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...

54. Chapter 54: Family is Family

Hey guys. This chapter is, I think, a little less delayed than the last – exactly a month having passed since the previous instalment. Well, just under, since this is posted in the early hours of the morning on the 23rd of December, my time, but howsoever. I have been a bit busy during this festive period, too busy to really register that it's Christmas – working as a Sales Assistant (a.k.a. Minion of All Work) on a temporary contract in one of London's more exclusive (expensive) department stores will do that to you, as well as make your feet ache like mad and having shifts that vary wildly, from 0800 starts, to 2230 finishes (not on the same day, mercifully). Still, it has its perks: my colleagues are cool, the food is excellent, the staff discount is better, and at £10 an hour, it's pretty good money for the job.

In truth, though, I could have posted this chapter a week ago. I had all the scenes more or less ready to go, though I have given the second to last one some tweaking in the meantime, and literally just wrote the last one. However, I thought I should extend it, because there's a bit of closure with the Dursleys that I want Harry to have, which I wanted to put just before what comes next (Clark arc). Then, I realised that I was trying to squeeze too much into one chapter – as too many cooks spoil the soup, so does putting in too many ingredients and rushing the cooking process, and some of these ingredients will definitely be ones to chew over… but there is such thing as overextending a metaphor.

Moreover, I realised that it is only two days to Christmas (see my job leaving me a little disoriented regarding days passing), and that if I am going to give you all a Christmas present, it had better be shortly. Plus, I just watched the Rise of Skywalker, and actually really liked it – 4 stars, good film, interesting reveals (the fandom will go up in flames), very appropriate on a narrative/characterisation/finale level.

So, I felt that a thematically appropriate chapter, involving family, friends, arguments, reconciliations/support from said family and friends, and generally people being human in the finest tradition of the festive season, was appropriate – both as a chapter in itself and a Christmas present to you all, my wonderful readers. Thus, I did a bit of rejigging, and hey presto: chapter!

(Oh, and to be very clear - the title of the chapter is meant to refer not just to blood family, but families of choice, literal by adoption, and less so, by friendships that transcend the ordinary definition of the word, e.g. Dresden and Murphy).

REGARDING 'ADAM BLACK': It's absolutely hilarious that so many people have jumped to the very obvious conclusion that Adam Black is Black Adam. Since when have I ever been that transparent? Admittedly, I suppose that my taste for the convoluted could mean that I might go obvious to confuse people, but not in this particular case.

To make it very clear: Adam Black is NOT Black Adam. The name is a genuine coincidence. You're going to have to keep guessing, I'm afraid. One or two people have figured it out.

Guest: No, the Ghost Rider guess is wrong – though it is cool, and I wish I'd thought of it, if only to consider it (though I'd probably have still plumped for my current idea, since the Ghost Rider doesn't look or generally seem like a good guy, which will be important). I'm saying nothing about your other guess, because I want to see how many of you actually figure it out without help.

Harry was indeed beaten at chess, though not as badly as he might once have been. While his planning still tended towards changing the game, exploiting human factors, creating chaos and exploiting it, and generally pulling off the unexpected – all things that were hard to do in a rule-defined game such as chess – he'd still learned from some real masters. More to the point, he'd learned how to learn from his opponents, and fast. And considering that he'd played Ron at chess before, he'd picked up at least some of how Ron liked to play.

As they played, and after, he explained a bit more about what he'd been learning from Gorakhnath, and bounced a bit off Hermione. This involved a bit of explanation about some of the more esoteric things he'd been learning, some of which, he had to admit, he wasn't entirely sure about himself.

Astral projection was easy enough to explain, astral manifestation a little harder. While the concept of manifesting a body (as he had in astral form, and Jono Starsmore had spent quite some time doing after Maddie's tuition), or less complicated like a suit of armour, or a weapon, whether of solidified psychic energy or one of those psi-blades that Betsy favoured, was simple, the technical parts – which Hermione badgered him about – were more complicated.

Astral weapons were even harder, as there was a distinction between weapons of psychic energy, which he could create himself if he so wished – and demonstrated by creating a sabre, like his own sword – and what Gorakhnath called an astra. Those, apparently, were an entirely different matter. Already constructed, such weapons were often very powerful and correspondingly dangerous, access to them was often governed both by certain incantations, and the willingness of their owners/creators to allow their use.

"Like the sword of Gryffindor, then," Ron said.

"Sort of," Harry admitted. "The idea's close enough, anyway. That's where it gets closer to magic. See, there's a fair bit of crossover. Not just in relatively basic things like memory charms, but more serious things – pensieves, maybe. I'm pretty sure I touched the edge of it last year during the Pensieve Incident, and when… well, when Maddie and I had our little chat in the Red Room."

"That was in the Nevernever, which is saturated with magic," Hermione observed. "And from what you said about that 'chat', you two were manipulating the local reality – not consciously, but you were." She nodded slowly. "You were affecting magical matter and energy with psychic energy."

Harry nodded. "Exactly," he said. "Which is bad enough to try and get your head around. The fact that both the Nevernever and the Astral Plane are meant to be part of the Dreaming, though? That's another thing to take into account." He looked thoughtful. "Though I suppose it explains a few things."

"Like what?" Ron asked, frowning.

Harry shrugged. "Magic, psychic powers… what we do with them is all down to what we're dreaming, really," he said. His expression darkened somewhat. "And not all dreams are nice."

"I'll bet some of yours are, mate," Ron said, in a grinning tone that left no doubt what he meant.

The response was threefold:

An exasperated sigh from Hermione ("Boys!"), a pair of red cheeks from Harry, and a soft chuckle from Bucky. Then, after a couple of moments to regain his composure, Harry – cheeks still burning – firmly changed topic.

"Doctor Strange also gave me some homework. A book list, actually."

Ron winced. "Hard luck, mate," he said, with the kind of sympathy he'd been completely devoid of moments ago. This might have puzzled an outside observer, but in fact, it was perfectly natural, and perfectly comprehensible to a teenage boy. Ribbing friends about girls was one thing. It was practically expected. Homework, on the other hand… that was a true shared suffering.

Hermione, by contrast, was intrigued. "Ooh, what about?" she asked.

"I kind of brought it on myself," Harry said, shrugging. "I was thinking about Victor von Doom – "

"Why?" Ron interrupted.

"A number of reasons," Harry said. "Mainly, to know more about him when I run into him again."

"You've met him?" Hermione asked, startled.

"Yeah, on Halloween," Harry said, sounding a little surprised. "Didn't I mention it?"

"No," Ron said bluntly.

"What's he like?" Hermione added.

"Sorry about that," Harry said. "What's he like? Well, mostly, he's a bit of a prick."

This rather prosaic assessment of one of the most powerful potential Dark Lords in a generation, as well one of the most brilliant scientists in the same, who trod unknown territory in the modern era by openly being the head of state of a muggle country, and Hermione said so. Or she would have done, if Ron hadn't beaten her to it.

"And?!"

"And he's a prick," Harry said unhelpfully. "Very powerful, very clever, and cold as ice." He paused, then added grudgingly, "and brave, I suppose. But mostly, just a prick." He sighed at their expressions. "Really, that's the main summary. I only met him for a couple of hours, and for most of that time, I was busy, or worrying about other people."

He waved a hand.

"Anyway, I asked Strange when the last time someone supernatural ruled a country was. He gave me a few books about the last few supernatural monarchs, and some of the last few demigods on Earth – mostly because a lot of the time, they were the same thing." He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled list. "There haven't been that many of either in the last five hundred years, or at least, not for long – no big surprise there."

"Statute of Secrecy," Ron said, nodding.

"And the White Council. Plus, gods in general stepped back from humanity about a thousand years ago," Harry agreed. "No meddling in human destiny, not until humanity could stand up on its own." He shrugged. "That was the theory, anyway. But one thing it did mean was fewer demigods."

Hermione paused, then said carefully, "So, Asgardians stopped coming to Earth regularly around a thousand years ago, then?"

"Yes," Harry said, eyebrow raised. "And?"

"And your father and uncle would have been about five hundred then," Hermione said, tone still very careful. "Quite young, by Asgardian standards."

Harry's eyebrow dropped and his expression turned wry. "Ah. I see. What you're very carefully not asking is if I think that I might have any much older half-brothers and sisters running around," he said.

"Well," Hermione said, embarrassed. "I suppose I am. I mean, well, your father…"

"Had a well-earned reputation for getting around?" Harry suggested.

"I was going to say used to be known as the God of Fertility as well as Thunder," Hermione said, a little archly as she shot Ron – who had started sniggering – a faintly disgusted look.

"Which amounts to more or less the same thing," Bucky observed quietly.

Harry nodded. "The subject came up," he said.

"And…?"

"There was one," Harry said. "A half-sister. Her name was Torunn. The short version is that she didn't inherit the lifespan. Dad usually took precautions against that sort of thing, and had, but he made a mistake about when they'd run out. He didn't find out about her 'til after she died."

"I…" Hermione began, before stopping. "Harry, I'm so sorry."

Harry sighed. "It's okay," he said. "Really. Dad's had over a thousand years to come to terms with it – though I think it's why he was in such a bad mood about what happened to me." He sighed again. "Anyway, given what he used to be like, which he admits, even given that Asgardians don't have children easily, I shouldn't be surprised. Actually, I should have expected it. But…"

"But it's still a shock," Hermione said gently. "We understand, Harry."

"Yeah," Ron said, sounding a little stunned. "What happened to her? Aside from, you know, dying."

"Ron!"

Harry chuckled, both at the remark and Hermione's outraged and scandalised response.

"She's a Valkyrie now, and enjoying it." The smile turned wry. "Considering that she was a monster hunter and the Valkyries' job is killing the monsters and undead horrors from the deeper parts of Helheim, I'm not surprised."

"Neither am I," Hermione echoed dryly. "It seems to be what your family does for fun."

Harry inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Also true," he said, then shrugged. "Dad's even met her. Dying isn't necessarily the end, especially not in Asgard. And if you're mad enough, you can get to Helheim while you're still alive." He smiled even more wryly. "Dad and uncle Loki, of course, are mad enough. They ran into Torunn there, a couple of times. Her and dad, they've made their peace."

Ron looked puzzled, as if mulling something over. "Why don't Asgardians have many children?" he asked. "I mean, if they live for five thousand years…"

"Usually, it's more," Harry said. "But it's the way we, they, are wired up. Uhtred's got a lot of brothers and sisters, but he's unusual. And while an Asgardian and a human – magical, muggle, mutant, whatever – would have children more easily, even then, it's not that common."

"That makes sense," Hermione observed. "In nature, the longer lived a species is, the more rarely and more slowly it tends to reproduce."

Harry nodded. "I'm what you might call an exception to the rule," he said. "Powers, lifespan, and all. So's Diana, come to that, though her mother wasn't exactly what you'd call mortal."

"But you and her weren't the only ones," Hermione said, nodding at the list.

Harry glanced down at it and shrugged, before pocketing it. "There's been a few of them. Some went down in myth and history: Hercules, Cuchulainn, the Raven King…"

"The Raven King? Mum used to tell me stories about him," Ron interrupted excitedly. "He was a magical King, hundreds and hundreds of years ago! He was really powerful, enough to match Merlin, and ruled three Kingdoms: one on Earth, one in Avalon, and one in Faerie. He had armies of muggle and magical knights serving him, even faerie knights too, and never aged a day!"

Hermione looked sceptical, but before she could say anything, Harry nodded.

"Pretty much," he said. "He's a demigod, the son of either Huginn or Muninn – I'm not totally sure which, and to be totally honest, neither are they. He's one of the ones that did inherit the lifespan. He's a powerful Lord of Avalon, one of the more powerful Kings of the Wyldfae, and he ruled the Old North, what's now Northern England and Southern Scotland, for four hundred years." He half-smiled. "Him and dad and uncle Loki had a couple of run-ins back in the day. So did Strange, actually."

"What happened?" Ron asked curiously.

Harry shrugged. "They didn't really say," he said.

Ron looked a little disappointed, but accepted this, and seemed to be about to ready the chessboard for another game, when Hermione spoke.

"I had some homework too."

"Who set it?" Harry asked, regarding the chessboard with a somewhat conflicted expression that said that while he might play, if he did, it would be out of friendship rather than any personal desire to do so. "Wanda? Loki?"

"No. I mean, really, I suppose I set it for myself," Hermione said.

Ron snorted without looking up. "Of course you did," he said, tone both amused and affectionately exasperated.

"On what?" Bucky asked, breaking his silence for the first time that evening.

Hermione hesitated, then stood up and said, "I'll go and get it," before disappearing up to the girls dorms. A couple of minutes later, she returned, holding a slim box the length of her wand. "I was… well, I was looking into some of the things that Ms Maximoff told me," she said. "About chaos magic. What it could do. Particularly when it came to Transfiguration."

She opened the box, revealing something long, silvery, and sharp. At first glance, it looked very much like a dagger without a hilt.

"What's that?" Ron asked, looking puzzled. "Some kind of knife?"

"No. It's a feather," Bucky said, voice quiet, and somehow intent. "Belonging to Agent Worthington of MI13, otherwise known as 'Archangel'. A mutant, whose mutation manifested in childhood, when he developed – among other things – large, feathery white wings. His family tried a number of things to make them go away. In the end, his father managed to get hold of a version of a serum that Doctor Hank McCoy had once used to suppress his own mutation. The primary result was his son developing the metal wings he's now famous for."

Ron looked horrified. "That's sick!" he burst out.

"It is," Harry said tightly. Like Bucky, he was staring at the feather with unnerving intensity. "Hermione, what are you getting at?"

"I… I think that I can turn them back," Hermione began. "I've managed to make the change for a few seconds, look –" She reached out a hand, glowing with scarlet energy, one that suddenly froze in place.

"Stop. Right now," Harry said, voice flat and hard. His entire body was tense, as if ready to explode out of his chair in an instant.

"What?" Hermione demanded, caught off-balance as she tried to yank her hand back, the energy around it crackling fiercely. For a moment, it got free, before Harry's eyes flared and it froze once more. "Harry, let go!"

"Why?" Ron added, sounding more puzzled by anything else. "What's… Harry?"

Harry ignored him, golden-white gaze boring into Hermione. "Will you stop?" he asked, a question that was, in truth, more like a statement and all the more for being in that echoing double-voice that brooked no argument.

Hermione looked back at him, her expression a mixture of defiance, anger, and… fear. Then, she nodded.

Harry let out a slow breath and sat back, pinching his brow and swearing under his breath. As he did, Hermione's hand seemed to come loose, and she immediately jerked it back into her body, massaging it. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't do that again, Harry Potter," Hermione said in a low voice. "Don't you even think about it. Not ever."

"Same to you, Hermione," Harry said, looking up at her. This time, his tone was calm, mild, and apparently normal, as was his body language. But his eyes told a different story. They weren't cold and hard, or fiery and wild, as they might once have been. But there was something implacable in them.

"Does anybody mind telling me what just happened?" Ron demanded.

"Hermione was going to demonstrate her attempts to transmute Warren's feather," Bucky said quietly. "Harry, I think, used his telekinesis to prevent her from moving her hand."

"Why would you do that?" Ron demanded of Harry, anger rising in him now. "What's wrong with you?! What harm would –"

"It would have exposed all of us, and the Gryffindor Common Room, to potentially harmful radiation," Bucky said, cutting him off. "At best."

"I already know about those risks, Sergeant Barnes," Hermione snapped, though her glare was directed at Harry. "Wanda taught me about them, and unlike some people, I listen when people tell me things! I had protection ready, protection against radiation, against chaos magic getting loose!"

"You had protection ready for yourself," Harry snapped back, voice rising for the first time. "Not for us."

"How do you know that?" Hermione demanded.

"Because learning how to shield yourself from your own powers, and then the things you can do with them, are the first lessons in any kind of powers, while learning to shield others comes later," Harry said harshly. "Because Wanda's talked me through her powers before, how high end stuff like transmutation works, and from what you've said, you aren't even close to that stage yet. And because in case you'd forgotten, I've wielded chaos magic, and my senses are pretty sharp these days – I noticed what you were missing." He gestured angrily at the feather. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?!"

"I… I'm sorry," Hermione said, taken aback, before narrowing her eyes and firing up again. "And I'm sorry, but who are you to tell me about how dangerous experimenting with their powers is?"

"Someone with the benefit of experience," Harry retorted harshly. "And when I was doing it, it was because someone's life was in danger, not just because I was curious!"

"I want to help Warren!"

"Then you should have talked to Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, Doctor McCoy, my uncle, and, oh, yes, maybe, just maybe, you should have brought it up with Wanda! And beyond all that, you should have asked Warren first!"

"Enough!"

Both Harry and Hermione, who had now got to their feet, all but screaming in each other's faces (which, in Hermione's case, was getting to the point where she might need to stand on tip toes to do it), with Ron trying to play peacemaker, were stunned into silence. It was, after all, not often that Bucky spoke at all, let alone in anything other than a soft, quiet voice. This, though, was a fair imitation of the parade ground roar that Sergeant Barnes must have boasted once upon a time.

Once he was sure he had their attention, Bucky regarded the three of them sternly, before looking at Harry and Hermione in turn. "You're both losing your tempers," he said, in a quieter voice, one that nevertheless brooked no argument. "Which is ill-advised." He looked pointedly down at the ground. All three followed his gaze. The carpet beneath Harry's feet was smoking. Beneath Hermione's, it was rapidly turning to dust. "On both counts."

"Sorry," Harry and Hermione muttered in unison.

Bucky's gaze didn't relent, before he nodded curtly. "Now, apologise to each other. Harry, Hermione meant no harm. She was going to make a mistake, you stopped it – if a little too forcefully. You should have explained why politely, and made an end to it. Hermione, you should have known better than to try such an experiment. You already know the potential dangers of transmutation, and you did not think about how they applied to others than yourself. Harry was trying to protect us. He was also trying to protect you, and Warren. Chaos magic is unpredictable, especially with living material, which despite appearances, this is. This feather was a part of Warren, and what is done to it with magic might end up affecting him – and not necessarily for the better."

The two accordingly apologised.

"Good," Bucky said. "Harry, bed."

Harry looked outraged. "But – "

"It's late," Bucky said. "You're still keyed up. Go and calm down before you go to sleep, or you won't get any – and I doubt anyone else in the castle will, either." His gaze slid to Ron and Hermione. "I need to speak to Hermione first."

Harry glared at him half-heartedly for a moment, but Bucky's expression brooked no argument. His heart wasn't in it, and in any case, Bucky had been dealing with someone who took stubborn to whole new levels from childhood. Angry teenagers didn't cut it. Accordingly, after a few more moments, Harry shot Ron and Hermione looks that seemed halfway between embarrassed and ashamed, before stalking upstairs.

Ron made to follow him, before Bucky stopped him.

"Not yet," he said. "Give him a few minutes to calm down." He shot Hermione a considering look. "And I think that you could do with hearing this, too. It might give you both perspective."

As he did, Bucky turned to Hermione.

"You didn't think," he said.

"I know, Sergeant Barnes, I –" Hermione began, but was cut off as Bucky raised a hand.

"Let me finish," he said evenly. "You didn't think. You made a mistake, and that's forgivable, so long as it isn't repeated. But the fact is that you should have known better. I know for a fact that Wanda's first lessons for you, including the ones before this, about control, involved hammering home that chaos magic is different. It isn't like the other magic you've been learning. That's… not domesticated, perhaps, but tamed. Still dangerous, but manageable for a talented student to read ahead and experiment relatively safely. But as Wanda's told you, chaos magic doesn't work like that. It's older, wilder, even more than other wandless magic – you think you've got a good hold of it, and then it'll twist in your hands and bite them off. And not just yours."

He picked up the feather.

"You were using a spell, most likely one of your own creation, or at least adaptation, on this feather," he said. "Leaving aside the potential dangers to its owner through any remaining connection, that was an incredibly dangerous idea. I have studied Warren's file, and the fact is that no one – neither scientist nor mage – actually knows what exactly his wings are made of, or how they work. Doctor Strange most probably does, but if he does, he hasn't said – and you certainly didn't ask him. There are historical precedents, some believed to magic related, but they don't shed much light on it either. All we do know is that their current state is the product of a bastardised version of a poorly conceived gene suppression serum, one designed for a specific subject, being forcibly used on another – a child, with an entirely different physiology and mutation. Even with access to MI13, SHIELD, and Professor Xavier's files on Warren, the fact remains: I don't know what it did. Not out of lack of understanding, but lack of any clear knowledge. And if I don't know, you certainly don't. Therefore, you can't even begin to predict the side-effects."

He paused for a moment.

"That being said, I have encountered a case where organic material, flesh and bone, was turned to some kind of living metal. I think you've heard about it."

Hermione went bone white as the implications sank in, and Ron winced.

"Yes," Bucky said. "The Red Son. That was part of why Harry reacted the way he did. That isn't to excuse his actions; he owed you that apology, and will probably follow it with more. But it is an explanation. He has encountered flesh-eating, flesh-changing, viruses before, and one nearly ate him alive. Furthermore, even after being stunned by a vast electromagnetic pulse from Magneto, the virus in question managed to jump hosts from Harry's body to Wanda's. It was only thanks to her composure, experience of supernatural infections, knowledge of what she was dealing with, and focused use of her own chaos magic to dispel it that she wasn't similarly infected. And even despite that, despite reacting immediately to the infection attempt, she still faced serious damage to her right wrist – damage that might well have been permanent, if not for later medical treatment in Asgard. This brought not only the horrifying memories of what the virus did to his body, but fears of this being similar – albeit dormant – and the same thing happening to you, or to Warren, consuming him fully. In both cases, to someone much less able to defend themselves. To a friend."

"I… I didn't realise," Hermione said, now trembling.

"No," Bucky said. "You didn't. While I'm not surprised that you didn't immediately connect the two, and I wouldn't expect you to, I would have expected you to realise that you were dealing with something potentially dangerous. That is why I will be taking this feather and bringing the matter to Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, to Loki, and to Wanda."

Hermione flinched, hard, and Ron – perhaps not even aware he was doing it – took her hand and squeezed sympathetically.

"I will make it clear that you already realise what you have done wrong," Bucky said, voice softening a little. "I think they will mostly just be relieved that this was caught before it became something much worse. And Harry won't be getting off too lightly. His name will come up in that conversation, and I would imagine that Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall will also want a word with him, as will Loki – he, at least, will be well placed to understand the matter from both sides. And…" He paused, considering. "And Agent Cassidy, I think. Agent Braddock would be the normal choice, but she is dating Warren, and if she followed his train of thought and shared his fears, she might be less than objective."

"I understand, Sergeant Barnes," Hermione said, in a quiet voice that seemed to shiver. "I… I'm sorry. I really am."

"I know you are," Bucky said gently. "Ron here knows it, Harry knows it, and the others I mentioned will know it too. It won't stop a few of them from being angry, but if they are, it's because they're worried – mostly, for you. It's because they care." He stood up. "Now, I've kept you long enough. Bedtime."

And surprisingly enough for teenagers, neither argued.

OoOoO

"All of them?"

Murphy isn't an easily shocked person, but there are some things that are a lot for anyone to get their head around, even with a bottle of Mac's finest beer in hand. In this case, Doctor Strange's genocide of the Red Court, and the fact that all of a sudden, I was father to a three month old baby who had been born most of three years ago.

I nodded. "Every single one of them," I said. "Trust me, we checked."

"You and Wanda, or you and the Council?"

"Both," I said.

Murphy shook her head slowly. "How's that even possible?" she asked. "I mean, from what you've told me, Doctor Strange is badass, but…"

"How can one guy, in one night, do more than the entire White Council, plus allies, including the Avengers?" I finished, and shook my head. "I'm not sure. I mean, in terms of raw magical power, he's not actually that much more powerful than I am. But he doesn't need to be." I ran a hand through my hair, thinking – or more accurately, trying to get a grip on something. "See, as a Wizard, you get stronger as you get older and you work at it. But mostly, it's like any other discipline – what you get is more control, more precision, and more stamina."

"Like martial arts," Murphy said.

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "I'm a magical brawler, Murph, a power-lifter – I've got a whole lot of power, which means it never really matter if when I cast a spell, half the power I used ended up slopping out the sides. Enough would be left to get the job done. I'm getting better, as I get older, partly thanks to practise and experience, and a lot thanks to Wanda teaching me. Even still, though… I've got a lot to learn. I've only been doing this for twenty or so years."

"And Strange has been doing it for more," Murphy finished. "You said that some of the Wizards on the Council lived for most of five hundred years."

I nodded again. "That's a lot of what makes them so powerful," I said. "And Strange blows them all out the water. You know he challenged the entire White Council for Wanda's sake?"

Murphy nodded, frowning. "Wanda mentioned it," she said. "I've got to admit, I thought she was exaggerating, considering what you've said."

"She wasn't," I said flatly. "There's a few thousand Wizards on the Council, and the strongest could probably cause Thor and Loki real problems if they wanted to. But Strange is different. Until he handed over the title to Wanda, he'd been Sorcerer Supreme for over 350 years. And that's just in linear time – Strange is a time traveller, and as far as I know, he hasn't aged since he turned forty or so. As far as I know, he was born about the same time as Thor and Loki, and with time travelling, he's most of half a million years old."

I waved a hand at Murphy's astonishment. "But that's not the point. Yes, he's been around for more or less forever. That means that not only has he had all that time to refine his talents, but he's travelled to learn from history's magical all-stars, and he's routinely demonstrated that he can get in and out of Asgard's most secure vaults whenever he feels like it, meaning that he has all their knowledge to call on, and the rest of the Nine Realms, and everything he picked up as Sorcerer Supreme. I could summon a bolt of lightning, several, even, without breaking too much of a sweat. A bolt of lightning contains about a billion volts of electricity, all by itself. Splitting an atom takes less than one percent of that. I can't split an atom, Murph. But Strange could." I shook my head. "It's like Archimedes: 'give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.' Strange knows all about how to make the levers, and where to find the fulcrums."

"That's… scary," Murphy admitted.

I smiled sourly. "Oh, it gets worse," I said. "See, the lever Strange used to kill off the Red Court, to cure Susan? It was a curse, a sacrifice. And the fulcrum? It was a Mayan god of blood and death called Camazotz – the literal granddaddy of all Red Court vamps. He fought eldritch monsters and dark gods because it was his job, now Wanda's job. But this time, though, he murdered a god to get what he wanted, Murph. Hell, the way I hear it, he once turned Zeus into a popsicle because the guy pissed him off."

Murphy considered this carefully, looking at me in the way that law enforcement usually does at possible explosive devices. "Isn't that a good thing?" she asked eventually. "I mean, it raises the question of why he didn't do it sooner, but surely the Red Court being gone is a good thing?"

I sighed. "It is," I said. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not shedding any tears for the Reds: they got what was coming to them."

"But?"

"But you said yourself, Murph. It's about 'why'," I said. "It's about me. And you've got to understand, even when Strange is trying to be nice – and according to Wanda, that actually was him being nice – he's got at least two other reasons for whatever he does, if not more. He's an immortal time-traveller, and not just that: he's a seer. And according to Wanda, he's hardly ever been wrong."

"Hardly ever?" Murphy echoed, eyebrow raised.

"Some things can obscure his foresight," I said. "That whole disaster with Russia? That was when someone he couldn't See was heavily involved, so he had to make up all his responses as he went along." I smiled wryly. "And apparently he used to claim that Wanda would tidy up her room, when she was a kid."

Murphy snorted. "He sounds like my mom," she said.

I grimaced, a stab of pain running through me. "Yeah," I said, and as Murphy looked up, concern in her eyes, I waved it away. That was coming later. "Point being, those kind of abilities – and the fact that he can't lie – make him insanely powerful. He's been more or less running the world for thousands of years. If something doesn't have his fingerprints on it, it's because he didn't think he'd need to do anything to it, and it's almost certainly influenced by something that does."

Murphy absorbed this, and shook her head slowly. "Okay, that's not scary, that's downright terrifying," she said, and looked up, this time with anger in her eyes. "And this is just one guy? With all that power, and no accountability?"

"Yeah. If you want to try and arrest him, good luck with that," I said. "You wouldn't be the first to try, and you'd probably have a fair few volunteers to try and help you, maybe even including Odin. But it wouldn't work, because it never, ever, does."

Murphy squinted at me. "That sounds suspiciously like you giving up," she said. "You never do that. And like you'd do it if you thought you could. What did he do, Harry?"

I grimaced. Murph knows me too well. "Like I said," I replied. "He can see the future and he can get in and out of Asgard's highest security vaults, some of the most secure places in the universe, whenever he feels like it. And as to why…" I took a deep breath. "Strange doesn't teach much. Most Sorcerers Supreme have had loads of apprentices, because it's usually a position with a short shelf-life. Strange is the main exception to the shelf-life rule, but not the only one. Anyway, according to him, he's had five. Wanda's one, a powerful Warlock, a Dark Lord called Mordo, is another –"

"Wait, if he can see the future and he's all mighty and stuff, why did he let his apprentice turn to the dark side?" Murphy interrupted.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Murph," I said. "Much smarter people than either of us have spent centuries trying to figure out exactly why Strange does things, and the best answer is that he thought it was necessary for his grand plan to work."

"Okay," Murphy said, frowning. "And the other three?"

"I have no idea who the fifth was," I said. "But the other two…" I trailed off for a moment. "One's Harry Thorson, Wanda's godson. Strange is teaching him right now. And the other… the other was my mom." My hand tightened around my beer bottle. "It makes sense, when you think about it. Strange is famous, infamous, for a few things. He's extremely knowledgeable, particularly about secret ways and means of travel – just like my mom was. Even before what happened with Wanda, it was common knowledge that he didn't like the Council and they didn't like him. It was also pretty well known that he had a taste for meddling in mortal affairs – which is why the Council don't like him – to guide the world toward a better future." I paused. "And of course, fighting the Outsiders."

"Monsters from outside the universe, right?" Murphy asked.

I nodded. "The forces of chaos," I said. "The ultimate force of change, to overturn everything. And mom… mom wasn't content with the way things were. The Council like to keep things stable – balance of power, that sort of thing. She thought that the Council could, and should, do more. That the Laws of Magic should have more to do with justice, than restraining power."

"You don't agree?" Murphy asked.

I frowned. "Individually, yeah," I said. "Wizards can, and should, do more, on a local level. But as an organisation?" I sighed. "It doesn't take a historian to know that grudges last for centuries, even with ordinary human lifespans. Throw in people who live for centuries, and you've got grudges that last millennia. More to the point, the White Council has members from all over the world, and they won't take it lying down if, say, the White Council decides to change a regime or something in their country. That means civil war, splitting the Council. And groups like the Red Court, the other vampires, have that much less holding them in check."

"Your mother disagreed."

I nodded. "Mom disagreed with them, and got impatient with Strange's planning – she thought he was being too cautious," I said. "I don't think she got how big his plans were, or how long term they were. Though until recently, I don't think anyone did. So she ended up leaving him, going to walk on the dark side." My grip tightened further. "Just like he knew she would. He knew she'd get involved with Lord Raith. He knew that she would meet my dad, and get killed by Raith while having me. He knew all of it." I shook my head sharply, the gesture matching the way my hands were shaking with rage. "No, he didn't just know it – he made it happen."

Murphy's eyes widened. "Jesus Christ," she whispered. "Harry… are you –"

I looked up at her, and she nodded slowly.

"You're certain," she said.

"He told me," I said, barely keeping my rage in check. "Last night."

"Jesus," she repeated in a low hiss. "That conniving son of a bitch."

"Oh, it gets worse," I said bitterly. "Turns out that I'm a 'Starborn': someone with magic born at just the right time to 'wield power over the Outsiders'. Normally, it's hard for anyone, even powerful wizards with centuries of experience like Ebenezar, to make anything stick to them, because they're not from this universe. Wanda's got a way round that, because she was exposed to Outsider energy when she was born. And so do I. Anything I throw at them hits as hard, if not harder, than it would otherwise. Mom associated with the kind of people who'd cut deals with them, but turned against them." I looked up at Murphy. "You know what happened to Lord Raith?"

"Your mom cursed him so he couldn't feed," Murphy said. "It was anchored to you and Thomas."

I nodded. "Strange said he didn't do anything to Raith after that because he couldn't think of anything crueller," I said. "Especially since he knew what Lara was going to do to him. I snorted. "You know, I actually agree with him on that." I was silent for a moment, gathering my thoughts, forcing my emotions under control. When ordinary people lose their tempers, things get broken. When I lose my temper, those things tend to be city blocks. "The thing that Raith summoned up to do it, the thing he summoned up in the Deeps, is an Outsider. It's the same one that my old teacher, Justin Du Morne, summoned up to go after me, after he tried to enthral me. And it turns out, it's not the only Outsider I've faced – and not just the stuff around Red Sky Day, or since I hooked up with Wanda. Before. There's this thing called Nemesis. It's an Outsider, sort of, but not a monster, more like an infection. The Outsiders' allies, including people mom knew, people she turned against, have been using it as part of projects to eventually let their masters in. Victor Sells, the Shadowman. The FBI werewolves. Kravos, before and after he became the Nightmare. All of them were infected with it."

"All of them?" Murphy echoed, surprised.

"All of them," I confirmed. "It pushed them over the edge. They were small fry, though, trial of concept projects, according to Strange. Their next fish was a bigger one: Aurora, the Summer Lady before Lily. She nearly turned Faerie upside down, the natural world with it, and if she had, the Earth would have had a new Ice Age and… well, the Winter Court provides the manpower at the Outer Gates, the ones mentioned in the Laws. They're a real place, and on a rift in reality, which the Winter Court guards. It's why Mab wanted me."

"And if they'd been pulled away from that place, these Outsiders could have come through," Murphy said.

"They got my godmother, Lea – the Leanansidhe – too," I said. "You haven't met her. Be glad of that. Anyway, Strange cured her, just after he dropped the Sorcerer Supreme job on Wanda, and used it to squeeze me out from under Mab. Not because he's being kind, you see, but because I'm his pawn and he doesn't want anyone else playing with me. Or at least, that's what I thought."

"Harry," Murphy said urgently. I looked down. Her gaze was focused on the bottle, which, I realised, was beginning to develop cracks thanks to my white-knuckled grip. I scowled and relaxed my grip, before debating whether or not I should drink it. It was a brief debate, and ended up with my knocking it back. That got a frown of disapproval from Mac, barman and brewer of the ambrosia I had treated so cavalierly. Mac's ale was not made for chugging, and on another occasion, I might have apologised for that. Right now, though, I wasn't in the mood, and my nearest concession to diplomacy was to put it down gently.

"I thought that first, I was nothing special. Then, when I heard about the Starborn thing, it was mom trying to protect me, and get a bit of revenge, while the Winter Fae – because Lea's high up in Winter – got someone new to point at the Outsiders. I thought that Strange was just hijacking the plan, picking me for Wanda's apprentice because of that, and because I'm familiar with black magic and monster fighting, that sort of thing. I mean, he can't be behind everything, right?"

I shook my head. "But he was," I said. "He manipulated mom's life, since she was my age. He said she chose it, that he tried to guide her away from it, but he was her teacher – her second teacher, after Ebenezar, but fact is that he was the one who informed those choices. He set her on that path, so she'd have Thomas and me. He knew what mom would do, what effect she'd have on us both. Thomas was meant to be a weapon inside the White Court, either to reform it, or destroy it. He's fighting against Outsider agents on Earth, too, for an organisation run by Ivy, the Archive. Oh, and it turns out that he created the Archive, which in retrospect is a very Strange thing to do: a living back-up to every bit of information humanity's ever written down. As for me?"

I laughed. It felt and sounded bitter, like bile in my throat.

"He Saw me in a few timelines, and like some little old lady watching an infomercial, he decided 'I'll have that', and nudged things so mom would have me. Hell, he even told her exactly when to have me, so I'd be a Starborn."

The tide of bitterness kept on, and I couldn't have stopped it if you paid me.

"He manipulated my life, Thomas' life, from before we were even born. He trained and shaped my mother, exposed her to all those things, then pointed her at Lord Raith and my father, just to make sure Thomas and I existed to fight against the Outside. Then, even though she was his apprentice and he easily could have saved her, he let her die without lifting a finger. I'm not just a pawn in his schemes, Murph. I'm a weapon, a weapon that he made. All of my life… he did this to me. He made me. He used me. The main reason I even exist the way I do is because he thought it would be a good idea, that I would be a good partner for Wanda, and the perfect person to be Warden for a prison out in the middle of Lake Michigan –"

"Wait, what?!"

"Oh, didn't I mention that?" I asked with false cheer. "It's called the Crystal Cave and the Deeper Well, and it's a magical prison that he and Merlin made, to hold pretty much everything from powerful demons to dark gods and things that sneaked in from the Outside, which are kept in crystals of frozen time. The energy its inmates give off just by existing makes it the source of one of the most powerful dark ley lines in the Western hemisphere, which means that the island's become sentient, and its basic counter-measure in case of an escape attempt is to explode hard enough to wipe out the Midwest."

Murphy stared at me in dumbfounded horror.

"Yeah," I said. "That was my reaction. Except less surprised. Because it's there, and we're on a dimensional nexus, Chicago is particularly vulnerable to Outsider attacks. It's why most of the stuff involving Nemesis has been focused here. And see, knowing it's there, and vulnerable to anyone who can claim it, or just attack it, means that I can't tell him to go fuck himself, especially since Red Sky Day made all sorts of cracks in reality. Which means that I couldn't walk away, from Chicago or Wanda. I need to stay here, and stick with learning from Wanda – who, by the way, didn't know and was pretty fucking pissed as well – or Chicago, and most of North America at least, could get wiped out. If, you know, the eldritch apocalypse doesn't happen instead." I helplessly clenched my now empty fists. "Just like he wants me to."

I looked down at my empty bottle, contemplating getting another, and another, and then a few more, until I drowned myself in them. Maybe things would make sense then.

"But at the same time, he's brought me back from the dead, and he's cured Susan, saved our daughter, and ended the War – the entire Red Court – and he killed a god to do it. All for my sake. I hate him and I want to fucking kill him, and if Maggie hadn't been in the room, I swear I'd have tried. But with what he's done for me, too… I don't know what to think." I buried my face in my hands. "I'm not even totally sure who I am, right now. I mean, am I me, or am I just some glorified spell of Doctor Strange's? Or am I a bit of both?"

I felt a small hand on my shoulder. It was like an anchor in storm-tossed seas, holding me in place, and I leaned into it with the desperation of a drowning man.

"That's easy," Murphy said gently. "You're the stubborn ass with a terrible car and a worse sense of humour. You're the man who'll be a good father, and who's definitely a good friend. You're a wizard, a hero, and most of all, a good man. You're Harry Dresden, and no one can take that away from you."

I looked up at her, my fingers sweeping away tears that until now, I hadn't even noticed, seeing her blue eyes full of compassion, sympathy, and a kind of ferocity that suggested that if she ever got the chance, Strange would be getting a broken arm.

"That asshole may have had a say in when and how you were born, but you aren't just some extension of him or some spell of his," Murphy said. "He didn't make you who you are, because he didn't make your choices for you. You are who you choose to be, Harry, and you have always chosen to be a good person, ever since I've known you. Occasionally a colossal pain in the ass, sure, but still a good person."

I smiled. It was probably quite watery. "Thanks, Murph."

OoOoO

As it happened, Harry Dresden wasn't the only one to be confronted by the secrets of Doctor Strange, and how he'd wrapped them in his intricate puppet strings. In the Xavier Institute, in the study of Charles Xavier himself, the ancient sorcerer held a kind of court before a wary and carefully selected audience: Charles Xavier, Jean and Maddie Grey, and Ororo Munroe, whose presence Strange had very specifically requested for no clear reason.

"So," Xavier said eventually, his voice even, but not enough to conceal the underlying tension. "What brings the Sorcerer Supreme to my school?"

"I was the Sorcerer Supreme," Strange corrected dryly. "Now, I am the former Sorcerer Supreme. The Sorcerer Supreme Emeritus, if you're being formal. It isn't a title that is used often, since that position is usually posthumous. Now, I hold no official rank, though unofficially, I am a counsellor, a teacher, and a seer. Or perhaps more accurately, I am a habitual time traveller, an incorrigible meddler, and a generalised pain in the backside to all and sundry." A mischievous smile flickered across his face. "And that's being polite."

Jean found herself smiling in response and sternly reminded herself not to drop her guard. She might not have been as closely acquainted Doctor Strange as some, but she knew enough about him to know that underneath all the smiles and the charm was a very powerful, incredibly dangerous, and not entirely stable man. One conversation with Maddie, on the subject of Doctor Essex, had underlined that.

Essex had created Gambit from Scott's DNA, had stolen and enslaved Maddie, trapped Harry and ensured his later enslavement, and but for the intervention of Strange, would have stolen and enslaved her as well. The last was a thought that, knowing the extent of her twin and her cousin's traumas, had more than once jolted Jean awake in the middle of the night, bathed in cold sweat. He had done all that and far more, and had feared pretty much no one, not even the Avengers, not even Asgard.

No one, that was, except for Doctor Stephen Strange. And considering what Maddie had said that Strange had done when he'd finally found Essex (or a version of him, anyway), Jean wasn't in the least bit surprised.

As for Strange himself, when his name came up in conversation, Jean noticed that people who knew about him – even really powerful ones like the Professor, Thor, Loki, Maddie, and Wanda Maximoff – all reacted in fairly similar fashions. Anger, wariness, suspicion, respect, even gratitude and sympathy… all of these were common components, mixed in with others, varying in proportion based on the person and the situation in question.

It was something she'd seen before, when Magneto came up in conversation, but in Strange's case, it was definitely more so. Considering Strange's antics, their scale, and the fact that his appearance usually presaged trouble, and serious trouble at that, this wasn't surprising.

One thing that did put her on guard, though, was the one emotion that each reaction had in common: fear.

Often just a flicker, and a faint one that might not even be noticed by the person feeling those things, but in her experience it was always there. And given his decided interest in her family, that left Jean more frightened than she was willing to admit.

"Very witty," Xavier said flatly. "However, my question stands. Why are you here, Strange?"

Strange looked pointedly at Jean and Maddie. "To see to the further education of two of your students," he said. "Specifically, but not exclusively, regarding a subject they will need to be very familiar with in coming months: the Phoenix."

"What, exactly, does the Phoenix have to do with us?" Jean asked carefully.

Strange cocked an eyebrow. "In many timelines," he said. "In many, many timelines… everything. Indeed, a better question might be 'what doesn't the Phoenix have to do with you?' More often than not, She's drawn to your various counterparts – both of your counterparts – and you are drawn to Her, like a moth to a flame." His expression turned grim. "Something which rarely goes well for the moth." He shook his head. "But you are not moths, and the Phoenix is not your usual flame – especially not now that She has the stabilising influence of Harry's mother as her primary aspect. You do not have to get burned. However, that risk remains."

"We are both capable of handling Phoenix fire and related artefacts, Doctor Strange," Maddie said. "We have done so before."

"You have handled some Phoenix fire," Strange replied evenly. "With the emphasis on the word 'some'. That fire was generated by an understandably enraged young man who trusted you, and who was relatively inexperienced in wielding his psychic powers, let alone Phoenix fire. Moreover, he was more of a fledgling than a full Dark Phoenix, and he had already been talked down from his rampage, banking the flames. He helped you, and was helped by you, to handle it."

There was silence, as Strange let that sink in.

"Harry was not a true Dark Phoenix. He was getting there, certainly, but while he was angry and vengeful, mostly, he was in pain. That reflected itself in the excess Phoenix fire he wielded. There were two things that he didn't have, things that a true Dark Phoenix, Miss Grey, has in limitless quantities: madness and malice." He paused. "Well, I won't say that he didn't have any of either, because, frankly, no one can go through what he has without having a bit of madness in them. This is a subject on which I speak from experience. And, of course, there is the small matter of there being a little more to what he did to the Red Room than just lashing out. As I said, he was getting there. But there is a line, and he hadn't crossed it. Not yet."

He leaned forward and steepled his fingers.

"The problem that brings me here tonight is related to this. You see, not so very far from here in cosmic terms, there is a true Dark Phoenix. The original, in fact. His name is Surtur, and he crossed that line I mentioned eons ago. A million or so years ago, he stole fire from the Phoenix, and destroyed an entire galaxy. He is methodical, he is brilliant, and he has mastered most of the uses of Phoenix fire."

"Most?" Jean asked.

"There are some that he does not understand," Strange said. "Some that he can't understand, and some, in fact, that he simply refuses to understand. And after all this time, I don't think he could understand them, even if he wanted to." He steepled his fingers and looked at the two sisters over them. "Surtur is insane by any measure. But he is also, in his own way, pathologically logical. You are both potential Phoenix hosts, you have already been touched by the Phoenix, and on mental, emotional, and biological levels, you are close to the most recent serious wielder of the Phoenix's power: Harry."

"Harry?"

Strange nodded. "Surtur fears Harry, in large part, because he does not understand him. He has ample reason to fear the Phoenix, the prospect of her coming back for a long overdue reckoning. He also has reason to be wary of royal bloodline of Asgard, Harry's forebears. Their founder, Frey, the First King of Asgard, was one of the few ever to match Surtur blow for blow, albeit barely. He sealed Surtur in his current prison, at the cost of his own life, and his heirs have diligently prevented each and every one of Surtur's attempts at escape. He hates them with a passion, but he also, rightly, considers them a threat. However, he would fancy his chances against a Phoenix host – he successfully sliced off a piece of the Phoenix for himself, and he knows many of Her secrets. Not all, but many. Likewise, he now knows what he would be facing when he confronts a King or Queen of Asgard."

"Yet Harry is both," Maddie said quietly.

"He is," Strange said. "And that is a part of it. However, there have been Asgardian Phoenix hosts before, including those of royal blood. While I think Surtur would have feared to face them, and been very right to do so, there is something that he finds very strange about Harry, that he does not understand: how and why he was empowered. The Phoenix bestows her power carefully, to balanced adults."

Faced with two sets of raised eyebrows, he sighed.

"Surtur was something of an exception to the rule," he said. "And even then, you must understand: Surtur was not evil to begin with. He was a kind, gentle, and brave man who earnestly wanted to save his people, living as they did on a dying world. He summoned the Phoenix, then broke the summoning circle – he was not seeking dominion, just an audience to plead his case. This act, as much as his pleading, touched Her heart. As a result, he was granted the power of a Host. And at first, he seemed a good choice; his world was restored, and his people were saved."

He sighed again. "But the power of the Phoenix brings both good and bad to the fore, and Surtur – though he had a different name back then, one long since lost – had a streak of pride in him miles wide. This is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, audacity is rather necessary if you're going to summon a cosmic being for an audience. But it curdled into arrogance, a delusion that he knew best, and that no one, not even the Phoenix Herself, could be permitted to contradict him. As it did, his efforts went from repair and restoration, straying into… places. Places that were forbidden, and for good reason."

He shook his head.

"In any case, the Surtur debacle only underlined the Phoenix's very careful choice of Hosts," he said. "So, he wonders, why did She bestow her power, even if it was only embers – which itself is a puzzle, since the Phoenix usually bestows the power of a full Host or none at all – on an infant child, one who, in the grand scheme of things, is relatively ordinary? And, he must wonder, why was such a child in the centre of so many of my schemes?"

He smiled thinly at the surprised expressions. "Oh yes, Surtur and I know each other of old. We have been enemies since before Yggdrasil was formed. More to the point, Frey – the first King of Asgard, Harry's distant ancestor, and the main reason that Surtur is currently trapped in Muspelheim – was a very good friend of mine. And despite my best efforts, Surtur killed him." His face hardened into something icy cold and utterly implacable, one that illustrated far more clearly than any of the rumours that Jean had heard, and observations that she had made, why this man was so feared. "And one day, that particular account will be settled."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Surtur does not understand Harry. He does not understand why Harry has been a focus of such interest; from me, from the Phoenix, even from Chthon," Strange said eventually. "He does not understand why, with a couple of brief exceptions, Harry refuses to use the Phoenix fire within him. And he does not understand why Harry is so frighteningly proficient with it – and believe me, he is. He's an intuitive person to begin with, a mindset perfectly suited to wielding Phoenix fire, and the Phoenix has been there, a part of him since infancy. Though considering how proficient you two could be with it, it could be more than that. It could very well be more than that."

"If we could please save the speculation, Strange?" Xavier asked coolly. "Get to the point."

Strange eyed him, then nodded. "Surtur hates Harry for his ancestry," he said curtly. "He is wary of him because of his potential. And he fears him both because of what he could represent, and because he does not understand him." His gaze returned to Maddie and Jean. "Which leads us to the two of you: the two greatest human-born psychics ever to live, natural born hosts of the Phoenix, whose psychic powers are inherited from the same line as Harry's."

"You think that he'll destroy us to get to Harry," Jean said, a shiver running down her spine.

"No," Maddie said, frowning. "Not destroy. Control. Use." Her expression twisted. "Turn us into puppets."

Strange smiled mirthlessly. "You assume that the two are mutually exclusive," he said. "Almost all of his servants and soldiers were once his enemies, whose bodies were destroyed and souls were enslaved, encased in bodies constructed from Surtur's power. Those who joined him willingly had a rather different fate: they were transformed, yes, but into shapes closer to their own design, and they have wills of their own, to an extent. They are still subordinate to their master; his desires and his goals, are theirs. But the means they use and their lesser desires are their own."

He regarded them with some sympathy. "Yes, Miss Grey. He would seek to control you, to use you. Ideally, from his point of view, you would be turned to his cause and you would become two of his Great Captains."

"Great Captains?"

"His mightiest servants, the generals of his armies, each minimally capable of extinguishing stars," Strange clarified. "The greatest of those who joined willingly. But if he could not turn you willingly, he would try to dominate you. Even without your affinity for the Phoenix, your power makes the two of you effectively gods –"

"Gods?" Jean squeaked. Maddie said nothing, but her eyes were wide as tennis balls.

"Gods," Strange repeated. "You're both in the same weight-class as Thor and Loki, if not yet as powerful. You are both still growing into your powers, and you lack the stamina and finesse that will come with time. Yet even as they are, your powers are comfortably a match for those of many 'greater gods' – those with particular mantles, particular titles. And you far exceed those without. Most Asgardians for instance."

"B-but we're mortal, we're human," Jean stammered. "Mutants, but still human."

Strange shrugged. "So? Gods are born, they live, and they die," he said. "Some of them are… biologically immortal, you might say, in that they do not die unless they are killed, but many, like Asgardians, die of natural causes eventually. It may take them several thousand years to do so, but it happens. Of course, strictly speaking, most of them are rather more resilient than either of you, but if that is the difference between god and man, then one might just as easily argue that the Hulk is a god, and far more than most." He tilted his head. "I would argue that if you were so inclined, neither of you would ever have to age, or even bother with physical existence. You live in the same house as Jono Starsmore, a young man who only exists in a flesh and blood body because he prefers doing so, and though his powers are considerable, they are only a fraction of yours."

Strange shrugged.

"There have been many arguments down the ages about how to define godhood," he said. "You fit most of the criteria. In fact, I'd argue that as far as the two of you are concerned, there's only one difference between mortality and godhood."

"What would that be?" Maddie asked, Jean having lapsed into stunned silence.

"Semantics."

There was another long silence, then Strange waved a hand dismissively. "Don't read too much into it," he advised. "People have worshipped ghosts, trees, even rocks, as gods. By most definitions, I'm technically a god, an assumption that I have in the past had to go to some trouble to discourage. Trust me, as titles go, it's much over-rated."

"In that much, you are correct, Doctor Strange," Ms Munroe's melodious voice said, breaking her previous silence. "Though that raises the question of why you brought it up."

"To give them both some much needed perspective," Strange said calmly, before his voice hardened. "Among many other things, I am a seer: I see all that could be. And as Sorcerer Supreme, it is my duty to protect the Earth, the universe, against many things, including incursions from other realities. You have no idea the kind of things I have seen, the monsters that I have faced. Both mean that I have seen countless possibilities, of what could be and, in other universes, what is. They have taught me much. One of those things is this: a Jean Grey, or a Maddie Grey, gone bad is a nightmare of universal scale. How that nightmare manifests varies – though there are patterns. As a rule, some dominate, while others devour. Others still become tragic horrors, never meaning to become what they have, being exposed to someone or something that slowly twisted them until they were transformed beyond recognition. Some progress still further, extending their influence beyond their own universe and into other realities, into the spaces in-between, taking their places among the demons at reality's door."

He looked up at Jean and Maddie, and his expression softened. "I am sorry," he said. "I realise that this must be incredibly hard for you both to bear, especially you, Maddie, who has such fears. If I had time, I would be slower, more gentle about this. But I do not. Rest assured that I see no native darkness in either of you: none, whatsoever. My fears are not for your immediate progression to the dark side. Both of your hearts are like gold." His gaze rested firmly on Maddie. "And gold does not tarnish. No matter what muck it is exposed to." He closed his eyes briefly. "But it can be changed. Mixed with impurities, and turned into something else. That is what I fear, at Surtur's hand. This is what you must be aware of: Phoenix or no Phoenix, you each have the power to shape the course of universes. Together… I can imagine very little that you could not accomplish."

He fell silent, letting the words settle, like ash onto snow.

"I also hope," Strange said eventually. "That this perspective will help you both adjust to your new tutor, who is both a psychic and a god, and very familiar with the Phoenix."

"And who would that be, Doctor?" Maddie asked quietly.

Strange cast a glance at Xavier, raising a hand as if to open a door. "If I may?"

Xavier gave him a long, hard, look, then nodded. "Very well."

Strange returned the nod and gestured sharply, slicing open a tear in the air next to him. As he did, a tall, lean figure in grey robes stepped through, with a white wooden staff in hand. He had long black hair that fell to his shoulders, with a streak of white that ran through a lock from the fringe, which framed a handsome face with kind emerald green eyes.

"Good evening, Maddie, Jean," he said. "My name is Harry. Since I am what you might call an alternate reality counterpart of your cousin, and I realise that this may be a little confusing, I will make you the same offer I did my counterpart when we briefly met a couple of months ago: call me Nathan." He eyed Strange. "And no, I am not going to say, 'I come back to you now at the turn of the tide.' Only you and Harry would have truly understood it. Besides, my sense of humour may have become somewhat warped over the last millennium or so, but even I have limits."

Strange sighed a sigh of mock disappointment. "Alas," he said.

"What will we be learning?" Jean asked, shoving aside this… everything to freak out over later, focusing on the immediate. "And how… why… are you here?"

"Many of the same things that Harry is learning right now, Jean," Nathan said calmly. "Though Harry's… unique situation means that he needs a teacher who can devote all their time to his needs, and therefore has none to spare for you. How am I here? The walls between your reality and others in the wider multiverse are cracked. Harry did his best to patch them up, but there was only so much he could do. That means open doors, one of which I had drawn to my attention a couple of months ago, when your cousin found himself displaced into the multiverse by a combination of his powers, chaos magic exposure, and a rather strange spell. We had a conversation, and I sent him back." He inclined his head to Strange. "The good Doctor here followed up, and requested my assistance, and, well. To paraphrase an old saying, 'even when separated by parallel universes…"

He smiled ironically.

"'… Family is family.'"

OoOoO

The sentiment expressed above was one that many would agree with, whether that family was one of blood or one of choice. Among those who would agree with it, and who had spent much of his life wondering about family, was a boy – or rather, a young man – who was on this particular Winter's evening, sitting in the loft of his family's barn, readjusting his telescope to focus on a distant star, and very determinedly not looking at two palm-sized objects wrapped in cloth that sat on the table next to him.

He had had many questions about his family in the past. Specifically, where his family had originally come from, what had happened to them/why they had left him, why he was the way he was, etcetera. He had then found that when he had been given the answers to those questions, he had found himself with yet more questions. Questions whose answers he strongly suspected lay in at least one of the cloth-wrapped objects, objects that would apparently respond only to his touch. Right now, he was not sure that he necessarily wanted those answers – and a stubborn bout of flu, of the sort that usually passed him by entirely, had for the most part put those questions on the backburner.

Of course, life rarely pay much attention to what any individual actually wants. And that goes double if that individual happens to be of interest to Doctor Stephen Strange.

This, as it happens, is why Clark Kent got the shock of his life when a ball of white energy burst into life not six feet of away from him, before suddenly collapsing with an electric crackle to reveal another young man, who staggered for a moment before regaining his feet. The stranger bore a very strong resemblance to Clark himself, both in appearance and, as it turned out, expression of surprise. As it happened, though, he recovered rather faster, taking in his surroundings with a glance as Clark blinked in shock, before looking Clark up and down, before raising an eyebrow.

"Well," Harry Thorson said. "This is awkward."

Okay, and that, my friends, is where we shall end it. A chapter for Christmas, one that is thematically apt, and will hopefully give you a bit of Christmas cheer. That's it from me, for the time being – catch you lot on the flipside. Merry Christmas!