The Salvatore School library after midnight was a cathedral of knowledge and shadow, its soaring shelves stretching toward vaulted ceilings that disappeared into darkness above the reach of their wandlight. Ancient texts bound in leather that had weathered centuries lined the walls like sleeping sentinels, while newer volumes on supernatural theory and practical magic filled the spaces between. The air hung thick with the scent of old parchment, protective enchantments, and that particular mustiness that came from books containing knowledge too dangerous for casual browsing.
Hope led Harry deeper into the stacks with the fluid confidence of someone who'd spent countless late nights navigating these shadows, her bare feet silent on Persian rugs that probably cost more than most people's annual income. She moved with the kind of purposeful grace that came from years of sneaking around supernatural institutions—every step calculated, every movement economical. Her auburn hair caught the wandlight as she turned, and there was something predatory in the way she assessed each section they passed, like a huntress marking territory.
"You know," Harry observed, his British accent carrying just enough amusement to be insufferable while maintaining that particular tone that suggested he was perpetually entertained by the world's attempts to surprise him, "most people would consider midnight library excursions with mysterious boys to be inadvisable. Some might even call it reckless."
His green eyes—the kind that seemed to hold secrets and probably did—tracked her movements with the sort of casual attention that came from someone who'd learned to read danger in the smallest gestures. There was something about the way he carried himself that suggested coiled power, like a panther pretending to be a house cat for the sheer entertainment value.
Hope glanced back at him with a smile that could have cut glass, her blue eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that usually preceded something spectacular and probably inadvisable. "Good thing I'm not most people, then. Besides, if you were planning something nefarious, breaking into the restricted section seems like an oddly academic approach to villainy."
"Perhaps I'm just very committed to proper research methodology," Harry replied smoothly, though his expression suggested he was filing away every detail of their route for future reference. "I find that intellectual curiosity makes an excellent cover for all sorts of questionable activities."
"Oh, I like that," Hope said with genuine appreciation, pausing beside a section marked with warnings in at least six dead languages. "Intellectual curiosity as criminal justification. Very sophisticated. Most people just go with 'I was bored' or 'seemed like a good idea at the time.'"
"Well, I do try to maintain certain standards," Harry said with mock gravity. "If one is going to engage in midnight skulduggery, one might as well do it with proper style and adequate vocabulary."
"Skulduggery," Hope repeated, testing the word with obvious delight. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone under forty use that word in casual conversation. Are you secretly eighty years old and just very well-preserved?"
"Chronologically? Fourteen and one-quarters, thanks very much," Harry replied with the kind of precision that suggested he'd had this conversation before. "Intellectually? I've been informed by various authority figures that I have the insufferable wit of someone far older and significantly more cynical."
"Authority figures," Hope mused, producing a key from her pocket that definitely hadn't come through official channels. "Always so concerned with proper age-appropriate behavior. Such limited imaginations."
"Should I ask how you acquired access to the restricted section?" Harry continued, raising an eyebrow with the practiced skepticism of someone who'd probably acquired a few questionable keys himself. "Or would that fall under 'questions that might incriminate us both'?"
Hope's laugh was soft but dangerous, like silk wrapping around a blade. "Let's just say that when you're researching entities that predate written history, sometimes you have to be creative about accessing relevant materials. Shockingly, the administration doesn't always appreciate students taking initiative in their supernatural education."
"How terribly short-sighted of them," Harry said dryly, watching with obvious professional interest as she bypassed three separate magical locks with the kind of casual expertise that suggested extensive practice. "I'm sure they have their reasons—probably something tedious about 'student safety' and 'appropriate supervision.'"
"Exactly. Such limiting perspectives." Hope's tone was perfectly sweet as she pushed open the restricted section doors, revealing shelves that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. "I prefer to think of it as advanced independent study with a focus on practical application."
"Practical application," Harry mused, following her into the section with the easy confidence of someone who'd probably done worse things in better company. "That has such a nice ring to it. So much more sophisticated than 'breaking multiple school rules and possibly several laws.'"
"See? I knew you'd understand." Hope's grin was absolutely wicked as she began selecting texts with practiced ease. "Most people get so caught up in technicalities like 'regulations' and 'potential consequences.' No appreciation for academic ambition."
She pulled several volumes from the shelves—books bound in scales that definitely hadn't come from any earthly creature, texts whose pages seemed to writhe in the wandlight, and one particularly ominous tome that appeared to be bound in something organic and deeply unsettling. Each book thrummed with contained power, the kind that made the air itself feel heavier.
Harry examined her selections with the sort of professional interest that came from someone who'd learned to assess magical artifacts by their potential for catastrophic failure. "Definitely not standard curriculum material," he noted, running his fingers along the spine of what looked like a dragon-scale grimoire without flinching. "Though I have to admit, the protective enchantments on these volumes are genuinely impressive. Whoever designed the security systems clearly understood that some knowledge requires serious safeguards."
"The Salvatores have always believed in comprehensive education," Hope said with mock solemnity, settling at a massive wooden table that looked older than several civilizations and probably was. "Of course, most students aren't dealing with family problems that involve cosmic-level supernatural entities with unclear motivations and concerning dietary preferences."
"Concerning dietary preferences," Harry repeated with the kind of careful enunciation that suggested he was already regretting asking. "Please tell me we're talking metaphorically about entities that feed on fear or despair, and not literally about things that eat people."
"Well," Hope said with the kind of bright cheerfulness that usually preceded terrible news, "technically it feeds on magical energy, not people specifically. Though I suppose if you wanted to be pedantic about it, draining someone's magical energy until they die could be considered a form of consumption."
"Right." Harry's tone was perfectly level, but there was something in his green eyes that suggested he was rapidly recalibrating his assessment of the situation. "Cosmic entity with homicidal dietary habits. And this relates to your family how, exactly?"
Hope opened the first book—*Entities of the First Dark: A Comprehensive Study of Pre-Creation Supernatural Phenomena*—and Harry immediately felt magical resonance emanating from the pages like heat from a forge. The text seemed to pulse with its own light, and several words appeared to be moving when he wasn't looking directly at them.
"Right," Harry said, his voice shifting from banter to something more serious as he sensed the genuine weight of what they were dealing with. The casual amusement didn't leave his expression entirely, but it was joined by the kind of sharp attention that suggested he was taking the situation very seriously indeed. "Before we dive into research that's clearly dangerous enough to require midnight sessions and questionably-acquired access keys, would you mind sharing what exactly we're dealing with? Because I'm getting the distinct impression this isn't just academic curiosity or standard teenage rebellion."
Hope was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing ancient text with unconscious reverence. When she finally looked up, her eyes held the kind of pain that came from carrying impossible burdens alone for far too long—the sort of bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion and everything to do with responsibility that should never have fallen on seventeen-year-old shoulders.
"You really want to know?" she asked, and beneath the challenge in her voice was something almost vulnerable—as if she was testing whether he'd actually stay once he understood the scope of what he was offering to help with. "Because this isn't the kind of problem that gets solved with clever quips and superior British wit. This is the kind that usually ends with everyone involved dead or worse."
"I asked, didn't I?" Harry replied with gentle firmness, settling into his chair with the sort of focused attention that suggested she had his complete concentration. "Though I should probably mention that I have some experience with complicated family situations involving supernatural threats. You'd have to work quite hard to shock me at this point."
"Experience with supernatural threats," Hope said slowly, studying his face in the lamplight with the kind of intensity that suggested she was trying to read his soul. "What kind of experience, exactly? Because there's 'my family deals with vampires' experience, and then there's 'my family has been personally targeted by entities that predate creation' experience. The scale matters."
"The kind of experience that comes from having guardians who consider galactic-scale problems to be routine Tuesday afternoon entertainment," Harry said with a slight smile that was equal parts affectionate and exasperated. "The kind that means I've learned to approach supernatural crises with the assumption that the obvious solutions are usually inadequate and the impossible ones are merely difficult."
Hope blinked, clearly not having expected that particular answer. "Galactic-scale problems. As in, threats to entire star systems."
"As in, guardians who think nothing of restructuring reality on a universal scale if it means protecting their family," Harry confirmed with the kind of casual tone most people used to discuss the weather. "Which has given me a rather unique perspective on what constitutes a manageable supernatural crisis."
"Well," Hope said after a moment, her voice carrying a note of something that might have been relief, "in that case, maybe you won't run screaming when I explain about the Hollow."
"The Hollow," Harry repeated, and something in his tone suggested the name carried weight even for someone with his apparently extensive supernatural experience. "That's not a name that appears in casual supernatural literature."
"No, it doesn't." Hope's smile was sharp with bitter knowledge, the kind that came from being an expert on subjects no seventeen-year-old should have to understand. "It feeds on supernatural power—specifically, it's drawn to concentrated magical energy like a moth to flame, except the moth is a primordial entity of pure hunger and the flame is anyone unfortunate enough to possess significant magical ability."
She turned the page to reveal illustrations that seemed to writhe in the lamplight—depictions of an entity that was more suggestion than form, darkness with reaching tendrils, hunger given shape and malevolent intelligence.
"And unfortunately for everyone involved," Hope continued with the kind of matter-of-fact tone that suggested she'd long since passed through panic into resigned determination, "I'm what's known as a tribrid. Witch, werewolf, and vampire magic all combined in one gloriously complicated package. Which makes me roughly equivalent to a supernatural beacon broadcasting 'free meal' to anything with predatory inclinations and cosmic-level appetite."
Harry went very still, every supernatural instinct he possessed immediately recognizing the gravity of what she was sharing. This wasn't teenage drama or normal family complications—this was the kind of cosmic-level threat that ended civilizations if handled improperly.
"A tribrid," he said quietly, his mind clearly racing through implications. "Three forms of magic unified in a single person. That's not just rare, it's theoretically impossible according to most supernatural texts."
"Most supernatural texts are adorably optimistic about the limits of magical genetics," Hope replied with saccharine sweetness. "Turns out that when you combine the right bloodlines under the right circumstances, impossible becomes merely improbable. And improbable becomes a very attractive target for entities that view powerful supernatural beings as combination meals and possession opportunities."
"Possession," Harry repeated, and his voice carried the kind of sharp attention that suggested personal experience with that particular horror. "The Hollow doesn't just feed—it takes over."
"Oh, it does both," Hope confirmed cheerfully, though her eyes remained deadly serious. "First it possesses you, then it uses your power to feed itself until you're nothing but an empty shell housing an increasingly powerful cosmic parasite. Very efficient from its perspective. Less ideal for the person being consumed."
She gestured to a particularly disturbing illustration that showed a figure with tendrils of darkness emerging from its eyes. "When I was seven," she continued, her voice dropping but gaining strength rather than losing it, "it almost succeeded in possessing me completely. I was just a child, but the magical potential was already there, calling to it like a dinner bell."
Harry felt something cold and sharp settle in his chest as he processed the implications. "Seven years old. You were facing cosmic-level possession at seven years old."
"The joys of supernatural childhood," Hope said with a laugh that held no humor at all. "Most seven-year-olds worry about monsters under the bed. I had to worry about monsters trying to wear me like a costume."
"What happened?" Harry asked quietly. "You're obviously not possessed now, so someone found a way to stop it."
"My father and his siblings managed to intervene," Hope explained, her voice carrying the kind of careful control that spoke to years of practice keeping overwhelming emotions in check. "But the only way to contain the Hollow was to absorb pieces of it into themselves and then separate. As long as they stay apart, the fragments can't reconstitute into something capable of ending reality as we know it."
"Your family sacrificed their ability to be together to prevent cosmic annihilation," Harry said, and it wasn't a question. His tone carried the kind of understanding that suggested he knew exactly what that sort of sacrifice cost everyone involved. "And you've been carrying the guilt of that sacrifice for seven years."
"Seven years, four months, and sixteen days," Hope confirmed with precision that spoke to just how deeply she'd been counting every moment of their separation. "My father lives in New Orleans, managing supernatural politics and pretending he's not desperately lonely. My uncle Klaus is somewhere in Europe, probably terrorizing art dealers and definitely avoiding family contact. My aunt Rebekah changes locations every few months, because staying in one place too long makes her feel trapped."
Her hands clenched into fists on the table. "They can never be in the same place at the same time, because the Hollow fragments would sense each other and start trying to reunite. And if they succeed..." She trailed off, staring at the ancient text with eyes that held too much knowledge of potential disaster.
"If they succeed, the Hollow reconstitutes and goes looking for its original target," Harry finished quietly. "You."
"Me," Hope confirmed with a smile that was all sharp edges and barely controlled fury. "The tribrid who got away. The meal it was interrupted from consuming seven years ago."
She gestured to the books spread across the table with a sweep of her hand that encompassed centuries of accumulated supernatural knowledge. "So I've been researching binding techniques, banishment rituals, anything that might offer a permanent solution instead of just... indefinite separation. Because watching my family sacrifice their happiness for my safety is not a sustainable long-term strategy."
"And you've been doing this alone," Harry said, and it wasn't a question but an observation that carried weight.
"Who exactly would I share this with?" Hope's laugh was bright and bitter as winter starlight. "My friends here think my biggest problem is deciding which colleges to apply to. They worry about calculus tests and prom dates while I research cosmic entities that could unmake existence if I make the wrong choice."
She leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting to something rawer, more honest. "My mother wants me to have a normal teenage experience. She talks about dances and boyfriends and senior year traditions like I'm not researching ways to prevent universal annihilation in my spare time."
"And your family?" Harry prompted gently.
"My father and uncles would never let me attempt anything genuinely dangerous," Hope said with fond exasperation that was nonetheless edged with frustration. "Which rules out most solutions that might actually work, because let's face it—anything powerful enough to permanently banish a cosmic entity is probably going to involve significant personal risk."
"So you sneak into restricted libraries and research cosmic entities by yourself," Harry observed, his tone carefully neutral but carrying an undercurrent of something that might have been concern. "With nothing but determination and questionably-acquired access keys."
"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds almost irresponsible," Hope said with saccharine sweetness that could have caused diabetes. "I prefer to think of it as proactive problem-solving with an emphasis on personal initiative and creative resource management."
"Naturally." Harry's dry response carried just enough British skepticism to make Hope's eyes narrow dangerously. "And have you found anything in your proactive research that suggests solutions less likely to result in your untimely and probably spectacular demise?"
Hope's smile turned genuinely savage, the kind of expression that suggested she'd just been offered an opportunity for violence and was seriously considering accepting. "Are you concerned about my safety, Harry? How unexpectedly sweet of you. I had no idea that British sarcasm came with a side of protective instincts."
"I'm concerned about the waste of potential," he replied smoothly, meeting her dangerous gaze with one of his own that suggested he could play whatever game she wanted to start. "You're clearly brilliant, magically powerful, and possess an impressive collection of restricted texts. It would be terribly inefficient for you to get yourself killed before we've properly explored all available options."
"How refreshingly pragmatic," Hope said with the kind of tone that suggested she wasn't entirely sure whether to be insulted or impressed. "Here I was expecting romantic concern or noble heroism, and instead I get cost-benefit analysis."
"Romantic concern is for people who've known each other longer than three weeks," Harry pointed out with the kind of logic that was both unassailable and completely maddening. "Noble heroism is for people with significantly more information about the risks involved. Pragmatic assessment is for people who want to actually solve problems instead of just making grand gestures."
Hope stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether his response was brilliantly practical or just annoyingly reasonable. "You know what? I think I actually prefer the pragmatic approach. It's much more honest than pretending this is some sort of romantic adventure instead of a potentially suicidal research project."
"Excellent," Harry said with obvious satisfaction. "Now, what exactly are you suggesting as our next course of action? Because while your research methodology has been admirably thorough, I'm getting the impression that traditional approaches haven't yielded the results you were hoping for."
Hope's expression shifted from defensive to genuinely curious, her strategic mind clearly recognizing that he was offering something more substantial than empty sympathy. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, his green eyes taking on a calculating gleam that suggested he was about to propose something either brilliant or completely insane—and possibly both. "I'm suggesting that your research methodology, while admirable in its thoroughness, might benefit from collaborative input and access to resources that extend beyond even impressively comprehensive institutional libraries."
"Translation?" Hope prompted, though she was already leaning forward with the kind of interest that suggested she was prepared to consider options she'd previously dismissed as impossible.
"Translation: my guardians have some rather extensive knowledge about magic that exists outside normal supernatural categories," Harry said with a slight smile that suggested secrets worth knowing and probably worth the risks involved in learning them. "They might have insights about entities like the Hollow that traditional approaches haven't considered. Or more accurately, that traditional approaches couldn't consider because they lack the necessary cosmic perspective."
Hope stared at him for a moment, her mind clearly racing through possibilities and implications with the speed of someone who'd spent years analyzing supernatural problems from every conceivable angle. "Your guardians. The cosmic parental figures you mentioned earlier. They have experience with primordial supernatural entities?"
"Among other things," Harry confirmed with obvious affection despite the apparent complexity of whatever relationship he had with these mysterious guardians. "They have... perspectives... on supernatural problems that tend to be both more comprehensive and more creative than conventional approaches. When you've dealt with universal-scale magical theory for several millennia, problems that seem impossible from a planetary perspective often turn out to have relatively straightforward solutions."
"Several millennia," Hope repeated slowly, her voice carrying the kind of careful precision that suggested she was trying not to let hope overwhelm strategic caution. "As in, beings who were already ancient when human civilization was just getting started."
"As in, beings who remember when the universe was significantly younger and magic worked according to different rules," Harry confirmed with growing excitement. "Though I should mention they also have very strong opinions about teenagers attempting dangerous magic without proper supervision."
"Of course they do." Hope's tone was perfectly pleasant, but her eyes had taken on a dangerous glitter that suggested impending sarcasm of the most devastating variety. "Because what this situation clearly needs is more parental figures with opinions about what I should and shouldn't be allowed to research. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm."
"Oh, they're not parental figures in any conventional sense," Harry said cheerfully, clearly enjoying her assumption and the opportunity to correct it. "They're cosmic entities who've been dealing with impossible problems since before your species learned to make fire. Completely different category of supervision and significantly more useful opinions."
Hope blinked, clearly recalibrating her assumptions with the speed of someone whose survival had often depended on rapid mental adaptation. "Cosmic entities. As in, beings that exist on a universal scale rather than merely supernatural?"
"As in beings who might look at your Hollow problem and say, 'Oh, that old thing? We dealt with something similar in the Andromeda galaxy about three millennia ago. Have you tried reality restructuring?'" Harry's imitation of cosmic nonchalance was pitch-perfect and absolutely infuriating in its casual dismissal of impossible problems.
"Reality restructuring," Hope repeated slowly, her voice carrying the kind of careful control that suggested she was trying not to let herself believe this could actually be a solution. "That's not covered in any supernatural text I've ever encountered, and I've read some truly esoteric material."
"No, it wouldn't be," Harry agreed with the sort of growing excitement that suggested he was genuinely enjoying the opportunity to share knowledge that existed outside normal magical categories. "That's the beauty of having access to perspectives that exist outside standard magical theory. What looks impossible from inside the problem might be perfectly manageable from outside the entire conceptual framework."
"Outside the conceptual framework," Hope mused, her strategic mind clearly working through implications at supernatural speed. "You're talking about approaching this from a perspective that doesn't accept the basic assumptions that limit traditional solutions."
"Exactly," Harry said with obvious delight at her quick understanding. "Traditional supernatural theory assumes certain constraints about what's possible and what isn't. Cosmic entities tend to have a much more flexible relationship with concepts like 'impossible' and 'fundamental magical law.'"
Hope was quiet for a long moment, her blue eyes distant as she processed possibilities that she'd never allowed herself to consider seriously. When she finally looked at him again, her expression held something that might have been hope—carefully controlled and heavily defended, but definitely there.
"Harry," she said finally, her voice carrying the kind of careful precision that suggested she was asking the most important question of her life, "are you telling me that you have access to beings who might actually be able to help solve this problem? Not just theoretical approaches or academic sympathy, but practical solutions from entities who've dealt with similar threats?"
"I'm telling you that we should explore all available options before concluding that sacrificial magic and indefinite family separation are our only choices," Harry replied diplomatically, though his eyes sparkled with something that suggested he was much more confident than he was letting on. "Though I should probably mention that involving my guardians would mean expanding our very secret midnight collaboration to include cosmic entities who have extremely strong opinions about appropriate risk assessment and proper magical education."
Hope's laugh was bright and sharp and absolutely delighted, the sound of someone who'd been drowning and had just been thrown a lifeline. "Honestly? After seven years of carrying this alone, 'cosmic entities with strong opinions about proper magical education' sounds like a significant upgrade from 'seventeen-year-old girl trying to solve problems that have stumped supernatural experts for millennia using library books and academic determination.'"
"When you put it like that," Harry said with obvious amusement, his green eyes sparkling with the kind of shared humor that suggested genuine partnership, "it does rather put things in perspective. Though I should warn you that their definition of 'proper magical education' tends to involve rather more practical application than most institutions consider advisable."
"Even better." Hope's grin was sharp enough to cut diamonds and twice as brilliant. "I've always been a hands-on learner anyway. Theoretical knowledge is all very well, but I prefer solutions I can actually implement."
"Right then." Harry pulled out a notebook with the kind of organized efficiency that suggested extensive experience with complex research projects and probably more than a few supernatural crises. "Let's start by documenting everything you've learned so far. Then we can present your findings to beings who consider galactic-scale problems to be routine Tuesday afternoon entertainment."
"Tuesday afternoon entertainment," Hope repeated with obvious delight. "I like these cosmic entities already. Anyone who treats universe-threatening problems as mild entertainment is exactly the kind of backup I've been needing."
As they settled into serious research mode—Hope explaining her findings while Harry took notes with methodical precision and the occasional sardonic comment—both teenagers felt something that had been missing from their individual struggles with supernatural burden.
They felt partnership. Not the kind of superficial collaboration that came from shared classes or common interests, but the deep, sustainable partnership that emerged when two people discovered they were genuinely matched in intelligence, determination, and willingness to tackle impossible problems with dangerous solutions and inappropriate humor.
"You know," Hope said as she opened another ancient text, this one bound in what looked suspiciously like phoenix feathers, "I was expecting to spend tonight researching alone, probably making minimal progress, and definitely feeling guilty about my family's continued separation while slowly going insane from the isolation of being the only person who understands the scope of this problem."
"And instead?" Harry prompted, looking up from his notes with the kind of focused attention that suggested she had his complete interest.
"Instead, I'm researching with someone who not only understands the supernatural implications but also has access to cosmic entities who might actually be able to help." Her smile was bright and genuine, transforming her entire face from beautiful but guarded to absolutely radiant. "It's a significant improvement. Possibly the first genuinely good thing to happen in relation to this situation in seven years."
"Well," Harry said with mock solemnity that couldn't quite hide his obvious pleasure at her response, "I do pride myself on being a significant improvement over solitary desperation and guilt-driven research methodology. It's one of my finer qualities, along with superior British wit and an impressive collection of cosmic contacts."
"Your modesty is truly inspiring," Hope replied dryly, but her eyes were sparkling with genuine amusement and something that might have been gratitude. "I can see why cosmic entities chose you as their representative. Such humble confidence in your own abilities."
"I'm nothing if not humble," Harry agreed with perfect British sangfroid and a completely straight face. "Now, shall we see what these books have to say about banishing cosmic entities, or would you prefer to spend more time appreciating my clearly superior approach to impossible problem-solving and devastating supernatural crises?"
"Oh, definitely the books," Hope said sweetly, though her grin suggested she was enjoying the banter far more than she probably should considering the circumstances. "Though I reserve the right to mock your superior approach if it turns out your cosmic guardians' solution involves anything resembling 'the power of love' or 'believing in yourself' or other inspirational nonsense that completely ignores the practical realities of dealing with primordial entities."
"If that happens," Harry said with absolute sincerity, meeting her challenge with obvious relish, "you have my permission to mock me mercilessly. I'll probably deserve it, and it will definitely be entertaining to watch."
"Excellent." Hope's grin was absolutely wicked, the expression of someone who'd just been given permission for her favorite form of intellectual violence. "I do so enjoy having permission for merciless mockery. It's going to make this partnership much more entertaining than my previous research methodology of 'stare at books until solutions appear through sheer force of determination.'"
"Much more entertaining," Harry agreed, settling back into his research with the sort of comfortable satisfaction that suggested he'd found exactly what he hadn't known he was looking for. "And probably significantly more effective, assuming we can avoid getting ourselves killed or possessed in the process."
"Where's the fun in avoiding all the risks?" Hope asked with mock innocence, though her attention was already turning back to the ancient texts with renewed focus and something that might have been optimism. "Besides, if we're going to solve impossible problems, we might as well do it with style."
"Style and inappropriate humor in the face of cosmic threats," Harry observed with obvious approval. "I think this is going to be an excellent partnership."
As they dove into research that would determine whether Hope's family could ever be reunited—and whether reality itself would survive the attempt—both teenagers discovered something important about impossible problems and the people worth solving them with.
They were significantly more manageable when you had the right person working beside you. Someone who matched your intelligence, shared your determination, and could make you laugh even when dealing with entities that could unmake existence itself simply because they were hungry and you looked particularly appetizing.
Even if the solution required negotiating with cosmic beings who had very strong opinions about proper supervision and acceptable risk levels.
Especially then.
Because some problems were too big to face alone, and some partnerships were worth the risk of expanding a two-person conspiracy into something that might actually change the universe.
Whether the universe would survive the change remained to be seen.
But at least they'd face it together, with superior British wit, devastating sarcasm, and access to entities who treated galactic-scale crises as Tuesday afternoon entertainment.
It was, all things considered, probably the best possible approach to preventing cosmic annihilation.
Even if it did require staying up past midnight and technically breaking several school rules in the process.
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