Harry Potter: MageX

Chapter 5: Chapter 4



Harry walked into Dumbledore's office, trying to act all cool and collected. But, I mean, how can you not be a little on edge when you're in a room with two guys who basically run the world? On one side, you've got Dumbledore, the man who could probably solve all of humanity's problems but prefers to drop cryptic riddles instead. On the other side, you've got Professor Xavier, who's got enough wisdom in his pinky finger to put the entire British Ministry of Magic to shame. It was like standing between Gandalf and Yoda—except neither of them ever made you feel like you were about to get a lesson in why you were an idiot.

The three of them sat down, and Harry did his best not to act like his entire world wasn't about to get turned upside down. But when Dumbledore's usual twinkle of mischief in his eyes faded and he looked at Harry with this serious, almost sorrowful expression, it was like the air in the room had suddenly become ten times thicker.

"Harry," Dumbledore started, voice soft, the kind of voice that made you want to sit up straight and pay attention. "Before we go any further, there are truths that must be laid bare. Your past, while extraordinary, is filled with events that are... deeply unsettling."

Well, great. That was just what Harry needed to hear on top of everything else going on. He shifted uncomfortably, like maybe the floor was about to open up and swallow him. But instead of a bottomless pit, it was just Dumbledore, sharing the kind of news you'd rather hear from anyone else.

The old wizard began recounting all the tragic stuff: how Voldemort had killed his parents, leaving Harry with a scar and a legacy that never really let up. He moved on to Harry's "charmed" life with the Dursleys—though "charmed" might've been an overstatement. Let's be honest, Harry had spent most of his childhood feeling like he was the world's least favorite cousin. The whole neglect thing? Yeah, he knew that story too well.

"And so," Dumbledore went on, tone heavy with what Harry could only describe as guilt, "I thought leaving you with your aunt and uncle would be the safest option. The blood wards your mother's sacrifice created should have kept you safe."

Harry's stomach twisted as he listened. Safe? Safe? His mind raced back to the years of being treated like an unwanted guest in his own home. The cupboard under the stairs, the constant fear of being "sent away" for even the smallest mistake.

And just like that, the anger hit him—fast and sharp, like a blast of cold air. He could feel his pulse thudding in his ears as he locked eyes with Dumbledore. "You left me with them?" Harry's voice cracked. The words just exploded out of him, like they'd been sitting in the back of his throat for years, waiting for a chance to leap out and strangle him. "You knew what they were like, and you thought that was the best choice? What were you thinking?"

Dumbledore's gaze softened, but Harry wasn't having it. He wasn't ready to be comforted yet. "Harry, I did what I thought was best," Dumbledore said quietly, looking like he might crack under the weight of his own guilt. "I believed your mother's bloodline would protect you. It was not an easy decision."

"Protected?" Harry spat, his voice rising. His hands were shaking now, but not from fear—more like adrenaline and rage. "You kept me in the dark, making decisions for me like I was some kind of... of experiment! A chess piece! You never asked what I needed, what I wanted." His fists were clenched so tight his nails were digging into his palms. "I'm not a sacrifice for some grand plan, Dumbledore! I'm not your pawn!"

The room went silent, and Harry was kind of feeling that silence. He was breathing hard, and he didn't know what he expected—maybe Dumbledore would say something profound, maybe he'd throw in another lemon drop to lighten the mood. But all he did was look at Harry, and for a second, Harry could see something deep—regret? Maybe guilt? Whatever it was, it didn't make Harry feel any better.

Xavier, who had been sitting quietly through the whole exchange, finally spoke. His voice was calm and steady, as if he'd had a lifetime of hearing arguments just like this. "Harry," he said softly, "I understand your anger. It's natural. But I've been in your shoes. Sometimes, the decisions that seem most wrong at the time are the ones we have to make."

Harry shot Xavier a look, then turned back to Dumbledore, teeth gritted. "Oh, yeah? Well, it's a lot easier to be calm and collected when you've got all the answers, huh? But I don't have that luxury. I never have." His voice was shaking, but he didn't care. "Everyone else is always deciding things for me. I don't get to pick. Not when they're all treating me like some kind of hero in a story that's already been written." He glared at Dumbledore, the anger still seeping out. "I'm not your bloody sacrifice."

Dumbledore sighed, a deep, tired sound. For a second, Harry could see the weight of the years on his face. "You're right, Harry," Dumbledore admitted, and that was the part that stung the most. "I should've been more honest. I should've explained things better. I only wanted to protect you. I didn't realize how much you would suffer for it."

Just as Harry was about to blow up again (because who wouldn't be furious at this point?), Logan's gravelly voice broke in, slicing through the tension like a hot knife through butter. "Kid's right, Dumbledore. You don't get to make all the decisions and then expect gratitude. Not after all this time."

Harry shot Logan a grateful look, then turned back to Dumbledore. "Yeah, well, 'thank you' doesn't really cover it, does it?"

Xavier, ever the calm mediator, gave Harry a nod, telepathically understanding the whirlwind of emotions swirling in his mind. "Harry, perhaps it's time to stop looking back. We can't change the past, but we can shape the future."

Dumbledore nodded, looking older than Harry had ever seen him, like he carried the weight of a thousand regrets on his shoulders. "Indeed. And you've grown into someone capable of far more than I ever thought possible. It's not just your powers, Harry. It's the choices you make with them that will shape who you become."

Harry stood up a little straighter, the edge of his anger fading. He felt something else creeping in—something quieter, but stronger. He nodded slowly, the words coming out in a way he hadn't expected. "I'll make my own choices from now on," he said, his voice steady. "And I'll make sure they matter."

The air in Dumbledore's office was thick with so much tension, you could practically cut it with a butter knife. Harry stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were about to start a rebellion. Just minutes ago, Dumbledore had dropped the truth bomb about Harry's life with the Dursleys, and it felt like he'd been hit by a herd of Bludgers—each one coming at him with more information than he could handle.

The prophecy. Of course, it had to be the prophecy. It was always the prophecy.

Harry's stomach churned, his blood boiling with a mix of anger and betrayal. "So, it was all about the prophecy," he muttered, his voice tight enough to snap a pencil in half. "You thought it was more important to follow some ancient mumbo jumbo than to actually think about what I needed?"

Dumbledore—who looked like he was trying to pull off the world's most serious yoga pose—sat across from him, hands steepled like he was about to give a TED talk on "Why Prophecies Are Totally Not a Big Deal, I Promise." Harry wasn't in the mood for the lecture.

"Harry, I understand how this must seem to you," Dumbledore began, voice slow and deliberate, like he was reciting lines from a play he knew by heart. "But prophecies are not mere superstition. They're markers, guides to what is meant to come."

"Guides? Really?" Harry couldn't help but scoff. "You seriously thought I'd be fine living in a cupboard, getting treated like a house-elf that never learned any magic? That was your grand plan?" His voice was shaking now, like a pot about to boil over. "That was your 'protection'?"

Dumbledore's face faltered, but the old man wasn't backing down. "It was the only way, Harry. The only way I knew to keep you safe." He looked like he wanted to say more, but Harry wasn't letting him.

"No," Harry shot back. "You didn't keep me safe. You put me in a cage and called it a 'ward.'" He gestured toward the ceiling like he was about to lose it. "I was just a chess piece, wasn't I? The great Harry Potter, the 'Chosen One,' reduced to a pawn in some grand scheme."

"Harry, I—" Dumbledore started, but Harry was too far gone.

"I was a year old," he yelled, suddenly feeling all the years of frustration pouring out of him. "And I'm supposed to be grateful because you thought it was better for me to grow up with a bunch of people who treated me like garbage? You used me, old man."

Before Dumbledore could respond, a voice cut through the tension like butter. It was calm, composed, and completely unbothered by the storm raging in the room.

"Harry's not going back there." Charles Xavier, who had been observing quietly in his wheelchair, leaned forward. His voice was firm, but not aggressive—just the kind of voice you listen to because it makes you feel like you're in good hands. "That's non-negotiable."

And just like that, the room seemed to deflate. Harry blinked at Xavier, the sudden clarity in his thoughts making him feel almost dizzy. Someone—someone—was finally speaking up for him. Like, really speaking up. Not some grandmaster wizard trying to justify his crappy decisions.

Xavier's gaze softened, but his words didn't. "I suggest we transfer Harry's guardianship to me. I have the resources, the expertise, and most importantly, the respect for Harry's autonomy." He paused and shot a quick glance at Dumbledore. "I will ensure his safety and give him the environment he deserves."

Harry's jaw dropped, and for a second, he was sure he'd misheard. "You… want to take me in?" His voice cracked just slightly, but the question hung in the air, daring anyone to tell him it wasn't true.

"Yes," Xavier replied, with that easy, comforting smile. "You deserve better than what you've had, Harry. It's time you had a life that's yours, not one dictated by ancient prophecies and old men with grand ideas."

Logan, who had been leaning against the wall like some grumpy statue, suddenly pushed off with a grunt. "Kid, you're one of us now. No more Dursleys. Got it, bub?" The last word was like a punch in the arm, but in a good way. Harry couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

Ororo, who had been quiet until now, spoke up, her voice like a soft breeze in a summer day. "You are not alone, Harry. We will make sure of that."

For the first time, Harry didn't feel like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Instead, he felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a team he could count on. Like he had a shot at something better.

"Thanks," Harry said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Dumbledore, looking more human than Harry had ever seen him, nodded slowly, regret heavy in his expression. "You are not alone, Harry," he said softly, his voice edged with guilt. "We will help you."

Harry didn't respond immediately. Instead, he just nodded—acknowledging it, but knowing that a simple nod wouldn't erase years of hurt. But for now, this was enough. He'd make it work.

Harry stood there, still trying to digest the whirlwind of everything that had just happened. He had a million thoughts bouncing around in his head like a snitch on a sugar rush, but one thing was clear: everything was changing. And not just a little. Big time.

Dumbledore, the ever-present figure in his life who had made everything sound so grand and meaningful—like he was the wise old wizard behind every curtain—now looked... a little less impressive. Harry could practically see the aura of wisdom flicker and sputter out like an old lightbulb. The way Dumbledore cleared his throat? Yeah, it sounded like someone who was about to drop some majorly sentimental words, and Harry wasn't sure how much of that he could take.

"Harry," Dumbledore began, his voice all soft and serious, like he was auditioning for the role of Grandfather of the Year—if there was such a thing. "I want you to understand, this decision, my support for it... comes from a place of love and deep concern." His glasses gleamed in that classic Dumbledore way, like he was just a few words away from some grand gesture where he'd pull a bunny out of a hat and make everything feel all better.

"Of course, you deserve a safe place. Somewhere you can be yourself, a place where you are not just 'the Boy Who Lived,' but Harry. I believe that Professor Xavier can offer that, and if that's the best path, then I... well, I'll back it."

Dumbledore looked so... Dumbledore. Harry wanted to feel moved, to feel like everything was going to be okay. But he was too busy wrestling with his feelings, like a guy who'd just realized his best friend was a fraud. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the sentiment. It was just... that whole prophecy thing had kind of taken the wind out of the "wise old mentor" sails.

He didn't have the energy for a sappy speech or grand gestures anymore. Instead, he offered Dumbledore a small nod, feeling the words he needed to say stuck behind the lump in his throat. "Thank you, Professor," he said, keeping his voice steady. "For everything."

Dumbledore's eyes softened, like he had a million deep, emotional words just waiting to be spoken, but Harry wasn't interested in hearing them. He was done playing the "Harry the Special One" game. Instead, he put on his best "I'm being respectful but I'm not buying into the mythology anymore" face. It was a tricky thing to pull off, especially when Dumbledore had that look—the one that made people think he was the sage who knew everything about life, death, and the universe... and maybe even the color of your socks.

"You will always have a place in my heart, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, giving him that heartbreaking grandfatherly look. "No matter where life takes you, remember that I am here for you. Always."

Oh, Harry wasn't falling for it this time. He smiled, but it was that tight, polite smile people put on when they're trying to hide their eye roll. He nodded, saying nothing in response. Dumbledore's parting words hovered in the air, like mist after a storm, but they didn't have the same weight they used to.

"Always, Harry." The words seemed to hang there like a banner. But Harry? He wasn't buying the propaganda anymore. The "always" felt hollow after everything he'd just learned. He had no idea where he was going, but at least with Xavier, Wolverine, and Ororo—he knew that wherever he went next, he wouldn't have to face it alone.

Before he could fully process it, Charles Xavier wheeled forward, his voice calm and unwavering. You could practically hear the sophisticated British accent in his words as he spoke—like everything he said was right out of a TED talk. "Dumbledore, I understand your perspective. But make no mistake, Harry's well-being is non-negotiable. If he is to stay with me, I will ensure he has the safety, support, and nurturing environment he deserves."

It was like a mic drop moment. No fluff, no self-doubt, just solid assurance. And Harry... well, he wasn't going to argue with that. He glanced at Xavier, noticing how the man's calm presence was like an unshakable mountain in a storm.

Then Logan, the human embodiment of gruff and disgruntled, growled from the back of the room like he was chewing on a cigar. "Kid," he said, sounding like he'd just woken up from a nap and was already irritated at the world. "You're one of us now. No more Dursleys. Got it, bub?"

Harry blinked, half-surprised that someone could be so blunt in such a big moment. But... there was something comforting about it. Like he'd just been adopted into some offbeat, badass family that didn't need the flowery speeches to make him feel welcome. Logan wasn't going to sugarcoat it. And Harry? He kind of liked that.

Ororo, standing by the window with her arms crossed, looked like she was ready to take on an army, but her voice was as soothing as a gentle breeze. "We will do everything in our power to make sure you're happy, Harry," she said, her calm, steady tone carrying more weight than any amount of wizarding world bureaucracy ever could. "You are not alone anymore."

And suddenly, Harry felt like maybe, just maybe, everything might be okay. A real family. A different kind of family, but it was more than he'd ever had.

He couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at his lips, a real, honest one this time. "Thanks," he muttered, a little breathless with the sudden rush of emotions. He wasn't sure how much he'd ever forgive Dumbledore for, but with these guys in his corner? Harry felt like he could at least take the next step.

Dumbledore, his face lined with regret, nodded quietly. "You are not alone, Harry. We will help you through whatever comes next."

Dumbledore took a deep breath, clearly relishing the moment like a seasoned actor about to deliver a world-changing monologue. You know the kind: slow-motion, dramatic lighting, maybe even a tear or two. The man had mastered the art of making the mundane feel like the climax of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.

"Before we wrap this up," he started, his voice taking on that deeply solemn, 'I-have-some-wisdom-to-impart' tone. "There's one more crucial detail you need to know."

Logan grunted, flicking his cigar ash like he was trying to light a fire with it. "Yeah, let me guess—Voldemort's evil lair is built on top of a volcano, and we need to destroy it with a one-liner?"

Dumbledore didn't flinch. Of course he didn't. The man was a walking thesaurus of wisdom and obliviousness. "It's about the diary, Harry."

Oh, great. The diary. The one he destroyed in an attempt to stop an ancient magical snake from killing everyone. No biggie.

"That diary, Harry, wasn't just a diary," Dumbledore continued, his voice taking on a dramatic pause. "It was a Horcrux."

Storm blinked, her brow furrowing. "A what now?"

Dumbledore leaned in slightly, as if imparting a forbidden secret. "A Horcrux, my dear Ororo, is a dark, twisted form of magic—one that splits a wizard's soul and hides pieces of it in objects or, sometimes, living beings." He paused for effect, looking for reactions. "It ensures that even if their body is destroyed, they remain tethered to the world through these fragments."

The room went eerily silent, like someone had just dropped a metaphorical "the world is actually flat" bomb. Wolverine didn't flinch, but you could practically hear his internal snark running at full speed. "So we're talking about soul-splitting? Man, that's just the kinda thing that'd give you a bad case of existential dread."

"Correct," Dumbledore said, unfazed. "And the diary contained a fragment of Voldemort's soul."

Harry's head was spinning. He'd always suspected that diary had a little more to it than a teenage girl's emotional outbursts, but this was next level creepy.

"So, when I destroyed it…" Harry muttered, his voice trailing off as realization dawned. "I destroyed a piece of Voldemort's soul?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, nodding like he'd just handed Harry a gold star. "That's precisely what you did. By destroying the diary, you weakened him, moved us closer to his eventual defeat."

This was all a lot to process. First, there was the whole "you're a super-powered Mutant" revelation. Now, he was carrying around pieces of Voldemort's fragmented soul like it was a personal collection. Harry swore under his breath, but of course, he didn't get to finish his rant because Dumbledore wasn't done drama-ing.

"And there's more." Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling like some mysterious oracle. "I've long suspected that there's a piece of Voldemort's soul inside your scar."

The room collectively froze. Even Logan, who usually had a permanent scowl on his face, looked a little more… confused. And that wasn't something you saw every day.

"A piece of Voldemort's soul inside me?" Harry echoed, feeling like the ground had just been pulled out from under him. This was worse than finding out your pet snake was actually a Horcrux.

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore said, voice dropping to the kind of solemn tone you'd expect when delivering really bad news. "The scar you bear is not just a mark from the curse. It's the remnant of Voldemort's dark magic. It's a fragment of his soul."

Harry's stomach dropped. Great. It wasn't bad enough that he'd faced down the Dark Lord in the flesh, but now he was carrying a piece of him around, like a walking, talking soul shard collector.

Logan snorted. "So, you're saying Harry's been walking around with Voldemort's soul in him like some kind of spiritual parasite?"

"Precisely," Dumbledore said, not missing a beat. "But there's good news, Harry. The scar has faded."

Without thinking, Harry's hand shot to his forehead, and sure enough, it was barely visible. In fact, it looked like the scar had decided to take a long vacation. Harry blinked, disbelief flooding through him. It was almost like someone had lifted a weight from his chest, and for the first time in years, he could breathe.

"The scar's gone?" Harry asked, his voice a little shakier than he intended. "I didn't even do anything—"

"You didn't have to, Harry," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye that looked suspiciously like a proud grandfather watching his grandkid win a science fair. "I believe you absorbed the fragments of Voldemort's soul—the piece from the diary and the one from your scar. And given your unique… abilities, it seems that they've integrated into you rather than causing you harm."

"I absorbed them?" Harry asked, not sure whether he should feel like a magical sponge or some kind of Frankenstein's monster.

Dumbledore's smile was warm and reassuring. "Yes. It's possible, Harry. Your abilities seem to have allowed you to take those fragments without the usual negative effects. The Sword's power—remember? It takes what makes you stronger."

"I get it. Absorb the evil, then try not to turn into a Dark Lord," Harry said, rubbing his forehead. "Got it."

"And with this new power," Dumbledore continued, "you'll have great strength and resilience. But remember, Harry, you're not alone. You have your friends, your allies. Together, you can use these abilities for good."

Harry took a breath. This wasn't exactly the smooth transition into a carefree life he'd hoped for. But then again, when had anything in his life ever been easy?

"Alright, Professor," Harry said, trying to wrap his head around it all. "Thanks for the… insight."

With that, Dumbledore gave him one last long, lingering look. It was the kind of gaze that made you feel like he was both congratulating you and pitying you in the same breath. "You'll always have a place here, Harry. No matter what."

"Sure thing, Professor," Harry muttered, then turned toward the door, his new reality starting to settle in. He wasn't the "Chosen One" anymore. He was just Harry. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

With a quiet nod from Charles Xavier, and a grunt of agreement from Logan, they made their way outside. Storm followed, the wind picking up behind her in a way that made her look like a legit superhero.

For a moment, Harry felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in ages: excitement. Whatever came next—he was ready for it.

"Let's get going," Logan muttered, lighting another cigar, clearly already looking forward to whatever absurdity Hogwarts could throw their way.

Harry wasn't sure whether he should laugh, cry, or just brace for impact. But one thing was for sure—this new chapter was going to be one hell of a ride.

Harry felt like his brain was about to short-circuit. Seriously, if his life were any more complicated, he'd need a manual to navigate it. First, he found out he was a Mutant. Then, he discovered he was holding onto pieces of Voldemort's soul, like some weird collectible toy. Oh, and the scar that had been haunting him for ages? It had just vanished. Which, honestly, was great news, but it didn't exactly put a dent in the mental chaos swirling around inside his head.

He needed space. He needed air. A break. So when Logan grunted, "Let's get going," and Ororo—arms crossed, eyebrow raised, a little amused smile tugging at her lips—followed, Harry didn't hesitate. Time to get away from the tower. To clear his head. And what better way to do that than by flying?

"Quidditch pitch?" he suggested, already halfway to the door.

Logan didn't even look up from the cigar he was lighting, his voice gruff and uninterested, "Sure, why not? Place smells like nostalgia and wet grass. Add in a few bloody noses, and it's practically a memory lane."

Harry gave him a half-hearted grin, his brain still buzzing like a malfunctioning firework. "Don't forget the occasional bloodshed," he muttered.

Logan grunted in acknowledgment, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes. As always, the guy seemed to be half a step ahead of Harry, knowing exactly what was going on in his mind.

The group made their way outside in silence. Charles Xavier, rolling along in his wheelchair, followed at a measured pace behind them, his presence as solid and comforting as ever. Ororo walked just ahead of him, radiating an unspoken strength, like she could make the world itself bend to her will if she wanted.

When they finally reached the pitch, Harry could feel the tension start to lift just a little. The cool breeze, the smell of fresh earth—it was like a balm for his mind. It was crazy how Hogwarts could feel like both home and an entire world away at the same time. The place was ancient, yet it always seemed new. The history felt thick in the air, like the walls were listening, waiting for something new to happen.

"I think I need to fly," Harry said, half to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear.

Logan barely reacted. "Knock yourself out, kid. Just don't crash into anything—wouldn't want to give the old guys heart attacks."

Harry didn't even dignify that with a response. Instead, he shot into the air, letting the wind catch him like a kite caught in a storm. No broomstick needed. His Mutant powers gave him all the fuel he needed. He let out a relieved laugh as he soared higher, the rush of it making everything—everything—feel so much smaller. The world below looked like a model. Hogwarts. The Quidditch pitch. His life, somehow.

"You know," Ororo's voice drifted up to him, "you make it look way too easy."

Harry flashed her a grin, letting the air catch his words as he shouted down at her, "It's not hard when you're made of tougher stuff, right? Flying beats walking, that's for sure."

Below, Logan lit another cigar, his usual expression of indifference plastered on his face. "Right," he said, taking a slow drag. "And I suppose the gravity-defying heroics are just a walk in the park for you, huh?"

"Pretty much," Harry said, banking sharply to the left. The wind whipped around him, stinging his face, but he didn't care. The speed, the freedom—it was intoxicating. For a moment, he was just him. No soul fragments. No destiny. Just a guy flying through the sky with nothing to hold him down.

Ororo's laugh came up to him, soft and almost like music. "You are quite the show-off, aren't you?"

He glanced down, spotting her standing with her arms crossed, a small, amused smile on her face. Logan was leaning against the barrier, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the skies like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

Harry dove straight toward the pitch, weaving through the air like a bird of prey. He had to admit, he was showing off a bit. And honestly, it felt good.

Finally, he landed with a soft thud, boots sinking into the grass. His heart was pounding, his chest tight with adrenaline and something else—maybe freedom, or just the sheer joy of being in control for once. He took a deep breath, feeling the air settle around him.

Ororo stepped forward, her eyes soft but knowing. "Feel better?"

Harry nodded, running a hand through his hair, still a little out of breath. "Yeah. A bit. Just needed to get away from... everything." He exhaled deeply. "Sometimes, it all feels like too much. The soul fragments, the secrets... it's like I can't breathe with it all hanging over me."

Logan took a long drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke out in a smooth, lazy curl. "Kid, you're in Hogwarts. This place is nothing but secrets. There's no escaping it. You're just gonna have to learn to live with it."

Harry grinned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right. I'd forgotten about that."

Ororo tilted her head, the sun catching the strands of her silver hair, her expression soft but firm. "You can't always control when revelations come crashing in. But you can control how you face them."

The words stuck with Harry. Maybe she was right. Maybe he didn't have to figure it all out in one go. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to carry it all alone.

"I'm not saying I'm going to have all the answers," he said, running a hand through his hair again, "but... I think I'm ready. Ready to take it on. Whatever comes next."

Logan snorted, flicking the ash off his cigar. "That's the spirit. Now let's see how long it takes before you get thrown into another death trap."

Harry smirked. "Don't jinx it, Logan."

"Don't worry," Logan said, his tone dry as desert dust. "I've got my money on the next one being really ugly."

Ororo shot them both a look that clearly said: Don't make me separate you two. She let out a huff of air as the wind danced around her, almost like it was in tune with her emotions. "Well, come on then. We're not getting any younger."

Harry gave her a half-smile, already knowing the adventure would find them soon enough. With Ororo leading the way, Logan grumbling beside him, and Charles gliding silently behind them, Harry felt... okay. Better than okay, actually. For the first time in a while, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could handle whatever came next.

Because the truth was, Harry Potter didn't need to be the Chosen One anymore. He didn't need to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He just needed to be Harry. And that was enough.

With a final glance at the sky—open and endless—they turned back toward the castle. Whatever absurd adventure awaited them next? Well, they were ready.

---

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