CHAPTER TEN: THE SELF-PROCLAIMED WIZARD

The meeting room felt colder than usual, though that might’ve been the tension in the air rather than the air conditioning. A wall-length mo

The meeting room felt colder than usual, though that might’ve been the tension in the air rather than the air conditioning working on full blast.

A wall-length monitor displayed a still frame from the hospital’s security feed: a grainy shot of the young man sat in bed, eating the last of his meal. Beneath the image, the overlay read:

Subject: Potter, Harry

Status: Under Observation

Deputy Director Emily Piggot leaned back in her chair with a tired exhale and gestured for the briefing to begin. "Summarize.”

Miss Militia stood at the front of the room, arms behind her back, and stance military-straight. “Subject claims his name is Harry Potter, but no Earth Bet or Earth Aleph records match that identity. Physically, he appears to be in his late teens or early twenties. Mentally, he presents as significantly older. Bloodwork is... inconclusive.”

Piggot raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“Inconclusive how?” asked one of the analysts.

“Unidentifiable markers,” Armsmaster said, stepping in. “Traces of unknown compounds. His DNA is human, but there are protein structures that shouldn’t exist or had been denatured centuries ago. We ran it three times, and even called in Panacea. Same result.”

“Is he not a Case-53?” asked another analyst, flipping through a printed report.

“No stylized markings, no genetic anomalies consistent with known batches, and no memory loss. But he claims to be from a planet called Earth, an alternate one to Bet and Aleph based on the naming convention. Identifies as British.”

Piggot grunted. “And he says he’s a wizard.”

Miss Militia gave a single nod. “Used the term unprompted and repeatedly. Also says his abilities are 'spells,’ not powers, and are common where he's from. When asked about triggers, he showed genuine confusion. This is consistent with the lack of either the Corona Pollentia or Gemma, as far as our scans can tell.”

“Still sounds like a delusion,” said someone from Psych.

“A possibility we can't discard,” Miss Militia replied. “But his physical body was reduced to a biological slurry inside Echidna, and yet, within twenty-four hours, he had fully reconstituted. He is the only survivor of Noelle’s consumption.”

That silenced the room for a beat.

Piggot looked toward Armsmaster. “Threat classification?”

“Stranger 2. Trump 3,” Armsmaster said without pause.

Papers rustled with surprise, and a few heads turned.

Piggot’s gaze narrowed. “Justify.”

“High-level Stranger effects. Thinkers exposed to him reported interferences: headaches, faulty deductions, misfires. But they were able to narrow the general ability to one that interfered with or bypassed powers entirely.”

He continued: “His ‘magic’ seems to be drawn from an internal well of some kind, possibly intrinsic since it is passed down through family lines for generations. During the fight, he produced light, caused visible confusion on the target, and even created localized barriers. All with the evocations of pseudo-Latin words, and other modified languages, though he did say some could be cast silently.”

“His magic, if that’s what it is, appears to function independently of known power mechanics,” added Miss Militia.

“That’s not a power,” one of the PRT data techs murmured. “That’s a potential paradigm shift. Very dangerous.”

Piggot tapped a pen once against her folder. “Has he shown hostility?”

“No,” Miss Militia said. “He’s polite and cooperative. Maybe emotionally closed off, but he’s still responsive. Everything is within normal range.”

“He helped with Echidna,” Armsmaster added. “Saved lives, and possibly saved the city.”

“Unintentionally,” Piggot said flatly. “And that isn't a dismissal of ulterior motives.”

A quiet settled over the room again.

Then: “What about psychological eval?”

“He’s... complicated,” said the lead psych evaluator, a woman with tired eyes and a stooped posture. “Trauma responses consistent with child soldiers or war survivors: nightmares, hyper-vigilance, and survivor’s guilt. He calls it ‘magic,’ but it’s not a delusion in the clinical sense. From his perspective, it is real. His frame of reference comes from a world that plays by different rules.”

“And if he’s telling the truth?” asked someone at the far end of the table.

“Then he’s not just another powerful cape,” Miss Militia said. “He’s a refugee from another world, one with people that can casually rewrite reality from a young age. And if that's the case…”

“We might be underestimating him,” Armsmaster finished grimly.

Piggot’s pen stilled. For a long moment, her eyes didn’t move from the screen. Then, she exhaled slowly and turned to her aide. “Prepare the official classification as a Stranger/Trump mix, with provisional containment, limited clearance, no media exposure, and absolutely no leaks.”

The aide nodded, fingers already moving as they typed notes.

“And his designation?”

Miss Militia glanced at the screen. Harry still sat on the hospital bed, position unchanged, but he stared out the window, clearly lost in thought. 

“We’ll continue using the name he gave, until told otherwise.”

Piggot closed her folder with a snap. “Let’s hope this so-called wizard doesn’t turn out to be our next goddamn problem.”