The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

Meanwhile, in the not-so-quiet sanctuary of 1407 Graymalkin Lane in Salem Center, Westchester County, New York, things were about to get even more interesting. Professor Charles Xavier was just settling in for a rare moment of peace when the lights flickered ominously. A low hum filled the air, quickly escalating into a full-blown alarm.

Cerebro, his trusty mutant-detecting supercomputer, was going haywire. Charles rolled his wheelchair over to the console, heart racing as he read the screen.

"Oh dear," he muttered, eyes wide. "This can't be good."

In the lower levels of the mansion, the monitors blinked with an unsettling urgency. Cerebro had detected a mutant—a highly powerful one. An Omega-level mutant.

Before he could fully digest the implications, Hank McCoy burst into the room, his brow furrowed in concern. "Professor, I heard the alarm! What's happening?"

"Cerebro has identified a new Omega-level mutant," Charles replied, his voice steady but urgent. "It seems we have a situation on our hands."

"An Omega? Are you sure?" Hank adjusted his glasses, peering at the screens, where swirling data displayed a surge of psychic energy. "This could change everything."

"Indeed it could," Charles said, trying to keep the worry out of his tone. "We need to locate her immediately."

Just then, Warren Worthington III strolled in, his usual swagger tempered by curiosity. "What's the fuss, fellas? Is it time for a rescue mission or what?"

Charles gestured for them to gather around the monitors. "Cerebro has identified a young girl named Jean Grey in New York. She has just unlocked her abilities, and they are unlike anything we've seen before."

"Great," Warren replied, crossing his arms. "So, are we just letting her figure it out on her own? Because, you know, that usually ends badly."

"We can't just sit here," Hank interjected, his scientist's mind racing. "An Omega-level mutant is an immense responsibility. We need to help her before she loses control."

"Exactly," Charles said, nodding. "We must act quickly. If the Phoenix Force has indeed taken notice of her, we don't know what kind of trouble that could bring."

Warren raised an eyebrow. "You mean the cosmic entity that can destroy worlds? That's just fantastic. Is this a normal Tuesday for us?"

"Hardly," Charles replied with a hint of a smile. "But we have no time for sarcasm. We need to get to her before anyone else does."

Hank nodded, his expression turning serious. "I'll prepare the Blackbird for takeoff."

Warren stretched his wings, eager to take to the skies. "Let's do this. Just hope she's not too freaked out by our entrance."

As the two young X-Men rushed to gear up, Charles focused on the monitors. He could feel the pulse of Jean's power, like a heartbeat echoing through the cosmos, both beautiful and terrifying.

"Jean," he whispered softly, "we're coming."

---

Meanwhile, in the small farmhouse tucked near Bard College, life carried on. Sort of. Jean's parents, Elaine and Professor John Grey, were doing the best they could. Which, frankly, wasn't much.

"Maybe she needs to see a counselor," Elaine whispered one night, sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. John, looking exhausted from grading papers, rubbed his eyes.

"She just lost her best friend, Elaine. Of course she's going to be quiet for a while."

"A while? She hasn't spoken in weeks. She barely eats. Sara said she cried herself to sleep again last night."

Upstairs, Jean sat cross-legged on her bed, her favorite book open on her lap—not that she was reading it. The words blurred together on the page as her mind drifted elsewhere, far, far away, to something bright and fiery waiting on the edge of her consciousness.

A weird something was in her head now. Not like Annie's final thoughts—this was different. It wasn't sad or painful. It was... curious. Warm, like sunlight. Not scary, exactly, but definitely other.

Jean tilted her head, sensing the presence again. It felt like an old cat curling up beside her: calm, ancient, and a little smug, as if it knew all the secrets of the universe but couldn't be bothered to explain them.

"Hello again, little one," the presence whispered. "It's me. The Phoenix."

Jean had no idea what a Phoenix was, but she knew two things: 1) this voice was way cooler than her mom's therapist idea, and 2) she didn't feel quite so alone anymore.

---

Across the Atlantic, things weren't exactly normal for the universe's other favorite kid. Harry Potter, son of two gods, was hanging upside-down from a tree branch, because that's just the kind of day he was having.

"Hey, mom?" Harry called, his messy black hair swaying like an octopus on caffeine. "Little help here?"

The moon goddess, standing beneath the tree with her arms crossed, gave him a look that said, I brought you into this world, and I can leave you in it.

"You got yourself stuck, son," Artemis said dryly. "Figure it out."

Harry groaned. "Remind me again how being a child of two gods doesn't come with, like, better perks?"

"You have perks. You just don't use them properly," she replied, brushing a strand of silver hair out of her face. "Your father and your godfather taught you all kinds of tricks."

"Yeah, well, they mostly taught me how to prank people and avoid consequences." Harry twisted around, his foot still tangled in the branch. "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"Oh, definitely."

With a dramatic sigh, Harry let himself drop—and landed in a graceless heap at Artemis's feet.

"Ta-da," he grumbled, brushing leaves out of his hair.

"You've got to learn balance, Harry." Artemis smirked. "Both in the trees and in life."

"Noted." Harry gave her a lopsided grin, the same grin that made adults sigh and say, 'You're trouble.'

And honestly? They weren't wrong.

As Harry dusted himself off, he felt a strange tingle at the back of his mind, like a TV antenna picking up a new channel. Something—or someone—was reaching out to him. Not consciously, just... brushing against his thoughts like a breeze through an open window.

Weird.

---

Back in New York, the Phoenix hummed in satisfaction, watching her two chosen children from afar. Jean's mind was a spark—fragile, but burning with potential. And Harry... oh, Harry. He was a cosmic wild card, a blend of chaos and control, trouble wrapped in divine charm.

The Phoenix couldn't resist. These two humans—one already touched by tragedy, the other a mischievous godling—would be interesting on their own. But together?

Now that was going to be something extraordinary.

"Soon," the Phoenix whispered. "Soon you'll meet, little god and little spark. And when you do... well, let's just say the universe will never be the same."

With that thought, the Phoenix curled deeper into Jean's mind, making herself comfortable. After all, if she was going to stick around, she might as well get used to these human feelings—and maybe, just maybe, stir up a little trouble along the way.

Because where's the fun in being a cosmic force of creation if you don't cause a little chaos?

—

Harry Potter (or, as he prefers in some circles, Haris Lokison), stepped out of the swirling green Floo flames and into the Big House at Camp Half-Blood, dragging the scent of fireplace smoke and victory with him. His entourage—Brunhilde, Jasper, Charles, Silena, Travis, Connor, Clarisse, Annabeth, Thalia, and Luke—spilled out behind him, their laughter bouncing off the walls as they relived every glorious, chaotic moment from the fourth annual Marauders Prank War. That particular circus, also known as Harry's 10th birthday party, had taken place at the Black Family's seaside cabin in England. If glitter bombs and enchanted water balloons counted as "decor," the place was gorgeous by now.

"Ah, there's the birthday boy," Chiron greeted warmly from his wheelchair, giving them a knowing smile. Mr. D stood next to him, scowling like his entire life was one big inconvenience.

"Back already? I was hoping the English wizards would keep you." Mr. D swirled his Diet Coke, looking vaguely disappointed. "Or at least lose you."

"Thanks, Mr. D. Means a lot," Harry shot back with a grin.

"We obliterated them," Connor crowed, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. "You should've seen it! Even Hermione got in on the pranks. At one point, the toilets sang God Save the Queen."

Chiron raised an amused eyebrow. "Sounds… festive."

Festive didn't quite cover it. Harry still felt the warm buzz of adrenaline. Nothing quite compared to seeing the twins' enchanted confetti cannons explode at exactly the right moment, or the look on Sirius Black's face when his hair turned bubblegum pink and refused to go back.

Still, as Harry chuckled along with his friends, a quiet unease pulled at him—something just out of reach, like a whisper at the edge of his mind. He frowned, not for the first time that day. The feeling had been there ever since they left England. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly. More like... someone, or something, was trying to get his attention.

"You okay, Harry?" Annabeth asked, watching him closely.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah... just—do you ever get that weird feeling, like... something's calling you?"

Connor waggled his eyebrows. "Sounds like puberty."

"Shut it," Harry muttered, though he couldn't help a laugh. "It's serious. I felt it on the way here. Like... like I need to go somewhere. I don't know where, but I can feel it. It's almost... pulling me."

Chiron's smile faded into something thoughtful. "You should trust that feeling," he said. "Instincts are rarely wrong, especially in your case."

Mr. D groaned. "Oh please. Don't encourage him to go chasing after some divine quest. Last thing we need is him stirring up more trouble."

Harry shot a sidelong glance at Dionysus. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to not care about any of this. Good luck with whatever poor life choices you make next." He gave them a half-hearted wave and shuffled toward the fridge for another Coke.

Harry turned back to Chiron. "What do you think it is? The gods messing with me?"

Chiron tilted his head in thought. "Possibly. Or it could be something else—something deeper." He gave Harry a significant look. "The Oracle."

Harry shivered. Even thinking about the Oracle was creepy. A dead body, sitting up in the attic, still doling out prophecies? Yeah, no thanks.

"You want me to talk to her?"

"I think," Chiron said gently, "you already know the answer."

The others shifted uncomfortably. Nobody liked going to the attic. It wasn't exactly on the Camp Half-Blood highlight tour. Clarisse muttered something about it being Annabeth's turn to go up there, to which Annabeth coolly replied, "No thanks. I like my nightmares the way they are."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy black hair. "Fine, I'll do it. Can't be worse than spending ten minutes with Mr. D, right?"

"That's the spirit," Chiron said with a chuckle, though his expression remained serious.

Harry knew that look. It was the kind of look that meant something big was coming. And with his luck, "something big" usually meant monsters, prophecies, or both. Probably both.

He glanced at his friends. "Anyone wanna join me, or do I get to do the whole spooky attic thing solo?"

Silena gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, but the attic gives me the heebie-jeebies. You're on your own, hero."

Thalia patted him on the back. "Good luck, Haris Lokison. Don't let the creepy dead lady curse you."

"Comforting," Harry muttered.

Still, a flicker of excitement stirred in his chest as he started toward the stairs. Sure, the Oracle was unsettling, but there was something about the unknown—something about walking straight into danger with nothing but instinct and wit—that always made him feel alive.

After all, being the son of Loki and Artemis wasn't exactly a recipe for a boring life. Chaos followed him like a second shadow. But then again, so did opportunity.

And with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Harry decided that whatever was waiting for him in that attic—prophecy, curse, or something worse—he was ready for it.

Well, mostly ready.

"Here we go," he whispered, taking the first step up the creaking staircase.

And with that, Haris Lokison—part trickster, part hunter, part something in-between—headed straight toward whatever weird, wild, and undoubtedly dangerous thing Fate had in store for him next. Because if there was one thing Harry was sure of, it was this:

Adventure was never more than a step away.

—

Harry wasn't exactly thrilled to be alone in the attic of the Big House. For one, it was way too quiet—like "serial-killer-in-the-movie's-about-to-strike" quiet. And two, he had no idea what to expect from the Oracle. She wasn't your run-of-the-mill fortune teller. No crystal balls, no tarot cards, just a creepy corpse and prophecies that came wrapped in riddles vague enough to make you question your existence.

As he approached, the Oracle stirred. Her hollow eyes locked onto him, and her mouth creaked open like an old attic door. Lovely. Then came the green mist—a thick, swirling cloud that crawled out of her mouth, twisting and shifting until it took shape.

Of all people, it had to be Mr. D. Just his luck. The mist solidified into the smug, wine-loving face Harry knew all too well. Mr. D, god of parties and passive-aggressive commentary. He gave Harry a look that said, 'I can't believe I have to deal with you, of all people.'

Then the Oracle's voice filled the room, her words crawling up Harry's spine like spiders.

"Where the wild flame meets the tide, a child of power shall not hide.

Seek the house among fields and trees, where silence hums with mysteries.

Friends or foes, three will appear, with minds unread and motives unclear.

One ally of wisdom and one of lore, your path will cross to even the score.

Beware the bond that's not yet set, or your fate may cast a net."

The green mist evaporated, leaving behind the faint scent of grapes and a headache.

Harry sighed. "Of course, it's a riddle. Because gods forbid anything in my life makes sense."

The prophecy wasn't exactly handing him answers on a silver platter. A house in some field? A child with power? Three strangers who might—or might not—be friendly? Yeah, this sounded like exactly the kind of mission that was going to end with him dodging fireballs, psychic attacks, or both.

He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking it through. Fields and trees... that could be anywhere. But the mention of a flame? That felt significant. Maybe it wasn't literal fire—could it be a metaphor for something? He knew better than to assume otherwise; the gods had a bad habit of making their riddles extra complicated just for kicks.

"Great. So, I need to find a house, meet some mystery kid, and try not to get mind-controlled by three strangers." He paused, tapping his chin. "Oh, and no pressure, but apparently my fate's on the line. Perfect."

At least he wouldn't be alone for this one. According to the prophecy, he had two allies lined up: one of wisdom and one of lore. That had to be Brunhilde, his Valkyrie bodyguard, and Hermione, daughter of Athena. They were the dream team—well, mostly. Hermione was brilliant, but she tended to get a bit bossy. And Brunhilde? Let's just say training with her made getting hit by a truck seem like a gentle breeze.

"Okay," Harry muttered, pacing the attic. "We find the house. We meet this flame kid. We avoid weird strangers who may or may not be reading our thoughts. Easy enough."

Yeah, right. Nothing was ever easy when it came to prophecies. Or gods. Or, frankly, Harry's life in general.

But that was just how things worked when you were Haris Lokison—the not-quite-mortal, not-quite-divine son of Loki and Artemis. Mischief, chaos, and riddles were all part of the family business.

With one last glance at the now-silent Oracle, Harry grinned. A challenge like this? It was just another Tuesday.

"Guess it's time to hit the road."

—

Harry descended the stairs of the Big House like a guy who knew his day was about to go sideways. There was a certain swagger in his step—half mischief, half 'I can't believe I have to deal with this.' The moment his boots hit the floor, the room's vibe shifted from "mildly anxious" to "oh, thank gods, here comes the chaos."

Waiting for him was the usual crew: Chiron, looking like a concerned middle-school principal; Brunhilde, radiating Valkyrie-level readiness to punch something; and his friends, a mismatched collection of demigods and troublemakers—Thalia, Jasper, Charles, Silena, Luke, Travis, Connor, Hermione, and Clarisse. If there was ever a group destined to make sure things didn't go smoothly, it was this one.

"Finally!" Clarisse barked, cracking her knuckles. "We were about to send Connor to drag you out by the ankles."

Harry flashed a grin. "Well, aren't you a morning person."

"Prophecy time, then?" Luke asked, eyebrows raised. His expression said, Let's get this disaster over with.

Harry exhaled through his nose. "You're gonna love this one. It's super clear and definitely doesn't sound like impending doom."

Everyone groaned in unison, except for Hermione, who already had her notebook out. That was Hermione for you—treating prophecies like an extra-credit essay.

Harry recited the prophecy with a dramatic flair worthy of his dad:

"Where the wild flame meets the tide,

A child of power shall not hide.

Seek the house among fields and trees,

Where silence hums with mysteries.

Friends or foes, three will appear,

With minds unread and motives unclear.

One ally of wisdom and one of lore,

Your path will cross to even the score.

Beware the bond that's not yet set,

Or your fate may cast a net."

He finished with a flourish, hoping for applause. Instead, there was silence—the kind of silence that usually comes right before someone suggests a really bad idea.

"Yeah, so… thoughts?" Harry asked, rocking back on his heels. "Or should I just wing it and hope the monsters feel merciful?"

Thalia rubbed her temple. "Great. Another prophecy that sounds like a riddle wrapped in a death threat."

"'Wild flame meets the tide,'" Jasper murmured, tapping his chin. "That could mean a literal volcano. Or, like, really spicy shrimp."

Charles snorted. "Nothing says 'heroic quest' like seafood."

Hermione, who had already scribbled half a page of notes, frowned. "The 'house among fields and trees' part sounds familiar. Maybe a sanctuary? Or a hidden temple?"

"Because nothing ever goes wrong in those," Connor quipped, earning him an eye roll from his twin.

Harry waved a hand. "It's vague, sure. But the Oracle made one thing pretty clear—I'll need two specific people for this little joyride." He glanced at Brunhilde and Hermione. "You two are coming with me."

Brunhilde crossed her arms. "Figured."

Hermione adjusted her bag with a determined nod. "What exactly are we walking into?"

"No idea," Harry replied cheerfully. "But it'll probably involve monsters. Maybe ancient curses. Maybe seafood."

Connor raised a hand. "If it's cursed seafood, I'm out."

Chiron cleared his throat in that wise-centaur-who's-tired-of-your-nonsense way. "Harry, the prophecy sounds urgent. You'll need to prepare quickly."

Harry gave him a salute that was exactly 10% respectful. "No worries, I've got a plan."

"Does it involve pranks?" Luke asked, half hopeful, half exasperated.

"Luke, all my plans involve pranks," Harry said, grinning like he'd already thought of several. "That's just basic strategy. Gotta keep the monsters on their toes."

As Harry turned to leave, Brunhilde clapped him on the back. "If you get us killed, I'm haunting you."

"Join the club," Harry said with a wink. "Now come on, ladies. We've got a vague prophecy to unravel, monsters to fight, and bonds-that-aren't-yet-set to... bond with?"

Hermione gave him her signature You're an idiot, but I'll still follow you look. "You really don't take anything seriously, do you?"

Harry shot her a mischievous grin. "Sure I do. I just don't let it ruin my fun."

With that, he led them toward the door, feeling the weight of a hundred divine expectations on his shoulders. But, hey—he was Haris Lokison, son of Loki and Artemis. If anyone could juggle chaos, monsters, and prophecies with a smile, it was him.

After all, being caught between godhood and demigodhood meant Harry wasn't bound by the rules. He made the rules.

And then he probably broke them.

But that was half the fun.

—

Two groups were about to collide, not that any of them knew it yet. Group One: Harry, Brunhilde, and Hermione, riding in the Camp Half-Blood delivery van. Picture a rusty old box on wheels that somehow still moves—probably thanks to divine intervention or duct tape, nobody knows for sure. Brunhilde, a Valkyrie with a slightly concerning love for speed (which makes sense, given she just learned to drive and spent a millennium flying around Asgard without brakes), was behind the wheel. The words "Delphi Strawberry Service" were slapped across the side of the van, because why not make your mythological hideout sound like a farmers' market?

Harry sat shotgun, drumming his fingers on the dashboard, his eyes glowing with faint mischief. This wasn't just Harry Potter, boy who lived—this was Haris Lokison, part Asgardian, part Olympian, with way too many blessings to list. He wasn't exactly sure why they were driving out to some random farmhouse near Bard College, but he had that familiar gut feeling pulling him forward—his version of GPS. When your father is Loki and your mom is Artemis, you learn to trust weird instincts. They usually lead to fun things. Or explosions. Either way, Harry was game.

In the back of the van, Hermione Granger sat cross-legged, flipping through a map. She didn't trust Harry's gut feelings, mostly because she'd heard the story of when his gut feeling once led him to crash an Asgardian wedding—twice. She was muttering under her breath about the ridiculousness of following hunches.

"Relax, Hermione," Harry grinned. "If we get lost, Brunhilde can just, I dunno, summon a flying horse or something."

"I would rather not. Horses and seatbelts don't mix," the Valkyrie grumbled, weaving the van across two lanes like she was steering a chariot in a death race. Cars honked behind them.

---

Meanwhile, Group Two: Charles Xavier, Hank McCoy, and Warren Worthington III, were cruising in style, heading from the Xavier Institute in a sleek black sedan that looked like it came straight off a luxury car commercial. Charles Xavier, in his usual telepathic calm, was guiding them toward the same farmhouse, locked in on an Omega-level mutant through Cerebro's mental beacon. No one in the car realized that Harry's group was also aiming for the same target—or that their target was the same person: a kid named Jean Grey.

Warren, ever the angel in hiding, was driving the sedan with his wings strapped beneath his trench coat, trying to look inconspicuous. Which, to be fair, was really difficult when you're six-foot-something and built like a Greek statue with giant feathered appendages hidden in a harness. "Are we sure this kid is worth the road trip?" Warren asked, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Yes," Charles said calmly. "She's... exceptional. We need to reach her before anyone else does." He left out the part where "anyone else" included rival mutants, but did not include rogue demigods, and, potentially, a Valkyrie driving a van like a bat out of Helheim.

In the passenger seat, Hank McCoy was fiddling with a new gadget—a holographic bracelet designed to disguise his Beast form. As he adjusted the settings, his reflection flickered between normal Hank and blue-furred Hank, like someone was playing with a glitchy filter.

"Almost there," Hank muttered. "Just a few more adjustments, and I'll look as human as... well, Warren on a good day."

"Gee, thanks," Warren replied dryly.

---

Now, if you think two groups with wildly different vibes driving toward the same destination sounds like a recipe for chaos, congratulations—you have officially joined Team "Harry." The gods had a sense of humor, after all.

By some miracle (or curse), both groups left their starting points at the exact same time. Xavier's team departed from the stately mansion in Westchester County, while Harry's crew peeled out of Camp Half-Blood in Long Island, leaving a trail of strawberry-scented exhaust. Both were aiming for the same spot near Bard College, both thinking they were on a totally different mission.

The Delphi van, driven with reckless abandon by Brunhilde, blazed a trail down the interstate. Harry was humming along to a song that hadn't been invented yet (time worked weird when you were Loki's kid), while Hermione gritted her teeth every time the van veered too close to the guardrail.

"Do you have to drive like we're fleeing a dragon?" Hermione asked, gripping the seatbelt with white-knuckled intensity.

"I am a Valkyrie," Brunhilde shot back with a wicked grin. "This is how we drive."

Harry just laughed, delighted at the chaos. "Admit it, Hermione, you're having fun."

"I am not—" Hermione started, but then the van hit a pothole, and she bit her tongue.

Meanwhile, Xavier's team cruised smoothly along in their luxury sedan. Hank adjusted his bracelet again, his form flickering back to normal. Charles kept his focus forward, his mind gently brushing against the edges of Jean Grey's consciousness like a butterfly testing the wind. They were close now.

And so were Harry and company.

Two vehicles—one ancient and rattling, the other sleek and silent—sped toward the same remote farmhouse, unaware they were about to intersect not just their paths, but their destinies. Somewhere in that farmhouse was Jean Grey, a ten-year-old kid with more power than she knew what to do with. One group thought they were meeting the Child of Power. The other was here to recruit an Omega-level mutant. Neither had a clue that they were both after the same person.

And when gods, mutants, and demigods meet... things tend to go off the rails.

The only question left was: which group would get there first? And how many near-death experiences would it take before everyone figured out they were on the same side?

Probably too many.

—

The van careened down the highway with the grace of a Pegasus trying to do ballet on roller skates. Inside, Harry slouched in the passenger seat, grinning like a cat that knew exactly where the canary was and just wasn't saying. His emerald eyes gleamed with that tricky, I'm about to cause some trouble spark—very much his father's son. He rolled down the window to feel the wind on his face. It whipped his messy black hair around, but hey, looking like you just fought a tornado and won was kind of his thing. His red hoodie flapped behind him, the sleeves pushed up to reveal intricate black tattoos of constellations that seemed to shimmer under the moonlight.

"Do you ever not smile like you're planning something?" Hermione huffed from the back, shooting him a sharp glance over the top of her book. She'd given up trying to read the map about ten miles ago. Brunhilde's driving style ensured there was no such thing as a smooth ride.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Harry said, leaning back casually. "This is fun! You don't get this kind of thrill sitting in a stuffy library."

"You mean the thrill of almost dying every twenty seconds?" she shot back, gripping the seatbelt as the van swerved to avoid a truck.

"Exactly!" Harry beamed.

Brunhilde let out a whoop from the driver's seat, accelerating like she was being chased by Hel's hounds. "I like you, Harry. You get it. Driving fast is the closest thing Midgard has to flying."

"And crashing is the closest thing it has to dying!" Hermione yelled, her voice climbing with every swerve. She clutched her wand in one hand and muttered what sounded suspiciously like a prayer to Athena under her breath.

"Relax," Harry said, propping his feet up on the dashboard like a guy who had a backup plan for everything. Which, of course, he did. "What's the worst that could happen? If we hit a tree, I'll shapeshift into the tree and call it camouflage."

Hermione groaned. "That's not how it works!"

---

Meanwhile, in the black sedan, everything was the picture of cool, collected calm—on the surface, at least. Warren Worthington III gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, suppressing the urge to floor it. Unlike Harry's crew, this car was not running on divine luck. This was a state-of-the-art, mutant-funded, absolutely-do-not-dent-it piece of technology. No wild Valkyrie joyrides allowed.

"Are we certain this child—Jean Grey—needs our intervention immediately?" Warren asked, glancing at Charles Xavier in the rearview mirror. "This feels… rushed."

Charles sat calmly in the back seat, fingers steepled in front of him like a professor about to drop life-changing wisdom on some unsuspecting undergrad. "Jean isn't just another mutant, Warren. She's... extraordinary. If we don't intervene now, others will. And they may not have her best interests at heart."

Warren rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. He could never argue against the look—that serene, all-knowing gaze Xavier had perfected. It made even sarcastic angel mutants think twice. Hank, sitting shotgun, fiddled with his holographic bracelet. It flickered again, briefly turning his hands blue and furry.

"Darn thing," Hank muttered. "I swear, I had this working earlier. I'm going to show up looking like Chewbacca at a science convention."

"Don't worry," Warren said dryly. "I'm sure the locals will just think Bigfoot moved upstate."

The professor gave them both a patient smile. "Jean needs us. She doesn't know it yet, but she will. Let's focus on that."

Warren sighed, drumming his fingers on the wheel. "Fine. But if we get there and find out this kid just needs help with algebra, I'm flying home."

---

Back in the other moving disaster, the van finally exited the highway onto a winding, tree-lined road. A glowing crescent moon hung low in the sky, its pale light filtering through the forest canopy. Harry's grin widened. Moonlight was his element. It felt like stepping into a power-up zone in a video game. Every muscle in his body hummed with energy as the magic rooted in his blood—gifts from Artemis—flared to life. His vision sharpened, his senses expanded, and he could feel every shift in the night around them.

"Something's off," he murmured, sitting up straighter.

"Off?" Hermione repeated, her voice laced with suspicion. "Off how?"

"Not sure yet," Harry said, narrowing his eyes. "But I know one thing. We're not the only ones looking for Jean."

Brunhilde raised an eyebrow but kept her eyes on the road. "Enemies?"

Harry tilted his head, considering. "Maybe. Or allies. Hard to tell these days."

Hermione shot him a this-is-exactly-why-I-don't-trust-your-hunches glare. "So what's the plan? Charge in and improvise?"

Harry flashed her a grin that was part charm, part chaos personified. "Always."

The van skidded to a stop outside the farmhouse, its brakes squealing in protest. They weren't the first ones there. The sleek black sedan was already parked at the edge of the property, and three figures were making their way toward the front door.

"Mutants," Harry said, recognizing them instantly. "This just got interesting."

Hermione gave him a pointed look. "You know them?"

"Sort of," Harry said. "I might've... crashed  into one of them while with the Huntresses once. Long story."

Brunhilde pulled a spear from under the driver's seat and grinned. "So, do we fight them or what?"

"Let's see what they do first," Harry said, hopping out of the van. "And then... we'll probably improvise."

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, radiating the kind of easy confidence that only a trickster's son could manage. The night air crackled with tension as he strolled toward the mutants like they were old friends meeting for coffee instead of strangers on a collision course with destiny.

Warren noticed him first. His wings twitched under his coat—a subtle but definite Oh no, not you kind of reaction. Harry gave him a friendly wave.

"Angel-boy!" Harry called out. "Long time no see. How's life treating you?"

Warren scowled. "What are you doing here?"

Harry smirked. "Same thing you are. Looking for a kid."

Charles and Hank exchanged glances, clearly trying to size him up. Harry could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, trying to figure out if he was a friend, a threat, or just someone with very poor timing.

"Relax," Harry said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "We're on the same side. Probably."

"Probably?" Warren asked, exasperated.

"Hey, you know how it is," Harry said with a shrug. "Plans are boring. Improv keeps life exciting."

Behind him, Hermione facepalmed. "This is going to end so badly."

Charles raised an eyebrow but smiled slightly. "Well, you must be the Mr. Lokison Warren mentioned to me... I believe we have much to discuss."

The moon hung high above, casting light on the strange gathering below—mutants, gods, and demigods standing at the edge of something big. And knowing Harry, things were about to get very interesting.

Because when chaos and destiny collide? It's best to buckle up.

---

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