Flash zipped off in a crackle of red lightning, waving a hand dramatically over his shoulder. "I'm grabbing shawarma! Eidolon, you're footing the bill! Don't be cheap, Mr. Mysterious!"
Eidolon, floating a few feet above the cracked street, snorted. "He's going to be crushed when he finds out I don't carry cash. Or believe in capitalism."
He surveyed the ruins of Gotham. Smoldering craters. Collapsed buildings. The occasional flipped Batmobile (Batman was not amused). It looked like the city had been used as a chew toy by Godzilla with a caffeine addiction.
Eidolon raised his hands, fingers spread. The crimson symbol on his chest pulsed once, steady and ominous. Wind gathered around him, sweeping the ashes in a circle. The energy that flowed from him wasn't just magic—it was something older. Something primal. The kind of power that makes wizards nervous and eldritch horrors say, "Nope."
Civilians peeked out from hiding, blinking as the sky lit up with warm red light. Rubble lifted into the air, bricks slotting back into buildings like Lego pieces in reverse. Pavement rolled itself smooth like frosting being spread by a divine butter knife. Streetlights flickered back to life, clearly confused about this sudden burst of optimism.
A shattered hospital reassembled itself beam by beam. Glass flowed like water to fill broken windows. Power lines danced like metallic snakes, reconnecting with satisfying snaps.
Even Gotham's moody gargoyles looked slightly less grumpy.
Batman crossed his arms, cape fluttering behind him like it was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.
"He's rewriting the city," he muttered. "Like a celestial 3D printer."
Cyborg raised an eyebrow as his systems scanned Eidolon's energy signature. "That ain't just magic. That's causality manipulation. My sensors are screaming in nine languages."
Wonder Woman, arms folded, watched silently, the wind catching her dark hair. "He cannot undo death," she said softly. She gestured to a building still in ruins, medics working around the debris.
The light passed over it. Nothing changed.
Eidolon touched down beside them, looking only slightly like a villain from a post-apocalyptic RPG. The black leather-like armor shimmered faintly with crimson pulses, and his hooded cloak billowed with dramatic flair. The glowing crimson eyes of his helmet didn't help with the whole "terrifying but maybe hot" aesthetic.
"Yeah," he said, voice calm but dry. "There are limits. I can mend steel, stone, egos. But the dead? Even I don't have the clearance for that."
Superman clapped a reassuring hand on his armored shoulder. "You did more than we could have asked."
Eidolon shrugged. "I just hate bad endings."
Shazam leaned in to Green Lantern. "Is it weird that I kinda want to be him when I grow up?"
"You're technically older than all of us," Lantern muttered. "Which is still weird."
Gotham wasn't perfect. But it was alive. The skyline looked a little less like a warzone. Smoke thinned. Lights turned on. People stepped cautiously into the streets, holding their breath.
A little girl tugged on her mother's sleeve and pointed.
"Is that Superman?"
The mother shook her head. "No, sweetie. That's someone new."
Flash skidded to a halt in front of the League, arms overloaded with bags. He was panting like he'd just run a few marathons. Which, technically, he had.
"Okay! Got chicken shawarma, lamb shawarma, something that's either tofu or regret—and smoothies! Because the Flash cares about electrolytes."
He blinked at the fully-repaired city.
"Wait. Did I miss a time-travel crossover? Or did he actually fix the city while I was gone?"
Eidolon, lounging on a chunk of mildly radioactive rubble, took a wrap from one of the bags. His helmet retracted over his mouth like sentient black goo. Just enough for him to eat. His mouth was young. White. Clean-shaven. Batman filed that detail away in his mental database under: Caucasian Male, Likely Under 30, Sarcastic as Hell.
"Mmm. Worth it," Eidolon said, chewing dramatically. "Tastes like interdimensional trauma and mildly spicy tahini."
Flash pointed a shawarma stick at him. "Who are you, man?"
Eidolon wiped his mouth with a flick of his fingers. The goo retracted, sealing the helmet shut again. Crimson eyes pulsed.
"I'm the guy you call when the world is ending, your backup dies, and your best hope is an overpowered smartass with trust issues and a dramatic fashion sense."
Green Lantern raised an eyebrow. "So... a magical Deadpool with better taste?"
"I'll take that as a compliment," Eidolon said. Then more seriously, "Call me Eidolon. For now."
"For now?" Flash echoed, mid-slurp.
Eidolon turned to the sky, where the fading ripples of a Boom Tube shimmered faintly like a bad WiFi signal.
"Because Darkseid's not done. And something tells me... I'm going to need to be better before the sequel."
He took another bite of shawarma.
"But first—I'm claiming the garlic wrap. Touch it and I unleash cosmic judgment."
Shazam stepped back, hands up. "Noted. Garlic is sacred."
Wonder Woman smiled faintly. Superman chuckled.
Batman just stared at Eidolon's mouth.
He knew that smirk. He didn't know how, but he knew it.
He filed that away too.
—
The last of the wrappers fluttered through the air like confetti at the world's weirdest afterparty. Shazam wiped his hands on his cape, earning a look from Wonder Woman that could've curdled milk. Flash was licking hot sauce off his gloves—yes, gloves—until Batman cleared his throat with the menace of a horror movie soundtrack.
Eidolon, meanwhile, was seriously contemplating conjuring a soda fountain out of pure spite. The shawarma was gone. The universe owed him carbonation.
That's when the sky decided to throw a tantrum.
A deep, mechanical whup-whup-whup shook the air. Everyone turned their gaze upward as a U.S. military chopper sliced across the skyline with the grace of a flying sledgehammer. Napkins, paper trays, and Flash's dignity scattered in the rotor wash.
"Uh oh," Cyborg muttered, adjusting the screen embedded in his forearm. "That's either a very aggressive pizza delivery... or the government realized we broke the East Coast."
The chopper descended like it had a grudge against gravity, landing a bit too close for comfort. Shazam yelped and protectively cupped the last bite of his shawarma like it was a newborn kitten.
Two figures disembarked—one an older man, all square jaw and military medals, eyes hard enough to chip granite. The other, younger and obnoxiously handsome, looked like he belonged in a perfume commercial for 'Eau de Patriotic Heroism.'
Superman straightened like he was back in school and the principal had walked in.
"General Samuel Lane," he said.
Eidolon didn't bow. He didn't salute. He just hovered a few inches off the ground in his black-crimson armor, cloak fluttering like he was auditioning for the cover of a heavy metal album.
"Ah, General Buzzcut himself," Eidolon drawled. "I'd say it's an honor, but let's not start this reunion with a lie."
Lane's expression could've frozen magma. "I'm guessing you're the one responsible for Gotham blinking back onto the map?"
"I prefer 'miraculously restored from its spontaneous demon-core implosion,'" Eidolon replied, folding his arms. "But yes, guilty as charged. Please don't give me a medal. They clash with my aesthetic."
The younger man stepped forward, smile tight but real. His eyes locked on the woman in silver and crimson.
Wonder Woman—tall, armored, and carrying more authority in a single raised eyebrow than most generals did in a tank—gave a nod.
"Steven Trevor. You made it," she said.
Steve smiled wryly. "Barely. You did abandon me over Pennsylvania."
"There was a Parademon swarm in Gotham," she said.
"I know. Just saying, next time maybe give me a parachute before you fly off like a goddess-shaped missile."
"Noted," Diana replied with exactly zero remorse.
"Gods, mortals, and jilted boyfriends," Eidolon muttered to Flash, who'd zipped next to him with an audible whoosh. "This is why I don't date."
"Right?" Flash nodded, eyes wide behind his cowl. "It's like watching reality TV but with superpowers and a chance of spontaneous global conflict."
General Lane stepped forward again, clearly not there for the jokes. "We came to assist with post-invasion stabilization," he said, gesturing at the restored skyline. "Instead, we find this."
He pointed to Eidolon like a kid blaming the dog for his broken Xbox.
"You're bending physics like they're guidelines in a 'Pirates of the Caribbean' movie. I want answers."
Eidolon shrugged. "And I want a cherry soda. Life's full of disappointment."
Batman stepped in. Because of course he did. Voice like death in a tuxedo.
"He saved Gotham," Batman said. "Rebuilt it. We wouldn't be standing here without him."
Lane didn't flinch. "That doesn't make him safe."
Wonder Woman's eyes sharpened. "Neither are we."
That dropped like a thunderclap. For a heartbeat, everyone just stood there, letting the weight of it settle.
Steve raised his hands in a classic 'let's not nuke the picnic' gesture.
"Okay, how about we table the testosterone for five minutes?" he said. "The President still wants to meet. The Themyscira Accords are on the table. And whatever this"—he nodded to Eidolon—"is… it's going to change a lot of things."
"I do tend to have that effect," Eidolon said mildly, as if discussing weather patterns.
General Lane exhaled like he was trying not to punch a unicorn. "We'll be watching. Closely. Don't mistake this momentary gratitude for a permission slip."
He turned to Superman. "You vouch for him?"
Superman hesitated, gaze flicking to Eidolon.
Eidolon raised a hand. "Don't worry about it, Big Blue. I'm not here for the validation. Just the shawarma. And maybe the chance to stop another apocalypse or two. If that's too complicated, I'll happily go rebuild a different city. Heard Detroit could use a facelift."
Lane looked like he was chewing glass, but he didn't argue. He barked orders to the surrounding soldiers, who'd apparently been playing freeze tag with their rifles for the last ten minutes.
"Secure the area. Evac the civilians. Make sure this miracle sticks."
He turned back toward the chopper, Steve following. Before boarding, Steve paused beside Diana.
"You flying back with me?" he asked.
Diana offered a half-smile. "Let's call it divine independence."
Eidolon called from behind her, "Translation: she travels business class, no jet engines required."
Steve just shook his head with a small, fond smile and climbed aboard.
As the chopper lifted into the sky again, Eidolon floated a few feet off the ground and conjured a glowing red soda can from thin air. It hissed open with a satisfying psst. Probably not radioactive. Probably.
"So," he said, sipping. "Think that went well?"
Superman sighed. "About as well as anything involving General Lane ever does."
Cyborg's arm buzzed. "We've still got rift energy spiking in Central City. And there's something pinging off the coast of Atlantis. Could be nothing. Probably isn't."
Shazam perked up. "Underwater adventure? Do I get to punch a sea monster? I've got a whole monologue ready."
Flash appeared beside Eidolon in a red blur. "Okay, but seriously? You rebuilt a city. You're like Doctor Strange, Superman, and Gandalf's cooler cousin from another dimension. Respect."
Eidolon smirked behind the can. "Gandalf wishes he had my hood."
Batman said nothing. Just kept watching. Like a panther deciding if the new tiger in the jungle was competition or just more prey.
Wonder Woman stepped closer, voice calm but piercing.
"You've changed the board," she said. "Now we need to know what game we're playing."
Eidolon crushed the soda can in his gloved hand and flicked it into a small, glowing portal that popped out of existence.
He looked up, red eyes glowing beneath his helmet.
"One," he said, "where I don't plan on losing."
—
The dust hadn't quite settled—both literally and metaphorically—when Wonder Woman stepped forward like she was about to lead a war council, which, to be fair, was her default setting. Her golden tiara caught the last rays of sunlight, sparkling like it had an ego of its own. And honestly? Fair. The woman was descended from gods. You'd flex too.
"We were lucky today," Diana said, her voice calm and laced with that Amazon steel that made grown men rethink their life choices. "Had Eidolon not intervened, had we not converged when we did, Gotham would have fallen. Again. How many more cities must suffer before we act… together?"
Superman, the guy who literally looked like someone had sculpted the American Dream from granite and gave it cheekbones, crossed his arms. His cape fluttered like it had a flair for drama. "You're talking about a formal alliance."
"I'm talking about preparation," Diana replied. "Unity. Coordination. Call it what you will—but the world has changed. We saw it today. And next time, we might not get another Eidolon-shaped deus ex machina."
Hovering a few feet above the cracked pavement, Eidolon lazily raised a hand, his black cloak rippling like it was whispering secrets. His crimson-lined armor glowed faintly from the rune-like symbol carved into his chest, like he'd swallowed a dying star and thought, Sure, let's accessorize.
"Flattered. Mildly creeped out. But mostly flattered," he said, his voice echoing slightly from within the helmet. "Please continue before this gets weird and someone suggests a team name."
Speak of the devil.
"League of Justice?" Shazam offered, mouth half-full of baklava. No one was sure where he got it. Honestly, no one wanted to ask.
Flash zipped into the circle and pointed a powdered sugar-coated finger. "Too clunky. Sounds like something you'd find in a medieval scroll. 'Ye Olde League of Justice doth hereby—' blah blah blah. We need something snappy! Something with merch potential."
"Justice Club?" Shazam tried again. "We could have jackets!"
"No," Batman said. No inflection. Just a definitive no from the shadows where he'd reappeared like an angsty ghost with trust issues.
"League Bros?" Flash offered, eyes twinkling.
"Absolutely not," Cyborg cut in, arms crossed. His voice was calm, but there was a hint of are-you-kidding-me behind it. "And if we're seriously doing this, we need more than jackets. We need infrastructure. Surveillance. Intel. A system."
"'Justice League,' then?" Cyborg continued, projecting a holographic logo from his arm. "Clean. Iconic. Easy to slap on a T-shirt."
Eidolon tilted his head. "Ah yes. The sacred art of commodifying planetary defense. How noble. Maybe throw in some Happy Meals with tiny collectible Batplanes? Batman, you could finally beat McDonald's in a stealth competition."
"Careful," Batman said flatly. "I'm watching you, Eidolon."
"You've probably got files on everyone," Eidolon replied, voice a shade too amused. "You probably have files about your files. Tell me, do you color-code them by trauma or unresolved emotional damage?"
Flash choked on laughter. "Okay, wow. British sarcasm is a whole different tier."
"It's an art form," Eidolon said, folding his arms. "We colonized half the planet with that and a sarcastic cough."
Diana held up a hand like a teacher reminding the class they were still in session. "Enough. The name matters less than what we build. We need a headquarters. A base. Somewhere neutral. Remote. Secure."
"I might know a place," Batman said. Of course he did. He probably had the lease signed already. "It's off-grid. Underground. Shielded from detection. And very, very expensive."
"Do we get WiFi?" Shazam asked. "And snacks? I'm not saying it's a deal-breaker, but…"
"We'll need a secure comms network," Cyborg added. "Encrypted on a quantum level. With satellite coverage, facial recognition, dimensional breach detection, and yes, Shazam, a fridge."
Superman looked thoughtful. "We've all fought alone. Protected our cities. But this?" He looked around at the group—Diana with her steel resolve, Batman with his thousand-yard scowl, Flash bouncing on his heels like he was powered by coffee, Shazam grinning like a golden retriever in spandex, Cyborg already building a prototype base in his brain, and Eidolon, hovering like a medieval ghost cosplaying as Darth Vader's sassier cousin. "This can't be a one-time thing."
Diana nodded. "Then we make it official."
"We'll need rules," Batman said.
"Flexibility," Clark countered.
"Snacks," Flash muttered again, unapologetic.
"Drama," Eidolon added. "Because if there aren't apocalyptic stakes, a morally ambiguous villain, and at least one near-death speech, I'm not showing up."
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the ruins of Gotham in hues of fire and ash. Civilians emerged from hiding like they weren't sure whether to clap or call their therapists.
The seven of them—gods, aliens, billionaires, walking lightning bolts, and one crimson-eyed mystery man—stood in a circle.
"No big speech?" Eidolon asked. "No 'We ride at dawn' or 'One does not simply walk into Mordor'?"
Diana drew her sword and planted it in the cracked earth. "Only this: from this day forward—we stand as one."
Superman smiled. "Then it's settled."
"Justice League, baby!" Flash whooped, high-fiving Shazam, who accidentally caused a thunderclap. Oops.
Batman didn't say a word. Classic. But there was a smirk. Tiny, but definitely there. Somewhere, Alfred probably marked the date in a leather-bound journal.
Cyborg brought up a 3D model of Earth. "I'll start setting up surveillance. Dimensional tremors. Subspace echoes. E.T. phone-home detectors. The works."
"Do I get a theme song?" Shazam asked.
"I'm writing you a playlist," Flash said. "But only if you stop eating during briefings."
Eidolon hovered above them, arms crossed. "So… do we do hand signals? Catchphrases? Matching rings? Do I get to veto capes?"
"You are wearing a cape," Batman pointed out.
"It's a cloak," Eidolon said dryly. "Totally different. Mine broods more."
Far Away…
In the black between stars, on a world where gravity wept and time screamed, a pair of crimson eyes blinked open. Ancient. Malevolent. Amused.
Because the League had formed.
And something had noticed.
—
One by one, the heroes peeled away like the dramatic exits were union-mandated. Or maybe they had somewhere better to be. Like literally anywhere else.
Batman was first, obviously. Because Batman. No words. Just an angry swirl of cape, a grappling hook that may or may not have violated several laws of physics, and then—poof. Gone. Like your last paycheck when rent's due. All that was left was a faint smell of brooding and Bat-brand aftershave.
"Well," Eidolon said, voice like velvety sarcasm wrapped in British snark, "clearly he's allergic to group goodbyes."
Next was Cyborg, who gave a casual two-finger salute before his body flickered into digitized mist and zipped into the clouds like a sentient Spotify playlist.
"I'll send you the schematics for the comms hub," Cyborg said, his tone smooth enough to qualify as R&B.
Eidolon tilted his head. "That's adorable. But I don't have an email address. Or a phone. Or a social security number. I literally fell into this world an hour ago. You're lucky I even know what Wi-Fi is."
Cyborg chuckled. "You'll fit right in."
Then came Shazam, who exploded into the air with a thunderclap so obnoxious it could've triggered a minor earthquake.
Flash screamed and flailed like someone had just unplugged his Wi-Fi mid-TikTok.
"WILL YOU STOP DOING THAT?!" he screeched, now covered in melted baklava and existential regret. "I swear to Beyoncé, you're gonna kill me before I hit twenty-five."
"Then live fast, Flash!" Shazam grinned, giving him finger guns before disappearing into the clouds like a Red Bull-chugging demigod.
Flash zipped in a few micro-laps, as if the sheer speed of movement would let him outrun secondhand embarrassment. He skidded to a halt beside Wonder Woman and tried to stand very, very tall. (It didn't help.)
"I could, uh, stick around?" he said, voice cracking like a poorly tuned violin. "We could talk tactics. Maybe, I don't know, share some almond croissants?"
Wonder Woman arched an eyebrow like it was forged by Hephaestus himself.
Flash coughed. "Yeah, no, okay, I see it now. I'm gonna… not be here."
And zoom. He was gone.
Green Lantern hovered above the group like a traffic cop who'd just realized everyone was speeding on purpose.
"I'll cover the East Coast," he called, voice as dry as his ring was bright. "If you see anything green, it's probably me. If it's not—panic accordingly."
Eidolon gave him a crisp salute. "Right. If I spot a kale smoothie floating toward Metropolis, I'll know who to blame."
Green Lantern smirked. "Try not to broodingly explode anything while I'm gone."
"Not promising anything."
Superman was next. No fuss. No thunder. Just a quiet, dignified lift-off that made everyone subconsciously want to salute or cry or call their mothers. Maybe all three.
He gave Eidolon a nod, the kind that said I trust you but also please don't level a city.
Eidolon nodded back. "Thanks for not laser-eyeing me today, Big Blue. Means a lot."
Clark chuckled and took off, leaving behind a gust of wind so wholesome even the pigeons saluted.
Which left just two.
Diana turned toward her exit path, golden lasso swaying gently, her armor catching the sunlight like it owed her a favor. She looked like a war goddess on loan from Mount Olympus. Or a perfume ad for "Wrath & Grace."
Eidolon floated closer, cloak trailing like shadow smoke. "You could stay," he said, voice smooth and sinfully confident. "I'm very good company. We could discuss tactics. Battle formations. Your breathtaking cheekbones."
Diana exhaled through her nose, her expression somewhere between serious warrior and someone trying not to laugh at a meme in church.
"Your flirtation tactics are shameless," she said.
"They're also very effective," Eidolon replied, eyes glowing crimson beneath his black helmet. "I consider it a public service. The world needs beauty, Princess. I'm merely acknowledging the divine."
She shook her head, amused despite herself. "Until next time, Eidolon."
"Until next time, Princess."
And then she was gone, soaring into the sky like a myth Disney wishes they'd written.
Eidolon stayed for a moment, letting the silence wrap around him. The city was still, scarred but intact. The sky painted in burnt orange and fading gold.
He rose higher, heading toward the ocean. The world fell away beneath him—streets, buildings, expectations. Up here, it was just wind and sky and freedom.
Harry had always loved the sky.
He closed his eyes.
Which was, of course, when a portal opened right in front of his smug, floating face.
"OH, BLOODY—"
He fell.
Not dramatically. Not with style. Just… whoop—gone.
He tumbled through inky black mist, his body twisting through what felt like a haunted episode of Doctor Who. Reality peeled back like a bad sticker.
And then—thud.
He landed on obsidian tile that gleamed like someone had rage-polished it for eternity. The air smelled like old parchment, expensive coffee, and judgment.
The music? Baroque. Haunting. Pretentious.
Harry groaned.
Gone was the armor, the crimson glow, the dramatic cloak.
He was just Harry Potter again. Hoodie. Trainers. Scar tingling like a magical hangover.
He stood in front of a mahogany desk the size of a Manhattan apartment, behind which sat a woman with black lipstick, black blazer, dark curls, and the deeply unimpressed expression of someone who'd had to audit Hades's taxes last week.
Death.
Also known—at least in Harry's head—as "Boss Lady Who Could Snap Me Into A Soul Puddle."
She didn't look up. Just flipped through a file like it had personally wronged her.
"Well," she said, voice dry enough to qualify as a drought. "Took you long enough."
Harry scratched the back of his neck. "In my defense, I was saving Gotham from a literal alien armada. There were Parademons involved. And a clone Darkseid. And explosions. Very cinematic."
Death raised an eyebrow without looking at him. "And flirting with an Amazonian Princess counts as saving Gotham?"
Harry shrugged. "Emotional healing is very important during post-battle recovery. I was being therapeutic."
She snapped the file shut.
"Sit."
The chair behind him summoned itself. Loudly.
Harry sighed, flopping down like a teenager being dragged to career counseling.
"We need to talk," Death said.
The door behind him slammed shut.
Harry blinked. "That's never ominous."
And the classical music? Switched to something distinctly more 'You're in trouble'.
Because of course it did.
—
While Harry had been busy punching a clone of Darkseid so hard it created a new crater in Gotham—and let's be honest, that was a Tuesday—Death had been doing his paperwork.
"Yes, while you were off cosplaying as Supernatural John Wick," Death muttered, flipping a page on her clipboard, "I was buried in soul transfer documents and multiversal birth certificates."
She didn't look up. Didn't have to. Her black lipstick curled into a satisfied smirk as Harry floated half an inch above the obsidian floor, his arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man ready to protest literally anything.
"Okay, but please tell me I get to pick my new name," Harry said, eyes gleaming with mischievous hope. "Like... Shadow Blaze. Or no—wait—Lord Boomstick. Actually, scratch that. I want Sinister McPhoenixface. Mysterious. Powerful. You can't not respect a man named McPhoenixface."
"You're Hadrian Peverell."
Harry froze. Blinked. "Sorry, did you just say—Hadrian?"
Death, the spiritual embodiment of dry sarcasm in a hoodie clicked her pen with purpose. "Hadrian. Peverell. Twenty-four years old. British. Heir to Peverell & Blackwood Holdings, aka you are now offensively rich. Try not to trip over your inheritance."
Harry made a noise somewhere between a groan and a dying walrus. "Hadrian sounds like someone who collects Victorian doilies and scolds people about the collapse of the Roman aqueduct system."
"It's dignified," Death replied sweetly, her tone making it clear she would incinerate his kneecaps for arguing further. "Besides, I like it. And I'm literally Death, so I win."
"I'm not even short for Hadrian," he grumbled. "I'm Harry. H-A-R-R-Y. Simple. Two syllables. Approachable. You can shout it across a battlefield, and people don't stop to Google its historical accuracy."
She gave him a look that could peel paint. "Would you like me to resurrect Voldemort and give him the name?"
Harry shut up. Wise man.
"Anyway," Death said, tucking away the clipboard with a dramatic swirl of smoke and glitter that was absolutely unnecessary but on-brand. "Your parents in this world are James and Lily Peverell. James is a British media mogul with the charm of Tom Hiddleston and the morals of a used-car salesman. Lily is a scientist so brilliant she probably invented three new colors just to prove she could."
Harry's brow arched. "Okay, that's actually kind of baller."
"Oh, and you're also disgustingly wealthy. Think penthouse-in-every-continent, private island shaped like a stag's head, yacht with laser cannons rich."
Harry gave a slow nod. "Okay. That's… that's a vibe."
"Not done," Death continued, holding up a hand. "As part of your New Life package—which, by the way, I had to forge no less than thirty-seven divine signatures for—you also get your powers."
Harry tilted his head. "You mean the usual? Super speed, flight, elemental control, punching spaceships to death, regenerating like a certain Marvel anti-hero?"
"Correct. Plus: you get stronger every time you die. And… you get to bring four souls from your past life."
That shut him up.
Before Harry could ask any more, the double doors behind him swung open with theatrical timing only Death could've orchestrated.
James Potter stepped in first, older than Harry remembered, but still rocking that mischievous smirk like a weapon. With his sharp cheekbones and tailored suit, he looked like a villain who won and got the girl.
"Son," James said smoothly, "you've returned. Also, please tell me you punched the daylight out of Dimseid."
Lily entered next. Hair in a fiery bun. Eyes that could out-science Tony Stark. Lab coat optional, judgement eternal.
"Don't let your father name anything, Hadrian," she said crisply. "He once named our pet owl 'Feathery McBeakyface.'"
"Only because you rejected 'Owliver Featherstein,'" James protested.
Then came Sirius. Leather jacket. Wolfish grin. Hair just long enough to be dangerous. He looked like a CEO who moonlighted as a rockstar and possibly stole your girlfriend in Monaco.
"Nice digs, Harry," he said, smirking. "Can't wait to see if this world has motorbikes that run on snark."
And last—Remus. Calm, elegant, dignified. He had the look of someone who taught you ancient runes in the morning and saved your life with a sword by night. A quiet force in a world full of noise.
"You look well," Remus said, smiling gently.
Harry swallowed. "You're all coming?"
Death sighed. "Not all. Remus chose to stay. Tonks is here, remember?"
A pause. Heavy. Real.
Harry turned. "Moony, you sure?"
Remus stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Seven years, Harry. That's how long I've had with you in the between. Training you. Watching you grow into someone this new world actually needs. That's more than I deserved."
James clapped Remus on the back. "You're the best of us, mate."
Lily leaned in, hugged him tight. "You'll always be family."
Sirius sniffed, pulled him into a bro-hug so violent it may have cracked a rib. "Try not to haunt us. Unless it's funny."
Harry grinned, eyes watery. "You better be throwing sarcastic ghost commentary into the wind, Moony."
"I wouldn't dream of anything less."
There was a snap.
And beside Death now stood—
Dobson.
Not Dobby. Not anymore. Gone were the floppy ears and ragged clothes. Now he stood tall—well, relatively tall—in a pressed black tailcoat, waistcoat, gloves, and shoes that sparkled like they had opinions. He had a monocle, a British accent smoother than melted chocolate, and the judgmental glare of a man who knew how you liked your tea and was disappointed in you anyway.
"Master Hadrian," Dobson said, bowing. "It will be my pleasure to serve you once more. This time, with dignity, grace, and a far lower tolerance for sock-based abuse."
Harry choked. "Dobby?!"
"Dobson," he corrected crisply. "Miss Death says I must maintain composure and only say 'sir' once per paragraph, or she'll eject me into a sun."
"Still on the table," Death muttered.
Harry laughed. For real this time. "Mate, you look like you judged the Queen's corgi breeding strategy."
"I did, sir. It was appalling."
Death stepped forward once more, raising a hand. A wave of magic flowed through the air, and the three Marauders—and Dobson—glowed briefly.
"Your magic has been returned to you," she said. "Wandless, for your convenience. Because the idea of relying on a fragile wooden stick always struck me as poor design."
Sirius flexed his fingers. "Oh yes. Papa would have missed his sparkles."
James grinned. "I feel like someone poured espresso into my soul."
Lily rolled her eyes. "Men."
Death gave one final nod. "When you wake, you'll be aboard your private jet en route to Metropolis. Try not to crash it."
They turned to Remus one last time. Hugs. Words. Unspoken memories.
And then—
Darkness.
Followed by the hum of engines, the soft clink of glass, and five souls blinking into a new world.
Welcome to DC-Earth.
The Peverells had arrived.
---
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