- DUAE SEPTIMANAE -
4:36pm - September 9th, 1976 - Westchester County, New York - Earth - Universe Designation: 1.638.2
Amelia Bones stood at the iron gates of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, a stately mansion nestled in the hills of Westchester County. The air was crisp and quiet, disturbed only by the distant hum of life beyond the estate's sprawling perimeter. She adjusted her travelling cloak, her eyes taking in the sprawling grounds ahead. Perfectly manicured lawns, elegant pathways, and the grand facade of the mansion. It looked serene, idyllic even. A place for scholars and aristocrats rather than what her investigation hinted at. Appearances can deceive.
The gates swung open silently, and Amelia, with her signature stoic expression, strode forward. Her journey had been long. A week and a half of research and covert travel between magical Britain and this isolated pocket of America. Rumours about Charles Xavier and his 'school for the gifted' had been sparse but unsettling. The Auror department's investigation into extraordinary individuals led her here. Into a world she wasn't entirely sure she was ready to confront.
Amelia's boots crunched over the gravel drive as the mansion loomed closer. A small group of students milled about near the entrance, watching her with careful curiosity. They were children. Young teenagers. But there was a guardedness in their demeanor. They knew how to be wary.
"Welcome to Xavier's School," The voice that spoke was calm, measured, and impossibly clear. Amelia turned sharply, her hand hovering near the pocket where her wand rested. Positioned a few paces away was a man in a wheelchair, his presence exuding both warmth and authority. Charles Xavier. His blue suit was immaculate, his gaze piercing, though his smile was soft. He clasped his hands over his lap, studying her with an openness that put her immediately on edge. "Madam Bones, I presume?"
Amelia tilted her head slightly, evaluating him. "You know who I am,"
"Of course," Xavier replied. "I take the safety of my students very seriously, and your arrival was anticipated," He gestured toward the wide-open double doors behind him. "Please, come inside. We have much to discuss,"
The interior of the mansion was just as immaculate as the exterior. Gleaming hardwood floors stretched across an elegant hall lined with polished banisters and portraits. Though warm and inviting, Amelia noted something deeper in the air. An invisible hum of power. As Xavier wheeled himself through the hall, Amelia followed, her gaze flitting between students who crossed their path. She saw them clearly now. Children and teenagers who carried themselves with subtle purpose.
At the base of a grand staircase, a blue-furred man with glasses, who Xavier identified as Dr. Hank McCoy, was crouched over a small device, muttering calculations under his breath. He looked up as they passed, nodding politely to Amelia before returning to his work. Moments later, two teenage boys - one in ruby-red sunglasses, the other with icy-white hair - rushed past, clearly engaged in a playful argument. "I can make it colder!" shouted the white-haired boy, his hands flickering with faint frost.
"You couldn't chill a soda, Drake," The boy in the sunglasses shot back, though his glasses partially hid his expression.
Amelia narrowed her eyes, but Xavier smiled faintly. "My students can be...energetic. You'll understand why in due course," Before Amelia could respond, she caught sight of three more individuals gathered in the hallway. A red-haired girl no older than sixteen whose aura felt overwhelmingly powerful. A quiet brunette with streaks of white in her hair. And a gruff man leaning against the wall with a cigar between his fingers.
"James Howlett or Logan," Xavier introduced, gesturing toward the man who grunted in response. "And these are Jean Grey and Anne Marie, though she prefers Rogue,"
Jean offered a small smile, but Rogue regarded Amelia cautiously. "She smells like magic," Rogue muttered under her breath, but Logan only flicked an eye toward her.
Amelia kept her expression neutral. These students, these people, were unlike anything she had seen before. "Interesting collection of individuals, Professor," she said finally, her tone clipped.
Xavier led her to a wide, book-filled office. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, painting soft patterns across the floor. He gestured toward a chair opposite his desk. "Please, Madam Bones. Sit,"
Amelia hesitated but complied. Once settled, she regarded him coldly. "I don't intend to waste time with pleasantries, Professor. You know who I am and why I'm here,"
"I have my suspicions," Xavier replied calmly, his gaze unwavering. "But I'd prefer to hear it from you,"
Amelia folded her hands over her lap, her voice steady. "For over a week now, I've been investigating you and your...institution. Your students - your gifted youngsters - are far from ordinary. I have reason to believe that you harbour individuals with extraordinary abilities. Powers beyond what the general population knows or understands,"
Xavier's expression remained neutral. "And yet, you are not here to accuse me. You're here to ask for something,"
Amelia's lips twitched, though she didn't smile. "You're perceptive, Professor. I'll admit, your reputation precedes you. You care for these children. Protect them. That makes you valuable,"
"Valuable for what, Madam Bones?" Xavier asked softly, though his voice carried weight.
Amelia inhaled deeply. "I need your help. Britain is on the verge of chaos. A war in our world - my world - was nearing its peak just two weeks ago. A man named Voldemort and his followers - named Death Eaters - terrorized our country. Murder, torture, and destruction at every turn. And then...he was eradicated,"
Xavier leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Eradicated?"
Amelia nodded. "The Dark Lord Voldemort, and every one of his followers present that night, obliterated in under ten hours. We were left with a battlefield soaked in blood and ash. The bodies of some of the most dangerous wizards in history...reduced to nothing," The office fell silent.
Charles Xavier regarded her carefully, his brow furrowing. "And what, or who, was responsible for this?"
Amelia's voice dropped, her tone sharper. "A man. A single man. I don't know his name. I don't know where he came from. But I saw the aftermath of what he did," Xavier watched her, waiting. She continued, her words measured but edged with something close to fear. "I spoke to witnesses. Innocents watching from the fringes. They described him as a force of nature. He walked through the Death Eaters' ranks like a phantom, destroying them with a single hand. They said he barely moved. That spells, curses, even Voldemort's most devastating attacks, did nothing."
Xavier's expression grew more solemn. "And Voldemort himself?"
"Dead," Amelia said bluntly. "Gone. This man killed him. And the method of his death..." She paused, struggling to find the words. "It wasn't magic. Not the kind I know. Voldemort's neck was shattered with one hand,"
Jean Grey's voice whispered faintly from the hallway beyond the office. "...shattered...?"
Xavier shot her a sharp glance, sending a mental nudge through their psychic connection. Not now, Jean.
Amelia didn't notice. Her focus was unshakable. "Whoever this man was, he ended the war. In one night. But it wasn't justice, Professor Xavier. It was slaughter,"
Xavier steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. "And you believe I know this man?"
"I believe you have the resources to help me find him," Amelia corrected, her voice firm. "He's not of our world. Not truly. And neither are you. Your students, your school...this is not normal. And I suspect you have encountered others like him,"
Xavier was silent for a long moment, his mind whirring through possibilities. Finally, he spoke. "You're asking me to track a being of immense power. Someone who may be beyond our understanding,"
"Yes," Amelia replied, unflinching. "I don't expect miracles, Professor. But I cannot ignore this man's existence. Someone who can do what he did, unopposed, is not someone my world - or yours - can afford to lose track of,"
Xavier nodded slowly. "You understand that this will take time,"
"I understand," Amelia said, standing. "But you also understand that your secrecy only stretches so far, Professor. You're powerful, but you're not untouchable,"
Xavier's gaze darkened slightly, though his tone remained composed. "Neither are you, Madam Bones," They regarded one another for a long moment, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Finally, Xavier extended his hand. "Very well. I will help you. But tread carefully, Amelia Bones. The answers you seek may lead to greater questions,"
Amelia shook his hand, her grip firm. "I'll take that risk,"
As Xavier watched her leave the office, he turned toward the hallway where Jean, Rogue, and Logan lingered. The worry on their young faces mirrored his own thoughts.
Logan took a long drag from his cigar and exhaled slowly. "Chuck," he muttered, his voice low and rough. "We're not ready for someone like that,"
Xavier's gaze lingered on the door where Amelia had disappeared. "We may not have a choice,"
Outside, Amelia Bones walked back down the mansion steps, the weight of her task settling heavily across her shoulders. Whoever this man was, she would find him. And heaven help them all when she did.
5:21pm - September 14th, 1976 - Slytherin Common Room - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry - Earth - Universe Designation: 1.638.2
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet. The faint murmur of whispers and rustling parchment filled the stone chamber, mingling with the soft hiss of flames licking the fireplace. Green light from the lake filtered in through the tall windows, casting eerie ripples across the walls. Most of the students were hunched over books or engaged in quiet study, but Andromeda Black sat apart. She was curled in a high-backed chair near the fire, her Potions textbook forgotten in her lap. Her thoughts had drifted far away from brewing instructions and ingredient ratios. They returned, again and again, to the same subject that had taken hold of Hogwarts for the past two weeks.
Harry Potter.
Everyone had an opinion on the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Some admired him, others whispered nervously about his lessons, but none could deny the impact he'd made. Andromeda had seen it firsthand. Harry Potter was nothing like the other professors. Strict but detached, powerful yet unyielding. In the four classes she had attended, he had already dismantled their expectations of what Defense lessons were supposed to be. The first of those lessons, though only two weeks past, was etched vividly in her mind.
Two Weeks Earlier – Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom
Andromeda had walked into the Defense classroom that morning with her fellow Fourth-Year Slytherins, most of them still gossiping about the rumors surrounding Harry Potter. The Fourth-Year Hufflepuffs were already there, whispering among themselves as well, though they fell quiet when the Slytherins entered. The classroom itself looked different. All the desks had been pushed back to the walls, leaving the center of the room completely clear. The polished floor looked far too open, almost exposed, and the air carried an unfamiliar weight. It wasn't the usual dusty, stagnant air of Hogwarts classrooms. It felt sharp. Expectant.
"What's with the desks?" hissed Eleanor Greengrass, Andromeda's dormmate, her pale eyes flickering nervously across the room. Eleanor always managed to look perfectly composed, but even she couldn't hide the uncertainty in her voice.
"Probably wants us to fight each other," muttered Julian Warrick, another Slytherin, a tall boy with dark hair and an arrogant smirk he never seemed to lose. "How very...Gryffindor,"
Andromeda ignored them both, her gaze fixed on the figure standing at the front of the room. Harry Potter leaned against his desk, one hand resting on the polished wood while the other twirled his wand lazily between his fingers. He wore dark green robes that hung effortlessly off his shoulders, and though he was silent, his presence commanded the entire room. The murmurs quieted as the door swung shut. No one had seen him move, but the wand between Harry's fingers stilled. Slowly, he straightened, his eyes scanning the class with precision.
"Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts," Harry said, his voice even and calm. It wasn't loud, but the way he spoke made Andromeda feel like he was addressing her directly. "You may have heard a lot about me already. Most of it is probably wrong,"
That earned a few uneasy chuckles from the Hufflepuff side, but Harry ignored them.
"Let's get something straight," Harry continued, his tone sharpening. "Defense is not about theory. It's not about sitting at a desk and reciting spells. It's about instinct. Survival. If you can't cast under pressure, all the reading in the world won't save you," At this, Andromeda noticed a shift among her classmates. Even Julian looked less smug, his brow furrowing. The Hufflepuffs glanced nervously at each other. But Harry wasn't finished.
"You're going to learn the basics of dueling and defensive techniques today," Harry announced, pacing slowly across the front of the room. "How to stand. How to move. How to shield yourself when you don't have time to think. And you will mess up. You will fail. The point is to get back up and try again," His wand had disappeared. With a flick of his wrist, the blackboard behind him shimmered. The words 'Basics to Dueling and Defensive Techniques' appeared in neat silver script.
"Wands out," Harry said sharply. "And pair up. Now,"
The class erupted into a flurry of movement as the students hurried to find partners. Andromeda found herself paired with Corwin Flint, a fellow Slytherin with a stocky build and a habit of cracking his knuckles whenever he was nervous.
"Alright, Flint," Andromeda said coolly, drawing her wand. "Try to keep up,"
"Don't worry about me," Corwin muttered, though he shot a glance at Harry, who was already walking among the pairs, his presence making everyone work just a little faster.
Harry began with stances. Simple enough, Andromeda had thought, until Harry started walking between pairs and correcting them with ruthless precision.
"Your weight's too far forward," he told Corwin, flicking his fingers at his legs to knock him slightly off-balance. "One shove, and you're flat on your back," Corwin grumbled but adjusted. Andromeda smirked but barely had time to enjoy it before Harry turned to her. "You too. Plant your feet, but don't lock your knees. Flexibility is as important as strength," Andromeda blinked, startled. She corrected her posture quickly, and Harry gave her a brief nod before moving on. It was hard to say why, but that single nod felt like praise.
Once the stances were solid, Harry moved on to the Protego charm. "Protego is not a wall," he explained, raising his arm. "It's not static. It's dynamic. A good shield bends under pressure but doesn't break,"
He demonstrated with a flick of his wrist, a faint golden shimmer forming in front of him. "This is a basic Protego. It'll stop most spells. Once. But if you layer it with intent, it becomes stronger," The students watched closely as Harry invited Julian Warrick to fire a Stupefy at him. Julian's spell hit Harry's shield with a sharp crack, but the Protego held firm, dispersing the energy like water against glass.
"Intent," Harry repeated. "It's not just about the incantation. It's about believing it will hold,"
Andromeda practiced alongside Corwin, raising her shield again and again as he hurled weak Expelliarmus charms her way. At first, her shield flickered, unstable and thin.
"You're hesitating," Harry said, appearing beside her without warning. Andromeda straightened reflexively as his green eyes met hers. "Don't second-guess it. Cast the shield as if your life depends on it,"
Her jaw tightened. She nodded once, determination burning in her chest. She raised her wand, focused, and cast. "Protego!" This time, her shield held firm. Corwin's Expelliarmus bounced harmlessly off the shimmering surface.
"Better," Harry said simply before moving on. Andromeda exhaled slowly, a triumphant smirk tugging at her lips.
By the end of the class, Andromeda was exhausted. Her wand arm ached from holding shields for so long, and her legs burned from maintaining the proper stance. Corwin had stopped grumbling after the first hour, too tired to complain. The Hufflepuffs looked equally drained, though they were laughing quietly among themselves as they filed out.
"Practice every night," Harry said as they packed up. "Stances. Shields. Twenty minutes. No excuses. Defense isn't a skill you can cram for,"
Andromeda lingered near the doorway, watching as Harry extinguished the floating lights with a wave of his hand. There was something about him. Something unnerving. Something compelling. He wasn't just teaching them spells. He was teaching them how to fight.
"Come on, Andromeda," Eleanor Greengrass called from the hallway. Andromeda nodded distantly, her gaze lingering on Harry one moment longer before she turned to follow.
Andromeda snapped her Potions book shut, earning a curious glance from Eleanor across the room. "What's gotten into you?" Eleanor asked, raising a delicate brow.
"I'm going to practice," Andromeda said shortly, tucking her wand into her sleeve.
"Practice?" Eleanor echoed. "Practice what?"
"Defense," Andromeda replied, already rising to her feet. "Professor Potter's lessons don't teach themselves,"
Eleanor snorted. "You're taking him far too seriously,"
"Maybe," Andromeda said coolly, glancing over her shoulder as she left. "Or maybe you're not taking him seriously enough,"
She strode out of the common room, her mind sharp with purpose. Harry's lessons had shown her how much she didn't know. How much she still had to learn. And Andromeda Black didn't like being second-best.
8:11pm- September 14th, 1976 - Faculty Lounge - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry - Earth - Universe Designation: 1.638.2
The Hogwarts Faculty Lounge was one of the few places within the castle where the professors could escape the watchful eyes and clamorous energy of their students. Thick rugs muffled footsteps. A roaring fire offered warmth against the cool evening air. The worn armchairs scattered around the room promised comfort after a long day of teaching.
Tonight, the room was unusually full. Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall sat near the fire, both nursing steaming cups of tea. Filius Flitwick perched on an overstuffed cushion beside a small table covered in a mound of student essays. Pomona Sprout reclined contentedly in an armchair, dirt still under her nails from a long afternoon in the greenhouses. Horace Slughorn sipped from a goblet of mulled wine, his broad frame taking up nearly half a couch. Septima Vector sat nearest to the window, her sharp eyes flicking between her colleagues and the book balanced delicately on her lap.
The air was quiet save for the occasional clink of porcelain on saucer or the crackle of the fire, until Flitwick finally broke the silence. "Well," he began, a hint of mischief in his voice as he adjusted his small spectacles, "I do believe I've marked enough essays to declare that fourth-years have no idea how Arithmancy actually relates to charms,"
Pomona chuckled, reaching for a biscuit from the nearby plate. "They're only just learning how to balance their wands properly in my Herbology classes. Coordination doesn't come naturally to everyone, Filius,"
"Nor patience, I imagine," Slughorn added with a laugh, swirling his goblet lazily. "I had a third-year boy this week turn a hair-thickening potion into something close to tar. Poor lad had to be pried off the floor of my classroom!" The group shared a laugh, the tension of the day slipping away in the easy camaraderie. But it wasn't long before conversation turned, inevitably, to the same subject that had captured much of Hogwarts' attention in the past two weeks.
"Speaking of teaching," Flitwick said carefully, his high voice carrying an edge of curiosity, "I think it's fair to say none of us have had quite the same...impact on our students as Harry Potter has managed in such a short time,"
A beat of silence followed his words. Minerva set down her teacup with the faintest clink, her expression sharpening ever so slightly. Albus's blue eyes twinkled faintly over the rim of his mug as though he had been waiting for this very moment.
"Harry Potter," Pomona echoed, her brow furrowing faintly as she leaned back in her chair. "The name seems to be on everyone's lips these days. Students and staff alike,"
"A fine young man," Slughorn said with an approving nod. "Talented, too. His work with the sixth-years on advanced defensive magic has been nothing short of impressive. Quite the innovator in his methods, wouldn't you say?"
"He's unorthodox, that's for certain," Minerva replied, her Scottish brogue as sharp as her gaze. She glanced at Albus, but the headmaster's expression betrayed nothing. "Though it's difficult to argue with the results. I've seen students in his classes demonstrate a level of focus I'd hardly expect from them this early in the year,"
"Hmm, unorthodox is the right word," Septima Vector chimed in, closing her book with a thoughtful expression. "His electives alone have turned heads. Defense Against the Common Arts? I was skeptical at first, but some of my Arithmancy students are practically glowing with excitement about the practical applications. Not to mention the Duelling Club. It's like he's training them for war," A faint hush fell over the room at her words. Dumbledore, who had remained quiet thus far, gently set his mug down and folded his hands in his lap, his gaze turning contemplative.
"It's not a traditional approach, I'll grant you that," Flitwick said, filling the silence. "But then again, Defense Against the Dark Arts has always been one of the most...ah...volatile subjects on our curriculum, hasn't it?" He smiled faintly. "Perhaps Mr. Potter is what the students needed. A teacher who understands not just the spells, but what it means to use them,"
"Filius, you're far too kind," Minerva said, though her lips quirked faintly as though to hide her agreement. "You've taught Defensive Charms for years, and I'd argue you're just as skilled in your methods,"
Flitwick waved a hand dismissively. "I teach them theory, Minerva. Technique, form. Harry Potter teaches them something else entirely,"
"Survival," Septima said bluntly, crossing her arms. "He's not just preparing them to pass OWLs or NEWTs. He's teaching them to survive. Have you spoken to any of the students? The Gryffindors and Slytherins in his sixth-year classes walk out of there like they've been through a battlefield,"
"It's not far from the truth," Pomona murmured thoughtfully, brushing a stray bit of soil off her robe. "I overheard a group of Hufflepuff girls talking in the greenhouse just the other day. They said he had them practicing layered warding spells. On each other,"
"Layered warding?" Slughorn raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "Most don't even study that until their seventh year!"
"Exactly my point," Septima continued, leaning forward now, her tone quieter. "He's pushing them harder than any professor I can recall. And they listen to him,"
"They do," Pomona agreed, smiling faintly. "Even the ones who usually can't be bothered in my classes seem more alert lately. It's as if they're...trying to prove something to him. To themselves, maybe,"
"Leadership often inspires that," Dumbledore said finally, his voice soft but resonant. The entire room seemed to turn its attention to him at once. His blue eyes twinkled faintly behind his half-moon spectacles, though his expression remained thoughtful. "Harry Potter is not your average young man, as we can all plainly see. Nor is he your average professor. He expects much, because he believes the students can achieve much. That belief is a powerful thing,"
"He has certainly brought something new to Hogwarts," Minerva added, her tone carrying an edge of admiration. "When I watch him teach, it's clear that he's not just showing them how to perform spells. He's giving them a purpose. Whether it's the Duelling Club or his lessons in defense, he's teaching them to think beyond the castle walls,"
"And that worries me," Septima said quietly, her voice breaking through the praise. She glanced at Dumbledore with a hint of hesitation. "Why push them so hard? Why now? It feels like he's preparing them for something,"
The silence that followed hung heavy in the air. Albus Dumbledore met Septima's gaze evenly, his smile gentle but his eyes sharp with the weight of knowledge only he and Minerva possessed. "Perhaps..." Dumbledore said softly. "...he knows something we do not," Minerva exchanged a quick glance with Dumbledore but said nothing. She could feel the unspoken weight in his words. Harry knows exactly what he's preparing them for. she thought grimly. And so do we.
Slughorn cleared his throat, his jovial tone returning to ease the tension. "Well, I say we could do with a bit of fire under the students. Complacency never helped anyone, and a little dueling practice never hurt either,"
"Provided they're careful," Pomona added with a smile, though her brow creased faintly. "I trust Harry to guide them, but some of those older Slytherins are ambitious enough to overdo it,"
Minerva's lips thinned slightly at that, though she didn't disagree. "Harry has made it clear that recklessness won't be tolerated. He holds them accountable, which is more than I can say for some past professors,"
"That much is true," Flitwick agreed with a chuckle. "I'd wager we've seen fewer accidents in his class than in any Defense class in years. He's strict, but his students respect him for it,"
"And fear him," Septima added dryly. "There's a reason even the Gryffindors don't mouth off to him,"
"They respect what he can do," Minerva corrected. "As they should,"
"Well, I, for one, would love to learn his secrets," Slughorn said with a jovial grin, draining the last of his mulled wine. "Perhaps I'll invite him for tea. You never know what you might learn from a man like Harry Potter,"
"You'll have to find him first," Minerva said with a rare smirk. "Half the time, he's off training, and the other half, he's running his students ragged,"
The room broke into quiet laughter at that, though the mood had lightened considerably. As the conversation shifted to other topics, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, his expression turning contemplative once more. Harry Potter was not simply an enigma to the students. He was a force reshaping the very fabric of Hogwarts. Whether the other professors realized it yet or not, Harry was preparing the next generation for challenges far beyond the comforts of their school walls. And Dumbledore could only hope that when the time came, they would be ready.
The castle was quieter in the early mornings, when Rose Potter preferred to wake. By habit, she'd rise as the light broke through her dormitory window in Gryffindor Tower, dress quickly, and slip out into the hallways. The days began this way for two weeks now. A mixture of calm routine and the sharp, unsettling reminders of a world she hadn't truly left behind. Hogwarts' grandeur seemed untouched by the decades she'd spent in the Domus Mortis, but it was hollow when she compared its beauty to the torment she'd endured.
Yet, it was home now. Or at least, it had to be.
Her days were consumed by lessons in classes that felt both foreign and familiar. Charms was the easiest. Filius Flitwick's enthusiasm made the room lively, and Rose found herself catching on quickly. When he praised her Wand-Lighting Charm as the brightest in class, her Gryffindor peers clapped for her, an action that left her startled. Unsure whether to smile or retreat into her usual guarded silence.
Transfiguration under Professor McGonagall was more challenging, not because she lacked the skill but because the precise, measured focus reminded her of training under Omen. While reviewing in the latter half of their first week, McGonagall assigned her the task of turning a matchstick into a golden needle. Rose transfigured the object so flawlessly that it practically glowed. But in that perfection, her classmates whispered. "Just like Professor Potter," Her brother's shadow stretched everywhere, and even in Transfiguration, Rose felt trapped within it.
Potions was harder still. Professor Slughorn's affable demeanor did little to make her trust him. His questions seemed harmless on the surface, but Rose noticed how his eyes lingered when he asked about her family or origins. Even her classmates, like Marlene McKinnon and Lily Evans, hesitated to partner with her at first, suspicious of her unnerving precision with the cauldron.
"Your knife skills are terrifying," Marlene joked one day, her tone lighthearted but the undertone wary.
Rose smirked, a mask hiding her unease. You don't know the half of it.
Her saving grace during those weeks had been Remus Lupin. When the lessons felt stifling or the crowded common room unbearable, Rose gravitated toward the quieter corners where Remus often sat with a book or parchment. They weren't friends, not yet, but he reminded her the young Albus Dumbledore she had lost in her world. A steady anchor amidst the storm of her thoughts.
"I don't mind you sitting here," he'd muttered one afternoon, scribbling out notes for an essay. "James and Sirius can be...overwhelming sometimes,"
Rose had nodded. Silence suited them, broken occasionally by small questions about homework or fleeting commentary about the Marauders' antics. Remus was perceptive enough not to pry, but his presence alone was enough to settle the twisting anxieties that plagued Rose whenever she considered the lingering threat of the Domus Mortis. And it was there. Always.
When not in the classroom or with Remus, Rose found herself dragged - often quite literally - into the orbit of the Marauders. James was too curious about his 'alternate universe sister' to leave her alone for long, and Sirius treated her like a dangerous but fascinating creature he'd found in the woods. Peter followed along, occasionally offering nervous laughter or clumsy jokes.
At first, Rose resisted their camaraderie. She'd seen too many friends die in her time as a Codder. But Harry's insistence on building bridges in this timeline had infected her thinking. If he could risk letting people close, so could she. It wasn't long before Rose began to feel moments of joy among them. James' daring stunts, Sirius' relentless humor, and Peter's bumbling kindness wore down her walls. They even managed to make her laugh. Something she thought had died decades ago.
One night in the Gryffindor common room, as the group strategized for their next prank, Sirius caught her staring off into the fire.
"Oi, Potter," he teased, smirking. "You look like you've seen a ghost,"
Rose's lips quirked into a rare smile. I've seen much worse.
To Rose's surprise, Bellatrix Black was another constant presence in her new life. Where the Marauders were chaos wrapped in charm, Bellatrix was intensity personified. Their interactions began in shared classes. Bellatrix observered her every move in Defense Against the Dark Arts or Transfiguration. Her dark eyes followed Rose like a predator.
"She doesn't trust you," Lily had told Rose quietly during one Potions lesson. "Bellatrix doesn't trust anyone who's...different,"
Rose understood. She was different in ways Bellatrix couldn't comprehend. But instead of pushing Rose away, Bellatrix seemed drawn to her. During dueling lessons with Harry, it was Bellatrix who challenged her most often, sparring until both were breathless and bruised. "You're holding back," Bellatrix hissed one afternoon, her wand clashing against Rose's in a shower of sparks. "Why?"
Rose stared into the fiery determination in Bellatrix's gaze and didn't answer. Because if I didn't hold back, you wouldn't survive me.
But the truth was harder to confront. Bellatrix reminded her of Fulmen.
Fulmen. The name alone sent shivers through Rose's spine. He had been her tormentor in the Domus Mortis. The Gladiator who wielded lightning like a god. For months - eons to the Multiverse - she had been his Servus, demoted from a Codder after a traumatizing battle that left her a shell of her former self. She had been forced to carry his weapons, absorb his abuse, and endure his ruthless demands. When she thought of Fulmen, she thought of sharp, electric agony. But more than that, she thought of his words.
"Power isn't given, little bird," Fulmen would say as arcs of lightning crackled around his gauntlets. "It's taken. You'll learn that the hard way, or you'll die,"
She had hated him. She still hated him. And yet, his lessons had shaped her into the warrior she was now. Unforgiving, relentless, and cold when she needed to be. Bellatrix's intensity reminded her of Fulmen's. That frightened Rose more than anything. And when she closed her eyes at night, she saw Fulmen's form looming in the shadows of her dreams, surrounded by crackling storms.
What if he finds us?
The Domus Mortis' lingering presence haunted Rose like a phantom. Tracker had already been spotted outside the wards, proof that they were being hunted. It was only a matter of time before Fulmen, or worse, Furva, followed.
Rose's quiet moments were spent in the Astronomy Tower, where she'd watch the horizon and think about the path ahead. She and Harry had escaped the Domus Mortis, but they hadn't destroyed it. Not truly. For all their strength and cunning, the Council still existed, looming over the multiverse like a storm cloud waiting to strike. They would never stop hunting them.
But neither would she.
Rose had begun drafting plans in her mind. Strategies for fortifying Hogwarts, for recruiting allies, and for preparing for the inevitable war that would come. The students here, her classmates, didn't know it yet, but the castle would one day need to become a fortress. "Will they be ready?" she whispered to herself one evening, her breath fogging in the cold air.
The Codex Infernum, Harry's burden, whispered toxic promises into his ears, but Rose had her own weapon. Time. Her abilities, her temporal manipulation, were their edge against the Domus Mortis. If she could master it, she could tip the scales. If Fulmen comes. she thought, I'll make him regret ever laying a hand on me.
7:21pm- September 10th, 1976 - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry - Earth - Universe Designation: 1.638.2
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting Hogwarts in hues of gold and crimson as the castle settled into its evening hum. Dinner had ended and students began to drift toward their common rooms. Only one figure moved quietly toward the open grounds. Harry Potter strode through the fading light, his expression one of calm focus. From the Astronomy Tower, Rose spotted him first, his black cloak rippling faintly against the soft wind as he approached the edge of the forest. Her chest tightened. Where are you going now, Harry? But she knew better than to follow. Harry's movements were deliberate, and though he trusted her, there were times when he carried burdens even she could not share.
Beneath the cloak, Harry's form shifted. His wand slipped into the holster at his wrist as his magic began to hum, resonating deep in his bones. He didn't need a broom or Apparition for this journey. Harry's fists clenched, and with a focused pulse of his will, he pushed off the ground. The wards of Hogwarts rippled softly as he slipped through them like a shadow, ascending swiftly into the sky. Higher, faster, until the world fell away beneath him.
The evening wind whipped around him, but Harry felt none of it. His body, infused with power allowed him to fly effortlessly across the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean. The clouds thinned as he accelerated, the stars above like glittering fragments of broken glass. Flying was freedom, yet tonight it felt heavier than it had in years. The Codex Infernum whispered faintly in his mind, but he shoved it aside, focusing on his purpose. The coordinates were clear. His destination had been scrawled carefully in his notes, a gift from the Ancient One.
1407 Graymalkin Lane, Westchester County, New York.
Minutes later, Harry descended quietly above the sprawling grounds of the Xavier Mansion. Set amidst lush greenery and rolling hills, the stately building stood like a monument to another age. Its gothic spires, stone façade, and ornate windows whispered of old-world elegance. Moonlight spilled across the immaculate gardens, casting silvery reflections over the manicured hedges and the iron gate at the estate's edge. But beneath its polished beauty, Harry felt it.
It was faint at first, like the vibration of harp strings on the cusp of being touched. Delicate but powerful. The grounds buzzed with layered enchantments and energy signatures Harry hadn't quite encountered before. It wasn't like Hogwarts, whose ancient wards throbbed with the pulse of old magic. No, this was something modern yet raw, as if drawn directly from the essence of the people who lived here.
Harry paused mid-air, hovering for just a moment as his eyes roamed the estate. There were no visible wards. No glowing magical barriers to speak of, but his instincts told him he was walking into a fortress. One far more alive than it appeared.
Extraordinary.
With a controlled breath, Harry allowed himself to descend, his cloak trailing faintly behind him like liquid shadow. His boots touched the earth without a sound, barely disturbing the dew-slicked grass. He straightened, his posture relaxed but his senses heightened, sharp as a knife's edge. The windows of the mansion glowed faintly, golden and warm against the dark silhouette of the building. The faint laughter of children drifted from somewhere within, muffled by walls but present enough to reach Harry's ears. It was a sound that tugged faintly at something deep in his chest. But that brief calm fractured. Harry's emerald gaze flicked sharply to the tree line at the far edge of the estate.
There.
The movement was subtle, a flicker of motion that most wouldn't have caught, but Harry wasn't most people. A shadow detached itself from the dark canopy of leaves, stepping forward with deliberate, heavy footsteps. The figure was broad and solid, his outline sharp against the moonlight. Feral energy rolled off him like an unspoken warning. The faint gleam of metal - claws - caught the pale light, and Harry immediately recognized who it was.
Logan.
Wolverine's reputation had preceded him, even across universes. Harry knew enough to be wary of the man's instincts and brutal efficiency. Logan was a predator. A hunter in every sense of the word. The two men regarded each other in silence. Logan's sharp gaze swept over Harry, lingering on his still form, his cloak, the way he radiated something other. The faint growl that rumbled from Logan's chest was as primal as it was cautious. A wordless challenge.
Harry, unbothered, tilted his head slightly, meeting Logan's unrelenting stare with calm emerald eyes. For a moment, the two were locked in a silent exchange, neither moving nor speaking.
Logan's nostrils flared faintly as he sniffed the air. "You're not human," It wasn't a question.
Harry smirked faintly, just enough to crease the corner of his mouth. "Close enough,"
Another beat of silence. Then Logan grunted, the sound low and dismissive, though his claws retracted with a quiet shink of metal. "Come on," he muttered over his shoulder, turning away as if the meeting had already concluded. "Chuck's waiting for you," Harry watched Logan for a moment longer before stepping into motion. His footsteps were silent, his cloak whispering faintly with each movement as he followed the feral mutant.
The path to the mansion was short but deliberate. Logan didn't speak, and Harry respected the silence. He used the walk to observe instead. The estate grounds sprawled outward like a sanctuary. The gardens were perfectly maintained, though their beauty didn't feel showy or artificial. It felt lived-in. Harry spotted a few lingering signs of life. A swing swaying gently on a massive oak tree. A faint trail of footprints leading to a basketball court half-hidden behind shrubs. Evidence of children.
It was a strange juxtaposition. A place that should have felt like an isolated fortress radiated life and hope instead. Hogwarts had always been a home, but this...this was something different. Logan seemed to sense Harry's observation because he grunted, his voice rough but not unkind. "Don't let the quiet fool you. This place ain't as peaceful as it looks,"
"I don't doubt it," Harry replied softly, his eyes narrowing faintly as he glanced at Logan. "It takes more than walls to make a sanctuary. You have to fight to keep it safe," Logan glanced over his shoulder, studying Harry briefly, and though he didn't say anything, there was an acknowledgment in the way his gaze lingered before returning to the path.
"Kids here have it rough sometimes," Logan finally muttered. "But Chuck...he gives 'em a chance,"
Harry let the words settle. A chance. Something so simple, yet so powerful. As they reached the stone steps leading to the mansion, Logan stopped abruptly, turning to face Harry once more. His eyes narrowed slightly, though the suspicion had softened just a fraction. "You pull anything and I'll gut you. I don't care how fast or strong you think you are,"
Harry didn't flinch. Instead, he met Logan's threat with quiet amusement, his expression calm and unshaken. "Noted,"
Logan huffed, though it sounded almost approving. "Good."
With that, Logan pushed open the heavy double doors, motioning for Harry to follow. "Let's get this over with,"
Updated: 3/9/2025