Haris Lokison—or just Harry, thanks very much—wasn't surprised when Hermione Granger started asking questions. She always had questions. The 10-year-old daughter of Athena had the kind of brain that needed answers the way other people needed air. Unfortunately, Harry was used to things not making sense, which meant answering her questions wasn't exactly his strong suit.
"So, how do you know these guys?" Hermione asked, eyeing the tall, trench-coated figure in front of them like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
Harry shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets and nodded toward Warren. "We ran into each other a couple of years back. My mom's Huntresses kinda... mistook him for a monster."
Hermione tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing. "They thought he"—she jabbed her thumb at Warren, who was currently looking extremely normal and non-threatening—"was a monster?"
Harry grinned. "Yup."
Warren shifted uncomfortably, pulling his coat tighter around himself like it would protect him from the awkward conversation. "It was a misunderstanding," he muttered.
Hermione gave Harry a skeptical look. "What kind of misunderstanding?"
Harry leaned closer with a conspiratorial smirk. "Well... he wasn't exactly wearing the trench coat at the time. His wings were out."
That got a reaction. Hermione blinked, her mouth opening just a little before she caught herself. "Wings?"
Warren sighed, giving Harry the kind of look you give a mischievous younger sibling who just outed your embarrassing secret. "Yeah. Wings." He tapped the side of his coat. "I usually keep them folded and hidden with a harness. Makes life... simpler."
Hermione crossed her arms, her expression halfway between "this makes no sense" and "I really need to know more." "And the Huntresses thought that made you a monster?"
"To be fair, I was flying through their sacred hunting grounds," Warren said. "They're not exactly big on unannounced visitors."
Harry snorted. "Or 'announced' visitors, for that matter."
"Or visitors at all," Warren muttered.
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let me get this straight. You," she said, pointing at Warren, "were flying around with giant angel wings. And they thought, 'Oh no, better shoot it.'"
"That's... the gist of it, yeah," Harry confirmed cheerfully.
"And you," she continued, turning to Harry, "saved him?"
"Technically, I explained to them that Warren wasn't a monster," Harry corrected. "But, yeah. I might've saved him. A little."
Warren crossed his arms. "You were eight. They only listened because you're Artemis' kid. I'd still be on a spit over a campfire if it weren't for your family connections."
Harry gave him a shrug that could've meant, What can you do? "Perks of being the boss's son, I guess."
Hermione shook her head slowly, like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "And that's how you learned about mutants?"
Harry nodded. "Yep. And Warren learned about gods and demigods. It was a fun little cultural exchange."
"Fun?" Warren echoed, his tone dry as a desert. "Being mistaken for a flying demon and nearly skewered by a bunch of immortal hunters was fun?"
"Well, I thought it was pretty fun," Harry said with a grin. "They didn't actually shoot you, did they?"
Warren gave him a long, exasperated look. "They came really close."
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples like she was getting a headache just thinking about it. "Why do I get the feeling this is going to become a pattern with you?"
Harry grinned wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Stick around, Athena Junior. Life with me is never boring."
Warren muttered under his breath, "That's one way to put it."
"And for the record," Harry added, glancing at Hermione, "this kind of thing happens to me all the time. You get used to it."
Hermione groaned. "Great. Just what I needed. A walking disaster magnet."
Harry clapped her on the shoulder. "Relax. It'll be fun."
"That's what you said last time," Warren grumbled.
"And look!" Harry spread his arms. "You're still alive! Mostly."
Warren rolled his eyes. "Barely."
Hermione gave Harry a long, level stare. "So, you're telling me that your life includes immortal hunters, mutants with angel wings, and enough weirdness to make my family gatherings look normal?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Harry said, flashing a grin. "Welcome to the team."
"Fantastic," Hermione muttered. "I'm definitely going to need a therapist after this."
Harry threw an arm around her shoulder and started walking toward the farmhouse in the distance. "Nah. Stick with me, and you'll get used to the crazy. Or, you know... embrace it."
Warren followed, shaking his head. "This is going to end so badly."
Harry shot a look over his shoulder, still grinning. "Oh, come on, Wings. Where's your sense of adventure?"
Warren snorted. "Pretty sure it flew away the last time your mom's archers tried to shoot me."
Harry laughed, the sound light and easy. "That just means you're getting the full godly experience."
Hermione sighed as she trudged after them. "I hate that this already feels normal."
"That's the spirit!" Harry called over his shoulder.
And just like that, the three of them—one son of gods, one daughter of a goddess, and one winged mutant—joined the others and headed toward whatever ridiculous adventure lay waiting on the other side of the farmhouse. Because with Harry around, one thing was guaranteed: normal was never an option.
—
As Harry Lokison ambled through the overgrown grass towards the farmhouse, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had stumbled into a comic book crossover event. Seriously, gods and mutants teaming up? How was that not a bestseller in the making? The farmhouse stood like a hidden treasure at the edge of Bard College, its peeling paint and creaky steps a stark contrast to the excitement brewing inside Harry's mind.
Upon entering, they were greeted by Charles Xavier, seated in his wheelchair, looking every bit the wise mentor. His calm demeanor radiated authority, even as he was flanked by Hank McCoy, who had the scholarly air of someone who had read every book in the library twice—and probably had a few quips up his sleeve. To Harry's right stood Brunhilde, his no-nonsense Valkyrie trainer, who could probably take down a small army with just her glare.
"Welcome back," Charles said, his voice smooth like a well-aged bourbon. "I trust your trip down memory lane went smoothly?"
Warren Worthington III, aka Angel, shrugged, hiding his wings beneath his trench coat like a hipster trying to keep up with the latest fashion trends. "As smoothly as it can go when you're mistaken for a monster by a bunch of Huntresses."
"Charming," Hank quipped, adjusting his glasses. "You must have made quite the impression."
Harry stepped forward, his eyes glinting with mischief as he spotted Hank's holographic bracelet. "Nice tech, Mr. McCoy! Mind if I take a look? I could probably help you upgrade it."
Hank raised an intrigued eyebrow. "You're familiar with holographic technology?"
"Let's just say I have the blessing of Haephaestus. Also, my divine dad taught me a thing or two about crafting," Harry replied with a casual shrug, channeling his inner Loki. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"You know, every time someone says that, something terrible happens," Warren retorted, crossing his arms with a smirk.
"Okay, maybe not the worst," Harry laughed. "But I can definitely make it more efficient. Unless you want it to malfunction spectacularly. I can do that, too."
Meanwhile, Hermione Granger, his ever-curious friend, tugged at his sleeve. "Wait, wait! What's this about an Omega-level mutant?"
Charles exchanged a knowing glance with Hank. "An Omega-level mutant is one whose powers are so extreme that they can manipulate reality itself—think of them as the mutants of all mutants."
Hermione's eyes sparkled with interest. "What other levels are there?"
Hank cleared his throat, as if he were about to drop some serious knowledge. "Mutants are classified into tiers: Alpha and Beta mutants are useful but not world-altering. Omega-level is at the top. There are also Gamma and Delta levels, but they're not commonly discussed."
"So, you've got a whole ranking system based on mutant power levels," Harry chimed in. "And it seems like we're both here for the same reason."
Charles nodded, his expression serious. "I detected a signal indicating the presence of an Omega-level mutant nearby. We couldn't ignore it."
"And we have a prophecy," Harry added, practically bouncing on his heels. "The Oracle of Delphi said there's a Child of Power here that we need to meet."
"What kind of prophecy?" Charles inquired, intrigued.
"Not vague at all!" Harry said cheerfully. "It was very straightforward: we'd find a Child of Power here, no strings attached. No pressure, right?"
"Not at all," Warren muttered, rolling his eyes.
Brunhilde crossed her arms, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It appears our paths are meant to cross. Perhaps the Fates have a hand in this."
Hermione nodded, her mind racing with possibilities. "So, we're all looking for the same child?"
"Looks that way," Harry confirmed, glancing back towards the farmhouse. "Shall we head inside and figure this out?"
"Indeed," Charles said, his voice imbued with purpose. "If this child possesses Omega-level powers, we must approach the situation with caution."
"Caution is my middle name," Harry said with a grin. "Right after Chaos."
As they headed toward the door, Hermione leaned in closer to Harry. "Is your middle name actually Chaos?"
Harry flashed a mischievous smile. "Maybe. But wouldn't it be way cooler if it was?"
With a shared look of determination, this mismatched band of heroes stepped into the farmhouse. Whatever awaited them inside, one thing was for sure: when gods and mutants came together, things were about to get epic. And with Harry at the helm, there would undoubtedly be plenty of chaos—and maybe a little mischief along the way. After all, he embodied the wild spirit of Loki and the honor of Artemis, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
—
Meanwhile, inside the farmhouse…
Sara Grey, thirteen years old and cursed with the ability to find trouble where no one else could, was sprawled across the living room couch, flipping channels on the TV. Just as she was settling on some cheesy crime show, she glanced out the window—and froze.
"Uh, Mom? Dad?" Sara called, her voice laced with equal parts curiosity and alarm. "We've got a situation."
Her dad, Dr. John Grey, appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "What kind of situation?"
Sara kept her eyes glued to the window. "The weird kind."
Six strangers were walking straight toward the farmhouse. Four guys, three girls. One of the guys was bald and sitting in a wheelchair like he was in charge. There was also a kid who couldn't be older than ten, and another girl—maybe a year younger than Sara—sticking close to the adults. One of the guys, tall and trench-coaty, looked like the kind of dude who only smiled in the event of a solar eclipse.
"They're coming up the driveway," Sara said. "And unless you invited a bunch of strangers for afternoon tea, we've got company. Suspicious company."
Her mom, Elaine Grey, entered with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. "Company? Who?"
Sara waved toward the window. "See for yourself. We've got a bald guy in a wheelchair, some serious trench coat energy, and—" She squinted. "Is that a kid with spiky hair? Great, now I'm curious."
John frowned and crossed to the window, squinting at the approaching group. "They don't look like locals."
Sara grinned. "What gave it away? The fact that trench-coat-guy looks like a wandering wizard or the two kids tagging along?"
Elaine glanced toward the stairs. "Sara, don't make too much noise. Your sister—"
"I know," Sara interrupted, her voice dropping. "Jean's still in her room. She hasn't moved all day." She paused, her grin fading. "She's really torn up about Annie."
The room went quiet for a moment, the weight of that name lingering in the air like a storm cloud. Sara didn't like thinking about it, but ever since Annie's accident, Jean had been a wreck. Her sister hadn't come out of her room, not even for dinner, and Sara had no idea how to help.
John broke the silence, his tone gentle but firm. "Elaine, stay with Sara. I'll handle this."
Sara rolled her eyes. "You always say that. And guess what? I always end up involved anyway." She tilted her head. "What if they've got superpowers? Or they're here to recruit us into some secret organization? Or worse—what if they're here to take Jean?"
Her mom gave her the mom look, the one that said, "Don't even think about it."
"Fine," Sara muttered, hands raised. "I'll behave. For now. But if anyone starts glowing or throwing fireballs, I'm calling dibs on the first punch."
Elaine gave her a tired smile as John headed for the door, his jaw set like he was ready for whatever came next.
Sara watched the group get closer, her pulse picking up. The girl with them looked nervous, like she was walking into a haunted house. The guy in the trench coat looked annoyed, like the kind of person who regularly dealt with haunted houses and was tired of it. And the bald guy in the wheelchair? Yeah, he looked important—like someone who knew exactly where he was going and why.
Sara's curiosity burned. Something told her life on the farm was about to change forever, and she wasn't sure if she was ready.
But then again, boring farm life had never really suited her anyway.
—
Upstairs, Jean Grey was trying her best to shut the world out. Which, let's be honest, was kind of hard when you were an almost ten-year-old telepath who accidentally eavesdropped on people's thoughts. Jean hadn't quite mastered the "off" switch for her brain yet. Most kids worry about acne or homework—Jean had to deal with other people's mental playlists. Fun, right?
At the moment, though, she didn't care about random thoughts or telepathic static. All she wanted was to be alone, curled up under her blanket, pretending the world didn't exist. Because if the world existed, then Annie was still gone. And that thought was a punch straight to her heart every time.
But, naturally, the universe didn't let her wallow in peace for long.
The voices slipped in, subtle at first. Six people. Some of them cautious, others curious. Two were the same age as her, one full of nervous excitement, while another felt like a walking thunderstorm, but contained, for now. And there was a really strong mind too—like an unbreakable fortress—but underneath it, Jean sensed kindness.
She sat up, rubbing her temples. "Great. More weird stuff. Exactly what I needed today."
And that's when it stirred.
The Phoenix.
Jean had no idea what the Phoenix actually was—just that it had been lurking inside her head for a while now, like some cosmic hitchhiker. It didn't talk often, but when it did, it always sounded like it knew everything about everything. Super helpful, obviously.
He's here, the Phoenix murmured, its voice warm and smug, like it had just beaten her in a game she didn't know she was playing. The Godling has arrived.
Jean blinked. "The what now?"
Harry.
Jean frowned, trying to untangle the jumble of thoughts running through her head. "Okay… who's Harry, and why does it sound like you've been expecting him? Did you invite someone over without telling me?" Because at this point, nothing would surprise her.
He followed the trail I left for him, the Phoenix said, and Jean could swear it sounded way too pleased with itself. He is here, as I knew he would be. His power calls to us.
"Cool. Except I have no idea what you're talking about, and this is all getting a little creepy," Jean muttered. But the Phoenix just hummed in contentment, ignoring her completely. Typical.
Jean stood up, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She could still feel the six strangers approaching, their thoughts getting clearer by the second. One of them—whoever this Harry guy was—felt weirdly familiar to her, even though she was positive they'd never met. His presence tugged at her mind, like a melody she couldn't quite place but knew she should recognize.
And the Phoenix? Oh, the Phoenix was downright giddy. If it had hands, it'd probably be rubbing them together like some cartoon villain. He is like you, child. He has come for us. Together, we will rise—brighter, stronger than ever before.
Jean shivered. There was something thrilling—and terrifying—about the whole thing. She had the distinct feeling that, whether she liked it or not, her life was about to take a turn into seriously uncharted territory.
From downstairs, she could sense her sister Sara spying out the window and her parents exchanging nervous glances. They knew something strange was coming too.
Jean took a deep breath and tried to steady her racing heart.
She had no idea who this Harry kid was or why the Phoenix was so excited about him, but one thing was certain—nothing would ever be the same after today.
And knowing her luck? It was going to get a whole lot weirder before it got any better.
—
As the six travelers trudged toward the old Grey farmhouse, the scene played out like the setup for a bad joke: A professor in a wheelchair, an angel in a trench coat, a blue genius trying not to explode, two divine kids, and a Valkyrie walk onto a farm... Honestly, it sounded like one of those weird dreams where your subconscious just throws characters together for the heck of it. Except this was very real.
Leading the way was Charles Xavier, smoothly rolling along in his motorized wheelchair like the world's most zen chess master. Right behind him, Warren Worthington III tried—and failed—to look like a normal guy. Even with his wings folded under a harness and hidden beneath a trench coat, he still moved like someone used to soaring through clouds, not sneaking around on solid ground. Hank McCoy brought up the rear, nervously tapping at the bracelet on his wrist, as if it might blow his cover at any second and leave him a furry blue giant on some unsuspecting farmer's doorstep.
Then there were the kids.
First, you had Hermione, daughter of Athena, walking like she was both memorizing the route and silently critiquing the farmhouse architecture. She looked like the kind of person who'd ask if they had an organized spice rack before sitting down for tea. Right next to her was Haris Lokison, son of Loki and Artemis. And hoo boy, if you thought having one god for a parent was complicated, imagine juggling two, both with wildly different agendas. Harry gave off the vibe of someone who just knew things would go wrong—and looked forward to it.
He had the charm of a con artist, the cunning of a fox, and a whole lot of divine mojo stuffed into his ten-year-old frame. Raised by the Huntresses of Artemis, trained by pranksters like Sirius Black, and blessed by half the gods on Mount Olympus, Harry was walking chaos in a hoodie. Sure, he could probably summon a storm or shapeshift into a dragon, but nine times out of ten, he'd rather prank you and make you laugh while doing it. His Valkyrie bodyguard, Brunhilde was never far from his side, always looking like she was one insult away from throwing someone through a wall.
As they reached the front porch, the door creaked open. Dr. John Grey stood there, looking equal parts curious and annoyed, with his wife Elaine peeking over his shoulder. Their faces screamed: What in the world is going on, and why are these weirdos here?
Professor Xavier opened his mouth, about to do his whole mental smooth-talking routine—you know, the one where people suddenly decide that letting strangers into their house is totally reasonable. But before he could work his mojo, Harry stepped up with the kind of grin that could melt glaciers.
He flipped the charm switch.
See, when Aphrodite gives you an allure, people don't just like you—they trust you. They want to invite you in for snacks and ask if you'd like a blanket for the couch. Harry didn't even push it to full power; he just gave the couple a warm, slightly mischievous smile. The kind of smile that said, We're nice. Totally trustworthy. And, no, we're definitely not here to start any trouble.
"Hey!" Harry said, flashing his green eyes just enough to sparkle. "I know this is a little random, but we were hoping to talk to your daughter Jean. Promise we're not selling anything."
Dr. Grey blinked. He looked like he wanted to be suspicious, but instead, what came out of his mouth was, "Oh. Uh… sure. Come on in."
Elaine smiled warmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to let six strange people into her house. "You must be tired! I'll put on some tea."
Harry shot a glance back at Professor Xavier, his grin saying, And that's how it's done. Xavier raised an eyebrow but couldn't help the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Cheeky little godling.
Warren muttered under his breath, "Well, that was subtle."
Harry shrugged. "Subtlety's for people who don't have a divine charm button."
Brunhilde gave a low chuckle. "That's also what you said when you convinced those Nereids to give you all their pearls."
"What can I say?" Harry replied, spreading his hands wide. "People like me."
They filed into the warm, cozy farmhouse, the smell of fresh bread drifting through the air. For a second, everything felt weirdly peaceful. Like maybe—just maybe—this would be a straightforward visit.
Of course, Harry knew better. Things never stayed peaceful for long.
—
As soon as the front door swung open, Harry was on. Not in an over-the-top way, but with that effortless charm that made everyone—kids, adults, and even pets—instantly like him. John and Elaine Grey didn't stand a chance. He grinned up at them, tilting his head just slightly, like a curious puppy that also knew exactly how to set off fireworks without getting caught. The 13-year-old Sara, who had come to the door with her parents, was already softening, even though she started the evening with crossed arms and a look that said, I dare you to impress me.
"Hi, I'm Harry," he said brightly. "I like magic tricks, chocolate frogs, and blowing things up—uh, responsibly. Mostly."
Sara blinked. Then she smiled—barely—but Harry caught it. Gotcha, he thought with a mental fist pump.
Meanwhile, Charles Xavier and Hermione—because yes, even at ten years old, she was that Hermione—were already shifting gears, their attention zeroed in on the real reason they were here. Something big had happened to Jean recently, something that had triggered her powers, and the two of them were determined to find out what. You could practically see the gears turning in Charles's head like he was both a teacher and a detective trying not to scare the witness.
"Has anything unusual happened lately with Jean?" Charles asked, keeping his tone light, as if this were just polite conversation.
Elaine and John exchanged a look—the kind of look parents give when deciding how much to share without freaking out their audience.
"There was... an accident," Elaine said slowly. "Her best friend Annie—" She hesitated, her voice catching on the words. "She passed away not long ago. It was a terrible shock for Jean."
Hermione's face softened in that way only Hermione's could—equal parts compassion and I'm-going-to-fix-this energy. Charles gave a small nod, the kind that meant yep, that's what I thought, but also this is worse than I expected.
Harry, meanwhile, was playing his role perfectly, keeping things light and easy, steering the conversation with precision. He wasn't just good with words—he had that divine trickster gift from his dad, Loki, and he knew exactly when to turn on the charm and when to dial it back.
Sara shifted closer, curiosity starting to override her teenage skepticism. "So... you like blowing things up?" she asked, crossing her arms a little tighter but not in a mean way.
Harry grinned, leaning in like they were sharing a secret. "Only if it's funny." He glanced around, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Or if the target really deserves it."
Sara snorted, a laugh she tried to hide but failed miserably. Harry filed that away under Victory.
Hermione, however, was locked in Problem-Solving Mode. She was already making a mental checklist—figure out what Jean was going through, help her control her powers, prevent any world-ending disasters. You know, the usual.
Charles kept the conversation with the Greys polite but focused, asking more questions about Jean's mood since Annie's death. Had she been withdrawn? Angry? Shown any signs of... unusual behavior? The kind of "unusual" that involved telekinetic objects flying across the room or random emotional outbursts causing light bulbs to explode?
John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Jean's been... different," he admitted. "Quiet, mostly. But sometimes she has these moments where... it's like all her emotions hit at once. She'll be fine, and then suddenly she's not. Things get... strange when that happens."
"Strange how?" Charles asked, his tone gentle but pointed.
Elaine hesitated again, clearly unsure how much to say. "Lights flicker. Sometimes things move without anyone touching them."
Harry kept up his charming act with Sara and the Greys, but his mind was whirring, running through all the things his various mentors and divine relatives had drilled into him. Telekinetic powers triggered by grief? Yeah, that sounds like a recipe for chaos. He could practically hear his dad Loki cackling in the back of his mind, muttering something about how emotional turmoil was always the best kind of turmoil.
Just great. He hadn't even been here five minutes, and already they were neck-deep in trouble.
Not that Harry minded, of course. Trouble was kind of his thing.
---
By now, Charles had gotten most of what he needed from the Greys. He gave them that reassuring Xavier look, the one that said Don't worry, I have this under control, even though everyone in the room knew full well that he didn't. Not yet, anyway.
Meanwhile, Harry shot a glance at Hermione, who met his gaze with the kind of determined expression that said We are going to solve this mystery if it kills us.
Harry grinned. "So, Hermione," he said casually, loud enough for everyone to hear, "do you think we'll have time to blow something up before dinner, or is that frowned upon?"
John Grey chuckled, clearly relieved to shift the mood, while Sara gave Harry a look that said You are officially the coolest kid I've met.
"Frowned upon," Hermione answered without missing a beat, though the corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh.
"Noted," Harry said with a mock-salute. "But I'm still keeping it on the table. You know, just in case."
Sara actually laughed this time, and Harry felt another small victory notch in his belt.
Because at the end of the day, that's what he did. Whether it was charming a skeptical teenager, navigating an awkward conversation about mutant powers, or preparing to stop the end of the world, Harry Potter—sorry, Haris Lokison—was always ready for the next adventure.
And if he had to blow something up along the way?
Well, that was just a bonus.
—
John and Eliane climbed the stairs like they were trying to sneak past a dragon—except the dragon was their almost-ten-year-old daughter, and instead of fire, she breathed sass and attitude. Not that anyone could blame her, considering what she'd been through recently. Jean hadn't exactly been herself since Annie's death. And by "hadn't been herself," I mean she'd become a walking bundle of grief mixed with cosmic weirdness. You know, typical kid stuff.
"Think she'll come down without an argument?" Eliane whispered, glancing nervously toward the door at the top of the stairs.
"Jean? Not likely," John whispered back. "Best-case scenario, we avoid an emotional meltdown."
Eliane shot him a look that said, Great pep talk, champ.
They reached the door and exchanged one of those married-couple glances that said, Here we go—wish us luck. John tapped on the door. "Jean? Honey? Some folks downstairs want to meet you."
On the other side of the door, Jean sat cross-legged on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her hair, the color of sunlit copper, fell over her face. But behind those big, green eyes, things were... complicated. And not the teenage-drama kind of complicated, either. No, we're talking cosmic-entity-in-your-head complicated.
"Go to him," a voice purred inside her mind, hot and insistent, like a flame flickering just out of reach.
Jean groaned. The Phoenix Force—because, yes, her mind had room for that sort of thing—had been getting louder lately, always whispering weird things at the most inconvenient times. Like now. "The Godling is here," it urged again. "He waits for you."
Jean scowled. "I don't even know what a Godling is."
The Phoenix chuckled, warm and sly. "He's like you, little one—different. Powerful. You'll want to meet him. Trust me."
Trusting the Phoenix was, objectively, a terrible idea. But Jean could feel the truth in the voice's words. Lately, she'd felt... off. Like she was a puzzle with a missing piece and had no idea what the picture on the box was supposed to look like.
And now, apparently, this Harry kid was part of that missing piece? Sure. Why not. It wasn't like her life could get weirder, right? (Spoiler: It could. It always could.)
With a sigh that could have won her an Olympic gold medal for Longest Dramatic Exhale, Jean slid off the bed. Barefoot, she padded toward the door, muttering under her breath, "This better not be a waste of time."
Outside, John raised an eyebrow at Eliane as they heard the soft thud of her footsteps. "She's coming?"
"Looks like it," Eliane whispered, half in disbelief. "That was... easier than expected."
"Don't jinx it."
The door creaked open, and there stood Jean, looking small but determined. Her eyes were serious—too serious for a kid—and glinted with a weird sort of awareness, as if she knew something about the universe the rest of them didn't. Which, let's face it, was probably true.
"I'm coming," she announced, voice flat but with a flicker of curiosity. Then she looked at her parents with those intense green eyes. "He feels... different, doesn't he?"
John swallowed hard, wondering how much his daughter really knew. "Yeah, kiddo. He does."
As Jean followed them down the stairs, the Phoenix hummed in the back of her mind, purring like a contented cat with a new toy. "Yes," it whispered. "The Godling. Let's see what makes him special."
And just like that, the cosmic countdown clock had started ticking. Things were about to get interesting.
---
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