Ghosts of the Past

by Nimbus Llewelyn

Sequel to Child of the Storm. Harry's life has changed a lot over the past year, what with the return of his father, Thor, murder attempts by everything from HYDRA assassins to Elder Gods keeping him on his toes and making a few new friends. But while Chthon and HYDRA are gone, all sorts of dark things have been stirred up, things thought long gone. And guess who they're after...

36. Chapter 36: Choices and Memories

Hello again ladies and gentlemen! The sun is (or was – it's past midnight here) shining, with unusual tenacity and intensity for a British summer, I am back in London, having finished up in Edinburgh, save for my dissertation, which I continue to research and write and will until August 13th. After that, it's a bit of holiday, followed by job-hunting.

Sorry about the delay, but finishing up in Edinburgh, packing up my stuff, scouring and handing in used library books, arranging for stuff to be sent back down to London, and above all, my dissertation… they've kept me busy. And I've had a little trouble focusing on writing. However, I have managed to do so, and here is the result – a longer than usual chapter, if not quite as long as some behemoths I've posted in the past.

It includes more Clark – actually, lots and lots and lots of Clark, including his meeting with Alison, and a flashback featuring Jor-El. Unfortunately, there is no Ron and Hermione (they do appear at the start of next chapter, however, and would at the end of this one had I not decided that it was fine ending where it did). However, there is some rather fun Harry and Carol stuff at the end of the chapter. It's like the first chapter of this story but… different. Oh, and if you've watched/read The Princess Bride, then the last line will have an extra ring and meaning to it (if you have not watched or read The Princess Bride, do so immediately).

God King Ghidora and associates: NO. I have been extremely patient, with you, and with all your sock-puppets/buddies. Now, the last of my patience has evaporated. I am NOT going to randomly upgrade Harry with 'runic magic' or whatever else, I am NOT going to merge Curtana with mithril, uru, the Odinforce and Laevateinn to turn it into some expy of Sting, and I am NOT going to add in aspects of American Gods, magnificent book though it is (I only just finished rereading it).

I appreciate that you have read this far, and I thank you for taking the time to review each chapter (probably multiple times), even if a lot of those reviews are damned irritating. However. Going by those reviews, you clearly want this fic to become the kind of formulaic Super!Harry fic that you clearly prefer. This, despite the fact that I have repeatedly stated that I won't do that, going out of my way to avoid it. You also refuse to understand or accept that I am NOT going to change my story on request. What I do is what I chose to do. What I add is what I chose to add. Questions on why I have done something or why I have added something are always welcomed. Repeated badgering requests are NOT.

If you are willing to accept that, and accept my story for what is, by all means, read on. If want a generic super!Harry fic, crossover or otherwise, then feel free to pick from the tens of thousands on this site and others. Or hell, write one yourself, I wish you the best of luck. But it's not happening here.

"So. The magic sword has a name now."

Harry rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Yes," he said. "Yes, it does."

Carol nodded, and resumed critically examining the blade. "And the ominous inscription…"

"Is Doctor Strange being dramatic," Harry said. "… probably."

Carol raised an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"

Harry considered how often things Strange said or did having multiple meanings – that is to say, always. "Not really."

"Didn't think so. What did Uhtred make of it?"

"Half excited, half fascinated, half confused."

"That's three halves."

"If you'd seen his reaction, you'd understand what I meant."

"Fair enough. And Diana?"

"Stared at it for a little while, read the inscription a few times, then said 'interesting'."

"That's it?"

"More or less."

"And Jean-Paul?"

"Looked thoughtful, mostly," Harry remarked. "He made a 'playing with your sword' joke, but I don't think his heart was really in it."

"That would be a first," Carol muttered.

"Well, to be fair, he was mostly concerned with the fact that I was asking him a difficult question," Harry said.

"Like what?"

"Like what was he doing in Kansas on Halloween?"

OoOoO

Jean-Paul, unsurprisingly, had not been eager to answer, and had worn a prize-winning blank expression. Harry, unusually, was not willing to accept this.

"Jean-Paul, normally I respect your privacy, because what you get up to in your private time is your business," Harry said. "And normally, I wouldn't care about why you were in Kansas any more than about what you and Uhtred get up to in private. You're a private person, and you do your own thing a lot of the time, because that's the way you like it, and I am fine with that – like I said. It's your business, not mine."

A smile flickered briefly across the blank expression, before guttering out like a starved flame. "But this is not normally, is it?" the French boy said.

"No," Harry said. "It isn't."

"And what if I told you I was visiting Lex?"

"I would remind you that it's pointless to lie to a telepath."

Jean-Paul inclined his head thoughtfully. "I know you, mon cher. You don't go looking."

"You also know me well enough to know that I don't need to," Harry said evenly. "You're not a psychic. And while you're good, Jean-Paul, you're not that good."

Jean-Paul smiled again, this one faint, but persistent. "All true," he said. "But why are you so interested in why I was in Kansas?"

Harry raised a finger. "Because you're hiding it," he said. He raised a second finger. "Because to my knowledge, Lex is the only person you know who currently lives there – your immediate family live in New York, the rest, in France, and no offence, but you don't have many friends. Of those you do have, most of them are in our little…"

"Community?" Jean-Paul suggested. His tone was light, but his eyes were half wary, half thoughtful.

"Community," Harry echoed. "None of them I know of live in Kansas, except Lex. If it was just an ordinary friend, you wouldn't be visiting in person if you could avoid it, not so suddenly – you're secretive by nature, especially with your powers around people not in the know, and getting from New York to Kansas as fast as you can? Even if you took it slow, going cross-country like that at random? Bit suspicious." He sat back, eyes never leaving Jean-Paul's. "And you wouldn't need to hide it." He raised a third finger. "So, whoever this is, whoever you're meeting, for some reason you're hiding them."

"How do you know it is not a whatever?"

"Educated guess," Harry replied, without missing a beat. "You're hiding them for a reason. It's not something wrong, like cheating on Uhtred –" At Jean-Paul's arched eyebrow, he smiled wryly. "I might not have Diana's skill at Empathy, but I'm pretty good, and I've been paying a lot of attention to you these last couple of days, especially when Uhtred is around. I feel a lot of emotions coming off you, Jean-Paul, but guilt isn't one of them. If it was, and that was why…"

"You'd have beaten me up?" Jean-Paul asked mildly.

"No," Harry said calmly. "Not if you actually felt properly guilty. I'd probably have just asked you why, then made you confess." He paused reflectively. "Wait, tell a lie, I'd have broken your leg first – to stop you pulling a disappearing act." He looked up. "If you hadn't felt properly guilty, though, there would have been trouble."

"I believe you," Jean-Paul replied.

Harry nodded. "So," he said. "You're visiting someone in Kansas that you want to keep secret, probably with powers, and probably not a mutant." He paused. "Oh, and they're probably in a place called Smallville."

Jean-Paul's poker face was excellent. Unfortunately, as Harry had pointed out just a couple of minutes before, there was no point.

"That was another guess," Harry said, smiling wryly. "But a pretty educated one – it doesn't take much research to figure out that the weird stuff in Kansas tends to focus on that town, especially not if you ask JARVIS nicely to hack into some SHIELD files. A lot of odd things are happening there. Something to do with a meteor shower apparently." His gaze met Jean-Paul's. "Including more than a few rogue superhumans popping up, causing trouble, then immediately being knocked down again by someone that no one ever gets a good look at. At times when I know that you were in New York."

Jean-Paul sighed. "Very impressive, mon cher," he said. "You are right. There is someone like us, someone our age, who I have been hiding. He is… unusual."

Harry frowned, and sat back, crossing both legs and arms. "In what way?"

"We met on Red Sky Day," Jean-Paul said.

"When you were winding up to punch Chthon into orbit?"

Jean-Paul nodded. "I encountered him when I was passing through a town in Kansas," he said. "His school was on fire, and he and a girl our age were in it. I accelerated them, sharing my speed, and took them out. I then passed through that same town several times more. As I did, I noticed that he was trying to keep up."

"Which he could never do," Harry said, though the tail of the statement was inflected as a question.

"No," Jean-Paul agreed. "He could not. But he was also moving faster on foot than almost anyone I have ever seen. Several hundred miles per hour, in fact."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Definitely different," he said. "How do you know he's not a mutant, though? Or a demigod?"

"Because when I lend someone my speed, I get… a sense of them, mon cher," Jean-Paul said. "He did not feel like any mutant, human, god, or demigod that I have ever shared my speed with." He gave Harry a serious look. "I also have three other reasons." He raised a finger. "First, he has other powers as well – he is very strong, at least as much as Uhtred, if not as much as Diana, and resilient with it, healing fast when he needs to. More recently, he has developed X-Ray Vision." He grinned as Harry's eyebrows shot up. "I know, my reaction was similar. He was terribly embarrassed about it," he said. "He blushes even more adorably than you, mon cher."

Harry rolled his eyes, then looked thoughtful. "Speed, strength, durability, healing, those could all be connected," he said. "But X-Ray Vision? That seems… well, it seems a bit odd. Out of place."

Jean-Paul nodded. "So I thought," he said, and raised a second finger. "Second, the town he lives in, as you well know, was hit by a meteor shower. He was adopted shortly after."

Harry looked puzzled. "He was orphaned and exposed to the meteors as a child and they did something to him?" he hazarded. "Which, come to think of it, probably explains the strange number of rogue super-people down there."

"I wondered that myself," Jean-Paul said. "And for most of the 'super-people' in Smallville – and yes, mon cher, it really is called that – I believe that is the case. But for him… no."

Harry stared at him for a moment, opened his mouth to ask what Jean-Paul meant by that, before closing his eyes, and cursing his own stupidity. "Of course," he said. "He's an alien. He came down with the meteors." He frowned. "Which leads to the question – wait, hang on." He looked up at Jean-Paul again. "You said three reasons. What's the third?"

"La troisième raison? It is simple," Jean-Paul said. "You see, the two of you look alike. Extraordinarily so. You could pass for brothers."

Harry blinked. "Okay, that's strange, but…" He trailed off at Jean-Paul's upraised hand. "There's more, isn't there?"

"Indeed there is," Jean-Paul said. "When we first met, mon cher, you looked almost identical to your father's…"

"Human form," Harry supplied. "I know. Everyone used to tell me that I looked exactly like him, except for my mother's eyes."

Jean-Paul nodded. "Now, there are differences," he said. He examined Harry's face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Being exhausted and occupied with my own near self-destruction, I did not see as much of your mother as I might have done. But… there is something of her about you, now, where there was not before." He cocked his head. "And there is more. When you smile, I see Jean. Normally, though…" He reached and very gently touched Harry's cheek. "Your face, it is thinner than hers. Sharper."

"More like Maddie," Harry said quietly.

Jean-Paul nodded. "The two of you have shadows about you, shadows that she does not," he said.

"Considering our respective life experiences, that isn't surprising," Harry muttered, before lightly brushing Jean-Paul's fingers away. "Where's this going, Jean-Paul?"

"My secret friend does not have those parts of your mother in him," Jean-Paul said simply. "He is bulkier, yes, more muscular, but that is a difference of upbringing. Had you stood side by side before they began to emerge, you would have been easily mistaken for twins. Except for the eyes, of course."

"Yeah, mum's eyes," Harry said. "So, he looks exactly like dad did. And he's not human. But… he's not Asgardian."

"Yes," Jean-Paul said, frowning. "Though he has power not far short of your own, I sensed it, burning like a star within him."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "If he does, then he should be at least as strong as Diana," he said bluntly.

"He could well be. He fears his true potential," Jean-Paul said bluntly, before developing a grim, lopsided smile. "A feeling you should know well, mon cher."

"Don't I just," Harry said. "But you're sure he's not Asgardian, or some other kind of god, but definitely an alien."

"He is neither Asgardian nor Olympian," Jean-Paul said, shrugging. "Unless other pantheons feel drastically different…"

Harry nodded. "And his appearance?"

"That is a riddle I have not got an answer to," Jean-Paul said. "He is just as confused. I would say that it is possibly a simple coincidence, but with you?" He shook his head. "No. There is no such thing."

Harry drummed his fingers, frowning. "No," he said slowly. "There isn't." He stared up at the ceiling.

Jean-Paul followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow. The Mansion had pleasant enough ceilings, as undecorated wooden ceilings went, but they were not renowned as a source of information and insight. Before he could say so, however, Harry spoke again.

"A star, you say."

Jean-Paul blinked, then nodded. "It seems a fitting description, mon cher."

"And he came down in a meteor shower," Harry said. He was clearly mulling something over. "Shooting stars," he said. "Fallen stars." He looked up. "Smallville… it's got fields. Golden ones, I'm guessing."

Jean-Paul raised an eyebrow, then nodded again.

"And this person… what colours would you associate with him?"

Jean-Paul's other eyebrow joined the first in a synchronised ascension up his forehead.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know, it's a strange question," he said. "Just answer it, please."

Jean-Paul regarded him for a moment, then shrugged. "He usually wears blue," he said. "And a red jacket."

Harry nodded slowly. "So that's number two," he said quietly.

"Harry?"

"There's a prophecy," Harry said. "And a scarily accurate card reading. I mentioned it when we were in Diagon Alley." He fixed Jean-Paul with a sharp look. "And you looked very thoughtful about a certain part of it – a red star in a golden field. Like you knew who it meant."

"Ah," Jean-Paul said. "Yes."

"Did you know?"

Jean-Paul shrugged. "I suspected."

Harry nodded. "I think that your friend is mentioned in the prophecy," he said. "About a bunch of 'the lost'. It mentions Maddie: 'a hound in chains, that waits to break free.' This one sounds like 'a beacon in an ocean of fallen stars, that waits to be lit.' As for the the third, 'a memory in a cocoon of frozen time'… that one I have no idea about."

Jean-Paul nodded. "Then what will you do, now that you know?"

"Nothing, for the moment," Harry said. "Why? Do I need to?"

Jean-Paul shook his head.

"Then I won't," Harry said. "From the sounds of things, your friend – my not-quite-doppelganger – is safe and happy where he is. Besides, I've got one or two things I want to check first, and quite a few other things to worry about." He smiled wryly. "I'm sure he's got a few of his own."

"That, mon cher, I can guarantee."

OoOoO

Clark did indeed have much to dwell on. Or rather, he didn't, but he did anyway. On one level he was eager to meet Alison Carter and learn more about his birth parents, where he came from, and what he'd inherited from them other than superpowers and a disquieting resemblance to a Prince of Asgard. On another, far deeper level, however, he was also rather nervous. Though he had been assured that Mrs Carter had been protecting him and keeping his secret, she was also a powerful spy. Even without a lifetime of somewhat justified paranoia regarding his secret, he would have worried. The presence of his parents did make it a little easier, though.

It was perhaps because of this that when he first met Mrs Carter, he was rather confused. For his first impression of Mrs Carter was that she did not look very much like a super-spy at all. She was tall, blonde and wearing comfy looking blue jeans, a patterned cream woollen jumper, and a warm smile that set cornflower blue eyes sparkling. If Clark had had to guess, she looked to be about his mother's age, maybe a few years older, age lines tracing undeniably beautiful features that were settling into a comfortable middle age.

"Hello, Clark," she said, revealing an accent which, if Clark had had to guess, he would peg as upper-class British. "And Mr and Mrs Kent, it's lovely to meet you at last."

"Call us Martha and Jonathan, please," Martha said.

"Then you must call me Alison," Mrs Carter said.

"Hello, Mrs Carter," Clark replied, and got a warmly amused smile.

"That goes for you too, Clark," she said, stepping aside and letting them in, before shutting the door behind them with a click.

Clark, being a well raised young man, tried not to twitch too obviously, but even as he shook her offered hand – and much to his surprise, he actually felt her firm grip, properly felt it – he was unable to conceal some trepidation. This was noticed.

"It's all right, Clark," Alison said gently. "As Agent Coulson will have told you, I've known your secret since before you came to Earth. Your father – your birth father, I should say – enlisted my help precisely because of my position. I've been keeping a secret from SHIELD, others like them, and others decidedly less friendly, all your life." She paused. "Of course, your father had another reason." She gave him a sharp look. "You felt my grip. Do you think that an ordinary man or woman would be able to do that?"

"I… no," Clark said, blinking, then paused. "You mean, you're…"

"Enhanced? After a fashion, and I'll get to that. For now, let's just say that I've got a secret or two of my own," she said. "And a certain sympathy with those who want to hide their own secrets from unfriendly parties." She smiled at them. "Oh, where are my manners. May I offer you something to drink? Tea, water, juice? A soft drink, maybe?" Her tone turned dry. "I'd offer you some coffee, if Carol, my granddaughter, hadn't drunk all of it. Again." She shook her head. "I love that girl to pieces, but honestly, she's worse than Tony. No mug of coffee is safe when either of them is around, and she's quicker than he is."

"Um, I'd like some tea, please," Martha said, and glanced at Jonathan who shook his head.

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Could I have a glass of milk, please?" Clark asked.

"Of course," Alison said, standing up. "Coming right up." And as she bustled off. Clark was not British, by birth or by upbringing, and thus did not know the word 'mumsy'. At this point though, when seeking to describe Alison's appearance and demeanour, he would have welcomed its addition to his vocabulary. She did not look, or act, like a super-spy – which, he supposed, was probably a sign that she was a very good one, which considering what he'd been told, he should have expected.

But the overpowering impression he got was that she seemed more like the kindly and understanding type of elementary school teacher, or, frankly, someone's mother. The latter was perhaps silly, considering that he knew that she was someone's mother, and grandmother come to that, but it was true: if Clark had met her in the street, his assumption would have been less 'super-spy', more 'soccer mom'.

And that assumption was supported by the décor of the house, which was what Clark imagined would be a typical suburban home, albeit with a few touches and pieces of furniture that wouldn't be out of place in the Luthor Mansion. There were a number of photos along the dresser and the mantlepiece. Some were of a younger, happy looking Mrs Carter with a friendly looking man with brown eyes and dark brown hair flecked with grey – her husband, Clark realised when he saw a wedding photo.

Others with her and her husband with two children; the younger a fidgety looking boy with his father's hair and eyes, the older a demure and sensible looking girl with her mother's colouring. As Clark's gaze travelled along the photos, seeing the children grow into young adults, graduations from school, the boy – young man – in what looked like Air Force uniform and rigid with pride. Then there were more, of two more weddings, and of more children: two blonde and blue eyed girls hugging and laughing, and three boys of varying ages and attitudes – one older, dark and serious looking but for a small smile, and two younger; one blond, the other dark, both of whom looked every bit as fidgety and excitable as their uncle or father had been.

And then, there were the same progressions as had been before – sports matches and graduations, that sort of thing. There'd only been one of the latter so far, Clark noticed, of the older blonde girl, now a young woman, who'd graduated from High School and then somewhere else that looked vaguely military.

And there was something… Clark couldn't put a finger on it, but the house felt lived in. Comfortable, almost like a squashy armchair, which had shaped itself to its owner.

Of course, a small part of him noted as she returned with tea and milk, appearances deceived, after all. Squashy armchairs could conceal any number of sins, and whatever she seemed like, it was worth remembering one thing. This woman, Mrs Carter, had reached the very top of the world's strangest and perhaps most mysterious intelligence agency, one that so far as Clark understood, specialised in dealing with the superhuman and the supernatural. It was perhaps because of this focus that he didn't realise until later that after a certain point in the pictures, one of the five grandchildren was missing.

Once drinks were handed out, and all had settled down again, she smiled and said, "Now. Where were we?"

"You said you were different too, Mrs Carter," Clark said, thinking that she had known exactly where the conversation had been, and had only pretended otherwise for the sake of seeming, well… harmless. Or relatively so, at least. It was, he felt, like dealing with Jean-Paul, only more so. "Enhanced."

"After a fashion, yes," she said. "Though it would be more accurate to say that I'm the inheritor of enhancements. And again, please call me Alison." She sat back. "However, that's not the important thing. Your father, your biological father, I should say, left me a couple of things to give you, when the time was right." She reached down towards a bag by her chair.

Clark cleared his throat. "Actually, Mrs – Alison," he said firmly, with only a hint of a waver. "I think that is an important thing. You've been hinting that part of why my birth father chose you was because you know what it's like to be different and have powers, and that it's why I should trust you. But to be perfectly honest, ma'am, I don't know you. Agent Coulson said I can trust you, that you've been watching out for me, and I think I can trust him. But he also said that he didn't even know you were involved until just recently, and that you'd used him and Director Fury. Because of that, I'm not sure if I trust you." He folded his arms. "So I'd like to know about you, first. You, your powers, and how you knew my birth parents." He coughed, then added, a little bit abashed, "If that's all right."

Clark's parents, perhaps unsurprisingly, shot him looks that said that they agreed with the idea of what he was saying, but thought he'd been a little rude in the way he put it. Clark didn't notice, however, because Alison's expression had gone blank, and she'd fixed him with a long, penetrating stare. Clark, for his part, had fought his immediate impulses to apologise and shrink back in his chair, instead setting his jaw determinedly. And after several long moments, Alison had smiled.

It was a different smile to the one she'd worn only moments ago; sharper, more thoughtful, and somehow more honest. And it wasn't the only change, Clark noticed, as her entire demeanour shifting in a dozen little ways. It wasn't anything obvious, or overt, but in an instant, the friendly middle-aged soccer mom/motherly elementary school teacher was gone, and someone very different sat in her place. Someone who Clark didn't have any trouble imagining as a very senior SHIELD Agent.

She stared at him for another long moment, apparently content to let him grow more uncomfortable, then she broke the silence.

"You know, you remind me a bit of my father," she said mildly. "Quite a bit, actually." She inclined her head. "You make a very fair point, Clark. You don't know me, and you have very little reason to trust me. If I want trust, I should therefore extend some." She crossed her legs and steepled her fingers for a moment in thought. "Fortunately, the two things – my powers and how I know your father, are fairly closely intertwined, so it should be quick enough to explain. Though to start with, I think a visual aid would help."

She stood up and headed back into the kitchen – and even the way she walked had changed, Clark noticed, transforming into a more military looking stride – before returning with a packet of wet wipes. Smiling at the slightly puzzled expressions of the Kent family, she sat back down, removed one, then began to swiftly and briskly clean her face. As she did, age lines vanished from her face, until Clark found himself looking at a fresh faced young woman who looked as if she could have still been in college. Then, she set the wet wipes down, and in a quick and smooth movement, stripped off her pullover, which had covered a simple white t-shirt, and the physique of a physically very fit – and, Clark couldn't avoid thinking very attractive – younger woman.

"My name, as I said, is Alison Carter," she said. "My married name was Alison O'Neill, though I retained my maiden name for professional purposes. My mother was Agent Peggy Carter, who pretended off as my sister in an effort to conceal the identity of my father – Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America. I am more than sixty years old and as you might have guessed from the way I hardly look a day over twenty five, and you, Clark, from my grip, I inherited more than just his colouring."

Clark gaped.

Alison smiled. "I told you I had a secret of my own to keep from SHIELD," she said, before the smile faded. "That secret is one that certain people and beings would, and have, killed for. It was discovered, once, when I was a child. I was kidnapped by an organisation called the Red Room for the serum in my blood. My mother managed to get me back, with the help of several remarkable people. Among them was your father."

"My father?" Clark repeated, somewhat surprised.

Alison nodded. "I was eight," she said. "And he couldn't have been more than eighteen, only a few years older than you are now." She smiled sadly at Clark. "You look a lot like him, you know. Astoundingly so." She stood up and went over to the dresser, opening a drawer and removing an old, but well-cared for leather photo album, flicking through it, before settling on a page and turning it for Clark to see.

There were a number of photographs, but the one that immediately caught Clark's eye was a monochrome portrait of a strange, and somewhat battered looking group. They included on one side; a dark haired man of above average height, with a thin moustache and charming smile. He struck Clark as being familiar, until after a few moments, his memory flipped a card and Clark recognised him from history class, and the resemblance he had to his son – this was Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark, and a key part of the US war effort in WWII.

Next to him was a shorter, slimmer and younger man with wavy dark hair and boyish good looks, and a taller and well-built man with tan skin, cropped light hair and light eyes, and an expression of scientific curiosity apparently directed at the camera.

On the other side, at the end there were two darker skinned men of military bearing, with a strange tattoo on their foreheads, strange stave-like weapons, and stranger armour. One was lighter built, middle aged, wrinkled with a neat beard creased in a grandfatherly smile, while the other was quite young, powerfully built, visibly muscular, and completely bald. Though he looked a little uncomfortable, he too was smiling slightly for the camera. Next to them was a huge, muscular young man with cropped dark hair, a solemn and slightly sad expression, and the kind of wariness that Clark recognised as a fear that he'd accidentally break something or someone by breathing too hard.

In the middle stood a well-built and beautiful young woman of average height, with wavy dark hair, who Clark had seen in a thousand documentaries and history books about WWII – Peggy Carter. In most of pictures and films, though, she was either wearing a serious and professional expression, or only smiling slightly, not willingly to let her guard down. Here, though, she was not only smiling, but beaming with relief, albeit relief tinged with worry. And the cause for that, Clark thought, was the small pale haired girl beside her. The girl hardly came up to her mother's torso and in defiance of all decorum, had her arms wrapped around her mother's waist, and seemed ready to disappear behind her at a moment's notice.

The one who truly caught Clark's eye, however, was the young man standing between Peggy and the giant young man, wearing a warm, pleased smile. It was like looking in a mirror, and he wasn't the only one to think that.

"My god," Martha said, stunned. "Jonathan, look. It's uncanny!"

"That it is," Jonathan said. He looked up at Clark for a moment, then smiled a smile full of conflicting emotions. "He smiles like you do, Clark."

Clark, for his part, just stared at the picture of his birth father, trying to sear it into his memory.

"I have a few other photos of him," Alison said gently, after a few moments, pulling an envelope out of her bag. "I've made copies for you," she said, handing them to Clark's mother after seeing that Clark was occupied. "I never met your birth mother in person, so I'm afraid I can't help there. However, I think they left pictures, perhaps even video, on the things your father left me."

"Thank you," Clark said quietly, after a few moments. "Who were the other people? I recognise Howard Stark, Peggy Carter – your mother – and…" He trailed off.

Alison looked amused. "Yes, that shy little waif is me," she said. "I was eight." Her expression shadowed. "And after some time in the hands of the Red Room and their allies, I wasn't at my most sociable." She ran her eyes over the picture, then started pointing individuals out. "That," she said, picking out the young man with wavy dark hair. "Is Professor Charles Xavier, though in those days, he was just Charles, and was barely even a student, let alone a full fledged Professor. He's what is called a mutant, the next step in human evolution. They're born with powers, of wildly varying strength. Some don't even know they're anything other than ordinary humans, with the only difference being the ability to see a little better than normal, or know where north is. Others… others have been worshipped as gods, and have enough power that the difference is academic. Charles is one of the latter. He is an immensely powerful telepath, until recently the strongest ever to live. Even as little more than a boy, he was incredibly strong. Fortunately, he is also a very kind and very moral man, who runs a school for people born with powers." She smiled slightly. "After a fashion, I was actually one of his earliest students, though my abilities were relatively easy to control... give or take a few crushed door-knobs."

"That's something that sounds familiar," Clark's mother said dryly, and smiled as Clark blushed.

Alison chuckled and moved on. "Next to him is Captain Mar-Vell. He's also not from Earth," she said. "He's of the Kree, an incredibly powerful alien empire. Earth is meant to be off-limits, something Asgard enforces, but some of his people led by a scientist called Yon-Rogg had gone rogue and got involved with the Red Room. He came to Earth to bring them to justice, and he's actually still around, keeping an eye on us and making sure no one else does what Yon-Rogg did." Her finger slipped over to the other side. "Before we get to your father, the others are worth mentioning. The very tall young man is Piotr Rasputin. His tale, unfortunately, is not a very happy one. He is another mutant, with the ability to transform into an incredibly strong metallic version of himself. He's not merely bulletproof, but proof against anything but the most powerful bombs, and capable of tearing apart tanks with his bare hands. He was also a pacifist, using his strength to help out on the collective farm where he grew up, and refused to join the military. Unfortunately, the Red Room would not take no for an answer, and they killed his parents, then took his younger sister, Illyana, hostage, forcing him to fight for them. Ultimately, he turned on them after seeing what they wanted to do to me. Apparently, I reminded him of his sister."

"What happened to her?" Clark asked quietly.

"My mother and Charles helped him find her," Alison said sadly. "But by the time we did, she'd been taken into Faerie."

"Fairy?" Clark asked, baffled.

"Faerie," Alison corrected him. "The slightest of differences in pronunciation, the greatest of differences in reality. The short version is this: more or less every fairytale monster or nightmare you have ever heard or read about is real. The Fae, fairies, are among them. However, they hate being called fairies, preferring to be referred to as the Sidhe. They are very rarely anything like Disney or other more modern tales would have you imagine – the original Grimm's Fairytales, and Celtic mythology, would be a better reference. Even the kinder ones tend to be somewhat… inhuman. Following me so far?"

"More or less," Clark said. Jean-Paul had told him similar things before now, and frankly with the things he'd seen on Red Sky Day, he could well believe it. His parents were having a little more difficulty keeping up, but not much.

"Good," Alison said. "One unpleasant habit they have is of taking humans, often children, that catch their eye. A Sidhe-lord took Illyana, and since time between reality and Faerie is often flexible, while only two years passed in reality, it was closer to twenty years for Illyana." She sighed. "In truth, it was a relatively slight difference. The stories of young men and women wandering into Faerie, spending a night at a party, and then returning to find a century has passed, are very much rooted in reality. But even still, she was much changed, especially since she had developed both magical and mutant gifts – something which is rare, but has been known to happen. Those gifts, and the fact that she was no longer a sweet little six year old girl, no longer Piotr's 'little snowflake', but a grown woman in her mid-twenties, would have been difficult to adjust to, but not insurmountable. Combined with a somewhat off-kilter moral attitude more reminiscent of one of the Fae than anyone mortal, and a general disinterest in the doings of humanity, though..." She shook her head. "Life has conspired to render Piotr a very lonely man."

Her finger moved on to the latter two. "And then there is Master Bra'tac, and his student, Teal'c," she said.

"Are they aliens too?" Clark asked.

"In manner of speaking," Alison said. "More accurately, they are the descendants of humans kidnapped and genetically altered by the Kree thousands and thousands of years ago, as a sort of proto super soldier. Now, they are known as the Jaffa, a warrior caste of the Kree Empire. They served Yon-Rogg, but were working with Mar-Vell to bring him down and stop the Red Room's plans. In truth, I don't know what has happened to them since, but I hope they are well."

Her gaze, and Clark's, dropped to the final figure. "Your father," Alison said quietly. "Jor of the House of El, or more colloquially, Jor-El. He helped save me from a truly hideous fate – and I have been fighting the Red Room and their ilk for almost all my life, so believe me when I say that I know hideous. I will not go into the details." She took a deep breath. "Suffice it to say, though, I was left understanding what certain organisations would do to get hold of someone… gifted, and I spent much of my life terrified that the same thing would happen to my children, and their children, if anyone found out – though until recently, none of them showed any real sign of sharing any of my and my father's gifts. That was part of why your father came to me for help. Because I understood."

Clark nodded slowly. "I believe you," he said. And he did. It was something about the look in her eyes as she talked about it. He'd seen that same look in Jean-Paul's eyes when he'd talked about, or avoided talking about, horrors that his friends had been through. He could be being tricked, of course, but he didn't think so. Then, he looked up, and asked the one question that had been burning away inside him for years and years. "Mrs Carter – Alison, sorry."

"Yes, Clark?"

Clark took a deep breath. "Do you know why my parents… why they sent me away?" he asked.

Alison nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "I do. It's not an easy tale, so I should start with saying this: your birth parents loved you dearly, just as your adoptive parents do. The very prospect of sending you away broke their hearts; it was written on your father's face. The only reason they did it was as a very last resort, because they wanted to protect you." She leaned forward, taking Clark's hand and looking him in the eye. "Your parents loved you, Clark. If you take away even one thing from today, if you choose to believe only one thing, you should believe that."

Clark looked away as his eyes grew damp, and nodded. Alison patted his hand kindly and sat back.

"Now," she said, after allowing him a few moments to compose himself. "Comes the other part of the tale: why your parents sent you here, and why they needed my help in the first place."

OoOoO

1994

Alison unlocked her door and walked into her home, making the usual, almost absent-minded checks for new bugs, traps and what-have-you as she did. One of the advantages of her children living away from home was that there were less avenues for enemy Agents to slip something past her guard.

Her mind dwelt on her children for a moment. Marie had married that awful Danvers man, but credit where it was due, he seemed to be making her happy, and their little girl, Carol, an adorable and energetic golden haired toddler, was absolutely delightful. Jack seemed to be going from strength to strength, shaking off the shadows of Iraq. Already a Captain, he was well on the way to becoming a Major before he turned thirty. It was a pity he'd never joined SHIELD; his undoubted skills as an operative would have sent him rocketing up the promotion ladder. But, of course, there would always be accusations of favouritism. While in looks Jack took heavily after his father, as well as having been prematurely aged by his experiences in the Gulf, and she had kept her maiden name for professional reasons, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out their connection, especially not at an intelligence agency. And with those accusations would come unwanted scrutiny.

Besides, Jack had quite reasonably pointed out that his skills as a special operative would mean that he'd be tied to that kind of duty for the rest of his professional life. What he really wanted to do, what he really loved to do, was to fly. And he was good, oh he was good, considered to be among the best in the Air Force. She could understand his choice.

Meanwhile, his little girl, Sharon, was a few years older than Carol – and something of a surprise to her parents, who had not expected a child so early – and every bit as delightful as her cousin, and every bit as golden haired too. At family meet-ups, such as they were, the two were frequently mistaken for sisters, and didn't seem to mind this one bit. Jack certainly didn't. Joe, Carol's father, did, and naturally, Jack took the opportunity to slowly and steadily wind him up. It was amusing to watch, but it did occasionally necessitate her intervention. She knew her son very well and knew that he would take great delight in being given an excuse to beat Joe to a pulp. While Alison deeply disliked the man, she didn't think he quite deserved that.

More importantly, though, it would also upset Marie. While Alison couldn't fathom what her daughter saw in the man, she accepted and respected the fact that her daughter saw something in him. She also grudgingly acknowledged that he was a reasonably good husband to her. And for all the disagreements between mother and daughter, many of which Alison now regretted – had she pushed Marie too hard? Had she driven her away? – she'd never wanted to see Marie hurt.

Her mind paused on her grandchildren for a moment, remembering the words of a young man, wise beyond his years and decades out of his time, spoken over thirty years ago now… at least one of those grandchildren would go on to do great things. She also remembered that that young man in question had now been born, and sooner rather than later, his life was going to get very hard. In any case, the countdown was ticking on something that had, technically, already happened. Time travel was confusing.

Speaking of children and grandchildren, her godson, Tony Stark, looked no closer to having any children than usual. Or at least, any children he would know about until the mother rolled up some months or years later with a small child and an accusing expression. That said, she had it on excellent authority that someday that would change. In the meantime, she just hoped that he didn't do himself any permanent damage. She, Charles and Edwin Jarvis, they'd all tried to rein Tony in, but there was only so much one could do without outright incarcerating him.

Besides, she mused, if you told him to do something, he'd do the opposite out of sheer contrariness. A lifetime of Howard telling him what to do had left him disinclined to follow orders, especially these last couple of years, since his parents had died – or, as she knew very well, had been murdered. To tell Tony that, however, would set him on the path to his own destruction. Tony as he was now was no match for the Hellfire Club. She and the others had taken their revenge on the Club (though to be frank, that had mostly been Erik's rage at work, and positively biblical it had been too) and left them scoured to their foundations. But even so, evil like the Hellfire Club didn't go away, and was most dangerous when at bay.

And in truth, she was afraid of pushing him away, as she had Marie. So for now, he remained in the hands of the very capable Lieutenant Rhodes, who Jack spoke highly of – and Alison had to say, she found him to be an impressive young man, well capable of corralling Tony; his new assistant, Pepper Potts, who seemed to be equally capable of managing Tony, his patient and ever-loyal bodyguard Happy, and Obadiah Stane, who seemed to have become a second father to Tony. Alison had her suspicions about that one, but they were only suspicions for the time being.

She pushed away her worries about the younger generation. She had more immediate concerns, ones that, sad as it was to say, she found much easier to deal with. She drew her concealed throwing knife, dropped and spun, hurling it at the heart of the figure who thought that he had gone unnoticed.

Who snatched it out of the air and said, slightly puzzled, "Is this a new form of Earth greeting?"

Alison blinked and stared at the figure. "Who are you?"

A tall, handsome man with black hair and grey eyes, who looked to be in his late thirties stepped out of the shadows. He was strangely dressed, in long white robes, and was still loosely holding her knife like it was some sort of knick-knack that he wasn't sure what to do with.

"I know that it has been a long time," he said. "And you were quite young. But I was hoping that you would remember me."

That immediately told her that this man was rather older than he looked – or at least, claimed to be. And he was far faster than any human, if he could so comfortably catch a knife thrown by someone like her. It wasn't Mar-Vell, though… something did nudge at her memory, from the time when she had first met Mar-Vell. Something about that face – younger, of course, and fast, so unbelievably fast.

Then it clicked.

"Jor," she said. "Jor-El. Yes, I remember you." She smiled. "You've hardly aged."

"As have you," Jor-El said. "Though you have disguised that fact very well."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Alison said dryly.

Jor-El smiled. "Good," he said, then held up the knife. "I think I understand: not a greeting. You were expecting someone else. Someone not friendly."

"Anyone hiding in my house, anyone good enough to avoid my security measures, is definitely not going to be friendly," Alison said. She smiled wryly. "Unless they're you, apparently. What made you think that it might have been a friendly greeting?"

"Asgardians have a strange sense of humour," Jor-El said vaguely, shrugging. Alison cocked an eyebrow, but enquired no further. There were other things at hand.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you," Jor-El said. "I cannot stay long."

Alison watched him carefully. Jor-El wasn't human, but his body language was close enough. He looked nervous. "Then we had best get down to it," she said. "What brings you to Earth again, Jor-El? And what brings you to me?"

"I must confess, I came to Earth in hope of finding your mother," Jor-El said. "However, I soon found that you had been missing presumed dead for almost thirty two of your years."

"She's been gone for a long time," Alison agreed.

"I am sorry," Jor-El said. "I came to you next. If you cannot help me, I will turn to Charles." He hesitated. "I fear to presume, but I do not have many options, and… I believe that you will understand my plight."

Alison didn't need to glance around the room to know that photos of her children, and her grandchildren, were easily visible on the dresser. From that, it was easy to deduce what Jor-El's plight was.

"You have a child," she said. "One that you want to send to Earth, because of some threat on your homeworld, and you need help to conceal him."

Jor-El stared at her in surprise, then chuckled ruefully. "It seems that I have chosen well," he said. "Yes, I am a father, to a little boy. He would still be an infant, by both your standards and ours."

"You have my congratulations," Alison said. "Do you have a picture? An image?"

Jor-El reached into his robes and removed a small, clear crystal. A moving image of a baby boy appeared. He had dark hair, astonishing bright blue eyes and he was laughing.

"Oh, Jor… he's beautiful," Alison said. "What's his name?"

Jor-El smiled fondly at the image. "Yes," he said. "He is. He looks like me, but he has his mother's eyes. And his name is Kal, Kal-El. In the language of my people, it means Star-Child, and he is named for one of my ancestors, a great explorer, who travelled much among Earth and its associated realms." He put the crystal away. "And like all of my people, he would appear to be human at first sight, even at relatively close physical examination."

"That would help," Alison said. "But I remember how powerful you are, how advanced you suggested your people were, to be able to travel from your world to this one with ease. What could threaten them?"

"Our powers only appear under a 'yellow' sun," Jor-El said. "And they vary in strength among our people when they do manifest. I am among the strongest. In any case, under a 'red' sun, like Rao, our home star, we are little more than human. But nevertheless, Krypton is the most advanced world in the mortal universe. No small claim, I know, but it is true." His tone grew bitter. "However, we have grown stagnant. Ten thousand years unchallenged, and we have turned inward, become like a rotten fruit – well enough to look at, but decayed at the core. My people believe that nothing could threaten us and that we have nothing to learn from so-called 'lesser civilisations'. And that has been our undoing."

"How so?" Alison asked.

"An old enemy of ours, the Dheronians, have been aided by an unknown party," Jor-El said. "They have managed to slip past our decidedly lax guard and destabilise Krypton's core. I have tried to undo the damage and convince my colleagues of the danger, but I was unsuccessful and they were unmoved. My brother seemed to listen, and moved his family to our sister-world of Argo – not that that will help much – but no one else. Krypton is doomed and my people with it, thanks to their arrogance."

"Oh, Jor… there aren't any words adequate," Alison said, horrified. "But, I really am sorry."

"Thank you," Jor-El said quietly.

Alison nodded, then snapped back into business mode. "So, you want asylum for yourself, your wife and son, and perhaps your brother and whatever family he has?" she said. "I can arrange that."

"No," Jor-El said. "That is very kind of you, but I cannot accept. I know that you think that all of us can simply step through to Earth as I have on previous visits, relatively easily. However, the Dheronians, or their benefactor, are cunning. They have managed to make it impossible to travel from Krypton, as I found when I tried to call Asgard for aid." He smiled a sly, conspiratorial and infectious smile. "Well. Almost impossible." He sobered. "But even so, bypassing their block is a dangerous process. I only survived because I took the precaution of imbuing myself with the radiation of a 'yellow' sun like your own before stepping through. Even similarly imbued, Kal is far too young to survive the trip. Even Kara, my niece, who is an adolescent, what you would consider a teenager, would most likely not survive either and her parents..."

Alison nodded. "So what are you going to do?"

"I have designed and built a small ship," Jor-El said. "It is completed, but the Dheronians seem intent on ensuring that none of us will escape. They have gained a fleet, a space fleet, which they have placed out of reach of conventional scanners, but more than within reach of Krypton if any of my people tries to escape via ship. I only spotted it because I managed to briefly bypass their cloak, and I only managed to do that because I expected something to be there. They have since rearranged their cloak so that I can no longer bypass it, meaning that when I tried to replicate my findings for the Science Council, they looked like the ravings of a paranoid madman." He smiled wanly. "Not that many of them did not see me as such anyway." He took a deep breath. "As I say, I have built a small ship to take Kal to Earth."

"And you haven't included space enough for yourself and your wife because it'll be more likely to avoid notice," Alison said.

Jor-El nodded. "To maximise his chances of survival, Lara and I must wait until the last moment to launch it," he said. "Then, hopefully, his ship will be mistaken for debris, and by the time the Dheronians know their mistake, if they do at all, Kal's ship will have vanished into hyperspace."

"Lara…" Alison said. "That's a lovely name." She sighed. "It's a good plan. But there's only so much you can do from your end. You need help for when Kal gets to Earth. Like adoptive parents." She caught Jor-El's meaningful look and smiled sadly. "Oh, Jor… I'd be honoured, I truly would. But I can't. My mother, Charles and Howard did an excellent job of cleaning up after Yon-Rogg and the Red Room were defeated, and the fact that no one has come for me or my family since suggests that they were successful. But there are still people, people at SHIELD, who suspect. More than that, I am the Deputy Director of SHIELD. Which means that I am in a position to help you, yes, but not to adopt Kal. If I took him in, he would be scrutinised to within an inch of his life. His powers would be impossible to keep secret and make him an astoundingly enticing target for capture. And even leaving aside our respective secrets, he would be a target for kidnapping because of his relationship to me. My own son, Jack… he was serving in my country's military, in a war we had not so long ago. His mission went wrong and he was captured. Most of his unit was killed, but he was kept alive because of his relationship to me. While that was a relative blessing, the things that they did to him…" She trailed off.

"I am sorry," Jor-El said. "And of course, I understand. I suspected that you would not be able to, though I had no idea… forgive me."

"You didn't do it and you had no way of knowing," Alison said, ruthlessly locking away the memories of Jack in that cell in Iraq, a bloodied and broken ruin. "I presume that you have made other plans."

Jor-El nodded. "Yes," he said. "I have. A couple, Jonathan and Martha Kent. She is unable to have children, yet they want a child badly. I know them to be good, honest people."

"You interviewed them?" Alison asked, eyebrow raised.

"No," Jor-El said. "Though Lara and I examined their home, observed them from afar and used our enhanced senses to discern what others thought of them."

"Why them?" Alison asked.

"Their character, what we could discern of it," Jor-El said. "The fact that their home town, Smallville, is small, rural and likely to avoid a great deal of scrutiny, yet close enough to one of your nation's major population centres, Metropolis, so Kal can, as he gets older, understand multiple aspects to his new world."

"Earth's a very big and very complex world, Jor," Alison warned. "With many facets beyond Metropolis and a town in the rural Midwest of America."

"I am aware," Jor-El said, before pausing for a long moment. "I also chose them because Jonathan Kent's father, Hiram Kent, once did me a great kindness. I had been framed for the murder of a good woman and he trusted me without being given solid evidence for why he should do so. He had every reason to suspect me, an outsider, and yet..." He paused. "In any case, from what I can discern, his son is, as you say on Earth, cut from the same cloth. Of course, appearances can deceive."

Alison nodded. "I'll do a background check," she said, heading over to her computer. "Give me an hour or two."

A couple of hours later, she returned. "Everything I can find, immediately at least, agrees with your and Lara's assessment," she said. "The Kents seem to be good people. But how can you be sure that they'll be the ones to find Kal?"

"DNA tracking," Jor-El said. "The ship will know to find them and land as close as possible to them without harming them. However…" He hesitated.

"You don't know how they'll take it," Alison said. "A ship carrying a baby dropping out the sky, that's quite a lot for a rural Midwestern couple to take in – while Martha Kent seems to be a bit more cosmopolitan in her background, I don't think her experience extends to crashed space ships. And in any case, SHIELD will be on something like that like a rat up a drain, and so will other parties. I can protect Kal from them, and if the Kents don't pan out as you hope, I can make other arrangements for him. However, I can't guarantee that they won't take his ship. I might have to sacrifice it to keep Kal hidden."

"I understand," Jor-El said. "I had planned to send a database of sorts, to advise Kal when the time is right, along with artificial copies of myself and Lara, to give him a taste of his homeworld, but I accounted for that too." He pulled out a long crystal. "It is, essentially, a back-up in case the ship is lost or damaged. It will activate at his touch. It also has an additional message for the Kents, if they prove to be the parents I hope they will be. Please look after it until he is old enough." He paused. "Also, I am aware that, even with his abilities, Earth is a dangerous place, perhaps more dangerous than even you know. We of Krypton have a vulnerability to magic, one that disrupts many of our abilities under a 'yellow' sun. While I believe that the House of El, my family, has a certain resistance to this owing to certain theorised aspects of our heritage, in any case, it would be limited. And if the Dheronians and their benefactor ever discover him..."

"Wait, stop, the people who can destroy your world might follow Kal here?" Alison asked.

"Might," Jor-El said. "And I accounted for that too. In the simplest terms possible, Earth is protected by a race called the Asgardians, our oldest allies. They are as advanced as we are, and they are higher beings, what most call gods. And unlike us, they are not quite so stagnant; they are far more militant. Earth is part of their 'Nine Realms', worlds they protect and extend a loose sovereignty over. While they only rule two directly, the rest follow their lead, and they protect them all. They have not acted overtly on Earth in a millennium, yet they still protect it. While some, like Yon-Rogg, have managed to evade their scrutiny and reach Earth, they only did so by chance and the response was… harsh."

"Harsh how?" Alison asked. "And Asgard, I recognise the name, from myths, children's stories..." She rubbed her jaw. "How powerful are they?"

"Yon-Rogg was of the Kree Empire, one of the two mightiest powers in the mortal universe, a favourite of one of their most prominent political factions," Jor-El said. "After he was defeated, Asgard isolated those who had aided him and demanded their heads. From any other power, such a demand would have been answered with war for the sheer insolence displayed. But not Asgard. They received the heads immediately, with copious apologies attached." He shook his head. "The Dheronians cut us off from Asgard because they fear Asgard's power, and rightly so."

"Can't you ask Asgard to intervene from here?" Alison asked.

"I could," Jor-El said. "But it is already too late. It took me so long to slip through the lock to get to Earth that we now have mere days. To arrange and plan a decisive assault on the vast Dheronian fleet, even with the might of the Allfather and his sons, would take too long. Asgard is vigilant and they are a warrior people, but it could take them time to gather their full strength. And even were it possible, the technology the Dheronians now possess and the sheer size of their fleet – I believe it holds their entire population – I cannot guarantee that they will not be able to destroy Krypton before they are destroyed themselves. In fact, I can almost guarantee it. Further, while Asgard could evacuate Krypton's population in theory, it would have to break the lock that prevented communication in the first place, as opposed to merely slipping past it, as I did. While it could be done, it would take time and…"

"The Dheronians would see it coming," Alison said. "Resulting in the destruction of Krypton."

Jor-El nodded. "And there are further problems," he said. "Krypton is in a state of civil war. My warnings, you see, weren't entirely ignored. One of my old friends, Dru-Zod, believed me. He is the commander of Krypton's military and –"

"He saw the inaction of your Science Council and decided that a military coup was necessary," Alison said. "We've had them on Earth. Not in America, thank god, but in a lot of other places."

"Yes," Jor-El said. "The civil war rages and grows ever more vicious. My friend, I believe, has gone mad. He has even reprogrammed the AI that ran much of our planet's infrastructure to serve him. Worse, a cult has risen up, the cult of the Eradicator, venerating a creature of Kryptonian myth and claiming that Krypton's death is not merely inevitable, but to be embraced." He looked haunted. "And they venerate me as their prophet, the Herald of the Eradicator. Zod's forces, meanwhile, also champion me, hold me up as a martyr to their cause and proof of the Science Council's corruption, that it would 'conceal its shining light and silence the voice of truth'. I have only managed to stay neutral by hiding myself and my family away." He shook his head. "All I ever wanted was to warn my people, to save them. And this it what came of it. Millions dying in the name of what should, at worst, have been a scientific dispute. Both sides have become fanatical, taken their views to the point of insanity and beyond. Krypton and Argo are both consumed by madness."

Alison looked in pity at this kind, gentle, brilliant man who had only ever tried to help, who just couldn't understand the horrors he had unleashed with a few simple words, words that had been appropriated by monsters, murderers, and madmen. She could, however. She could understand it very easily. "I am sorry, Jor," she said quietly.

"It has all grown so poisonous that even if we survive, we risk exporting the chaos of our wars elsewhere," Jor-El said eventually. "At the very least, it would make it impossible to co-ordinate an evacuation. Part of population refuses to believe that Krypton is on the brink of destruction, others do because their commander tells them to and believes the former to be treasonous scum fit only for death, and more believe that Krypton is about to die and anyone who dares to refute or impede that, meaning both of the other sides, must die." He shook his head. "No. It saddens me to realise it, but Krypton is lost, Argo with it."

Alison nodded, not bothering with platitudes. Words would do no good here. "What about Asgard? Surely they'd be willing to take your son in," she said.

"They would," Jor-El said. "My ancestor, the first Kal-El, was fostered with the current King of Asgard, the Allfather, raised as his brother. Kal would be given a place of highest honour and would want for nothing."

"Nothing except his parents," Alison said quietly.

Jor-El nodded. "I will not send him to Asgard," he said. "While they are more engaged with the universe than Krypton was, they are still detached, looking down from on high. I want my son to grow up understanding the younger species of this universe, to use the knowledge that his mother and I will send with him, and the powers given to him by the 'yellow' sun of Earth, to do good. I understand why Asgard has retreated, but sending him to Asgard would be like putting him in a cage. A gilded cage, one of luxury, but one made all the more confining by the fact that he would likely never see it for what it was."

His expression turned grim.

"Besides," he said. "Though my information is outdated, the last I had heard was that Thor, Asgard's Crown Prince, had vanished. I do not know what it means, but there may well be dark things brewing in the Realm Eternal. Sending Kal there could mean sending him to his doom, and I will not take the slightest risk with his safety that I do not have to."

"Definitely recognise the name," Alison muttered. "Okay, I think I understand. All right." She rubbed her hands. "Kal will need a faked birth certificate, adoption papers, that sort of thing. That's easily enough done, but I can't be seen to get involved directly myself. I can't call on Charles' skills either, for the same reason you couldn't have sent Kal to him – he's currently dealing with some dark forces of his own, the sort that would pounce on Kal in an instant." She thought for a moment. "I know a couple of agents I can dispatch to the scene, indirectly of course. Hopefully it should be a small enough matter that only two moderately senior agents will be required to deal with it."

"You trust them?" Jor-El asked.

"Better than that, I know them," Alison said. "Agent Fury and Agent Coulson would never allow a child to be harmed, human or not. Especially not one that looks like that. Fortunate, really…"

"Alison?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Alison said. "It's just that your son bears more than a passing resemblance to the son of a young woman Agent Fury was very close to. She was like a sister to him and he was unable to prevent the murders of her and her husband. He was equally unable to do anything for her son, though he tried very hard. It will give him added incentive to protect Kal." She shook her head. "In any case, I'll be keeping a close watch on the incident. If things go wrong, I can step in."

Jor-El nodded. "And what if it is not a minor incident?" he asked. "Forgive me, but you are the Deputy Director of SHIELD. Surely there is a Director, who could overrule you?"

"In theory," Alison said. "But Jim Woo's a decent man, and even if he does get involved, I can persuade him."

"And if you can't?"

"He's the Director, but I've got deeper roots in SHIELD than anyone else, and he knows it," Alison said coolly. "So if it comes to it, he'll do what I tell him, or face the consequences."

Jor-El stared at her for a long moment. "You have become very much like your mother," he said, tone neutral.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Alison said calmly.

Jor-El said nothing, though he looked a little troubled. Alison debated pointing out that you didn't get points in the spy game by being nice, but decided against it. He probably knew, and just didn't like it. She couldn't blame him. It wasn't pleasant.

"How long will it take Kal to get here?" she asked.

"A few months," Jor-El said. "A year, perhaps? Less, probably. I am afraid I cannot be more precise." He paused. "I will send a signal ahead, in Kryptonian. It is primarily intended for Mar-Vell, or any Asgardian who happens to involve themselves with Earth, in case matters go astray, and…"

"And I am unable to help him," Alison said bluntly. "Sensible. Every plan needs a back-up, preferably several." She looked him in the eye. "Jor, I promise you this, on my children and grandchildren's souls: I'll do everything for Kal that I can, everything that I would do for one of my own. I will protect him as best I can."

Jor-El smiled gently. "Of that I have no doubt, Alison," he said. "And thank you."

"You saved my life all those years ago," Alison said. "It's the very least I can do." She sighed. "I only wish I could do more, to save you and your wife. Can't you at least try to slip off Krypton to Earth as soon as you've got Kal launched?"

"We must wait until the very last moment," Jor-El said. "And calculate when that last moment will be to ensure that Kal has the best chance of survival. Anything less would put him at greater risk than needed. Neither I, nor Lara, will countenance that."

Alison nodded. "I understand," she said.

Jor-El nodded. "I thought you would," he said. "Oh, and before I go…" He looked a little embarrassed. "I became so wrapped up in explaining the potential dangers to Kal that I forgot to give you this."

He handed her another crystal. "Lara made this, though I added a few touches of my own. It will respond to Kal's touch and his alone. It is a form of armour, a redesign of suits worn for the exploration of dangerous environments on Krypton, mixing in certain principles of Asgardian technology and Kryptonian military technology. It is designed to co-exist with Kal's abilities under a yellow sun and primarily, protect him as far as possible from those things his abilities will not; or at least, will not as a young man. It has a number of functions beyond the obvious." He chuckled softly. "Lara is a military woman by training and believes in being prepared for everything, and then some. I think that the two of you would get on."

"A woman who designs a suit of apocalypse proofed armour for her kid?" Alison said, examining the crystal. "Oh, I definitely think we would." She smiled sadly. "I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to meet her. And to get to know you better."

"As am I, Alison," Jor-El said sadly. "As am I." He stood. "I must go."

Alison nodded. "Oh, and Jor?" she said.

He turned. "Yes?"

"Goodbye. And good luck."

He gave her one last smile of thanks, and then vanished in a gust of wind.

OoOoO

The Present

"So, you made sure that I went with mom and dad?" Clark asked.

"I helped," Alison said. "It took a bit of quick and fancy footwork too: Jor didn't anticipate a significant amount of Krypton's debris being dragged along with you, and as a consequence, I didn't anticipate that it would be anything as high profile as it was. Nor, I think, did he anticipate the divide between his message arriving and your arrival." She inclined her head. "Though under the circumstances, that might have been a good thing. Some people were looking into it who most certainly should not have been."

"Like who?" Clark asked cautiously.

"Like Lionel Luthor, among others," Alison said grimly, before waving a hand. "He never knew what he was dealing with. I made sure of that." She focused on Clark again. "In any case, once you arrived, I went to work," she said. "The two Agents I chose were the ones to find you, and your mom and your dad, and they accepted you staying with them. They talked to Director Woo, who was undecided. I had a little word with him, and he became decided, in your favour. After that, I ensured that the faked documentation was up to spec – which it was. Agent Coulson was and remains excellent at covers. In that respect, at least, the meteor shower helped. So many lost children, so much chaos… it was easy to pass you off as the child of an out of town couple killed in the meteor shower."

Clark nodded. "What about the other people who know?" he asked.

"Director Woo forgot," Alison said calmly. "With help." Clark felt a shiver go down his spine, and his parents exchanged unreadable looks. While this woman, who even after her attitude shift still looked uncannily like a typical suburban soccer mom from central casting, was kind, friendly and had clearly done a lot for him, she was also kind of scary. "Agent Fury is now Director Fury. After my retirement, which I had to take because the elements of HYDRA within SHIELD – not that I knew for sure what they were – were taking a rather uncomfortable interest in me and mine, he took up the bulk of using SHIELD's might to keep you a secret. Agent Coulson helped in that regard, something helped by the fact that few guessed at his involvement – though really, one would think that if rumours were going around of Fury's involvement, Coulson's name wouldn't be far behind – and the fact that he has been legally dead for the last few years. I, of course, was not idle either."

"Rumours?" Clark asked, puzzled.

Alison sighed. "Yes," she said. "Apparently, I was not so thorough as I had hoped. Though that was only partly it, as far as I can tell. A couple of years after you landed in Kansas, rumours starting running around about the so-called 'Lost Omega' – an Omega Class being is SHIELD's way of describing people who are off the charts, power wise, who could affect a continent or even a planet. It's a bit vague, considering that some Omegas are palpably much more powerful than others, but it does the job. Other Omega Class beings include Thor and the Hulk. They are rare. Ones that like you are, shall we say, vulnerable… they are much, much rarer."

"But, I'm not that powerful," Clark protested. "Agent Coulson said that the rumours were me being mixed up with some young psychic. She's the Omega, whoever she is."

"So she is," was Alison's calm reply. "And one day, so you will be too." She looked Clark in the eye. "I saw your father in action, Clark," she said. "And from that, and a couple of other things I've picked up over the years, I've worked out that at full strength, he compared favourably with Thor. I have every confidence that you will too." Her brow creased somewhat in a small frown. "Though from what he had told me, I would have expected a few more of your abilities to have manifested by now…" She trailed off, then shrugged, as if it was of little consequence.

Clark nodded, pondering this. "Sorry," he said after a while, realising that he was still under observation. "I'm just taking it all in. It's…"

"It's a lot to adjust to, I know," Alison said kindly. "I can't even begin to tell you how shocked I was when I found out I was a super soldier and the truth about my parentage. My granddaughter, Carol, could tell you a similar story. And her friend, Harry Thorson, who you greatly resemble, would also be able to relate. You are far from alone in this, Clark."

"Shouldn't it be Kal?" Clark asked, and shot a hesitant look at his parents. "I mean, that's my name… my original name. Isn't it?"

"Your birth name, yes," Alison said. "Why, do you prefer it?"

Clark shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "I mean, it's nice enough, but it doesn't feel very… me."

"Well, that's hardly a surprise," Alison said dryly. "It could be useful, though."

Clark looked puzzled.

"A number of superhumans adopt codenames," she explained. "Some as a means of distancing themselves from their human backgrounds."

"I don't want to do that," Clark said quickly.

"While others do so as a means of simply embracing their mutant abilities and identities," she continued gently. "And still others for use when dealing with those who would view them poorly, as a mask to wear. Others do it because they think it sounds cool, and want to emulate the superheroes they idolise. Captain America is an often cited example."

"Kal doesn't really sound like a codename," Clark said doubtfully. "I mean it's not like Captain… oh, I don't know, Captain Marvel."

"That one's taken, I'm afraid," Alison said, amused. "Besides, Thor and Loki act under their own names. And I've been keeping an eye on you, Clark. Last summer in particular, you were running around Smallville, saving lives, all in a blur."

"So?" Clark said defensively.

"So, it's a very good thing," Alison said gently. "And a sign of a very well raised young man," she added, gaze turning to Clark's parents. "Jor chose well when he chose the two of you," she said. "I worried, at first, but I was wrong and I have never been more glad that to be so. Clark is a credit to you both." Her expression saddened somewhat as she looked over at the pictures of her family. "I only wish that I had done half as good a job with my own children," she said. "They've turned out as wonderful people, and parents, in their own right, but I rather fear that that was in spite of my parenting rather than because of it."

"I'm sure that's not true," Martha said.

"I'm afraid it probably is," Alison said. "I am not simply fishing – dynamite fishing, even – for compliments. I was always a much better spy than a mother, though my late husband rose to the occasion magnificently." She shook her head. "In any case, my parenting skills are not the subject up for discussion. What was… ah, yes. Names." She turned back to Clark. "If you ever get spotted, wearing a costume, a suit, and using a different name could keep eyes away from your ordinary life as Clark Kent." She shrugged. "All I'm saying is that it could be useful. You say it doesn't fit you? Well, it could come in handy for the times when for one reason or another, you might not want to be you."

Clark frowned thoughtfully. This bore some consideration. "You said that my… my father left a couple of things for me," he said. "May I? I'd… I'd like to see them."

"Of course," Alison said, pulling two crystals out from the bag beside her. "I was only ever looking after them until you were ready. And be careful – like I said, they're touch activated."

Clark hesitated. "Can you put them in a bag or something, then, please? For later."

Alison nodded. "Of course," she said, drawing a handkerchief. "Will this do?"

It turned out that it did, wrapping around the crystals, which Clark took and held for a moment, feeling their contours through the cloth. I slipped into his pocket. "One thing I don't understand," he said. "I asked… someone, but he didn't know." He paused, considering Jean-Paul's enigmatic nature. "Or he wouldn't say. Anyway, I was hoping that you would know."

"Someone, eh?" Alison asked, raising an amused eyebrow. "Would this someone be about yea high, slim, French, and an outrageous flirt?"

Clark could not prevent his jaw from dropping, and Alison chuckled. "I keep my eyes open," she said. "And in any case, I know Jean-Paul Beaubier of old. He's one of my granddaughter's best friends." Her gaze sharpened thoughtfully. "As is a certain Harry Thorson, come to that."

"Right," Clark said. "I wanted to know why I look like him. Harry Thorson, I mean. From what you said, and the picture you showed me, Alison, my…"

"Birth father," Alison suggested. "Or just father, which is a little less clunky." Her gaze slipped across to Clark's parents. "Jonathan Kent, of course, being your dad."

Clark nodded. "He looked just like me," he said. "And like Harry. Do you know why?"

"I don't, I'm afraid," Alison said. "Your father alluded to Asgard and Krypton being closely connected, your family in particular, though whether that connection extended to blood, I really cannot say."

"Right," he said, then bit his lip. "Thank you," he said, before adding, as this seemed somewhat anaemic considering what the woman in front of him had done for him. "I mean, really. Thanks. For helping me, for making sure I stayed with mom and dad… for… for everything."

Even this seemed insufficient to Clark, but Alison smiled a smile as warm as a ray of summer sunshine, as if she understood exactly both what he was saying, and what he was trying to say.

"It was my pleasure, Clark," she said. "And it was my honour, too."

OoOoO

Unfortunately, not all members of the extended Carter-Rogers clan were so happy, as became clear later that evening. Steven 'Stevie' Danvers was, needless to say, still suffering from night terrors, among other textbook post-trauma psychological symptoms, and was therefore taking up most of his mother's attention. What time she had left was being spent on Joe junior, who was unsurprisingly acting out after the way his father left without, from his point of view, any real explanation, and the confusion over what had happened to his older siblings.

Carol, meanwhile, seemed to all outward observation to be casual, relaxed, happy, and generally to have shrugged off her latest round of dicing with death like an old coat. And for the most part, she had. Her memories of the fighting, and the part she'd played in it, on Halloween and as far back as Easter, didn't really faze her. She'd learned to adjust.

The chair, though. That was one thing she hadn't adjusted to. She hadn't been entirely conscious when she'd been put into it, but her body remembered. Oh, it remembered. Every time the thought came halfway to crossing her mind, or something even remotely similar, it came sliding back, not surging, but sliding, crawling through the cracks in the darkest parts of the night, to the front of her mind.

It was as if the events were replaying themselves: first, the sensation of those cold claws resting against her skin, as delicate as tips of grass and as light as needles, and the terrible, helpless anticipation: a slow, roiling feeling of terror and rage churning in the pit of her stomach.

And then, there'd been a moment of sharp pain, like being injected, followed by a dull paralysis, a numbness that left her registering the presence of the chair's claws and the way they were buried in her flesh as simple facts, without any of the expected accompanying pain. And then there'd been the slow, creeping lack of sensation as she felt the blood, the life, flow out of her, being slowly drained dry and drifting away without being able to do a damn thing about it... and then, on some semi-conscious level, she remembered what felt like a rush of blood to the whole body, a surge of pure energy jolting her back to life, yanking her back from the brink.

She wasn't sure what was worse – the feeling of slowly having the life sucked out of her, or teetering right on the brink, terrified for an instant that she might not come back.

Carol closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and pulled her legs into a fetal position, wrapping her arms around them, and waited for it to run its course, trying not to shiver.

"Having trouble sleeping again?"

Carol, caught off-guard, twitched violently and wound up in such a tangle of arms and legs that she nearly fell off the bed.

It spoke volumes of the situation that Harry, the speaker, didn't crack a joke, but instead crossed from door to bed in a blur. As a result, instead of falling off and potentially smacking her head against the bedside table, Carol wound up getting a faceful of Harry's thin t-shirt and through it, his chest. For a moment, they just stayed there, frozen in a strange tableau. Then, Harry broke the silence.

"You know, if this was the other way around, it would much more embarrassing," he said mildly.

Carol snorted as she reached up and pushed off, propelling herself upright, thankful that the darkness concealed a faint blush. While this meant little enough around a very powerful telepath, even not considering the psychic connection the two shared, Harry was tactful enough not to mention it. In any case, he was rather more worried by what had drawn him to her room in the first place. However, unlike how he would normally proceed, he instead hopped up onto the side of the bed, a couple of feet from Carol, and waited.

"You sensed it, then," she said eventually, in a flat tone.

Harry nodded. "It felt familiar," he said quietly, and tapped first his shoulder, then his heart. "Dracula and Daken," he said. "The latter in particular. I felt myself slipping away, life draining out of me…" He paused. "And I suppose there was the basilisk too, but being bitten by one of those mostly just hurts like hell, and Fawkes dropped in before it got too far, so that doesn't really count." He waved a hand. "Point being, I know something – a lot of something – about what you're feeling. You don't have to try and bottle it up because you think other people and their issues need to take priority." He rested a hand on her shoulder and met her gaze. "You're important too. And what you're dealing with? You don't have to deal with it alone."

Their gazes remained locked for what felt like an eternity.

"Also, I cannot believe that once again, I am telling you not to be excessively noble and self-sacrificing."

Carol scowled at him for a moment, then, at Harry's raised eyebrow, grumbled, "Touché." She looked away. "I just… I didn't want to talk about it."

Harry nodded. "Did anyone…"

"Diana did," Carol said. "But like I said, I didn't want to talk about it. Natasha, maybe, but… everyone else has been busy." She shrugged. "Besides, it only generally pops up at night. Well, not always, but mostly. And aside from that, I'm fine." She shrugged again. "It's like a pulled muscle. As long as I don't move it the wrong way, I'm fine."

"It still means that something's wrong," Harry said quietly.

"I know!" Carol snapped, eyes suddenly damp, and burning with frustrated anger. "I know that something's wrong, and I know that it's not some creepy super-evil magic thing, and I know that it's 'just' in my head." She looked away. "Which makes fuck all difference when it makes my skin crawl and feel like…" Harry gently squeezed her shoulder as she trailed off, and while she didn't say anything, she leaned into it, just a little.

"Like it's happening again," Harry finished. "Believe me, Carol, I know. I would even without telepathy and that connection we have. And there's two other things I know." He raised a finger on his free hand. "One, it does get better." He raised another finger. "Two, I can help. Really, I can. I've had people help me with similar stuff; grandma and cousin Joshua, mainly, and between that, Jean, and Maddie, I've picked up a thing or two." He removed the hand on her shoulder, expression serious. "But I won't do anything you don't want me to. Ever." He paused. "Well. Psychic wise. On you. You know what I mean."

"Probably more than you do," Carol said, smirking. "But what else is new?"

Harry stuck his tongue out at her, drawing what Carol would deny with her dying breath was a giggle, before sobering. "There are other options," he said gently. "I mean, it's not just me or gritting it out. There's plenty of therapists out there, plenty of them psychic, and, well…" He smiled wryly. "I've had reason to get to know a few of them."

"You astound me," Carol said dryly.

Harry rolled his eyes, unable to conceal a bit of a smile. "I'm sure," he said. "But like I said – there are other options. And if there's anything I can do…" He frowned. "No, scratch that: if there's anything you want or need me to do to help, then I'll do it. Even if that is walking out this door and leaving you to it."

Carol's hand slipped across and took his. "I know," she said quietly. "I…" She chuckled suddenly. "Okay, I'm getting a massive sense of déjà vu."

Harry grinned. "Me too," he said, glancing down as their fingers intertwined, before locking in place. As if this was the signal for Carol having made her decision, it was accompanied by a deep breath.

"I trusted you then," she said. "And I was right to." She smiled a little. Even if things didn't quite go how we expected them to, she added.

That was an accident, Harry grumbled.

Carol patted the bed next to her, and getting the message, Harry budged up to sit next to her, back against the headboard. Maybe, she said. But it worked out. I mean... odds are, if we didn't have it, me and Stevie would both be dead. Or worse.

Harry inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Besides," Carol said aloud, resting her head on his shoulder, and glanced up at him with a slight smile. "It is kind of fun."

"That's true," Harry agreed. "Though not the way Jean-Paul keeps insinuating."

"It could be," Carol said casually, then grinned as Harry's eyes nearly popped out and he flushed a shade of scarlet that wouldn't have shamed his godmother's costume. "Oh my god, I can feel you blushing."

"And I can feel you grinning," Harry said sourly, then paused as he noticed Carol's arms snaking across his body, one behind, one in front. The rest of her was following suit. Normally, the fact that he had a very attractive girl, that he had Carol, pressed up against him would have rendered him non-verbal. The fact that she dressed in what he was acutely aware was a t-shirt and a pair of what he increasingly suspected were his boxer shorts and nothing else did not help.

"They're yours," Carol said, head now resting on his chest. "That connection of ours is a two-way street, remember?"

"I do now," Harry muttered, cheeks burning as he reached up to brush some wayward strands of blonde hair out of his mouth. "Any particular reason you're, uh, cuddling up to me?"

"I'm cold," Carol said calmly, though her voice wavered slightly as she added, "in more ways than one." She wriggled closer, hooking a leg around his "And you're warm. And I'm pretty you're okay with it." She looked up at him, and her grip loosened suddenly. "You are, aren't you?"

Harry paused. "Yeah," he said eventually, in a slightly strained voice. "I am. Fine with it." Coughing, he changed the subject. "And why did you steal my pants?"

"Not pants, your… ooh, this is a British thing, isn't it?"

There was a bewildered pause. "My complaining about underwear being stolen is just a British thing?"

"Believe me, no, it isn't. It's the whole Brits using 'pants' when they mean underpants thing."

"Right. And the complaining part. Why do I get the feeling there's a story here?"

"Because there is one."

"What story?"

This time, the pause was grumpy.

"Think of it as the price you're paying for my pants."

"Fine. Joe once stole one of my bras and tried to use it as an eyepatch while pretending to be a pirate. Unlike Uhtred, it was not a good look, but the little shit wouldn't give it back."

"Um."

"What?"

"The eyepatch thing. I mean…" Harry coughed awkwardly, caught between embarrassment and trying madly not to laugh. "Wasn't it a little, um… big?"

"Yes," came the grumpy reply. "It was. I'm already regretting telling you this."

There was a stifled snigger.

"Go on. Do it. Get it over with."

Peals of laughter rang around the room, and were it not for the superior sound-proofing, would have done so through the rest of the Mansion too. They went on for some time.

"Done yet?" Carol asked impatiently.

"Done," Harry said, a hint of snicker around the edge of his voice. "I'm sorry, it's just the mental image, after all that's happened, it's so ridiculous but… not my ridiculous, if you see what I mean."

"You mean that nothing exploded?"

"… More or less, yeah," Harry said. "It felt good. To laugh about something fairly normal." He paused. "Weird, but normal. I think. The closest I've ever had to a sibling was Dudley and the only clothes I had were things he didn't fit into or didn't want, so I really wouldn't know." He snickered again. "And the mental image…"

Carol let out a reluctant chuckle. "Okay, yeah, it's kinda funny," she admitted. "And like you said. Normal." She sighed. "You know, before I met you, I'd have given anything to have a life that was not normal. And I still would," she added hastily. "I mean, god, I'm not saying that I regret meeting you or anything."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "I know exactly what you mean. And not through telepathy. You'd like normal, but weird normal, not boring normal. The same way, once I found out I was a wizard, I just wished that I was a wizard, but that I had my family and a relatively normal life, only worrying about homework and stuff like that, instead of this destiny rubbish and people trying to kill me."

"Right," Carol said. "I mean, the weird stuff is amazing, the life or death stuff – the fights, I mean – well, I'm not gonna lie, they're exciting. More than that, it's… it's incredible. But things like –" She stopped sharply, then stayed silent for some minutes. "Like the chair," she said eventually. "And Dracula." She paused. "Well, I could do without that."

"Yeah," Harry said. "So could I." He looked down at her. He had a question to ask, but he didn't need to say a word, because as he looked down, Carol looked up at him, and he saw her answer in her eyes. Even in the darkness of the middle of the night, as Autumn began to drift towards Winter, they were round and sparkling like a blue sky on a frosty morning as she looked back at him.

Their faces were so close that he could smell her breath, feel it on his lips as it hitched, and he had no doubt that she could do the same, leaving him with a faint wish that he'd remembered to brush his teeth. Time seemed to freeze around them, in one agonising and ecstatic moment that seemed to go on forever. All of Harry's senses seemed to be sharper than razors, taking in everything, every sense and sensation, as everything about them, both of them, teetered on the razor's edge between one choice and another, neither choice totally right, neither choice totally wrong. It hung in the air like a frozen strand of a spider's web, gleaming and glistening, and liable to snap the first move either one of them made.

Harry, eventually, made it, leaning down and gently kissing Carol's brow, as his hands slipped up to her temples. After a moment of hesitation, silent confirmation that she was okay with this, he made contact.

What happened was not the same as what had happened barely a few months before – though both participants would agree that it felt like far longer. For one thing, it was far defter, far more controlled and patient, and the golden glow was a mere faint illumination this time. Even still, it seemed to take an eternity, until Harry finally lowered his hands.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better," Carol said quietly, hitching herself up so her head was now level with Harry's once more. "Thank you. It's still there, but…" She fumbled for the words. "It's more like what happened at Easter. I know something bad happened, I know what happened, but the reaction… the reaction's gone." She stopped. "Almost. I mean, I can feel a tingle and –"

"And it still feels cold," Harry said. "Yeah. Sorry, I can't do much about that. Not yet."

Carol met his gaze. "Yes," she said quietly. "You can."

Harry blinked slowly. "How?" he asked quietly. "Anything you want, anything you need…"

"Stay," Carol said, after a moment, then tried a shrug. "Like I said earlier," she said, not entirely casually. "You're warm, in more ways than one."

Harry could have replied with something dramatic, or smooth, or even both, like, 'You lit my way out of the dark. Now, it's my turn to do the same for you.' Or he could have if Carol's wriggling to get more comfortable hadn't just fused his vocal cords. But even once he'd managed to get his brain back in gear, he didn't. It wouldn't have felt right.

So instead, he simply slipped his arms around her, and said three simple words.

"As you wish."

And that, I think, is the appropriate place to end it, don't you? Yes, I am a horrible tease. It's part of the fun of being an author – and possibly a by-product of it, come to that. But yeah, Harry and Carol… let's just say that now there's a certain awareness of their feelings for each other that goes beyond previous practical, reasoned acknowledgements. One in blood and bone.

Next chapter will have Ron and Hermione, the return of Doctor Strange, and the return to Hogwarts, in which Harry will start preparing for the First Task.