# The Granger Sitting Room - Thirty Minutes Later
The sitting room bore the hallmarks of two successful professionals who had built a comfortable life through decades of careful planning and steady achievement. Medical diplomas hung in neat rows beside family photographs, expensive but practical furniture was arranged for both comfort and conversation, and everything from the precisely arranged medical journals to the carefully maintained houseplants spoke of lives lived according to careful schedules and rational expectations.
None of which had prepared Richard and Helen Granger for having their understanding of reality systematically dismantled by a collection of individuals who treated impossible revelations as routine Tuesday morning conversation.
Helen sat rigidly upright in her favorite armchair—the one she normally used for reviewing patient files and enjoying her evening tea—but her usually composed professional demeanor had been replaced by the shell-shocked expression of someone whose worldview had just been fed through an industrial shredder. Her auburn hair, normally swept back in a practical but elegant chignon, had begun to escape its pins, and her green eyes held the slightly glazed look of someone processing information that didn't fit into any existing framework of understanding. Her hands clutched her bone china teacup with white-knuckled intensity, as though holding onto familiar routine might somehow anchor her to a world that still made sense.
Richard had abandoned any pretense of maintaining his military bearing. The man who had once commanded respect from subordinates and colleagues alike now slumped against the sofa's arm with his head in his hands, his steel-blue eyes staring at the Persian rug as though it might contain answers to questions he wasn't sure he was ready to ask. His distinguished features—the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the nose that had been broken at least once in service to Queen and Country—showed every one of his years as his carefully maintained composure cracked under the weight of revelations that belonged in science fiction novels rather than suburban sitting rooms.
"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Helen said slowly, her voice carrying the careful precision of someone trying to organize impossible information into manageable categories. Her medical training demanded systematic analysis even when dealing with circumstances that defied systematic analysis, and she fell back on professional methodology the way a drowning person reaches for a life preserver.
She looked around the room at the assembled collection of individuals who had just spent thirty minutes casually rewriting everything she thought she knew about the world. Her green eyes moved from face to face, cataloging details with the analytical attention of someone who had spent decades reading people's expressions for signs of deception, distress, or hidden agenda.
"Our daughter," she continued, her voice growing more strained with each word, "is not just a witch—which was already quite enough adjustment for parents who thought magic was something that happened in children's books and stage shows. Something we've spent four years learning to accept, learning to understand, learning to be proud of despite the fact that it challenged everything we thought we knew about the nature of reality itself."
Her professional composure was developing hairline fractures as she processed each impossible revelation in sequence. "She's also a mutant with the ability to manipulate time itself. Not influence it, not work around it, but actually alter the fundamental structure of temporal reality through genetic modifications that shouldn't exist according to anything I learned in medical school, anything I've read in journals, anything that appears in any textbook on human biology or physics."
Professor Charles Xavier—seated with perfect posture in his wheelchair, his bald head gleaming in the morning sunlight and his pale blue eyes holding depths of understanding that spoke of decades spent helping families navigate exactly these kinds of impossible revelations—inclined his head with the kind of gentle authority that had convinced world leaders to reconsider their positions on mutant rights.
"That's correct, Dr. Granger," he said, his cultured voice carrying the precise articulation of Cambridge education combined with the warmth of someone who genuinely cared about easing parental distress, "though I prefer to think of it as temporal field manipulation rather than reality alteration. The distinction is important from both a scientific and psychological perspective, as it helps us understand the nature of Hermione's abilities within a framework of natural law rather than supernatural intervention."
Helen stared at him with the expression of someone who had just been told that the distinction between 'reality alteration' and 'temporal field manipulation' was supposed to be comforting somehow. Her green eyes held the kind of desperate rationality of someone clinging to logic in a world that had apparently decided to abandon it entirely.
"Professor Xavier," she said with the careful politeness of someone who was trying very hard not to scream, "with all due respect to your obviously extensive expertise in these matters, that distinction is absolutely meaningless to someone whose understanding of physics was formed during an era when time travel existed only in H.G. Wells novels and science fiction films. Calling it 'temporal field manipulation' doesn't make it any less impossible according to everything I thought I knew about the universe."
"Fair point," Xavier conceded with understanding patience, his expression holding the kind of sympathetic respect that came from years of helping intelligent people process information that challenged their fundamental worldview. "Perhaps we might focus on the practical implications rather than the theoretical framework for now."
Helen wasn't finished. She turned to Harry with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for particularly challenging root canals, her analytical mind attempting to catalog changes that defied medical explanation. What she saw made her professional assessment of human development undergo rapid and comprehensive revision.
Harry Potter sat with the kind of casual elegance that belonged in royal portraits or classical sculptures. His transformation was so complete it seemed to belong in the realm of fantasy rather than biological possibility. The scrawny, malnourished boy she remembered had been replaced by someone who looked like he'd been personally designed by Renaissance masters and brought to life with divine intervention.
His face had been refined to devastating perfection—cheekbones that could cut crystal, a jawline that belonged in marble galleries, and emerald eyes that now held flecks of molten gold that seemed to dance with inner fire. His unruly black hair still defied gravity, but now it looked artfully tousled rather than simply neglected. Even wrapped in casual clothes that should have been ordinary, he commanded attention with the kind of aristocratic bearing that made grown women forget their own names and made sensible mothers seriously consider relocating their daughters to distant continents for protective purposes.
"And you," she said, her voice carrying a note of professional bewilderment mixed with parental concern, "Harry Potter, whom we met two summers ago as a rather small, bespectacled boy with a lightning bolt scar and what appeared to be chronic malnutrition—have somehow transformed into..."
She gestured helplessly at Harry's impossible perfection, her medical training providing frameworks for analyzing the changes while simultaneously insisting that such changes were impossible. "Into someone who looks like he stepped off a movie screen, possesses retractable claws that burst into phoenix fire, can apparently see perfectly without corrective lenses, and is the grandson of a man who claims to be over a century old but looks younger than my husband."
Harry's smile was gentle but tinged with understanding of exactly how overwhelming this must be. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of aristocratic polish that suggested expensive education and natural charisma, but underneath the cultured tones was genuine warmth and sympathy for their distress.
"Dr. Granger," he said, inclining his head with the kind of respectful courtesy that would have impressed royalty, "I realize it's quite a lot to process, and I do apologize for the rather dramatic nature of recent developments. If it helps at all, I'm having some considerable difficulty adjusting to these changes myself."
His green-gold eyes sparkled with self-deprecating humor that somehow managed to be both charming and slightly dangerous. "Yesterday morning, my biggest concern was whether I'd manage to pass my Defense Against the Dark Arts examination without setting anything important on fire. Now I'm dealing with the fact that I can apparently manifest phoenix flames through sheer emotional intensity, that I have family I never knew existed, and that mirrors have become significantly more interesting than they used to be."
He paused, studying Helen's expression with the kind of perceptive attention that suggested he was genuinely concerned about her wellbeing. "Though I must say, the improved eyesight has been rather convenient. No more fumbling about for spectacles in emergency situations."
"That doesn't help," Helen replied with the kind of brutal honesty that came from having her coping mechanisms thoroughly overwhelmed. Her voice carried the edge of someone whose professional composure was hanging by increasingly frayed threads. "That makes it worse, actually, because it suggests that this level of impossible transformation is somehow normal in your world. That waking up with supernatural abilities and perfect vision is just another Tuesday in the life of Harry Potter."
Richard finally looked up from his contemplation of the rug, his steel-blue eyes holding the shell-shocked expression of someone whose tactical training had prepared him for many contingencies but not for learning that the fundamental laws of reality were more like polite suggestions than actual requirements.
His distinguished features—weathered by years of military service but still carrying the kind of rugged handsomeness that had won Helen's heart decades ago—showed every sign of a man whose worldview was undergoing forced reconstruction. When he spoke, his voice carried the controlled tone of someone trying very hard not to sound completely unhinged.
"Harry," he said carefully, his military background providing frameworks for tactical assessment even in impossible circumstances, "when you say 'retractable claws that burst into phoenix fire,' could you possibly elaborate on what that means in practical terms? Because my military background has exposed me to a wide variety of weapons systems—conventional, experimental, and classified—and that particular combination doesn't appear in any technical manual I've encountered."
Logan Howlett, who had been sprawled in their antique wingback chair with his boots propped on the coffee table in a way that should have scandalized Helen but somehow seemed perfectly appropriate for someone who was apparently older than most of the furniture, leaned forward with the kind of predatory interest that made Richard's tactical instincts sit up and take notice.
Everything about Logan suggested barely contained violence wrapped in deceptive casualness. His dark hair was styled in those distinctive peaks that seemed to defy both gravity and conventional logic, his weathered face carried the kind of rugged appeal that belonged in Western films, and his hazel eyes held depths of experience that spoke of someone who had seen far too much of the world's darker corners. When he moved, it was with the fluid grace of a predator who had never met a problem he couldn't solve through creative application of sharp objects.
"You want a demonstration?" Logan asked, his rough voice carrying the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for people about to show off their favorite toys. His grin was sharp and dangerous, showing just enough teeth to suggest that his definition of 'demonstration' might differ significantly from civilian expectations. "Because I'm always up for a little show-and-tell when it comes to the family business."
Xavier's sigh carried the weight of decades spent managing extraordinarily gifted individuals with theatrical tendencies. His pale blue eyes held that particular expression of long-suffering patience that came from extensive experience with Logan's more destructive impulses.
"Logan," he said with the kind of gentle authority that had convinced heads of state to reconsider their positions on international policy, "perhaps we might avoid property damage while we're guests in the Grangers' home? I'm quite certain their homeowner's insurance doesn't cover 'acts of mutant demonstration' or 'wolverine-related incidents.'"
"What property damage?" Logan protested with wounded innocence that fooled absolutely no one in the room. His expression suggested he was genuinely confused by the implication that his demonstrations might result in structural damage. "I'm not gonna hurt anything important. Maybe just demonstrate the basic mechanics on something disposable."
His eyes scanned the room with the kind of tactical assessment that made Richard recognize a fellow professional, cataloging potential targets with obvious relish. "That ugly vase in the corner looks like it's begging for retirement. Probably a wedding gift from someone you didn't like anyway."
Helen's grip on her teacup tightened further, her knuckles now showing white against the bone china. Her voice carried the kind of careful control that suggested she was very close to the limits of her composure.
"Please don't demonstrate anything sharp or flammable in my sitting room," she said with the precise diction of someone who was trying very hard to maintain civilized discourse while her world underwent systematic deconstruction. "Our home insurance policy almost certainly doesn't cover 'acts of mutant superhero' or 'phoenix fire incidents,' and I have patients arriving in less than two hours who expect to find their dentist's office in its original configuration."
Harry laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused, carrying undertones that suggested he found the entire situation delightfully absurd rather than concerning. "Dr. Granger, I promise we won't set anything on fire or perforate any of your furniture. Though I should mention that the phoenix fire doesn't actually burn things unless I want it to burn them. It's more... discriminating than regular fire."
His green-gold eyes danced with mischief as he continued, clearly enjoying the opportunity to discuss his new abilities despite the circumstances. "It responds to emotional resonance rather than simple combustion. When I'm protecting someone I care about, it burns away threats but leaves everything else completely untouched. Rather convenient for avoiding collateral damage, actually."
"Selective fire," Richard repeated slowly, as though testing the words to see if they made any more sense when spoken aloud. His military mind was working overtime, trying to process the tactical implications of weaponry that operated according to emotional rather than physical principles. "Fire that chooses what to burn based on... what? Personal preference? Moral judgments? Aesthetic considerations?"
"Emotional resonance and conscious intent, actually," Harry replied with the casual tone of someone discussing perfectly ordinary phenomena rather than impossible magical abilities. His aristocratic bearing made even the most outlandish statements sound perfectly reasonable, as though commanding supernatural fire was simply another skill one learned at proper schools.
"It responds to my intentions and emotional state rather than operating as simple combustion. When I'm genuinely trying to protect someone I care about, it burns away anything that poses a threat while leaving everything else completely unharmed. Rather like having a weapon that can distinguish between enemies and innocent bystanders automatically."
He paused, considering how to explain impossible concepts in terms that wouldn't completely shatter their remaining sanity. "It's quite discriminating, really. More intelligent than conventional fire, if that makes any sense. Which I realize it probably doesn't, given that we're discussing fire with decision-making capabilities."
Helen set down her teacup with the careful precision of someone whose hands were beginning to shake with the effort of maintaining composure. Her green eyes held the kind of desperate rationality that suggested she was clinging to logical thought processes through sheer force of will.
"Emotional resonance," she said, her voice carrying the tone of someone who was documenting symptoms of a particularly exotic fever dream. "Fire with feelings and moral judgment capabilities. Of course. Why not? At this point, I'm prepared to accept that the laws of thermodynamics are actually more like polite suggestions that reality occasionally chooses to ignore."
Hermione, who had been watching her parents' struggle with obvious concern, moved to kneel beside her mother's chair with the kind of graceful determination that spoke of someone who had spent years navigating impossible circumstances. Her amber eyes—so like her mother's but holding depths of knowledge and experience that seemed far beyond her years—reflected genuine understanding of exactly how overwhelming this must be.
When she spoke, her voice carried the careful precision of someone who had learned to bridge the gap between rational thought and impossible realities. "Mum," she said softly, reaching out to take Helen's trembling hands in her own steady ones, "I know this is overwhelming. I know it challenges everything you thought you knew about how the world works, everything you learned in medical school, everything that makes sense according to conventional understanding of physics and biology."
Her expression held the kind of gentle patience that came from someone who had spent considerable time helping others process impossible revelations. "But please remember that I'm still me. I'm still your daughter—the same person you raised, the same person who used to organize her toys by color and alphabetical order, the same person who asked you a thousand questions about how the human body works and why people get sick."
Helen's eyes filled with tears as she looked at her daughter—brilliant, determined, fearless Hermione who had always pushed the boundaries of what was possible and was now apparently pushing the boundaries of reality itself. "Sweetheart," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "of course you're still our daughter. We love you completely and unconditionally. That will never change, no matter what extraordinary circumstances surround you."
Her professional composure cracked further as she gestured around the room, encompassing the impossible collection of individuals who were treating miracles as routine conversation topics. "But how do we fit into this? How do ordinary people like your father and me navigate a world where our daughter can control time itself and her best friend commands fire that has opinions about what it should and shouldn't burn?"
Richard nodded, his military bearing returning as he focused on practical concerns rather than impossible theoretical implications. His steel-blue eyes sharpened with the kind of tactical assessment that had served him well during his army career.
"Helen's right, Hermione," he said, his voice carrying the controlled authority of someone accustomed to managing complex situations under pressure. "We want to support you, we want to be part of your life, but we need to understand how that works when your life apparently involves traveling between countries in impossible aircraft and studying subjects that shouldn't exist according to conventional academic frameworks."
Ororo Munroe, who had been maintaining a quiet but supportive presence near the window, moved closer with the kind of fluid grace that suggested absolute control over every movement. Everything about Storm commanded attention—the way she carried herself, the platinum hair that caught the morning light like spun silver, the dark eyes that held depths of wisdom and power that spoke of someone who had learned to balance immense capabilities with genuine compassion.
When she spoke, her voice carried the musical quality of distant thunder and summer rain, but underneath the lyrical tones was the unmistakable authority of someone who had helped guide countless families through exactly these kinds of revelations.
"Dr. and Dr. Granger," she said, settling gracefully into the chair beside Helen, her presence somehow making the entire room feel more grounded and stable, "I want you both to know that this concern—this fear about remaining connected to your daughter's life as it becomes more extraordinary—is completely normal. I've seen dozens of families work through similar revelations, and the love you're expressing, the commitment to supporting Hermione despite your own confusion and fear, is exactly what she needs."
Her dark eyes held depths of understanding that spoke of someone who had navigated the complex intersection of extraordinary abilities and ordinary human relationships many times before. "The truth is, extraordinary children need extraordinary support systems. But they also need anchors to the normal world, reminders of what life looks like beyond the realm of miracles and impossible circumstances."
She leaned forward slightly, her expression growing more intense as she emphasized the importance of what she was saying. "Without those anchors, without people who love them for who they are rather than what they can do, even the most remarkable individuals can lose sight of why their abilities matter. Power without purpose becomes dangerous. Strength without compassion becomes destructive."
Logan snorted with rough amusement, though his expression held genuine respect for Storm's words. His weathered features showed the kind of hard-won wisdom that came from decades of learning exactly how important human connections were to maintaining sanity in extraordinary circumstances.
"What she's trying to say politely," he growled, his voice carrying the gravelly edges of too many cigars and too many years of saying exactly what he thought regardless of the consequences, "is that kids with powers like these need people who'll remind them to eat regular meals, get enough sleep, and remember that relationships matter more than abilities."
He leaned forward, his hazel eyes settling on both Grangers with unwavering directness. His weathered features showed the kind of sincerity that was all the more powerful for being unexpected from someone who looked like he solved most problems through creative violence.
"Look, I've got over a century of experience dealing with extraordinary circumstances," he continued, his rough voice carrying absolute conviction, "and I can tell you something with complete certainty: the people who keep you human, who remind you what you're fighting for, who love you enough to tell you when you're being an idiot—they're the most important part of the whole equation."
His expression grew more serious as he studied their faces, clearly recognizing the genuine love and concern they felt for their daughter. "Harry's gonna need that. Hermione's gonna need that. They're both gonna face situations where having incredible abilities isn't enough, where they need people who care about their welfare more than their usefulness, who remind them that being extraordinary doesn't mean being alone."
Sirius Black, who had been leaning against the mantelpiece with his characteristic casual elegance, straightened with the kind of purposeful movement that suggested he was about to deliver important information. Everything about Sirius commanded attention—the way he carried himself with aristocratic confidence, the roguish good looks that had probably caused significant trouble during his school years, the grey eyes that held depths of intelligence and mischief in equal measure.
When he moved, it was with predatory grace that suggested he had never met a rule he couldn't charm his way around or a problem he couldn't solve through creative application of rebellion and superior tactics.
"Which brings us to the practical arrangements," he said, his voice carrying the kind of enthusiasm that had probably preceded most of his more spectacular adventures. His grin held the promise of carefully orchestrated chaos and thoroughly planned spontaneity. "Because while Harry and Hermione will be attending Xavier's school for their mutant training, their magical education continues under my supervision."
He began pacing with the kind of restless energy that suggested barely contained excitement about his plans. "What we're proposing is a comprehensive educational program that acknowledges both aspects of their heritage. Mornings at Xavier's Institute for mutant ability development and control—learning to harness their gifts safely and effectively. Afternoons and evenings focused on advanced magical theory, practical spellwork, and preparation for their OWLs and NEWTs under the guidance of some of the most accomplished witches and wizards in Britain."
Richard straightened, his military training engaging as he processed the logistical implications of what Sirius was describing. His steel-blue eyes sharpened with the kind of analytical attention he'd once brought to complex operational planning.
"You're talking about a full curriculum equivalent to completing Hogwarts while simultaneously attending another institution," he said, his voice carrying the controlled assessment of someone evaluating a complex mission briefing. "That's... ambitious doesn't begin to cover it. That's attempting to provide two complete educational programs simultaneously to students who are already dealing with extraordinary personal circumstances."
Albus Dumbledore, who had been listening with the kind of benevolent attention that somehow made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the room, stepped forward with grandfatherly confidence. His blue eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles with the satisfaction of someone who had already worked out all the details and was rather pleased with his planning.
"Ambitious but entirely manageable, I assure you," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had spent decades making impossible educational arrangements seem routine. "Sirius has assembled quite the educational dream team, if I may say so. Professor Lupin for Defense Against the Dark Arts—a brilliant instructor with practical experience in dealing with dark creatures and defensive magic. Andromeda Tonks for advanced Transfiguration and magical theory—one of the most accomplished witches of her generation despite being criminally undervalued by certain segments of our society."
His expression grew more animated as he continued, clearly taking pleasure in detailing the comprehensive nature of their plans. "Ted Tonks for Muggle Studies integration and practical applications of magic in non-magical environments—essential for students who will be navigating both worlds effectively. Young Nymphadora for practical applications of metamorphic magic and advanced defensive techniques."
Harry's expression brightened with genuine pleasure, his aristocratic features showing the kind of delight that transformed his devastating handsomeness into something warm and accessible. "Tonks is going to be teaching? That's absolutely brilliant. She's exactly the kind of person who can make advanced magic seem like the most entertaining subject in the world."
His green-gold eyes sparkled with anticipation as he considered the possibilities. "I can already imagine her teaching practical metamorphmagus techniques while simultaneously demonstrating seventeen different ways to incapacitate dark wizards using nothing but creative applications of household objects. Educational and thoroughly entertaining."
"Plus," Sirius continued with obvious pride in his planning, his grey eyes bright with the satisfaction of someone who had managed to arrange exactly what he wanted, "private tutoring from some of the most accomplished witches and wizards in Britain. Real education, focused on practical applications rather than standardized test preparation. The kind of learning that actually prepares you for the real world rather than just academic achievement."
His grin widened as he warmed to his theme. "None of this sitting in dusty classrooms memorizing theoretical applications you'll never use. This is hands-on, practical magic designed to give you the skills you'll actually need when you're facing real problems with real consequences."
Helen was beginning to look slightly less shell-shocked as the conversation moved from impossible revelations to practical educational planning. Her professional instincts were engaging, providing familiar frameworks for evaluating curricula and educational opportunities despite the extraordinary nature of the subjects being discussed.
"This program you're describing," she said carefully, her analytical mind working through the implications with the kind of systematic thoroughness that had made her successful in her own field, "it sounds comprehensive. Rigorous. The kind of educational opportunity that most students can only dream of. But what about accreditation? Recognition by established institutions? Future career prospects?"
Her green eyes sharpened with the kind of focused attention she typically brought to complex dental procedures. "I need to understand how this translates into practical opportunities for Hermione's future. Will she be able to pursue higher education if she chooses? Will her qualifications be recognized by universities and professional organizations?"
Xavier leaned forward with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent decades building one of the world's most prestigious educational institutions. His pale blue eyes held the kind of certainty that came from years of helping extraordinarily gifted young people navigate the transition from education to distinguished careers.
"Both programs carry full accreditation with their respective governing bodies," he said, his cultured voice carrying absolute authority on the subject. "Magical qualifications through MACUSA oversight and recognition—the Magical Congress of the United States of America maintains comprehensive standards for international magical education. Mutant education through the Xavier Institute's established partnerships with major universities worldwide, including Harvard, MIT, Oxford, and Cambridge."
His expression grew more serious as he emphasized the scope of opportunities available. "I can assure you that graduates of our program have gone on to distinguished careers in every field imaginable. Government service at the highest levels, academic positions at prestigious universities, leadership roles in private sector organizations, founding positions in non-profit institutions dedicated to advancing human rights and social justice."
He paused, studying Helen's expression with the kind of perceptive attention that had helped him guide countless families through similar concerns. "The combination of abilities and education your daughter will receive represents opportunities that most people cannot even imagine. She'll be prepared for careers that don't yet exist, equipped to solve problems that haven't yet been identified, ready to contribute to fields of knowledge that are only beginning to emerge."
Richard nodded slowly, his tactical mind beginning to process the advantages rather than just the overwhelming impossibility of the situation. His military background had taught him to evaluate opportunities as well as threats, and what he was hearing suggested possibilities that extended far beyond conventional educational frameworks.
"So what you're telling us," he said, his voice carrying the kind of controlled assessment that had served him well during complex operational briefings, "is that Hermione will receive training in capabilities that exist nowhere else in the world, combined with magical education from acknowledged experts in their respective fields, all while maintaining full academic credentials for any future path she chooses to pursue."
"Exactly," Hermione said, her voice bright with excitement and relief that her parents were beginning to understand the opportunities rather than just the overwhelming circumstances. Her amber eyes held the kind of eager anticipation that spoke of someone who had found exactly what they'd been looking for without even knowing they'd been searching.
"It's not just education, Mum, Dad—it's the chance to learn from the best, to understand abilities that could help people in ways we haven't even imagined yet. To be part of something larger than individual achievement, something that could actually make a difference in the world."
Helen looked at her daughter—brilliant, determined, fearless Hermione who had always pushed boundaries and challenged limitations—and felt something fundamental shift in her chest. The fear was still there, the overwhelming sense of circumstances beyond her control, but underneath it was something stronger: pride.
Pride in the remarkable young woman they had raised. Pride in her courage, her intelligence, her fundamental decency. Pride in the opportunities she was being offered and the grace with which she was handling impossible circumstances.
"Hermione," she said softly, her voice carrying all the love and support of a mother who was beginning to understand that her daughter's extraordinary nature was something to be celebrated rather than feared, "if this is what you want, if this represents the kind of opportunities you've dreamed of, then we'll find a way to support you. We'll find a way to remain part of your life, no matter how extraordinary it becomes."
Richard nodded, his steel-blue eyes showing renewed determination as he processed the full scope of what was being offered. "Your mother's right. We may not understand the technical details of temporal field manipulation or phoenix fire applications, but we understand that our daughter has been presented with remarkable opportunities by people who clearly care about her welfare and development."
He looked around the room at the assembled collection of individuals who had just spent an hour rewriting his understanding of reality, and his expression held the kind of respect that came from recognizing genuine dedication to Hermione's wellbeing.
"Professor Xavier, Professor Dumbledore, all of you—thank you. For seeing Hermione's potential, for providing these opportunities, and for taking the time to help us understand how we can continue to be part of her journey into whatever extraordinary future awaits her."
Logan's rough chuckle held genuine warmth as he studied the Grangers with obvious approval. "Hell, Doc, we should be thanking you. Raising a kid like Hermione, giving her the foundation to handle this kind of extraordinary situation with grace and intelligence—that's the hard part. We just get to build on what you've already accomplished."
Harry, who had been watching this exchange with obvious relief and growing affection for Hermione's parents, leaned forward with that devastating smile that probably caused traffic accidents on a regular basis. When he spoke, his voice carried genuine sincerity despite its aristocratic polish.
"Dr. and Dr. Granger," he said, his green-gold eyes holding depths of appreciation and respect, "I want you both to know that Hermione talks about you constantly. Always with tremendous pride and affection. She speaks of your intelligence, your dedication to your patients, your commitment to helping people, your unwavering support for her education and her dreams."
His expression grew more serious as he continued, clearly wanting them to understand the full scope of their daughter's character. "You've raised someone extraordinary, and that extraordinary nature didn't develop in a vacuum. She gets her intelligence from you, her determination from you, her fundamental decency and moral courage from you. The abilities are new, but the person wielding them is entirely your creation."
His aristocratic features brightened with mischief as he added, "Plus, someone needs to keep writing her letters reminding her to eat proper meals and get adequate sleep. In my experience, brilliant people with reality-altering abilities tend to forget about basic human maintenance unless someone they love reminds them regularly."
Hermione's cheeks flushed with embarrassment and affection as she turned to glare at him with mock severity. "Harry Potter, you are absolutely one to talk about proper meals and adequate sleep. You've been surviving on stubborn determination and righteous indignation since first year."
Harry's response was immediate and delivered with the kind of aristocratic dignity that could make outrageous statements sound perfectly reasonable. "That, Hermione Jean Granger, is completely different. I'm maintaining my mysterious and tragically handsome aesthetic through carefully calculated neglect of conventional self-care. You're just being academically obsessive to the point of ignoring basic biological requirements."
"I am not academically obsessive!" Hermione protested with the kind of indignant dignity that suggested this was a longstanding point of contention between them.
"You reorganized the Hogwarts library. For fun. During summer holidays," Harry replied with devastating precision, his green-gold eyes dancing with mischief. "You created a comprehensive cross-referencing system for Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks that the librarians are still trying to understand. You've read approximately forty-seven books that don't officially exist yet."
"Those are perfectly reasonable academic pursuits!" Hermione defended, though her expression was beginning to crack with suppressed laughter.
"You made detailed notes on the theoretical applications of Advanced Arithmancy to household management," Harry continued remorselessly, clearly enjoying himself immensely. "You calculated the optimal spell combinations for improving dental hygiene through magical intervention. As a birthday present. For your parents."
The entire room burst into laughter—genuine, warm, family laughter that transformed the sitting room from a place where impossible revelations were being delivered into a space where people who cared about each other were planning a shared future despite extraordinary circumstances.
Helen felt the last of her rigid composure dissolve as she watched her daughter banter with her best friend—this impossibly attractive, devastatingly charming young man who commanded phoenix fire and had apparently inherited his grandfather's protective instincts along with his supernatural abilities. The fear was still there, the sense of circumstances beyond her control, but it was balanced now by something stronger: love, pride, and the absolute certainty that Hermione was surrounded by people who would do anything to protect her.
"So," she said, her voice steady despite the emotional weight of the moment, "when do we start planning for this American adventure? Because I suspect there are quite a few practical details to work out between now and whenever term begins."
Xavier's smile was warm with genuine pleasure and relief at how well the morning's revelations had been received. "The autumn term begins in September, which gives us several months to handle the logistics. Transfer paperwork, housing arrangements, course selection, travel documents for individuals with unusual circumstances."
"Unusual circumstances?" Richard asked with renewed wariness, his military instincts recognizing diplomatic understatement when he heard it.
"International travel for individuals with supernatural abilities requires slightly more documentation than standard tourist visas," Xavier explained with the kind of careful precision that suggested extensive experience with bureaucratic complications. "Nothing onerous, simply recognition that Hermione and Harry represent rather special cases from a governmental oversight perspective."
Storm laughed, her musical voice filling the room with warmth and genuine amusement. "What Charles is trying to say politely is that governments get nervous when people with extraordinary abilities cross borders without proper oversight and documentation. We've learned to handle the paperwork preemptively to avoid unfortunate misunderstandings."
"Governments get nervous about everything these days," Logan observed with gruff pragmatism, his rough voice carrying the cynicism of someone who had dealt with official paranoia for far too many decades. "Kids with unusual abilities just make them more creative about their neuroses and bureaucratic requirements."
Dumbledore cleared his throat with grandfatherly authority, his blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction at how well the morning's revelations had been received by Hermione's parents. "In any case, Dr. and Dr. Granger, please know that you will be kept fully informed of every aspect of Hermione and Harry's education. Regular reports, scheduled visits, complete transparency about their progress and any concerns that arise."
He leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious despite the persistent twinkle in his eyes that suggested he found most of life's complications more entertaining than genuinely concerning. "More importantly, please know that the bonds they've formed—with each other, with Ron, with all of us—are precisely the kind of connections that will keep them grounded and safe, no matter what extraordinary circumstances they face."
Richard stood with military precision, extending his hand to Xavier with the kind of formal courtesy that belonged to diplomatic protocol and serious commitments. His steel-blue eyes held the gravity of someone making one of the most important decisions of his life.
"Professor Xavier," he said, "I want you to know that Helen and I are entrusting you with the most precious thing in our lives. Hermione's welfare, her happiness, her continued development into the remarkable young woman she's becoming—these are not responsibilities we take lightly or delegate casually."
Xavier accepted the handshake with equal formality, his pale blue eyes holding depths of understanding and commitment that spoke of decades spent accepting exactly this kind of parental trust. "Mr. Granger, I give you my word—as an educator, as someone who has devoted his life to helping extraordinarily gifted young people reach their full potential—that Hermione's welfare will be my personal responsibility. She will be safe, supported, challenged, and loved."
Helen stood as well, moving to embrace her daughter with the fierce protectiveness of a mother who was letting her child venture into extraordinary circumstances. "Sweetheart, I'm so proud of you. Proud of who you are, proud of who you're becoming, proud of the courage you've shown in navigating all of this."
The embrace was long and fierce, mother and daughter holding each other with the desperate affection of people who understood that this represented a turning point, a step into a larger world that would change everything.
"I love you, Mum," Hermione whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Both of you. Thank you for understanding, thank you for supporting me, thank you for being exactly the parents I needed to become someone capable of handling extraordinary circumstances with grace."
When they finally separated, Helen's eyes were bright with tears, but her expression held the kind of determined optimism that suggested she was already planning how to navigate this new reality. "Right then," she said, her professional efficiency reasserting itself as she processed the practical implications, "I suppose we need to cancel our morning appointments and start making lists. This is going to require considerable organization."
Richard chuckled, recognizing his wife's characteristic response to overwhelming circumstances: systematic planning and comprehensive list-making. "Helen, love, I think our morning appointments are the least of our concerns at this point."
"Someone has to maintain some semblance of normal routine," Helen replied with the kind of determined normalcy that suggested she was clinging to familiar patterns while her world underwent fundamental reconstruction. "And besides, there are practical considerations. Medical records transfers, academic transcripts, insurance coverage for international students with supernatural abilities."
Logan's rough laughter filled the room. "Lady, I like your style. Most people spend days just trying to process the impossible revelations. You're already planning the paperwork."
"Practical organization is how civilized people handle extraordinary circumstances," Helen replied with dignity that would have impressed royalty. "If our daughter is going to attend a school for gifted individuals in America while maintaining her magical education under the supervision of exonerated fugitives and reformed troublemakers, then we're going to do it properly."
Sirius's grin could have powered half of London. "Exonerated fugitive and reformed troublemaker, thank you very much. I worked hard for both of those qualifications."
Harry stood, moving with the fluid grace that still seemed foreign to his transformed body, and approached both Grangers with the kind of formal courtesy that suggested he was making an important commitment.
"Dr. and Dr. Granger," he said, his voice carrying absolute sincerity despite its aristocratic polish, "I want you both to know that I will personally ensure Hermione's safety and wellbeing throughout this entire adventure. She's not just my best friend—she's family. The kind of family worth dying for, worth fighting for, worth becoming better for."
His green-gold eyes blazed with the kind of protective determination that had faced down Dark Lords and emerged victorious. "Anyone who wants to hurt her will have to go through me first. And now," he glanced at Logan with genuine affection, "they'll have to go through both of us."
Logan's answering grin was all teeth and promised violence. "Kid's got it right. Touch one of ours, deal with all of us. It's a simple philosophy, but it's served me pretty well over the years."
As the morning sunlight continued to stream through the windows of the Granger sitting room, illuminating the faces of some of the most powerful individuals on the planet planning the educational future of two extraordinary young people, there was a sense that something fundamental had shifted in the world.
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