CHAPTER NINE: CONVERSATION

A day passed. Maybe two. Harry wasn’t sure. Time felt strange here—passing too quickly amidst the rhythmic beeping of machines and the dista

A day passed, maybe two. Harry wasn’t sure. Time felt strange here, passing too quickly amidst the rhythmic beeping of machines and the distant chatter of hospital staff.

No one had tried to interrogate him yet. The most interaction he had came from the nurses, who slipped in and out of the room quietly; they checked his vitals, jotted down observations and personal information on their clipboards, and offered the occasional polite smile that never quite reached their eyes. 

Mads stopped by once more, lingering just long enough to tell him Dinah was doing okay, a question he'd asked a nurse to pass along. She placed a small pack of gummy bears on the table beside his bed, offered a quick, awkward half-smile—as if unsure whether to say something or not—and then left without a word.

He appreciated it anyway.

It gave him something else to focus on, something safer than thinking about what his suddenly improved eyesight might mean.

The knock on the door broke the quiet.

Harry looked up as it opened to reveal a man in a blue suit of armor, a retractable halberd strapped across his back. His silver helmet covered most of his face, save for a neatly trimmed beard visible beneath the visor. 

He moved with a deliberate stiffness, though not from age, Harry sensed, but from habit. It reminded Harry, oddly enough, of Mad-Eye Moody: the same guarded posture, and the same readiness in every muscle, as if the man was perpetually braced for an attack that hadn’t come yet. A soldier through and through.

Armsmaster.

He half-expected the man to scream out “Constant vigilance!” Instead, the man called out, “Harry Potter.” His voice was clipped. “I am the leader of the Brockton Bay Protectorate team, Armsmaster.”

Harry nodded cautiously. “The halberd gave it away.”

Armsmaster continued undeterred. “I’ve already reviewed your file, but I’d prefer firsthand context, if you’re able.”

Harry gestured faintly. “I’ll try.”

There was a pause as Armsmaster stepped closer, standing at the foot of the bed.

“You were consumed by the parahuman designated Case-53: Echidna, later identified as Noelle Meinhardt. Observation confirmed full assimilation, yet you reappeared intact following her termination. Explain.”

Harry exhaled. “I wish I could, but I don’t know what happened. One moment I was being—” He faltered slightly. “—unmade. The next, I woke up in a recreation of King’s Cross Station. Noelle was there, human again, and she spoke to me.”

Armsmaster didn’t move, and his helmet betrayed nothing, but Harry saw the subtle shift in his stance. One of calculation. 

“A mental construct?” he asked. “Pocket dimension? Shared cognition?”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “It didn’t feel like a conscious use of magic, at least not one I recognized anyway. She said she didn’t want this… that she made a mistake, took something that changed her, and it spiraled out of control.”

“She made a choice.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “So do scared people. Doesn’t mean they deserve what comes next.”

“You’re defending her.”

“I’m not excusing her,” Harry said, tone edged with irritation. “She lost control and killed people. But she wasn’t some monster by nature. Someone made her into that.”

Armsmaster’s visor tilted slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Her friends found a suitcase,” Harry said. “Full of vials. Actual powers in a bottle, like something out of a bad sci-fi novel but real.”

Armsmaster went still, his voice carefully neutral. “I’ve heard rumors of unregulated trigger-inducing substances, but nothing confirmed.”

“Well, I saw the result. It didn’t go well.”

“I’ll need the names. Descriptions too.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I’ll tell you what I know. But are you going after them?”

“If they’re a threat.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Armsmaster studied him in silence for a moment, then spoke again, this time calmer and less interrogative.

“Are you willing to share the full extent of your abilities?”

“They’re not… abilities,” Harry said. “They’re spells. Magic.”

Another pause. Then: “Explain.”

“I’m not from this world,” Harry said. “And my wand is broken, but I’m still able to cast some spells, though less accurate and potent.”

Armsmaster didn’t speak for several seconds. When he did, his tone had shifted, as if he had mentally adjusted a hundred theories at once.

“Your healing was anomalous, accelerated beyond what anyone expected. Based on records, you regenerated from complete dissolution.”

Harry rubbed at his scar, absently. “That wasn’t me, at least not consciously. Could’ve been my magic acting on instinct, or maybe Noelle—whatever part of her was left when everything else burned away—had pitched in.”

Armsmaster was silent for a long moment before speaking again. “We have protocols for dimensionally displaced parahumans. Typically, they present with retrograde amnesia or cognitive distortion. You don’t. That makes your case… atypical.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “You’ll need to undergo testing, psychological evaluation, and observation to determine if you’re fit to integrate safely into society. For now, rest. I’ll be back with more questions.”

“I figured,” Harry said. “You want to know if I’m dangerous.”

“You are,” Armsmaster said flatly. “The question is: to whom.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that.

Armsmaster turned to go, but paused at the door. “For what it’s worth… intended or not, you saved lives. That’s all that matters.”

Harry didn’t look at him. “I couldn’t save hers.”

There was no answer as the door clicked shut.

Left alone again, Harry stared at the gummy bears on the table. He reached for a red one, rolling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

It was unsurprisingly sweet.