
Hank, ever the calm in the storm, sipped his tea and muttered, "I'm just here for the emotional fireworks."
And if the Helicarrier had walls, they'd be shaking with the coming chaos.
But right now?
Right now, it was victory.
And the kind of family no one could ever forget.
—
HELICARRIER — TRAINING DECK — ONE WEEK LATER — 07:15 AM
(Where family bonding means trying to kill each other in regulated intervals.)
The Helicarrier gym was loud.
Not just "someone dropped a barbell" loud. No, this was full-on apocalypse with better lighting loud.
Metal clanged. Sparks flew. Someone (probably Tonks) was yelling, "Two-to-one odds on Potter!" over the sound of a punching bag gasping its last breath.
The air smelled like sweat, ozone, and the kind of bad decisions you wake up regretting the next morning.
In the center of the sparring mat stood Harry Potter.
Emerald-eyed. Broad-shouldered. T-shirt clinging to him like it was auditioning for Best Supporting Actor. His hair—God bless it—looked like it had been styled by a leaf blower. Which, knowing Harry, was entirely possible.
His hoodie had been abandoned on the bench. His hands, though… they had not been abandoned.
From them gleamed claws. Black vibranium, each one shimmering faintly blue as if a lightning storm had gotten bored and decided to live in his fingers. The edges crackled with magic like they were just waiting for a good excuse to ruin somebody's morning.
Across from him stood two of the most intimidating father figures Earth had to offer.
Logan.
The Wolverine. Arms folded. Claws already out. Face set to his usual patented scowl: equal parts I hate you, I respect you, and if you say one more word I will absolutely stab you. Hugh Jackman would've been proud.
And then… Alexei Shostakov.
The Red Guardian. Loud. Red-suited. Flexing like he was posing for a Soviet action figure box, all while bellowing in Russian about "honor" and "crushing British wizard boy like beetle." David Harbour in peak, glorious form.
On the bench sat Laura and Natasha, arms folded so perfectly in sync they could've passed for professional judges. Laura's claws tapped on her thigh like she was keeping score. Natasha sipped her coffee with all the calm menace of a woman who'd already decided where to hide your body.
Tonks was near the corner, waving a wad of cash and yelling something about "double or nothing."
Jean and Ororo? They had snacks. Because of course they did.
Harry gave his claws a lazy twirl and flashed a grin that was equal parts charming and deeply offensive.
"All right, gentlemen," he said, voice smooth as warm butter and twice as dangerous. "Let's keep this short, yeah? Natasha's promised me breakfast. And frankly…" His claws sparked, catching the light, "I can only handle so much emotional trauma before eight A.M."
Logan uncrossed his arms and let his claws extend with a metallic snikt! that made half the room flinch.
He growled. Which, for Logan, was basically a love language.
"Smart mouth," he said.
Harry tilted his head, emerald eyes glittering like mischief itself. "Aw, don't beat yourself up, Logan. You've been trying to shut me up all week. Still no luck. Maybe… arthritis?"
Laura actually choked on her coffee.
Even Natasha smirked, which was basically her version of laughing hysterically.
Logan's jaw worked like he was grinding up all the creative ways he planned to dismember Harry and save the pieces in alphabetical order. "Kid," he said, stalking closer, "you keep talkin' like that, you're gonna—"
"Win faster?" Harry offered helpfully.
Somewhere behind him, Tonks whooped and yelled, "Fifty on Potter!"
Alexei, not to be outdone, stomped forward and cracked his knuckles like thunderclaps.
"You!" he bellowed, in that thick Russian accent that could probably break glass. "You think you are good enough for my Natasha? Ha! You are like… like… puny goat! On ice! In windstorm!"
Harry turned his full attention to Alexei and gave him a smile so dazzling it could've been illegal in at least six countries.
"Aw, Papa Bear," he said sweetly. "Don't take this the wrong way… but you're gonna look adorable when you lose. Really. I'll even let you take a selfie with me after."
"SELFIE?!" Alexei roared, pounding a fist into his palm. "Red Guardian does NOT do selfie!"
"That's fine," Harry said with a shrug, already circling like a predator who'd just decided dinner was served. "You'll be unconscious anyway."
The crowd made a collective oohhhhhh like middle schoolers witnessing the sickest burn of the year.
Logan's claws gleamed as he crouched into a fighting stance, his scowl firmly in place.
"Y'know, bub," he muttered, "you talk too much."
Harry arched one eyebrow and let his claws crackle with another burst of lightning-blue magic.
"And you," he shot back, grin going feral, "are too slow."
The two fathers flanked him now—Logan to the left, Alexei to the right. Both of them radiating the kind of you are so dead energy that would've scared a lesser man.
Harry, of course, just smiled wider.
"Don't feel bad, fellas," he said, voice dripping with all the smug charm of a man who knew he was about to win and look good doing it. "You're about to make your daughters very proud. Of me."
Tonks howled with laughter. Natasha smirked into her coffee. Laura muttered, "That's my boyfriend," and actually leaned forward to watch more closely.
The whistle blew.
And the room exploded.
—
ROUND ONE — LOGAN
Logan struck first, of course.
Because of course he did.
He came at Harry like a very angry Canadian freight train, all claws, snarl, and a solid hundred and fifty pounds of pure bad attitude.
The air between them hissed as adamantium met vibranium in a flash of sparks loud enough to make Jean glance up from her snack. The sound was like metal screaming at a rock concert.
Harry held his ground—barely—boots sliding back just enough for dramatic effect. (Okay, fine, Logan was stronger. Harry could admit that. Not out loud, obviously.) His left claw angled down in a blur and—
Shing!
—he sent a streak of blue magic arcing right up Logan's arm. The older mutant grunted like he'd just bitten into a lemon, but didn't even slow down. Typical.
Logan came in low next, claws slicing for Harry's ribs.
"You fight dirty," Logan growled, their blades locking again in a shower of blue sparks and ozone.
Harry actually laughed. Because honestly, what else could he do?
"You raised Laura," Harry shot back, emerald eyes glittering like they had their own opinions about the situation. "Don't pretend you don't respect that."
From the bench, Laura called out, perfectly deadpan: "He does."
Logan's lip twitched into something that almost—almost—resembled a grin. Not a nice grin, mind you. More like the grin of a wolf who just realized dinner might put up a decent fight.
"All right, kid," Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's see if you can bleed."
Harry tilted his head and smirked. His claws crackled with another surge of magic, the tips lighting up like tiny storm clouds looking for trouble.
"Oh, adorable," Harry said lightly. "You're still trying."
And with that, he muttered something in Latin and flicked his wrist. A shimmering Protego sprang into existence just in time to catch Logan's next swipe, which screeched against the magical shield like nails on a chalkboard.
Sparks rained down. The mat smoked a little. The audience (a.k.a. Tonks, Natasha, Laura, and everyone else who probably should've been working right now) collectively leaned in closer.
Logan pulled back and crouched, claws gleaming, his eyes narrowed like he was sizing up a steak he fully intended to destroy.
"You got guts, bub," he said. "Not brains. But guts."
Harry just grinned wider. "You know," he said, his tone all polite British menace, "you really should've stuck with Broadway. Much safer."
That earned him a snarl and another wild swing, which Harry ducked by about half an inch.
Laura smirked from the bench. "Dad's getting slow."
That, apparently, was enough to push Logan into what Harry privately called berserker-lite mode. Logan lunged with both claws in a full-on slash that could've bisected a small car.
Harry didn't even flinch.
Instead, he spun. Clean, graceful, like he was starring in an action movie choreographed by a particularly smug angel. His claws caught Logan's mid-swing, locking them with a hiss of magic and metal. Sparks danced along the blades like fireflies on too much caffeine.
"You're overcommitting," Harry murmured, just loud enough for Logan to hear. His grin turned downright wicked. "Rookie mistake."
He twisted, wrenched Logan's claws aside, and drove his knee into the older man's ribs—not enough to hurt (well… maybe a little), but enough to knock Logan a step back.
The crowd actually gasped.
Tonks yelled, "Called it!"
Harry just straightened, dusted himself off like nothing had happened, and gave Logan a look so cool it could've frozen lava.
"You're slowing down," Harry added cheerfully. "Might wanna get that checked. Vitamin D deficiency? Mid-life crisis?"
Even Natasha smirked at that one.
Logan scowled, flexed his claws, and growled something about "still got three rounds, bub."
Harry?
Harry winked. Because of course he did.
—
ROUND TWO — ALEXEI
"ENOUGH!"
The roar shook the rafters.
Alexei Shostakov barreled into the sparring circle like an enraged grizzly bear wearing a Captain Soviet cosplay… which, in fairness, he kind of was.
Harry had just enough time to pivot, crossing his claws in front of him as Alexei's massive red fist came down like the hammer of Thor on an espresso bender.
The mat cracked.
Hard.
The impact echoed across the gym loud enough to make Tonks drop her betting slip. Jean actually paused mid-snack.
And Harry?
Didn't.
Even.
Move.
He stood there, boots planted, claws locked against Alexei's fist. The only thing that budged was the corner of his mouth, tugging up into the kind of slow, smug grin that had probably started wars.
Alexei's eyes widened—just a fraction—as if his brain was still buffering the idea that someone had just tanked a Red Guardian punch without flinching.
"You are…" Alexei grunted, putting his full weight behind the next shove, "…heavier than you look!"
Harry's breath didn't even hitch. His emerald eyes glowed faintly, and his shirt—already clinging—stretched even tighter across his chest as he rolled his shoulders and pushed back just enough to make Alexei's boots squeak against the mat.
"Super Soldier serum," Harry said casually, as though they were comparing protein shakes. "Vibranium bones. Daily cardio. You can thank Natasha for that last one. She's a ruthless personal trainer."
From the bench, Natasha raised an eyebrow but didn't deny it.
Alexei's whole face turned the exact shade of a tomato trying to win a strongman competition. "YOU MOCK ME?!" he thundered, yanking his fist back and swinging again—this time with both hands and enough momentum to flatten a city block.
Harry's claws met the strike with a deafening clang, sending sparks and ozone shooting across the mat. The shockwave ruffled Jean's hair and made Ororo mutter something about amateurs and wind currents.
"Mocking?" Harry repeated, his voice calm and polite in that very British way that somehow made it worse. "Oh, no, no. This—" he shoved forward, claws sparking as he forced Alexei back a full foot, his boots carving twin gouges into the mat— "—this is me winning. With style."
And just to rub it in, he gave Alexei a little wink.
Tonks hooted from the corner. "Somebody get Papa Bear a juice box, he's gonna need it!"
Alexei stumbled back, visibly stunned, and blinked like he wasn't entirely sure what universe he was in anymore.
Harry rolled his neck, claws still gleaming, and gave him that charming, self-assured grin that said I could keep this up all day, but you're already outclassed.
On the bench, Natasha—who hadn't even put her coffee down—murmured to herself, "That's my boyfriend."
It was unclear if she realized everyone could hear her.
Laura smirked knowingly.
And Harry, naturally, heard everything.
So he gave Alexei another little push backward, leaned in just enough to make it personal, and said in a low, dangerous drawl:
"Better get used to it, Papa Bear. I'm not going anywhere."
And the mat cracked again as they squared up for the next round.
—
ROUND THREE — BOTH
The whistle blew.
Again.
For a split second, nobody moved.
Logan and Alexei exchanged a look. A very specific look. The kind of look two grumpy dads give each other when they both decide fine, let's teach this cocky kid a lesson.
And then they lunged. Together.
Harry actually laughed. Which, as you can imagine, did not help their mood.
"Ah," Harry said as he caught Logan's claws on his left and batted away Alexei's meaty haymaker on his right, barely even breaking a sweat. "Now that's adorable. Team Daddy Issues. I love it."
Blades sparked like fireworks. Magic flared brighter than Ororo's lightning. The air between them shimmered as ancient runes flickered between Harry's claws, carving little blue sigils that danced up his arms and fizzled into smoke.
Laura leaned forward on the bench, grinning like she was about to watch her favorite action movie. Natasha calmly twisted the cap off her water bottle, looking entirely unsurprised. Tonks was yelling something about doubling the bet while Ororo held up a bag of popcorn.
On the mat, Harry shifted into overdrive.
Logan came at him low and fast, a blur of claws and rage. Alexei went high and heavy, throwing punches that could've taken down a wall.
Harry ducked under Logan's swipe, spun on his heel with enough grace to make a ballerina jealous, and kicked Logan's legs right out from under him.
"Floor seems to like you, Logan," Harry quipped, spinning again just as Alexei's fist whistled past his head. "You should get to know each other better."
Logan hit the mat hard, growling something very creative involving Harry's ancestry.
But Harry wasn't done. Not even close.
Alexei was already winding up another punch.
Harry ducked under it, his claws lighting up with another crackle of blue lightning as he pivoted low. He swept Alexei's legs—not easy, considering the man's center of gravity was somewhere near Moscow—and slid behind him in one seamless move.
"Big target, Comrade," Harry murmured cheerfully, planting a glowing claw just under Alexei's ribs. "Not hard to find."
The floor hissed where his magic carved a sigil into the mat—a perfect circle of glowing blue runes that sizzled and spat little arcs of electricity. The air smelled faintly of ozone and victory.
By the time the smoke cleared, Logan and Alexei were flat on their backs, side by side, staring up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed them.
Harry stood over them, claws already retracted, adjusting his shirt with one hand and wearing a grin that could've sold millions of cologne bottles.
He offered a hand to Logan first, cheeky as ever.
"Good workout, old man," Harry said, his tone as light as if they'd just finished a jog through Central Park.
Logan slapped his hand away with a scowl but sat up anyway, muttering: "Don't get cocky, bub."
Harry smirked. "Little late for that."
Then he turned to Alexei, crouching slightly to extend his hand like he was helping up a favorite uncle who'd just lost at arm wrestling.
"You did good, Comrade Bear," Harry said, his voice rich with mock respect. "Gold star. Maybe even a juice box if you ask nicely."
Alexei groaned dramatically, letting Harry pull him to his feet with one arm like it was nothing. "You…" he huffed, rubbing his shoulder, "…are very annoying young man."
Harry grinned wider. His emerald eyes sparkled like they were in on a joke nobody else had caught yet.
"And yet…" he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear, "your daughter still can't keep her hands off me. Wild, huh?"
Laura actually snorted. Tonks nearly fell off the bench laughing. Natasha… hid her smirk behind her water bottle, but everyone saw it.
Even Logan. Especially Logan.
—
AFTERMATH
Logan cracked a beer. Alexei cracked his knuckles. Harry cracked another joke.
In other words: a perfectly normal morning on the Helicarrier.
The gym still smelled like sweat, ozone, and fragile male egos. The mat was scorched in at least three places. Logan had claw marks on his sleeves. Alexei's hair was sticking up at one very specific, very comical angle.
And Harry?
Harry didn't even look winded. Which, frankly, was just rude.
Somewhere between the growls, the silence, and the faint (begrudging) glimmers of respect in their eyes, one thing was obvious: these three were going to get along just fine.
…Eventually.
…Maybe.
…If Harry didn't push his luck. Which, of course, he immediately did.
"Same time tomorrow?" he called over his shoulder as he sauntered off the mat, claws retracted, shirt stretched across his shoulders just right.
Logan grunted into his beer. Which, if you spoke fluent Wolverine, roughly translated to: Fine, but only because you're mildly entertaining.
Alexei crossed his beefy arms and huffed. "…Fine," he echoed, like he'd just agreed to sell his soul but wanted everyone to know he was not happy about it.
Harry shot them both a cheeky wink, green eyes sparkling with mischief and maybe a little too much confidence.
"Bring snacks," he added, because of course he did.
By the door, Laura and Natasha were already waiting, both wearing identical smirks. That was terrifying in its own way.
Laura slipped her hand into Harry's as he reached her, leaning in just enough to whisper, "You smell like sweat and testosterone."
Harry kissed her temple and smiled. "That's my cologne," he murmured back. "Limited edition. Smells like victory. Works every time."
Laura rolled her eyes, but her cheeks definitely pinked.
Natasha, meanwhile, was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, auburn hair falling perfectly into place like gravity had been paid off. She gave him a slow once-over, her lips curving into a knowing little smirk.
"That was cute," she said. "Try not to break my father too badly next time. He bruises easy."
Harry arched an eyebrow at her and stepped closer, just enough to make her tilt her chin up and hold his gaze.
"Oh, don't worry," he murmured, voice dropping into that rich, velvety baritone he knew made Natasha's pulse jump. "I'll take care of him. Same way I take care of you."
Natasha's smirk widened just slightly. "Better," she replied, before letting her eyes drop, deliberately slow, and walking ahead toward the exit.
On the sidelines, Tonks was still counting a stack of cash, her bubblegum-pink hair sticking up in every direction like she'd just stuck her finger in a socket.
"Pay up, everyone!" she crowed, waving her winnings in the air. "Told you Potter would win! Should've given me better odds, suckers!"
Jean just shook her head, her flame-red hair catching the light like a warning sign. "Honestly," she said dryly, "why do we even bet against him anymore? He's insufferable and unstoppable. Terrible combination."
Harry shot her a grin as he passed. "And yet, Red, you still can't resist me."
Jean pretended to groan, but her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile.
"One day, Potter," she called after him. "One day I'm going to wipe that smug look off your face."
Harry didn't even break stride. "Promises, promises," he tossed back over his shoulder.
And then there was Ororo, sitting serenely on the bench, sipping tea like nothing in this gym surprised her anymore.
She gave him an amused look as he passed, the faintest spark of lightning flickering in her dark eyes.
"We keep betting against you," she said softly, "because you make it… entertaining."
Harry paused just long enough to flash her that devastating smile. "That's me," he said, walking backward toward the door now, his girls falling into step beside him. "Entertainment and education. You're welcome."
Logan grunted from the mat. "Don't push your luck, bub."
Harry winked back at him anyway. "Wouldn't dream of it. See you tomorrow, Grandpa."
And with that, he let Laura pull him out the door by the hand, Natasha falling in on his other side, Tonks trailing behind still counting bills, Jean rolling her eyes as she caught up, and Ororo shaking her head like she'd just watched a hurricane leave the room.
Because, honestly? That's exactly what Harry was.
A charming, insufferable, unstoppable hurricane.
And the whole room knew they'd just been swept right into the eye of the storm.
—
HELICARRIER – STRATEGY BRIEFING ROOM – 11:30 AM
(Where spymasters play chess with paranoia, dark wizards mother-hen like it's a competitive sport, and Harry's smirk is a deadly weapon.)
Harry Potter didn't so much enter the room as stride through it like he owned the place and might charge rent later. Freshly showered, emerald eyes gleaming, he carried himself with that easy, dangerous confidence that made grown assassins mutter under their breath and weather gods blush.
Nick Fury sat at the far end of the table, trench coat draped like a cape, one good eye fixed on Harry like it was calculating the exact moment to lecture him.
On the other side lounged Gideon Adler — who might have been Gellert Grindelwald at some point, but now simply insisted on being called Gideon in the same tone you'd use to correct someone who called your Rolls Royce "cute."
He was draped across his chair like it was a throne, long fingers clasped at his lips. Every inch of him was elegance, menace, and the sort of unsettling charm you'd find in a particularly handsome hurricane.
When Harry walked in, Gideon's gaze softened ever so slightly — which, in his case, meant he looked only mildly judgmental.
"My boy," Gideon drawled, his German lilt curling around the words like smoke. "You look… flushed. Was it a bar brawl? Or one of your girlfriends? Please tell me it wasn't both again."
Harry flopped into his seat and gave him a smile that was all teeth. "What can I say? I like to keep busy."
"Busy," Gideon repeated, eyebrow arching toward his platinum hairline, "is what politicians call it. You, my boy, are a hurricane in a handsome suit. And one day, you will blow this whole place down."
Harry just smirked, because coming from Gideon, that was basically "I'm proud of you, kid."
Fury, however, had the patience of a man who'd already run out. "If you two are done playing dysfunctional family Christmas, we've got bigger problems."
Harry leaned back, crossing his arms casually. "Alright. Who's dead, missing, or otherwise making your blood pressure spike?"
Fury slid a file across the table. "Moody."
That shut Harry up.
His smile slipped as he opened the folder — page after page of meticulous reports. Moody's handwriting was as sharp and paranoid as his personality, every log timestamped down to the minute. Until four weeks ago. Then: nothing.
Harry's jaw tightened. "That… doesn't sound like Moody."
"Damn right it doesn't," Fury said. "That old bastard is my kind of crazy. Checks in like clockwork. Even when he's half-dead. Even when he's drunk. Even when he got stuck halfway through a polymorph spell and had to file the report as a bloody armchair. Every. Thirty. Days."
Gideon steepled his fingers, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. "And yet… silence. Which I told you would happen, Nicholas, if you left him there without backup."
Harry shot him a look. "Hey. I signed off on the plan too. We all knew Dumbledore wasn't above trying to drag me back into Britain by force if he could. The Triwizard Tournament? Perfect excuse. We needed eyes in the castle. Moody was the best choice."
"And yet," Gideon said smoothly, "it would seem the hunter has… stepped into the trap."
Fury muttered something under his breath about "smug European pretty boys" but nodded. "For once, Blondie might have a point. Moody's either dead or compromised. Either way, we're down a man. And Hogwarts is about to throw you into that circus whether you're ready or not."
Harry closed the file with a quiet snap. His face was calm, but that glint in his eyes? That was the glint of someone who was already planning at least three kinds of retribution.
"Then I'm going," Harry said simply.
Gideon sat up straighter. "No."
Harry's lips quirked, just a little. "I wasn't asking, old man."
"You are not expendable," Gideon countered, his tone dropping to a dangerous purr. "Not anymore. You are not his pawn, Harry. Not his."
Harry's smile was thin and sharp now. "No. I'm not his pawn. I'm his nightmare. But if he thinks he can hurt my people and get away with it? He's about to learn how bad a nightmare can really get."
Fury let out a low whistle. "Kid's got bite. I like it."
"Kid is reckless," Gideon snapped, though even his voice was tinged with reluctant pride. "And foolish. And… mine to worry about."
That earned him a sidelong grin from Harry. "Aw. You do care."
"I care enough to strangle you if you come back in pieces," Gideon replied flatly.
Harry stood, straightened his jacket collar, and tucked the file under his arm. "Don't worry. You'd just resurrect me out of spite anyway."
Gideon huffed. "Correct."
Fury barked a short laugh and leaned back in his chair. "Well, hell. Go give 'em hell, kid. And tell Dumbledore from me he can shove his beard where the sun don't shine."
Harry paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. "Tell Laura not to follow me. Tell Natasha… to keep it under four bodies while I'm gone."
"That's optimistic," Fury muttered.
"Tell Ororo she doesn't need to make it rain for dramatic effect," Harry continued, smirking faintly now. "And tell Tonks not to change the color of my hair again. That was just cruel."
Then he was gone, boots echoing down the hall, already thinking three steps ahead.
Because Alastor Moody might have been paranoid. But Harry Potter was worse.
And no one — not Dumbledore, not Sinister, not anyone — outmaneuvered him in his own war.
Not this time.
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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!