The three stepped out of the room again. Fred slapped George awake from his deep coma, induced by the slumbering ale he'd chugged.
George rose in a daze, trailing behind the pair, his brain clearly still rebooting.
Kyle led them down a corridor. After passing through a door at the far end, they emerged into a vast space—three hundred meters long, a hundred meters wide.
Massive pillars held up the ceiling, keeping it from caving in.
To their left, a stretch of open ground featured a row of targets, lined up from distant to near.
On the right wall, an entire surface was plastered with an assortment of Muggle contraptions.
George and Fred had no clue what they were for, but Kyle knew them inside out.
These were gifts from the ever-hospitable American mob, back when he was the Dark Knight in New York.
Kyle plucked two M16s from the wall. "Got these in the States. Straight from Texas. And no, Texas isn't just about corn tortillas."
George and Fred stared blankly, his humor sailing right over their heads.
Whatever. Explaining jokes to these two was like playing piano for a cow.
He pried open a wooden crate stacked against the wall, revealing neat rows of gleaming, brassy bullets.
After loading the magazines to the brim, Kyle snapped one into place with a satisfying clack and flicked off the safety.
"I call this one Destroyer of Heavens," he said, hefting one rifle. "And this one's Annihilator of Earth. Together? They live up to the name."
With that, he gripped both guns, one in each hand, and unleashed a storm on a humanoid target ten meters ahead.
The long barrels spat tongues of flame. Deafening cracks echoed as the target disintegrated into confetti before his eyes.
Don't ask why he picked the ten-meter mark.
Classified.
The twins' expressions flipped from deadpan to ravenous in an instant.
"Never point the muzzle at anyone," Kyle warned, handing each a rifle.
They nodded like bobbleheads on a dashboard.
After witnessing the target's gruesome fate, they knew: get hit by this, and you wouldn't need Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing.
Straight to the slab. The whole Weasley clan wailing. Then the entire village of Ottery St. Catchpole tucking into a funeral feast.
After correcting their stances and drilling the importance of a firm grip, Kyle still wasn't convinced.
So he switched their M16s from burst to single-shot.
Next came the symphony: in the fragrance of ripening rice, a harvest year—gunfire blooming across the range.
"George! This thing's way handier than a wand!"
Fred's shoulders throbbed from recoil, but his grin never faltered.
George twisted around, beaming. "Tell me about it!"
But when he turned, he spotted Kyle cradling a Barrett M82A1 sniper rifle—four-and-a-half feet of matte-black menace.
Muzzle brake, bipod, scope: fully kitted. Suddenly, the twins' iron-sighted, bare-bones M16s felt like toys.
George and Fred stared at Kyle's sniper with puppy-dog eyes, silently pleading: Kyle, let us try that one!
Kyle didn't bat an eye at their longing.
Joke's on them—this gun cost him blood, sweat, and… well, not tears, but definitely a mountain of cash earned with his own two "hardworking" hands.
He'd sunk a fortune through shady channels to snag one from a dealer, fresh off limited military rollout.
No way he was lending it out willy-nilly.
Ten minutes later, George hovered at Fred's side, practically vibrating. "Fred! My turn, my turn! You've burned through two magazines!"
Under relentless nagging, Fred peeled his face from the 10x scope with utmost reluctance and yielded the firing line.
While the twins lost themselves in ballistic bliss, Kyle lounged on the floor, flipping through a slim notebook.
The sporadic cracks didn't faze him one bit.
This notebook was the twins' bribe for a shot at the Barrett.
It detailed the Disillusionment Charm.
The charm camouflaged its target, blending person or object with the surroundings—like a chameleon shifting color and texture to match the backdrop.
Kyle was hooked.
Master this, and sneaking around for… unsavory pursuits—like peeping into the girls' bath—would be a breeze.
Spit. No!
For research on Hogwarts After Dark…
Spit. Definitely not!
Nighttime castle prowls would be a cakewalk with this spell.
He skimmed the notes, then tucked it away.
He hadn't even nailed basic charms yet. A high-level spell the twins—over a year into Hogwarts—still fumbled? No chance he'd crack it anytime soon.
"Hey, you two," Kyle called, glancing at the wall clock. Past ten already. "Time to pack it in."
The twins checked the time and set down their rifles with heavy hearts.
As they exited the range, Fred sighed, "Dad would lose his mind in here."
"Wait!" Kyle stopped them, rummaging through a bookshelf in the living room.
Moments later, he pressed two or three military magazines on tanks into their hands.
"Tank schematics inside. Might help your dad when he starts enchanting one."
Kyle rubbed his hands, giddy. Could Mr. Weasley turn a tank into a star-destroyer?
If so—magical fighters, magical battleships, even a magical aircraft carrier…
Picture it: a colossal flying carrier, dozens of ferocious dragons perched on deck. Expanded hangars housing scores of enchanted fighters and bombers.
Magic would supercharge range, firepower, agility, speed.
One ship could topple a nation.
The thought alone sent thrills down his spine.
That night, Kyle sank into soft sheets, mind racing.
Too much had happened in a single day.
Dumbledore found him. Revealed he was a wizard.
He'd thought he was the world's only metahuman. Nope—thousands like him existed.
He just hadn't met any; wizards stayed hidden.
But hey—if he could cross worlds into Harry Potter's, what wasn't possible?
He rolled over and drifted into deep sleep.
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