# The Headmaster's Office
The fire in the ancient hearth crackled with unusual vigor, its flames dancing higher than they had any earthly right to, casting shadows that seemed to move independently of their sources across the carved oak beams of the ceiling. Professor Albus Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair behind the enormous mahogany desk that had served Hogwarts headmasters for nearly three centuries, one long-fingered hand absently stroking the magnificent scarlet plumage of Fawkes. The phoenix leaned into the gentle touch, occasionally preening his tail feathers and releasing soft, musical trills that seemed to harmonize with the crackling flames.
"Well, my incandescent friend," Dumbledore murmured, his voice carrying that particular blend of weariness and dry amusement that came from spending three solid hours attempting to explain impossible truths to a man whose primary talent lay in avoiding uncomfortable realities, "I do believe I have just witnessed Cornelius Fudge perform mental gymnastics that would make the entire Bulgarian National Quidditch Team weep with envy."
He paused to fish a lemon drop from the crystal bowl at his elbow, unwrapping it with the deliberate care of a man who had learned to savor small pleasures during long, difficult nights. The sweet's lemony tartness provided a welcome counterpoint to the bitter aftertaste of political necessity.
"You should have seen his face, Fawkes," Dumbledore continued conversationally, settling back into his chair with a soft sigh that seemed to echo from his very bones. "When dear Peter began his Veritaserum-induced confession—oh, the expression of pure, unadulterated horror! Not at the crimes themselves, mind you, but at the sheer inconvenience of having to acknowledge them. I half expected him to demand a Memory Charm on the spot, simply to spare himself the burden of inconvenient knowledge."
Fawkes tilted his magnificent head and released a gentle warble that somehow managed to convey both sympathy and mild reproach, as only a creature of such ancient wisdom could manage.
"Yes, yes, you're quite right," Dumbledore conceded with a rueful smile, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I oughtn't mock the man. After all, we've all been guilty of believing comfortable lies when the truth proved... challenging. And I am hardly in a position to cast stones from my particular glass house."
His pale blue eyes, usually twinkling with benevolent mischief, dimmed slightly as his gaze drifted across the office—past the whirring, clicking magical instruments that monitored everything from atmospheric pressure to the emotional well-being of the student body, past the portraits of former headmasters who maintained the polite fiction of sleep while undoubtedly eavesdropping on every word, past the towering bookshelves filled with tomes that chronicled centuries of magical knowledge and human folly.
His attention settled on a small, intricate device crafted from what appeared to be spun silver and crystallized moonlight. For thirteen long years, it had hummed with constant, malevolent energy, its delicate mechanisms pulsing in rhythm with something dark and parasitic. Now it sat in perfect, blessed silence.
"The horcrux is gone," Dumbledore whispered, his voice carrying the reverence typically reserved for sacred pronouncements. His weathered hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he reached out to touch the dormant device. "Severed completely. Burned away in phoenix fire purer than anything I could have summoned, even with Fawkes's willing assistance."
He turned to regard his longtime companion, and for a moment, the carefully maintained mask of benevolent authority slipped entirely, revealing the profound relief of a man who had carried an unbearable burden for far too long.
"That brave, extraordinary boy is finally free, Fawkes. Free to live his own life rather than die for my failures. Free to discover who he truly is without the shadow of Tom Riddle's madness poisoning every moment of his existence."
Fawkes spread his wings wide—a span that could have sheltered a grown man—and sang a single, crystalline note that seemed to transform the very air of the office. The sound carried hope made audible, joy given voice, the promise of dawn after the darkest night. Even the portraits stirred in their frames, drawn from their pretended slumber by music that spoke directly to the soul.
For several precious moments, Dumbledore allowed himself the luxury of unguarded happiness. The weight that had pressed down on his shoulders since that terrible Halloween night thirteen years ago had finally lifted. Harry Potter—the boy he had come to love as fiercely as any grandfather loves a grandson—would not have to sacrifice himself to destroy the soul fragment that had nested in his scar since infancy.
The moment of peace was interrupted by a sensation Dumbledore had not experienced in nearly a decade—the careful, courteous approach of a familiar telepathic presence. It touched the edges of his consciousness with all the restraint and politeness of a well-bred visitor standing patiently outside a drawing room door, waiting for permission to enter.
A smile spread across Dumbledore's bearded face, the first genuine expression of unguarded pleasure he had managed since the evening's chaos began. He consciously relaxed his mental barriers—formidable defenses honed by decades of dealing with accomplished Legilimens—and extended a warm welcome to his old friend.
*Charles, my dear fellow,* Dumbledore's mental voice carried the warmth of genuine affection mixed with scholarly curiosity. *What impeccable timing you have. I was beginning to wonder if I should dispatch Hedwig with a formal invitation.*
The responding mental presence felt exactly as Dumbledore remembered—cultured, precise, carrying the weight of vast intelligence tempered by genuine compassion for humanity's struggles. Professor Charles Xavier's telepathic voice maintained that distinctive blend of English refinement and academic authority that had made him such a natural collaborator on their previous endeavors.
*Albus, my old friend,* Charles replied, his mental tone carrying undertones of urgency barely restrained by decades of diplomatic training. *I do hope this evening finds you in reasonable spirits, though I suspect recent events have tested even your considerable reserves of patience and wisdom.*
*Oh, you have no idea,* Dumbledore responded with mental laughter that somehow managed to convey both exhaustion and dark amusement. *Cornelius Fudge has just spent three hours performing interpretive dance around several truths he would rather feed to a Hungarian Horntail than acknowledge publicly. The man possesses a truly remarkable talent for cognitive dissonance.*
*I can only imagine. British political theater has always been... particularly creative in its approach to inconvenient realities.* Charles's mental voice carried the dry wit of someone who had spent considerable time navigating governmental bureaucracy. *However, I'm afraid I'm not calling to exchange observations about ministerial psychology, fascinating though that subject might be.*
*No, I rather suspected as much,* Dumbledore replied, his mental presence sharpening with attention. *Your remarkable Cerebro detected young Mr. Potter's transformation, I presume? Though I suspect you've gleaned considerably more information than the simple fact of his metamorphosis.*
*Indeed.* Charles's mental tone grew more serious, carrying notes of scientific fascination mixed with genuine concern. *The psychic resonance was extraordinary, Albus. Unlike anything in our extensive database. The power levels alone would have been remarkable, but the complexity of the signature... it suggests something unprecedented.*
Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair, absently offering Fawkes another gentle stroke as his mind focused entirely on the conversation. *Unprecedented in what way, Charles? I'm afraid my expertise in mutant genetics is rather limited, despite our previous collaborations.*
*The genetic markers, Albus.* Xavier's mental voice carried the careful precision of a scientist delivering potentially devastating news. *They suggest a blood connection between young Harry and one of my X-Men. Specifically, to Logan—James Howlett. The resonance patterns are virtually identical.*
For several heartbeats, Dumbledore's mental presence went completely still. When he finally responded, his thoughts carried genuine bewilderment mixed with absolute certainty.
*Charles, I'm afraid that's quite impossible.* His mental voice held the gentle firmness of someone stating an indisputable fact. *Harry Potter is unquestionably the biological son of James and Lily Potter. I knew them both personally—watched James grow from a rather arrogant young man into someone worthy of Lily Evans's remarkable heart. I held Harry in my arms not forty-eight hours after his birth.*
Dumbledore paused, his mental presence taking on the weight of absolute conviction. *The resemblance between father and son is unmistakable, Charles. Harry possesses James's precise bone structure, his unruly black hair, even his unfortunate tendency toward heroic recklessness. The only feature he inherited from his mother are those extraordinary green eyes—the same shade as fresh spring leaves.*
*I understand your certainty, Albus,* Charles replied with infinite patience, his mental tone carrying both sympathy and unwavering scientific conviction. *And I would never question your personal knowledge of the family. However, Cerebro's genetic analysis is exceptionally precise. There is definitely a blood connection between Logan and the boy, though I freely admit I cannot explain its exact nature.*
*Logan,* Dumbledore repeated, his mental voice carrying thoughtful consideration. *James Howlett. The Wolverine himself. A man whose very existence reads like something from mythology rather than biology.*
*Indeed. A mutant whose healing factor and adamantium claws have made him both invaluable to our cause and a living reminder of humanity's capacity for cruelty. His memories remain fragmented at best—decades of experimental trauma have left vast gaps in his personal history.*
Dumbledore was quiet for several moments, his brilliant mind working through the implications with characteristic thoroughness. When he finally responded, his mental voice carried renewed curiosity.
*Could the connection be more complex than simple paternity, Charles? Perhaps Logan is related to James Potter through some previously unknown family line? The wizarding world has always been rather... insular in its breeding patterns. Ancient families intermarry across centuries, creating genetic connections that might not be immediately obvious.*
*That's certainly possible,* Charles agreed, his mental tone brightening with renewed hope. *Logan's memories of his early life are particularly fragmentary. He could have relatives he's entirely unaware of, connections that predate his transformation into what he is today.*
*Then we have a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself,* Dumbledore replied with mental satisfaction. *Fortunately, I believe I know someone who might possess the key to this particular puzzle. Sirius Black has been cleared of all charges and is currently at the castle, recovering from his own rather dramatic evening.*
*Sirius Black,* Charles mused, and Dumbledore could sense him accessing decades of carefully maintained intelligence files. *The last scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, if I recall correctly. Yes, he would be the logical person to consult regarding Potter family history.*
*Indeed. Sirius was practically a brother to James Potter during their Hogwarts years. If anyone would know about complex family connections or hidden genetic legacies, it would be him.* Dumbledore's mental presence carried sudden warmth. *And Charles? Are you planning to visit Hogwarts personally? Because if Logan truly is connected to Harry in some way, the boy deserves to know the truth. He has spent far too many years believing himself entirely alone in the world.*
*Already en route, I'm afraid,* Charles replied with the efficiency of someone accustomed to making rapid decisions in complex situations. *Logan, Ororo, and I should arrive within the hour. Though I feel compelled to warn you—Logan is... apprehensive about the situation. The possibility of having unknown family is bringing up considerable emotional complexity for a man who has already endured more trauma than most could survive.*
Dumbledore chuckled, the sound carrying genuine affection for his old friend's perpetual concern for others' well-being. *Logan, apprehensive? I find that rather difficult to imagine. In my admittedly limited experience with the man, he seemed more inclined toward direct action than emotional introspection.*
*He masks his vulnerabilities well,* Charles replied with the insight of someone who had spent years helping damaged souls heal. *But the prospect of family—of connection he might have lost or never known existed—terrifies him more than any physical danger ever could. He's been pacing the cabin like a caged animal for the past hour, and his emotional turbulence is affecting everything from the cabin pressure to Storm's weather management.*
*Poor Ororo,* Dumbledore replied with sympathy. *Managing Logan's emotional state and piloting an aircraft simultaneously must require considerable skill. Though I suspect she's more than equal to the challenge.*
*She's actually enjoying herself immensely,* Charles admitted with mental laughter. *Storm has always found Logan's protective instincts endearing, even when they manifest as barely controlled anxiety. She spent the first half of the flight taunting him about his 'paternal nervousness.'*
*And how did Logan respond to such teasing?*
*He threatened to introduce her to the Atlantic Ocean at thirty thousand feet. She offered to demonstrate exactly why they call her Storm. It was all very civilized.*
Dumbledore's mental laughter carried genuine delight. *I do so enjoy watching powerful individuals discover they care more than they're comfortable admitting. It's one of humanity's most endearing characteristics—the way love manages to terrify us more thoroughly than any external threat.*
*Indeed.* Charles's mental presence carried thoughtful agreement. *Though I suspect this particular revelation will challenge all of our understanding of family, genetics, and the connections that bind us together.*
*Speaking of connections,* Dumbledore interjected, his mental tone taking on renewed importance, *there's something else you should know about young Harry's transformation, Charles. Something that might prove relevant to Logan's... situation.*
*Oh?*
*The lycanthropic infection didn't simply trigger his mutant abilities. It also destroyed something that has been parasitically attached to the boy since infancy.* Dumbledore's mental voice grew more serious. *Harry Potter has been carrying a fragment of Tom Riddle's soul in his scar for thirteen years—an accidental horcrux created when Voldemort's killing curse rebounded.*
Charles's mental presence went completely still, radiating the kind of focused attention that preceded significant revelations. *A horcrux. A fragment of another's soul, anchored to a living host.*
*Exactly. I've suspected it since his second year, when Tom Riddle's diary revealed the extent of Voldemort's violations of natural law. The phoenix fire that erupted during Harry's transformation burned away that poisonous connection completely.*
*That's... extraordinary. Phoenix fire is one of the few forces capable of purifying such dark magic without destroying the host.* Charles's mental voice carried growing wonder. *The boy is remarkably fortunate.*
*Or perhaps,* Dumbledore suggested with characteristic insight, *the universe occasionally conspires to provide exactly the salvation we need, precisely when we need it most. Harry Potter has been marked for sacrifice since infancy. Perhaps it's time he was marked for freedom instead.*
*A beautiful sentiment, Albus. And one that gives me hope for his future, whatever revelations await us regarding his connection to Logan.*
*Indeed.* Dumbledore's mental presence carried renewed urgency. *Charles, I should warn Hagrid about your impending arrival. While I'm certain he would be delighted to meet Ororo and yourself again, the sight of a large aircraft descending onto the grounds might trigger his... protective instincts. He's liable to mistake your jet for a particularly aggressive dragon.*
*Ah, yes. Rubeus Hagrid. I remember him fondly from our previous visits.* Charles's mental voice carried amused affection. *Please do assure him that we come in peace and that his crossbow won't be necessary. Storm has been managing the weather patterns to ensure a smooth landing, but I'd prefer not to test whether our diplomatic immunity extends to half-giant gamekeeper confrontations.*
*I shall handle the situation with appropriate delicacy,* Dumbledore assured him. *Though I make no promises about preventing Hagrid from offering you rock cakes. His enthusiasm for hospitality tends to override concerns about dental safety.*
*We'll consider ourselves warned.* Charles's mental voice carried warmth that spoke of long friendship and shared adventures. *Albus, thank you for this. Whatever emerges from tonight's revelations, Harry deserves to know the full truth of his heritage. He has been alone for far too long.*
*As do we all, Charles,* Dumbledore replied softly. *As do we all. We shall see you soon, my old friend.*
The telepathic connection faded gently, like the last notes of a favorite symphony, leaving Dumbledore alone with his thoughts and the soft crackling of the fireplace. He sat in contemplative silence for several minutes, absently stroking Fawkes's plumage as he processed the implications of Charles's revelation.
Logan—James Howlett—the legendary Wolverine. A mutant whose healing factor had made him effectively immortal, whose adamantium claws could cut through nearly any material, whose tragic past had been stripped away by experimental torture that would have destroyed lesser men. If he truly was connected to Harry in some way, it would explain so much about the boy's resilience, his instinctive understanding of violence and survival, his remarkable ability to endure trauma that would have broken other children.
But if Logan wasn't Harry's father—and Dumbledore's certainty about James Potter's parentage remained absolute—then what was their connection? A grandfather? An uncle? Some more distant family relationship that had been hidden or forgotten over the decades of war and loss?
"Only one way to find out, I suppose," Dumbledore murmured aloud, reaching for the speaking tube that connected his office to Hagrid's hut. The brass device, enchanted to carry voices clearly across the castle grounds, came alive at his touch with a gentle humming sound.
"Rubeus? Yes, it's Albus. I do hope I haven't woken you." Dumbledore's voice carried the careful courtesy of someone who had learned that even the most urgent business benefited from polite observation of social niceties.
Hagrid's voice boomed through the tube with characteristic enthusiasm, slightly muffled but unmistakably warm. "Course not, Professor! Been keepin' an eye on things, what with all the excitement earlier. Fang's been pacin' somethin' fierce—he can always sense when there's been Dark Magic about."
"Indeed, tonight has been rather eventful," Dumbledore agreed with considerable understatement. "However, I'm calling to inform you that we should be receiving visitors within the hour. Quite distinguished visitors, actually—Professor Xavier and his colleagues from the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters."
"Professor Xavier!" Hagrid's delight was audible even through the magical communication system. "Haven't seen him in years! How's he been? Still teachin' those remarkable students of his?"
"He is indeed, and I believe you'll find his companions equally fascinating. However, Rubeus, they will be arriving by unconventional means—specifically, in a Muggle aircraft that will need to land on the grounds."
There was a moment of silence before Hagrid's voice returned, tinged with confusion. "A Muggle aircraft? You mean like one of those flying contraptions they use instead of brooms? The ones that make all that noise?"
"Precisely. It's called a jet, and it will likely be rather... dramatic in its arrival. I need you to prepare the south lawn and ensure that no students witness the landing. Also, and I cannot stress this enough, please leave your crossbow safely locked away in your hut."
"But Professor," Hagrid protested, "what if it's not really Professor Xavier? What if it's some sort of trick? Remember what happened with that Ministry dragon last year?"
Dumbledore chuckled, the sound carrying fond exasperation. "Rubeus, that wasn't a Ministry dragon. It was a particularly large owl that had gotten confused during a thunderstorm. And I can assure you that Professor Xavier is quite genuine—I've been in telepathic communication with him for the past several minutes."
"Oh. Right then." Hagrid's embarrassment was audible. "I'll clear the south lawn and put the kettle on. Should I prepare the guest quarters?"
"An excellent idea, though I suspect our visitors will be quite eager to meet with young Mr. Potter once they've arrived. The purpose of their visit is... related to Harry's recent transformation."
"About time someone with proper knowledge came to help the lad," Hagrid said with fierce approval. "Been worried sick about him, I have. All those changes, and him just a boy trying to make sense of it all."
"Indeed. Harry has been carrying burdens far too heavy for his young shoulders. Perhaps tonight we can help him understand that he doesn't have to bear them alone."
"That's the spirit, Professor. I'll have everything ready for your guests. And I'll keep Fang inside—don't want him gettin' too excited about the flying machine."
"Wise precaution, Rubeus. Thank you."
Dumbledore replaced the speaking tube and turned back to Fawkes, who had been listening to the conversation with obvious interest. The phoenix tilted his head and released a questioning trill.
"Yes, my friend, this promises to be quite the reunion," Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. "Logan, Charles, and Ororo—all descending upon my front lawn in a flying contraption that roars louder than a Hungarian Horntail. I do hope Minerva is still awake. She'll be positively livid if she misses such a spectacle."
Fawkes ruffled his scarlet feathers and sang a note that sounded suspiciously like phoenix laughter.
Dumbledore reached for another lemon drop, settling back in his chair with the patient satisfaction of a man who had learned to find pleasure in life's unexpected complications. "Well then, Fawkes, shall we wait for our guests in appropriate style? I believe I have a bottle of Ogden's Finest tucked away somewhere—Charles always did appreciate good whiskey, and I suspect Logan will need something stronger than pumpkin juice to process whatever revelations await us."
As he rose to retrieve the bottle, Dumbledore found himself humming softly—an old Welsh melody his mother had sung to him decades ago, when the world had seemed simpler and magic was nothing more than wonder made manifest. Tonight felt like one of those nights when everything changed, when the careful plans of wise men yielded to the chaotic beauty of forces beyond their control.
For the first time in years, he felt genuinely excited about what tomorrow might bring.
Outside his windows, the storm clouds that had gathered during Harry's transformation were finally beginning to part, revealing stars that seemed to burn with unusual brightness against the Scottish night. Somewhere above those stars, three extraordinary individuals were flying through increasingly calm skies, carrying answers that would reshape a young man's understanding of himself and his place in an increasingly complex world.
"Yes," Dumbledore murmured to the night, his eyes twinkling with anticipation behind his half-moon spectacles, "a very interesting conversation indeed."
—
# Onboard the X-Jet - 30,000 feet above the Atlantic
The sleek aircraft cut through the night sky with the effortless grace of advanced engineering, its hull gleaming silver against the starfield. Inside the spacious cabin, atmospheric tension had nothing to do with altitude and everything to do with the man currently wearing a groove in the reinforced flooring.
Logan Howlett paced the narrow aisle between the plush leather seats with all the contained fury of a caged predator. His movements were sharp, economical, each step measured with the precision of someone who had spent decades learning to channel violence into motion. The distinctive metallic sound of his claws extending and retracting filled the cabin with mechanical whispers - *snikt, snikt, snikt* - a nervous habit that would have been concerning if anyone aboard hadn't witnessed far more dramatic displays of his emotional state.
"Logan," Ororo Munroe called from the pilot's seat, her voice carrying that particular blend of amusement and gentle reproach that only she could manage, "you're going to wear a hole through my floor. And considering we're currently thirty thousand feet above very cold water, I'd prefer to keep the cabin intact."
Storm's hands moved across the aircraft's controls with practiced ease, making minute adjustments to their flight path while simultaneously managing weather patterns across three time zones. Outside the reinforced windows, clouds parted before them like curtains drawn by an invisible hand, revealing corridors of clear sky that shouldn't have existed naturally.
"Your floor?" Logan shot back without missing a step, though his tone held more affection than irritation. "Last I checked, this was Xavier's toy."
"Charles may have paid for it, but I'm the one who keeps it airborne," Storm replied with serene confidence. "Therefore, it's my floor you're currently threatening to destroy with your anxiety-induced pacing."
Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair near the center of the cabin, positioned to easily observe both his companions while maintaining the kind of dignified composure that came from decades of managing temperamental mutants. His fingers were steepled before him, pale eyes following Logan's restless movement with the analytical attention of someone cataloging behavioral patterns.
"Logan," Charles said gently, his cultured English accent carrying notes of paternal concern, "wearing yourself to exhaustion before we arrive won't help anyone, least of all the young man we're traveling to meet."
Logan's pacing faltered for half a step before resuming with renewed intensity. "Easy for you to say, Chuck. You're not the one who might be about to discover he's got a kid he never knew existed. A kid who's been growing up thinking he's alone in the world while his dear old dad was busy getting his memory scrambled by government scientists."
The raw pain in Logan's voice cut through the cabin's recycled air like a blade. Storm's hands tightened almost imperceptibly on the controls, and several LED displays flickered as her unconscious emotional response sent minor electrical surges through the aircraft's systems.
"We don't know for certain that Harry is your biological child," Charles pointed out with characteristic precision, though his tone remained gentle. "The genetic markers suggest a familial connection, but the exact nature of that relationship remains unclear."
"Right, right," Logan muttered, finally dropping into one of the leather seats with enough force to make the frame creak ominously. "Could be my son, could be my nephew, could be some distant cousin I've never heard of. Hell, for all we know, my DNA got mixed up with someone else's in some lab somewhere and this whole thing is just cosmic coincidence."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles showed white beneath the dark hair covering his forearms. "But what if he is my kid, Chuck? What if I've got a son who's been facing down Dark Lords and basilisks and God knows what else, and I wasn't there? What if he needed me and I was off playing soldier in some war I can't even remember?"
Storm engaged the autopilot with practiced efficiency and swiveled her chair to face the passenger cabin, her dark eyes soft with compassion. "Logan, you can't torture yourself with hypothetical guilt. If Harry is your son - if - then the important thing is that you're here now. You're trying to help him now."
"Am I?" Logan's laugh held no humor whatsoever. "Or am I just another complication in a kid's life that's already more complicated than any thirteen-year-old should have to handle?"
"Based on Albus's description," Charles interjected thoughtfully, "I suspect young Harry is quite adept at managing complications. He's survived encounters with Voldemort multiple times, faced down a sixty-foot basilisk, and apparently just manifested mutant abilities powerful enough to register on Cerebro from three thousand miles away."
Logan's head snapped up, his hazel eyes sharp with sudden focus. "You said the lycanthropic infection triggered his mutation. Tell me exactly what happened, Chuck. Don't spare the details."
Charles closed his eyes for a moment, accessing the information Dumbledore had shared during their telepathic conversation. When he spoke, his voice carried the clinical precision of someone accustomed to delivering complex scientific data.
"According to Albus, Harry was bitten by a werewolf during what appears to have been a rescue attempt. The lycanthropic curse should have transformed him into a werewolf - a fate that, while manageable, would have severely complicated his already difficult life."
Storm leaned forward in her seat, her expression intent. "But the mutation prevented the transformation?"
"More than prevented it," Charles replied, his tone carrying growing wonder. "The X-gene activation, combined with residual phoenix magic in his bloodstream and traces of basilisk venom from a previous encounter, created something entirely unprecedented. Harry manifested bone claws wreathed in phoenix fire, enhanced healing capabilities, and talons that secrete basilisk venom."
Logan went very still, the kind of absolute stillness that preceded either violence or profound revelation. "Phoenix fire claws," he said slowly, as if testing the words. "And enhanced healing."
"The healing factor appears to rival your own," Charles confirmed gently. "The werewolf bite sealed itself completely within minutes. And Logan... the phoenix fire didn't just manifest around his claws. According to Albus, it burned away something that had been parasitically attached to the boy since infancy. A fragment of Voldemort's soul that had been anchored to his scar."
"Holy shit," Storm breathed, her usual composure cracking slightly. "He was carrying a piece of the Dark Lord's soul? For thirteen years?"
"An accidental horcrux, in magical terms," Charles explained. "It should have been impossible to remove without killing the host. But the phoenix fire - pure, cleansing flame that responds to the wielder's moral character rather than their conscious will - burned away the parasitic soul fragment without harming Harry in the slightest."
Logan was quiet for a long moment, processing this information with the methodical thoroughness of someone accustomed to analyzing tactical situations. When he finally spoke, his voice held a note of fierce pride that surprised even him.
"Kid fought off a lycanthropic infection, manifested mutant abilities, and accidentally performed soul surgery on himself. All while rescuing someone else." He shook his head slowly, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Hell of a thing."
"Indeed," Charles agreed warmly. "Though I suspect the most remarkable aspect of his transformation was what happened afterward."
"Oh?" Storm prompted, settling back in her chair with the expression of someone preparing to hear something extraordinary.
"According to Albus, Harry emerged from his metamorphosis to find himself facing dozens of Dementors - creatures that feed on happiness and hope, leaving their victims in states of absolute despair. They had been drawn by the magical disturbance, seeking to capitalize on the fear and chaos."
Logan's claws extended with that distinctive metallic sound, his body unconsciously preparing for battle despite the fact that they were thousands of miles from any threat. "And?"
Charles's mental voice carried the echo of Dumbledore's amazed recounting as he continued. "Harry killed them. All of them. Not with magic, not with wands and spells - with his bare hands and phoenix fire. He systematically hunted down and destroyed every Dementor that had been stationed at Hogwarts, creatures that had terrorized the wizarding world for centuries."
"Bloody hell," Storm murmured, unconscious lightning flickering between her fingers as her powers responded to her emotional state. "How many are we talking about?"
"Twenty-two confirmed kills," Charles replied with clinical precision. "Including several that tried to flee across a lake. Harry ran across the water's surface to catch them."
Logan leaned back in his seat, his expression shifting from concern to something approaching awe. "The kid's got style, I'll give him that. Phoenix fire and water-walking. Makes my little metal claws seem almost mundane."
"Your 'little metal claws' are adamantium-laced bone structures that can cut through virtually any material," Storm pointed out with dry amusement. "I hardly think 'mundane' applies."
"Yeah, but can I set them on fire? Can I run on water? Can I perform accidental soul surgery?" Logan's grin was sharp and genuine. "Kid's already showing me up, and I haven't even met him yet."
Charles watched this exchange with the satisfaction of someone witnessing an important psychological breakthrough. Logan's defensive anxiety was transforming into something far healthier - protective pride and genuine curiosity about the young man they were traveling to meet.
"There's something else you should know," Charles added carefully. "According to Albus, Harry's transformation included significant physical changes. He appears to have aged several years, gaining both height and muscle mass. His features have been... refined."
"Refined how?" Logan asked suspiciously.
"Well," Charles said with the delicate precision of someone delivering potentially sensitive news, "Albus described him as looking like 'a hero from legend.' Apparently, the transformation enhanced his physical appearance considerably."
Storm turned to stare at Charles, her eyebrows raised in surprise. "Enhanced how considerably?"
"His friends described him as 'devastatingly handsome' and compared his appearance to Renaissance sculpture," Charles replied with academic detachment. "The transformation appears to have optimized his physical form to peak human perfection."
Logan blinked slowly, processing this information. "So let me get this straight. My potential son is now a devastatingly attractive mutant wizard with healing factors, phoenix fire claws, and a talent for committing genocide against nightmare creatures."
"That's... remarkably accurate, yes," Charles confirmed.
"And he's thirteen years old."
"Physically, he appears to be seventeen or eighteen now."
"But mentally still thirteen."
"That remains to be determined. Dramatic physical transformations can sometimes accelerate psychological development as well."
Logan was quiet for several minutes, staring out the reinforced windows at the cloud formations Storm was parting with unconscious ease. When he finally spoke, his voice held a note of rueful amusement.
"You know what the really crazy part is? None of this seems particularly surprising anymore. Mutant wizard with legendary good looks and a penchant for heroic violence? Sounds like a typical Tuesday in our line of work."
"Perhaps," Charles suggested gently, "that's because you recognize something of yourself in his story. The awakening of extraordinary abilities during a moment of crisis. The instinctive drive to protect others, regardless of personal cost. The willingness to face impossible odds with nothing but determination and improvised weaponry."
Logan's smile turned sharp and self-deprecating. "Yeah, well, let's hope he's got better luck with the 'not getting his memory scrambled by mad scientists' part."
"From what Albus has told me about young Harry's character," Storm interjected, "I suspect he'll be quite capable of making his own luck. The boy has been facing down impossible odds since he was eleven years old. A few government scientists would probably seem like a relaxing vacation."
Charles nodded thoughtfully. "There's something else we should discuss before we arrive. Albus mentioned that Harry has been raised by his maternal relatives - Muggles who, according to his account, have been less than... nurturing."
Logan's expression darkened immediately, his hands clenching into fists hard enough that the leather armrests creaked ominously. "Define 'less than nurturing,' Chuck."
"Emotional neglect, primarily. Harry was apparently treated more like an unwelcome burden than a family member. He spent his childhood believing himself to be entirely alone in the world, with no one who genuinely cared about his wellbeing."
The temperature in the cabin seemed to drop several degrees as Logan's fury translated into a very still, very dangerous kind of calm. "I see," he said quietly, and Storm felt the hair on her arms rise in response to the barely contained violence in those two words.
"Logan," Charles said firmly, his mental voice carrying the weight of decades of friendship and trust, "whatever mistakes were made in Harry's upbringing, they cannot be corrected through violence. The boy needs stability and genuine affection, not revenge on his behalf."
"I know that," Logan replied, though his tone suggested he was still working through the urge to introduce Harry's relatives to his claws. "Doesn't mean I have to like the idea of a kid - any kid, but especially..." He trailed off, unable to quite voice the possibility that Harry might actually be his son.
"Especially family," Storm finished gently. "Logan, the fact that you're already feeling protective of someone you've never met says everything about the kind of man you are. Whatever your relationship to Harry turns out to be, he's going to be lucky to have you in his life."
Charles smiled, watching Logan process Storm's words with the careful attention of someone who had never quite learned to accept praise gracefully. "She's right, you know. Your capacity for loyalty and protection is one of your finest qualities, even when - especially when - it manifests as barely controlled homicidal rage on behalf of those you care about."
"Gee, thanks Chuck," Logan replied dryly. "Nothing says 'father figure' like 'barely controlled homicidal rage.'"
"Actually," Storm said with gentle humor, "considering what Harry has been through, 'barely controlled homicidal rage on his behalf' might be exactly what he needs. Someone who gets angry at the people who've hurt him. Someone who thinks his wellbeing is worth fighting for."
Logan considered this, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, maybe you're right."
The intercom crackled to life with a soft chime, and Storm's professional pilot voice filled the cabin. "Gentlemen, we'll be beginning our descent into Scottish airspace in approximately fifteen minutes. Weather conditions are optimal - surprisingly optimal, actually, considering the storm systems that were reported in the area earlier this evening."
"Albus did mention that Harry's transformation caused considerable atmospheric disturbance," Charles noted. "Perhaps the weather is finally settling."
Logan stood and moved to one of the windows, looking down at the dark landscape beginning to emerge from the cloud cover below. Somewhere down there was a castle full of young wizards, one of whom might be his son. The thought should have terrified him - hell, it did terrify him - but underneath the fear was something else. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.
"Chuck," he said without turning from the window, "what if I screw this up? What if I'm too damaged, too dangerous, too..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "What if he takes one look at me and decides he was better off alone?"
Charles maneuvered his wheelchair closer to Logan's position, his expression gentle but absolutely certain. "Logan, you've spent the last hour pacing this cabin in a state of barely contained panic because you're worried about the wellbeing of someone you've never met. You're terrified that you might fail him, that you might not be enough, that you might cause him more pain."
Logan turned from the window, his expression guarded.
"That level of concern," Charles continued warmly, "that immediate, instinctive protectiveness - that's not the response of someone who's going to hurt a child. That's the response of someone who already loves him."
For a moment, Logan's carefully maintained composure cracked entirely, revealing the profound vulnerability he worked so hard to hide. "What if love isn't enough, Chuck? What if I can't be what he needs?"
"Then you'll learn," Storm said simply, rising from the pilot's seat as the autopilot took over their final approach. "You'll make mistakes, and you'll figure out how to do better. That's what family does - they muddle through together and hope for the best."
Charles nodded in agreement. "Logan, you've spent decades believing yourself to be alone in the world, cut off from any meaningful connections by the gaps in your memory. Tonight, you have the opportunity to discover that you're not alone - and more importantly, to ensure that Harry knows he's not alone either."
Logan looked between his two closest friends, these remarkable individuals who had somehow seen past his rough edges and damaged history to find something worth caring about. If they believed he could do this, maybe he could find a way to believe it too.
"All right," he said quietly. "Let's go meet the kid."
Outside the aircraft's windows, the lights of Hogwarts castle began to emerge from the Scottish darkness like stars fallen to earth, ancient and magical and full of possibilities none of them could yet imagine.
---
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