Here we are again, with chapter 25. An apt milestone, for several reasons, not least of which being that this is the last chapter that I'm going to post from my old computer (my old one is quite literally falling apart). Anyway, I'm also not sure how much time I'll have to write more chapters in the immediate future, having a new term to come in my Masters. I'll be cracking on with my dissertation, things will be getting serious, stuff like that.
Anyhow, as for the chapter itself, I wrote too much, again. Surprise! Or, to be more accurate, I tried to cover too much in one chapter, again, so it's had to be split up. Again. I say once more: surprise! So, yeah, it'll be the next chapter that rounds off the prelude to the next arc, Bloody Hell, and gets it started. This one, though, is a reasonably important chapter in terms of character development. Different sides to certain characters are explored, different perspectives (including viewpoint characters), even different tactics too. And, I think, we get to see a bit under Harry's metaphorical armour without him collapsing in a pile of misery after the latest traumatic experience. A piece of the puzzle filling in a larger picture, shall we say.
Also, I'd like to say thanks to the Bibliomaniac for her assistance with Jewish traditions related to godfatherhood, for extensive assistance with science stuff (so sue me, I'm a Humanities student), and general occasional story crit. In the meantime, please do go and read her Doctor Who/Harry Potter crossover De-Aged on fanfiction dot net, it's excellent. You know, once you're done here, that is.
Minerva McGonagall had, she felt, dealt with recent events quite well. It helped that she was not an easily worried woman, one well practised in adjusting to the extraordinary and the horrific alike. She'd fought alongside Captain America and his Howling Commandos straight out of school, battling Grindelwald and HYDRA across Europe. She had become a teacher at Hogwarts, one of the oldest magical schools in the world, a place soaked in magic for millennia and consequently rather strange, even at the best of times. She had seen Voldemort's rise to power and stood against him, losing friends and students to him and his fanatics. And she had seen the instrument of his fall, a little boy who had shrugged off the Killing Curse from a Dark Lord, with nothing to show for it but a lightning bolt scar, first in infancy, then a decade later in early adolescence. A little boy who was now not so little, and for whom she was very worried indeed.
Even Hagrid's reports of what he was like – which, among other things, had entirely confirmed her belief that the Dursleys were the last sort of people who should be entrusted with a magical child – had not prepared her for the shock. The resemblance he bore to his father was uncanny: he was practically James in miniature, right down to the glasses. He could almost be mistaken for James, but for two things. That famous lightning bolt scar and those arresting emerald green eyes, the ones so much like his mother's that sometimes left Minerva with the feeling that Lily was looking at her from wherever she had gone after her untimely death.
At first, he had seemed a normal and, it had to be said, rather lovely boy, combining the best of his parents in his gentle nature. He had James' genius on a broom too, and while he didn't seem to have either parent's academic gifts, it was very clear that it wasn't for lack of wits. Just direction. Direction and, she darkly suspected, a young life spent having to conceal his intellect so as not to outshine the Dursleys' own pig of a son.
However, it had not taken long for Harry to prove every bit as troublesome as his father had been, albeit in a different fashion – where James Potter and his so-called 'Marauders' were mostly interested in pranks, Harry had a nose for trouble that beggared belief. There was the matter of the troll, which would have been quite enough to be going on with. But then, at the end of the year, after a long and complex series of events, Harry Potter wound up facing a fully grown dark wizard over the Philosopher's Stone. That was the first sign that his protection endured: Harry was found unconscious, the Stone in his pocket, and without a mark on him. His enemy, by contrast, was burnt to a crisp.
After that, the incidents flew thicker and faster, from the relatively minor, like the affair with the flying car (very James Potter-esque, as Snape complained to anyone who would listen) to the increasingly horrifying, such as the incident with the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. And it had only got worse, following the revelations about his heritage, and the extent of Doctor Strange's meddling. And no matter how many people tried to protect him; her, Dumbledore, and his newly rediscovered father, James a.k.a. Thor Odinson, most of all, he always found a new way to place himself in peril. Peril that, each time, he survived, against all the odds. And when he did not survive, he came back anyway, stronger than ever.
But all that, it left its mark, in ways that went far beyond the physical, scars that steadily accumulated. So, after he had run yet another gauntlet of horrors or two over the summer, Minerva had found herself having to deal with a student who at fourteen years old, had a collection of mental scars that rivalled that of Mad-Eye Moody and raw power that rivalled, if not already surpassed, that of Albus Dumbledore himself. He'd got better recently, though. And much of that, a consistent tempering influence, had been none other than Sergeant James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes. The man who, when she was barely out of Hogwarts, she had fought alongside. Fallen in love with. And, ultimately, had a child by, one she had only discovered she was going to have after the man she loved fell to his apparent death from a mountain train. Then, Steve, Bucky's commander and best friend, had apparently suffered much the same fate mere days later – and, in a piece of fairly spectacular irony, the woman that he had loved, Peggy Carter, had discovered that she was pregnant as well – and, like Minerva, with a girl.
There the stories had diverged. Then, both Steve, and later Bucky, had returned. At first glance, he seemed to be exactly as the cover story claimed, mirroring Steve even in his fate: to have been found and frozen by HYDRA for all those years as an experiment and a trophy, hardly ageing a day. At first glance, he looked like the man she had known. But a second glance revealed that he had changed, even if it concealed just how much.
Now, he was guiding Harry, a young man who had suffered much the same fate, albeit for a much shorter length of time. He'd even lost his left arm (and then, somehow, grown it back). And very few people knew that, either.
Minerva wasn't easily shaken. But considering that her first love and father of her child was strolling around the castle on a daily basis as if the years hadn't touched him whilst hiding a past as a mentally enslaved Russian assassin, mentoring a possibly immortal and impossibly traumatised teenage demigod and world-class trouble magnet, who had recently suffered a very similar fate, having also quite literally come back from the dead and blown up half the school, and was also being tutored by a disguised and incongruously Welsh accented Sorcerer Supreme, she felt entitled to it. Not much. Just a little bit. Especially since all that only scratched the surface.
It all certainly seemed to be doing a number on James – and while he went by Thor these days, he readily responded to both – who was at the heart of the maelstrom, one frequently stirred up by his son's many enemies and unparalleled nose for trouble. He had, when she'd first seen him again, been somewhat shocked, but delighted to have found his son once more, and they clearly loved each other dearly. Anyone who saw them together would be hard pressed indeed to deny that. But as much stress as Minerva herself had gone through as Harry's teacher, it had to be multiplied a thousandfold as his father. It was clear that James was unbelievably proud of his son, and even more clear that he would do anything to protect him. But how do you protect someone who consciously avoids every conceivable measure put in place for his protection?
Well, Minerva rather suspected, a good start would be to attach the most infamous spy and assassin in modern history to him as a bodyguard, someone who knew all the tricks, and had invented quite a few of them. Certainly, to her relief, Harry seemed to mind Bucky and respect the older man, even at his most difficult. It made sense, she supposed – Bucky was a positive male role model, of the sort that Harry had almost entirely lacked until his father's reappearance in his life. Dumbledore had been kind to him, Remus Lupin had served as a mentor to him, but they had both been teachers, with a duty of care to hundreds of other students.
No, until James' reappearance, male role models had been in short supply in Harry's life. The closest Harry had had was Hagrid, who was extremely fond of Harry, a feeling that was clearly reciprocated, but… well. Hagrid, Minerva knew, was as honest and upright a man as one could hope for, a loyal and gentle soul. However, he was extremely bad at keeping secrets and showed a frightening lack of judgement when it came to pets. A noble and admirable man, certainly, but not, perhaps, a role model.
Then, James had returned as Thor, stepping into the breach, and bringing with him an eclectic collection of others for Harry to model himself on, who were a motley collection to say the least. But they had loved him, and the poor boy had responded to affection with the quiet desperation of one unused to such things, soaking it up like a sponge. And inevitably, Minerva's pastoral eye had picked out how he had begun to mimic certain traits from each – James/Thor's brashness, Captain Rogers' air of command, Stark's charm, and Loki's legendary silver tongue, to name but a few.
Harry was definitely impressionable. Teenage boys always were, always had been, and most likely, always would be. Now, he was mirroring Bucky, responding to him, listening to him, and no wonder: Bucky was a figure he respected, one who he understood, and crucially, one who he believed understood him. They had been through very similar experiences, and had owed their remaining grasp on humanity to a bond with a stunningly beautiful red-haired woman with striking green eyes.
In Bucky's case, that had been Natasha Romanova who, it was painfully obvious, was the love of his life. Minerva couldn't pretend that that didn't sting, and more than just a little. But she was a practical woman, and one to whom age had granted if not wisdom, then perspective. She had long since grieved for Bucky and for what might have been, and moved on. Meeting Clint for the first time, then Bucky once more, had reopened some of those wounds, but only briefly. She entertained the odd wistful thought, every now and then, but no more. Mostly, she was glad that Natasha had helped prevent the man that they both loved from remaining in the darkness and cold that his torturers had imposed on him.
Harry's case was rather stranger, and the bond with the young woman who had saved him was rather different – it was far more familial than romantic, from what little Minerva had seen in Asgard, of how he interacted with the young woman generally referred to as 'Maddie', whose story had let her first utterly horrified, then downright murderous. While she despised Dementors and everything they represented, if there was one man who deserved the Dementor's Kiss, it was Doctor Nathaniel Essex.
In any case, his story mirrored Bucky's, and so he began to mirror the man himself. But as both she and Bucky knew, this was a mixed blessing. For where Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was a noble and upstanding individual, one that any parent, guardian or teacher would be glad to see their child grow up to be like, there was another side of the coin: the Winter Soldier. He was a very different story, a dark legend and modern day monster, who most erroneously believed to be dead, much like Harry's own dark alter ego: the Red Son. That was grounds for worry. Especially when you factored in the not insignificant influence exercised by his private tutor, who was none other than the astoundingly brilliant, ruthlessly Machiavellian, and unbelievably dangerous Doctor Stephen Strange.
So Minerva did the most sensible thing she could: spoke to Bucky.
His immediate response was not, it had to be said, particularly helpful and made whilst methodically cleaning one of his eyewatering number of pieces of muggle weaponry.
"Harry's getting better."
Minerva folded her arms and arched an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, does that mean, James Buchanan Barnes?" she asked tartly.
Bucky met her gaze, and said mildly, "That he's coming to terms with what's happened to him faster than anyone expected. That he's getting his temper under control, and his powers with it. That you shouldn't worry about blasting any of his fellow students to smithereens."
"I wasn't," Minerva began, then, with no little shame, sighed. "All right. I was, just a bit. The power he possesses is colossal, and volatile, even before you take into account all that he's been through and…"
"The Phoenix," Bucky said.
"Yes," Minerva said. "I worry for Harry. But I also have to worry for the rest of my students, and I want to be sure that this is not a false dawn."
Bucky seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, "I can't be certain. I'm not a psychologist, or a telepath, or anything like that. And while what Harry and I went through is very similar, it's not the same. Harry and I, we're not the same. The duration of what we both went through, the responses, they aren't the same either."
"But you are the person with perhaps the greatest insight," Minerva said quietly. "You are, after all, around him day in and day out. He trusts you. He confides in you." She caught his expression. "I don't want you to break any trust he has placed in you, nor share any secrets, not unless they relate to the safety of the school. I just want a… general picture, I suppose."
Bucky nodded slowly. "Then I'd say that, as he is now, presuming that there isn't a setback, that something unexpected doesn't happen…" His wry smile spoke volumes of wha he thought of the chances of that. "Then I'd say that he's getting better. Much better. He's got a new hobby, for one thing."
"Hobby?" Minerva asked, with mingled surprise and suspicion.
"Matchmaking," Bucky said cheerfully.
"Heaven help us all," Minerva muttered.
Bucky blinked at her innocently. "I wasn't aware that you were looking into dating again, Minerva, but I'm sure Harry would be happy to help."
Minerva rolled her eyes. "That's not what I meant, and you know it," she said.
"A very wise young lady taught me many years ago not to make assumptions," Bucky said gravely.
Minerva's lips twitched in remembrance. "Yes, she did, didn't she," she said.
They shared a long look, then Bucky sat back, tone business-like. "Harry's recovery is likely to continue, and the lessons discussed with Doctor Strange and Professor Dumbledore should help."
"Yes," Minerva said. "The lessons."
Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You disapprove?"
"Of the idea of specific tailored lessons, beyond those that Doctor Strange is already giving him? No, quite the opposite. Harry has recently expressed an actual interest in his lessons once more, which is something of a relief," Minerva said. "And does not have to be reminded so often to actually use his magic, which is another. Professor Zatara in particular says that he's been picking up her teachings like he was born to it – which, considering his uncle, he might well have been."
"That he might," Bucky agreed. "But?"
"But," Minerva said. "I have some reservations over the choice of teacher."
OoOoO
Several hours earlier
Harry opened the door to Dumbledore's office, then stopped.
"Well," he said, after a moment, as his gaze swept the room. "I've got to say, I didn't see this coming."
"And good evening to you too, Mister Thorson," a rich, amused voice said. Its owner was a tall man who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty, an ambiguity increased by his iron grey hair. He was well dressed, in what looked like a simple knee length steel grey coat with rust-red lining over similarly grey trousers and black boots. In other words, something that would fit in just fine in the Wizarding World, and not attract many, if any, looks outside it, and help its owner pass for a middle aged professional gentleman.
He was, however, as Harry well knew, nothing of the sort. His birth-name was Erik Magnus Lensherr, but in certain circles, he was better known by his nom de guerre: Magneto. As names went, it should have been faintly ridiculous – certainly not the stuff of dark legend. And yet, like the man who used it, it carried far more power than was immediately apparent.
Also, when it came to being taken seriously, it probably helped to be an Omega class being, with the power to manipulate one of the fundamental forces of the universe on a global scale and the knowledge to do so effectively. Few people are willing to sass someone who can and has performed feats more appropriate to a wrathful god than anyone mortal. Even Harry, who was in Magneto's weight class, broadly speaking, was disposed to tread carefully.
He knew that, these days, Magneto was, as these things went, 'one of the good guys', that he had reformed, like his uncle Loki, something that even Wanda accepted (albeit grudgingly).
He knew that Magneto had played a key part in the Battle of London, near single-handedly turning HYDRA's Dreadnought to scrap, and that he'd earned his vaunted reputation the hard way.
He also knew that Magneto had singlehandedly taken down the Winter Guard and the Red Son, the former without even breaking the sweat, and the latter – who had, in almost every way, been him – while holding back. This was a little bit of a sticking point. Harry was deeply grateful that the Red Son had been stopped, especially since he had taken to using crowded passenger planes as projectile weapons, and even more grateful that the Transmode Virus had been stopped before it turned his entire body into a techno-organic abomination. And the details of his Red Son memories were locked away behind a wall of thought of Professor Xavier's construction, which Harry had not pulled down. All of this was true and well understood by Harry himself.
However, having half your body blasted into ruin and then hit by an electromagnetic pulse sufficient to fry most electronics within a hundred miles is the sort of thing that gives one pause for thought, even if you weren't in your body at the time and can't remember the exact details.
There was a long silence as Harry mulled this over and those in the office - Magneto, Professor Dumbledore, and of course, Doctor Strange – politely waited for him to do so.
"Well," Harry said eventually. "On the upside, this is going better than our last meeting."
Magneto smiled faintly. "Yes, it is," he said. "Much to my relief." His grey eyes swept over Harry. "I am glad to see you well. Or, at least, better."
Harry's lips twitched. "Better would probably be the way to put it," he said. "Well?" He tipped his head thoughtfully. "That's a work in progress."
"As such things often are," Dumbledore said. "Please take a seat, Harry."
Harry took the indicated seat, and listened with some puzzlement as Dumbledore continued his thoughts.
"Though I thin that it could be argued that we are all works in progress, all of the time," the Headmaster said. "And are for so long as we live." He smiled. "It is a view I am rather fond of – it gives us something to always strive for."
"But on the other hand, it is also pleasant to consider the idea that one day, one might be complete. And that one's labours might be completed with it."
Everyone turned to the thus far uncharacteristically silent fourth man in the room. Doctor Strange favoured them all with a faintly wistful smile, then turned politely to Dumbledore, as if requesting permission to speak. This was possibly the most surprising thing Harry had seen on a day with no shortage of surprises. Until now, he'd been of the impression that Strange didn't generally both asking permission to speak, it being something he treated much the same way he did the laws of nature – as something that applied to other people. Up until now, it seemed as if he just picked his moment and spoke as he pleased. Then again, he had said earlier that he was trying to be nicer…
In any case, Dumbledore indicated with a gesture that Strange had the floor, and so Strange turned to Harry.
"I said that I would teach you, Harry, and so I am," he said bluntly. "However, as part of my impromptu curriculum, you will be having other lessons."
"With Magneto?" Harry asked, glancing at the man in question.
"And others that I think have something to teach you," Strange said. "In the prest, the past, and perhaps the future too."
Harry's jaw dropped, and Strange smiled, this one wickedly amused.
"Having a time traveller for a teacher does have perks, you know."
Harry's jaw stayed dropped.
"I might be amenable to a side-trip, here and there. However, I draw the line at building a TARDIS."
"That… that implies that you could," Harry said.
"But I won't," Strange said. "In any case, we will be taking a little field trip. One of several."
At Harry's raised eyebrow, Magneto added, "Doctor Strange has also consented to come and consult on the treatment of a young mutant in my care. Normally, I would be happy to teach you here, but since Ruth is living in my home, in isolation due to her condition and therefore perhaps best not moved, we thought that it would be easiest to combine the two."
"I thought that it might help with… perspective," Strange put in, before glancing at Dumbledore.
"And I felt that this would be perfectly all right so long as these lessons took place on weekends and during holidays," the headmaster said, perfectly serene. "Oh, and I trust that Lady Herculeis and Master Ullrson departed comfortably?"
"They were all in one piece, Professor, if that's what you mean," Harry said glibly.
Magneto winced and Harry felt a spasm of guilt, one only magnified by Dumbledore's disapproving expression.
"Sorry," he added. "They were fine." His gaze shifted to Magneto, then to Strange. "They said they were going as exchange students to Xavier's, actually."
Both of Magneto's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to Strange. "Well, that is quite a turn-up for the books," he said mildly.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Strange said cheerfully.
Harry internally marked this off as the point in the conversation by which Strange had decided to stop saying anything useful. He was, mostly, correct, as Strange then stood up.
"Harry, I will see you at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning in the Entrance Hall," he said, as he made to pass Harry.
"Does that mean you want me awake, dressed, etcetera in the Entrance Hall at eight, that you've predicted I'll be there at that time, or that I'm going to find myself in the Entrance Hall at eight whether I like it or not?" Harry asked suspiciously.
Strange turned and smirked. "Now, now. I can't go telling you everything, Harry," he said. "That would take all the fun out of life." He paused. "Oh, I almost forgot." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Your reading list. The books are by your bed, this just lists them in order of priority." He chuckled at Harry's expression. "Don't worry – I bookmarked only the relevant parts."
"I can hardly wait," Harry said flatly.
Strange shrugged. "Knowledge is power," he said. "And power is rarely enjoyable to acquire."
Harry eyed him. "… I'm going to need whatever's in these books, aren't I?" he said. "And soon."
Strange considered this. "You could manage without them," he said eventually. "The same way that, in theory, you could have managed to get into the Chamber of Secrets and slay the Basilisk within, as well as its master, without the information Miss Granger had clutched in her petrified hand identifying the beast." His expression turned grave. "I do not give you these readings, or indeed these lessons, simply for my own amusement. Everything magic I teach you, every book I suggest to you, is designed to better arm you against what is to come, to grant you the insight that you will need. And you will need it, because something wicked this way comes, and this time, I will not be around to protect you."
"Protect me?" Harry said. "Protect me? Pr –"
"Yes," Strange said bluntly, cutting him off before he could build up a head of steam. "The pile of people and creatures I have slain to protect you, Harry Thorson, would make a small mountain." He paused. "Or perhaps a large hill." He waved this away. "I have lied, tricked, manipulated, and killed to protect you, and I would do it all again without batting an eye. Perhaps not as much as I could, or as much as I should, and the ways I've done it… you've more than got reason for a bone to pick with me, a whole forest, even. But I have. My protection has not always been obvious – indeed, it often has not. I say this not to diminish what you have done, what you have achieved, because more often than not, my protection has mostly consisted of watching your back and preventing someone or something planting a knife in it while you were occupied with the monster of the month. But I will not be around forever. And even though I have delegated many of my duties to Wanda in preparation for her succession, I am still the Sorcerer Supreme, and the walls between our reality and the Outside are at their thinnest in centuries. I warn you now that I will not be there, during your next battle, because I will be required to face what is going to come through."
His expression softened as Harry looked stunned.
"I will prepare you as best as I am able. The books are a large part of that. I wish I could prepare you more, but time, so long my friend, is now becoming my enemy," he said. He sighed, sounding genuinely tired. "So much to do, and so little time in which to do it." He shook his head. "But remember this: I would never ask you to do anything that I did think you could. Sleep well, Harry."
And with that, he vanished.
Harry stared at the space that Strange had just vacated, then sighed, opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed again.
"Well, nice to know I'll have something to look forward to," he said. "Still, at least he had the decency to warn me in advance, this time." He looked over at Dumbledore. "Has he said anything about whatever it is happening at school, Professor?"
"No," Dumbledore said, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. "He has not."
This was a remark met with murmurs of disapproval by the portraits of Headmasters and Headmistresses past.
"However, that leads me to suspect that whatever is going to happen won't happen here," Dumbledore continued. "There is no benefit for him in allowing an attack on the school."
"And Strange has, for all his many flaws, always had a soft spot for children," Magneto observed.
"That is also true," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Charles should be warned."
"I will speak to him this evening," Magneto said. "He is out at the moment, conducting an investigation."
Dumbledore nodded in thanks. "And I shall speak to your father, Harry," he continued. "I doubt he will be any more pleased with this turn of events than I am. A word with Wanda might also be wise." He glanced at Fawkes, who dipped his head, then vanished in a puff of flames. "Also, I think that I will most likely have to speak to Director Wisdom about how this will change the situation regarding security arrangements."
Magneto winced slightly. "I am sure that those will be wonderfully pleasant conversations," he said, sounding more than a little sympathetic.
Dumbledore smiled thinly. "I am sure that they will be," he said. "Forgive me, Erik, but…"
Magneto stood up, nodding. "Of course," he said. "I will leave you to it." He smiled faintly. "I believe that I still remember my way around here." His gaze shifted to Harry. "And if I do not, may I prevail upon your services as a guide, Mister Thorson?"
"Call me Harry," Harry said. "And yeah, sure." He turned to Dumbledore. "Are you sure that you don't want me to talk to dad and Wanda, Professor?"
"Thank you, Harry, but no," Dumbledore said. His expression turned pointed. "For one thing, you have some reading to get on with."
"How could I forget?" Harry muttered rhetorically. "Okay. Good night, Professor."
"And to you, Harry."
OoOoO
The walk down from Dumbledore's office was, at first, a quiet one. Filch glowered suspiciously as he passed, but it wasn't curfew yet, and in any case, Magneto saw his glower and raised him a glare that made hardened HYDRA Agents fall to their knees and beg for mercy (which was rarely granted). While Filch's reaction wasn't quite as dramatic, his eyes did widen, before he sort of shrivelled and slunk off, with Mrs Norris following in his wake.
"You said that you'd been to Hogwarts before?" Harry ventured.
"Yes," Magneto said, shooting a somewhat disdainful look at the retreating Filch. "Twice, as it happens. And that wretch was, I believe, employed on my second visit. He does not seem to have improved with age."
"Dad said the same thing," Harry observed.
"He would know," Magneto said. "But yes, I have been to Hogwarts twice. The first time was in 1945, after Auschwitz was liberated, as part of a bit of a kerfuffle over whose jurisdiction I fell under."
"What do you… ah," Harry said, catching on. "They thought you were magical."
"Exactly," Magneto said, rewarding him with an approving smile. "I was part of what might well have been the first generation to see mutants born in real numbers, outside of certain reclusive clans." He considered. "Well, I say that... but the simple truth is that often, it can be quite difficult at first glance to distinguish a mutant from one magically gifted, particularly windlessly gifted, or a scion of some supernatural being. To many, it would not occur to make the distinction at all." He shrugged. "In any case, I was not the only young superhuman experimented upon, and we were examined either at Hogwarts, or at the White Council's headquarters in Edinburgh, to establish what we were and we exactly we were capable of. I was examined here, and in the process, I met Albus."
His eyes grew distant, as if he was looking back through the mists of time. "It was a shock, both for me and for those others who were being assessed. We had believed until that point that we were merely a few oddities and freaks, that were alone in the world, or near enough. And yet we found ourselves in a castle that, even after it had been emptied of students for the holidays, was still full of dozens of people who were part of a whole society that was different, just like us. Oh, their differences were often, well, different to our own, but even so. Yet it was perhaps the simple things that were overwhelming. The SSR had been kind, but there had been limits to what they could do for us, close as they were to the front lines, though even the limited rations they could provide were like the sweetest ambrosia in comparison to what we had had before. But when we came to Hogwarts and saw the meals there…" He trailed off, and then smiled wryly. "Well. You would be better placed than most to understand the shock of the contrast."
Harry nodded slowly. While the Dursleys had hardly treated him with any particular kindness, and under-feeding him, even forgetting to feed him, had been a common enough occurrence. Of course, he couldn't claim to have been suffered anywhere near as badly as a concentration camp survivor, and wouldn't dream of doing so.
But he did remember how stunned he had been to see all the food freely available at Hogwarts, that he was not only allowed to eat, but positively encouraged to do so, that he did not have to constantly defend his portion from Dudley. As a result, the students of Gryffindor House had learned early on that if they wanted any treacle tart when it was on offer, they had best move quickly.
"And the second time?" he asked.
"A little over thirty years ago," Magneto said. "Around thirty years after my first visit, as it happened. It was with Wanda. My oldest child. And your godmother."
"Does that make you something like an extra grandfather?" Harry asked dryly.
Magneto let out a startled laugh. "I had not thought of it like that," he said, chuckling. "I was raised Jewish, after all, even though my practise of the faith has slackened somewhat over the years, and godparents are a Christian tradition. Granted, I was raised in the Ashkenazic tradition, which does have the custom of the kvater, which can be either male or female – and from what little I remember, couples often served in that function. I believe was derived from the concept of godparenthood in surrounding Christian populations. And there is the sandek, of course. But both are different, and neither carries quite the same cultural expectations that the role of godparent does. Especially not in Britain." He looked reflective. "Wanda, by contrast, was raised Orthodox Christian, albeit flavoured by the Roma cultural background of her mother's family, and the religious attitudes of Doctor Strange, which I think can be summarised as a form of Agnosticism."
"He knows gods exist, he just doesn't feel like worshipping them," Harry said.
"Precisely."
"He enjoys bossing them around instead," Harry continued. "Or in the case of my grandfather, slowly winding them up."
Magneto smiled wryly. "He enjoys doing that to everyone," he said.
"Also true."
"And while I cannot say for sure, he at least affects British cultural manners, which are influenced by the Church of England." He waved a hand. "In short, though she is Jewish by descent, on my side of the family at least, she was raised in an eclectic mixture of backgrounds that emphasised the importance of godparents. And with your mother…"
"Ascended beyond this plane of existence," Harry supplied in the most matter of fact tone imaginable. "And Jane is lovely, we get on really well. But."
"She is not a mother," Magneto said.
"Yeah," Harry said. "She's more sort of like a younger aunt, or something like that. Which means…" He trailed off. Magneto let him collect his thoughts as they descended a staircase. "Which means that Wanda is the closest thing I have to a mother," he said eventually. "Apparently, that's what a godmother, or godfather, is supposed to be, if your parents aren't around. That's certainly how Sirius sees it." He chewed his bottom lip. "And Wanda…"
Magneto rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Wanda loves you as if you were her own," he said gently. "She and I have not always seen eye to eye, and with good enough reason. But she is my daughter, and I know her well. Certainly well enough to know that giving you up was the hardest thing she has ever had to do. It broke her heart."
"I know," Harry said quietly.
"And," Magneto said. "I do not think I have ever seen her so happy as she has been with you." His expression turned solemn. "And by the way, before I forget: you freed my daughter from the Red Room. For that, Harry, I can never thank you enough."
Harry went pink. "Well, mostly, that was Carol," he said. "I just provided the distraction."
"And ripped open the prison she was held in, by her account," Magneto pointed out. "But yes, I intend to express my gratitude to Miss Danvers as well."
Harry went pinker. "Um. You're welcome?" he ventured.
Magneto chuckled.
"By the way, how is she?" Harry asked.
"Much better, thank you," Magneto said. "Charles, Jean, and Madelyn helped restore her mother's memories of her and the two are happily reunited."
"What about her and you?" Harry asked.
"I visit," Magneto said. "Though she does not say, I think that the décor of my home reminds her a little of the quarters she was kept in by the Red Room. Enough to set her on edge." He shrugged. "I have extended her an open invitation to come and visit, as and when she feels comfortable."
"A little different to Strange's approach," Harry muttered, as they reached the Entrance Hall. "Oh, and by the way, I wanted to thank you too, Mister Lensherr."
"Oh?" Magneto asked politely. "And, Harry, please feel free to call me Erik."
Harry nodded his thanks, then paused, collecting his thoughts. Magneto, recognising the signs, waited patiently. And when Harry spoke, it was careful, halting, and measured.
"My memories. Of being the Red Son. They're locked away, thanks to Professor Xavier," he said. "Which everyone thinks means that it's like a massive blank spot in my mind. But it's not like that. Not quite." He stopped again. "It's like a book in a shop," he said eventually. "You can see the title, read the blurb, maybe even have a quick look at the contents page. That much is free. But." He frowned. "But if you want to see any more, then there's a price. And there's no way to get out of paying."
"I understand," Magneto said gravely. "Thank you for feeling able to share this with me, Harry."
Harry shook his head. "That's not it," he said. "I…" He let out an explosive breath. "What I'm trying to say is that I have a fairly good idea of what the Red Son did. Not the details, but enough of an idea that I could probably fill in a few gaps." He grimaced. "Which my imagination frequently does." He shook his head, his right hand drifting over almost unconsciously to his left arm, rubbing it slowly, as if it was cold. "You stopped him. Me. Whatever. And if you hadn't, a lot more people would have died. So… thanks."
Magneto inclined his head. "I only wish I could have done it more gently," he said quietly.
Harry froze, then smiled crookedly. "Tell you what," he said. "Let's call it even."
Magneto burst out laughing. "Yes," he said. "Let's." He smiled. "And by the way – you are most welcome."
Harry went pink again.
"Now, young man, I think that you should go and get some sleep," Magneto said. "If nothing else, I fully intend to put you through your paces very thoroughly on the morrow."
OoOoO
"… and so that's why I won't be around this weekend," Harry finished.
Ron and Hermione stared at him. Normally, most of the rest of the Common Room would be staring too, with quite a few of the older students still present in the Common Room. However, most of those still up were doing homework, and the conversation was concealed behind the muffliato charm previously used to such effect by the Twins.
As it turned out, Harry could cast it too, having learned it from the self-same teacher: Sirius. Even so, normally, such a concealed and furtive conversation would attract curiosity from the rest of Gryffindor House. However, most Gryffindors had learned a long time ago that where Harry was concerned, they just didn't want to know.
"You're learning from Magneto?" Ron said eventually, in strangled tones.
"Who is he, anyway?" Hermione asked, puzzled, before Harry could respond. "I've never heard of him."
"You wouldn't have," Ron said, in a low voice. "He was meant to be dead. And if he isn't, then… that's not good. That's really not good." He shook his head in disbelief. "I mean, blimey, Harry! What're Strange and Dumbledore thinking?"
"Who is he?" Hermione repeated, gaze switching between Ron, Harry, and Bucky.
Bucky opened his mouth to supply an answer, before Harry stopped him. "Ron?" he said. "Could you explain? I'd like to hear what the Wizarding world thinks of him."
The coda, 'and laugh at how hilariously wrong it is', went unspoken.
Ron shot him a somewhat dubious look, then shrugged. "I don't know much," he said. "No one really does. But from what I heard, he's a seriously bad Wandless Warlock, like, really, properly bad. He was around when You-Know-Who got going, and he was a bit like You-Know-Who really – he hated Muggles, killed hundreds of them…"
As Ron's account rambled on, Harry noticed that it was rather thin on actual details, sounding more like cobbled together rumours and hearsay. But some of it wasn't actually that far off the truth.
"… they say that he started out hunting HYDRA, because they killed his family, tracking them down and killing them with their own weapons. That's how I really found out about him, looking up people who went after HYDRA. And while he kept killing, he decided that he hated all Muggles, so he started killing more and more, planning to wipe out all Muggles," Ron said. "He got together this Brotherhood of Evil, to help him, like the Death Eaters. They even killed a few wizards, if they got in their way." He frowned slightly. "He never joined up with You-Know-Who, though. No one knows why."
"Why not?" Hermione asked. "I mean, if they were around at the same time, and they wanted the same thing…"
Ron shrugged. "Maybe they were rivals?" he guessed. "Or You-Know-Who didn't want competition? Magneto was supposed to be nearly as powerful as him. Then he disappeared, years ago. No one knows why he did that, either. Some said that You-Know-Who killed him." He turned to Harry. "What do you think, mate?"
"I think that nearly everything you just said was wrong," Harry said.
"Not entirely," Bucky said softly. "Parts of it were close to the truth, as Natasha, Albus, and Charles and his former students could tell you. Magneto himself would probably concede it. He did begin as a Nazi hunter, he did kill a lot of humans, and at one point, he did want to take over the world. And he has never been short of followers." His gaze shifted to meet Harry's. "There is a reason why people are afraid of him, and truth behind the stories. You have only known the kinder, gentler Magneto, the same way that you've only known the kinder and gentler version of your uncle. What your uncle did on Earth is a matter of public record, and he did all of it in a matter of days. Likewise what he did in Asgard. Do you think that Magneto, over the course of decades, would do any less? He might not have had an alien army, or the Tesseract. But you know better than most what he's capable of."
Harry looked away. It was hard to square the witty, grandfatherly man who had spoken to him so kindly, who had fought at the Battle of London, who had contained the Red Son's rampage, his rampage, with minimal loss of life, and at great risk to himself, with the megalomaniac Ron described, that Bucky implied.
But that didn't mean they were wrong. He found it hard to imagine his uncle as the madman he'd so clearly been when he'd invaded Earth. Come to that, he found it hard to imagine his father as someone who would start a war on an impulse. And, as he thought with a lurch, he just knew that Ron and Hermione would find it hard to imagine him as the Red Son, a cold, heartless and mindless assassin, or the Dark Phoenix, intent on destroying everything. Or at least, he hoped that they would find it hard…
But hard to imagine or not, that did not mean that they had not once been those people. His uncle had once been a deranged conqueror, his father an impulsive, arrogant, and bloodthirsty warrior, and him… he had been a monster that would have destroyed everything just to try and stop it hurting. And unlike the Red Son, he had chosen to become it.
Moreover, he knew very well that the other Avengers had fairly dark pasts, that they had dark sides of their own. And that wasn't even getting started on Doctor Strange. Why would Magneto be any different, he thought, and was angry at himself for being naïve. Of course he wouldn't be, he thought angrily. There was, as Bucky had said, a reason that he was so feared, a reason that Wanda had hated him, her own father, and even now hardly trusted him any further than she could throw him – with her bare hands, at least. Probably quite a few reasons, come to think of it.
Then, he picked up a thought, purposefully projected at him.
There's nothing wrong with seeing the best in people.
Harry looked up at Bucky, who met his gaze once more, and carried on.
Because if you do, then it makes those people see it too. It makes them want to be better, to live up to the way you see them. Not all people, mind, maybe not even most. But a lot. Maddie could tell you that; if you hadn't had faith in her, she'd never have turned.
He leaned forward.
And a lot of people wouldn't. They'd have dismissed her as dangerous, as a lost cause, as something to be pitied and put down. But you didn't. You saw something good in her, the best of her, and you trusted it. You had faith in her, and soon enough, she had faith in herself.
It wasn't quite that simple, Harry said. Or that easy.
Of course it wasn't, Bucky replied calmly. But it was a start. And it's a gift, a rare one at that. You've got it, Steve's got it, maybe your dad as well. He looked reflective. And Carol too, under the cynicism. Mostly, she reminds me of Peggy, if you swap the classy manners for New York anger. But there are times that she reminds me of Steve too.
She saw the best in me, Harry said quietly. When I was… you know. The Dark Phoenix.
Bucky nodded. She did, he said. She's probably a mix – hope for the best, prepare for the worst. And that's the attitude you should have. There's nothing wrong with seeing the best in people… but you shouldn't let it blind you to the worst in them, either.
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. "I do know. What he's capable of, I mean. And yeah, he was once the big bad." He smiled wryly, as Hermione rolled her eyes at the Buffy reference, before that smile faded. "But for starters, he's not a Wizard, or a Warlock. He's a mutant, and way more powerful than Voldemort. And he's reformed these days. Plus, there's a reason he hates Nazis…"
He went on explaining about Magneto, and more pertinently, why he thought that Doctor Strange wanted him to have lessons with the man, well into the night. The discussion lasted for hours, and would likely have lasted for hours more, if Bucky had not firmly informed Harry that he was going to bed. Now.
OoOoO
Not all discussions were quite so pleasant, however.
In the depths of the Raft, a tall, thin man dressed in grey prison overalls sat reading. At first glance, he looked almost normal, but for a bandage marking recent surgery on his forehead. A white collar criminal, perhaps – certainly without the scars, calluses and other marks of a thug, common or otherwise. It might make one wonder why such an apparently ordinary fellow was incarcerated in one of the most secure facilities on the planet. At second glance, however, the slightly unnatural length and proportion of his spidery limbs, the pallor of his skin, too pale even for a case of albinism, and the cold red of his eyes, all became clear. And suddenly, the observer stopped wondering.
And rightly so. Doctor Nathaniel Essex a.k.a. Doctor Nathan Milbury, a.k.a. the Pale Man, a.k.a. Nosferatu, a.k.a. Sinister, was one of the most prolific biological terrorists of all time, having committed almost every conceivable crime against humanity in the name of advancing his experiments. In the process, he had inveigled himself into every super-soldier program of significance, and gained an unparalleled understanding of human, and indeed, superhuman, genetics, learning how to manipulate and replicate various genetic traits at will.
As a result of this, he had had many visits from those hoping to extract some of that knowledge for themselves, to understand how he had granted himself psychic powers, shapeshifting abilities and mastered cloning, among many others. This last led to one small snag: the man in the cell was not the original Doctor Essex. He was a clone; formerly one of many around the world, part of a practical hive mind that had effectively granted him immortality. Until Doctor Strange had managed to hack the psychic network behind it, by literally hacking one of Essex's cloned brains. He had since gone on to methodically slaughter his way through the rest. Now, only this clone remained. This clone… and the original, hidden outside the network.
The search for that original was an important matter, but not the matter of the moment.
Essex looked up as he noticed the door open, and didn't show any discernible sign of surprise at his latest visitor. In fact, he mostly seemed satisfied, as if someone had finally done something that he had wanted them to.
"Professor Xavier," he said.
"Essex," Xavier said frostily.
Essex's eyebrows twitched slightly.
"As far as I am concerned, you have long since forfeited any right to a Doctorate," Xavier added in the same tone, answering the unasked question.
Essex regarded him for a moment, then shrugged, as if the judgements of mere mortals meant little to him. "I presume that you have a rational reason for coming here," he said, standing and walking over to the impenetrable glass-like material that separated the two of them. "Is the weapon malfunctioning?"
Xavier's expression grew even colder. "Miss Grey is no more a weapon than you or I," he said. His voice was icy calm, though humming with rage. It was, in fact, the exact same tone that Magneto had used before he had dismantled – and in some cases, almost dismembered – the Winter Guard. Like that one, it portended nothing good.
Essex, however, merely tilted his head like a bird. "I raised her from birth for a specific purpose," he said mildly. "To serve as my weapon, my hunting Hound; to track, contain, and either capture or destroy, as required. Accordingly, her mind and body were shaped to this end. It was her programmed function: thus, she was and remains a weapon. As a result, any deviation from this path is therefore a malfunction; caused either by a flaw in her mental structure, similar to a flawed computer processor, or by infection with contradictory programming, comparable to a computer virus. Or, perhaps, by a combination of the two."
There was a long, terrible silence. Then, Xavier… smiled.
"Remarkable," he said.
Essex arched an eyebrow. "Remarkable?"
"You are," Xavier said. "You are a brilliant scientist, Essex and a powerful telepath. You have, by your own account, worked with the likes of Weapon X and the Red Room for decades. You have accrued a level of knowledge and experience that is perhaps unparalleled. But for all that brilliance, after all that time, there is one truly remarkable thing about you, which surpasses all others."
Essex's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is that?" he asked.
"You are extraordinarily stupid."
"… What?"
"Ignorant on a scale that beggars belief," Xavier said, sounding almost amused.
"Ignorant of what, Xavier, ignorant of what?" Essex demanded, anger seeping into his normally calm, flat voice.
"Something that even with a hundred pairs of eyes you could not see because they were blinkered, and with a hundred brains you could not understand, because it would never occur to you," Xavier said. "Not if you spent a century thinking of it and nothing else."
"Tell me what!"
Xavier regarded him for a long moment, as if considering whether to explain or not, before speaking. "Maddie, your 'weapon', who you controlled in all things from mere hours after her birth, broke free of your conditioning and programming," he said. "All because of what you describe as a malfunction, inspired by a 'flaw' and 'contradictory programming'. You saw that much. But that's where your comprehension ended. Because while you saw them, the crucial pieces that tore the smooth running machine of your programming apart from the inside, time and time again, your ignorance meant that you did not understand. You were doomed to repeat the same mistakes, over and over again."
Essex was pressed against the glass, teeth bared. "What mistakes?" he hissed, his usual calm utterly banished.
"Overlooking the importance of two things," Xavier said. "The first is the 'flaw': free will. You dismissed it time and time again, not realising that so long as she had a mind, that she was anything more than an empty shell, she had the capacity to think. No matter how you tried to drown all vestiges of independence, there was always that little spark, deep inside, that little part of her that identified as 'me' and 'I', that refused to go out. That is free will. That is the capacity to choose; to think, to be curious, to imagine. That is your 'flaw', Essex. It is humanity's gift, one that she was born with and one that even you could not take away, not without turning her into a vegetable. And once that spark was spotted, once it was nurtured, once Maddie realised that she had it… then it was only a matter of time."
Xavier smiled, and this time, it was both warm and savagely triumphant.
"The second? The 'contradictory programming'?" he said. "That was something else, something nearly as fundamental: compassion. She was shown compassion and kindness, by Remy LeBeau – faked, at first, simply to manipulate, but it became real. And when he did that, for the first time in her life, she was treated as a person, as more than a living machine. Then, she faced Harry. He was meant to be her enemy. You had pitted her against him not once, but twice. Someone who would have every reason to see her as nothing more than a living weapon. But he saw more. He saw the confused young woman under the programming, and understood that she was not so different from him. And he reached out a hand."
Xavier rolled forward, eyes boring into Essex's. "They showed her compassion, Essex, and from that moment, she was lost to you. Why? Because it got under her skin. The 'contradictory programming' set in, and she began to show it in turn. First, she tried to protect Harry, an act that Mjolnir itself recognised as a mark of heroism. Arguably, she succeeded in saving him, at the second attempt. Then, she freed Jonothon Starsmore and helped him piece himself back together. And after that, all the triggers and commands you'd implanted in her mind might as well have been purged, because even if you had reasserted there and then, it would always have been doomed to eventual failure: where free will was the 'flaw' that tore your programming apart time after time, compassion was what replaced it, what made it harder and harder, and ultimately impossible, for your programming to take a solid hold."
Essex just stared at him, then shook his head. "Sentiment," he said dismissively. But there was a just a hint of a waver in his voice, a tiny seed of doubt.
"Yes," Xavier said. "Exactly. Sentiment. Compassion. The power of love, some call it, though often without realising the many forms that love can take. It is something much scorned, but by fools, of whom you are one, because they do not understand it. And that is why, no matter how many prisons you built for her, Maddie always broke free once she realised that she could. It is why she would always have broken free. It is not tangible or measurable or even obvious. But it is real. And, Essex… it beat you."
Essex glared. But in those red eyes, there was doubt.
"And now to why I am really here," Xavier said. "Though before we discuss this, I feel I should explain this: I know every single telepathic technique that you are likely to use. Maddie has been most helpful in explaining what you have taught her, and what she has seen you use. But even if she hadn't, I would have recognised your moves – they're textbook Askani. Though with, I think, a few magical flavours." He steepled his fingers. "I don't know how exactly you learned the techniques of the Askani, and to be honest, right now, I do not much care. It is not a priority of mine. I know your abilities, and thus your limits." He glared at Essex, mirth gone. "And while my scruples would normally prevent me from entering a mind by force in any but the most necessary of circumstances, I am willing to make an exception. Meaning that not only can I dismantle every single mental defence you possess, leaving your mind as bare and open as a freshly peeled orange, I will do it without batting an eye. I will also not bother to be gentle. It is therefore in your best interests to cooperate. Is that understood?"
Essex was silent, but nodded slowly.
"Good," Xavier said briskly. "Now that I have made myself abundantly clear, I have several questions, starting with this one: who and what is Remy LeBeau?"
And we come to the end of another chapter. A bit different, eh? Unusually harsh from Xavier? Well, he's not always nice, especially when dealing with Essex's ilk, and he is capable of being very scary. Anyway, our next chapter leads into Bloody Hell, with appearances from Wanda (at Hogwarts, no less!), Zatanna (yes, I am finally figuring out how to actually write her), possibly Ginny, and perhaps Dracula, along with a visit to Asteroid M/Avalon. Oh, and crucially, the Triwizard Tournament is also getting started. Which means that stuff is going down on Halloween...