# **The Watchtower — Main Conference Room**
*(Or: That Awkward Moment When Your British Friends Break Into a Space Station Because You Forgot to Mention the Evil Twin Thing)*
Look, I've faced a lot of weird situations in my relatively short life as a superhero-wizard-god-thing. I've fought Dark Lords, punched demons, accidentally became powerful enough to benchpress solar systems (still not sure how that happened), and once set myself on fire twice in the same week for completely different reasons.
But standing in the Watchtower's main conference room, trying to explain to the Justice League why we needed to invade another dimension to fight an evil version of me who'd teamed up with Voldemort's consciousness, while my British found family staged an unauthorized infiltration because I'd maybe forgotten to mention this whole situation to them?
That was new.
"Absolutely not," Hermione Granger announced, marching through the conference room doors like she owned the place. Her hair was doing that angry static electricity thing that meant someone was about to get verbally destroyed with citations. "We are NOT having this conversation without us."
Behind her came what looked like a British invasion force, if British invasion forces consisted of redheaded wizards, my godfather who was definitely banned from several countries, and a werewolf who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts.
I groaned. "How did you even—"
"Did you REALLY think," Hermione interrupted, her voice hitting that pitch that had once made a mountain troll reconsider its career choices, "that you could plan an interdimensional intervention against VOLDEMORT without telling us?"
"I was going to tell you," I said weakly. "Eventually. After we'd, you know, figured out the actual plan."
"After you'd figured out the plan," Ron Weasley repeated, his ears going red the way they always did when he was trying not to yell at me for doing something catastrophically stupid. "You mean after you'd already committed to fighting an evil version of yourself who thinks like you but has none of your weird hangups about not murdering people?"
"When you put it like that—"
"How else would we PUT it?" Ginny Weasley demanded, her brown eyes flashing with the kind of anger that usually preceded hexes that would make my hair grow back wrong. "You were going to face someone with your face, your powers, and Voldemort's complete psychopathic lack of empathy, and you thought we'd just be cool with that?"
"I have backup!" I gestured desperately at the assembled Justice League. "Really good backup! Superman can benchpress planets!"
"Superman didn't spend seven years fighting Voldemort with you," Sirius Black said, moving forward with that casual grace that suggested he was absolutely prepared to physically drag me away from this mission if necessary. His grey eyes held that look that meant he was switching from "fun godfather" mode to "I will absolutely ground you across dimensions" mode. "We did. We know how Tom Riddle thinks. What he does. How he operates."
"This isn't the same Voldemort—"
"It's WORSE," Remus Lupin interrupted gently, but with steel underneath. "It's Voldemort with your strategic intelligence, your power levels, and two years of experience conquering a dimension. That's not better, Harry. That's exponentially more dangerous."
I looked around at my British found family. They were all there—Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the twins Fred and George (who were grinning like they'd just pulled off the prank of the century by breaking into a space station), Sirius, Remus. The people who'd been with me since I was eleven years old and didn't know the first thing about heroism except that you stood up when everyone else sat down.
"This is different," I said quietly. "This isn't just Voldemort. This is me. What I could have been if I'd lost my fight against the piece of his soul in my head."
"Exactly," Fred said, his usually cheerful face going serious in a way that was genuinely unsettling. "Which means you need people who knew you BEFORE you became powerful enough to arm-wrestle galaxies."
"People who can look at evil-you and immediately know what's wrong with the picture," George added. "Like the complete lack of terrible jokes."
"And the absence of setting yourself on fire through poor cape management," Ron said.
"I set myself on fire TWICE," I protested. "And one of those times was tactical!"
"One of them was because you walked into a ceremonial brazier while wearing a cape," Hermione said flatly. "A stationary heat source. That you walked INTO."
"The cape was supposed to be flame-retardant—"
"It WAS flame-retardant," she interrupted. "Before you deliberately set yourself on fire the first time that week and compromised the enchantments. So when you walked into the brazier, wearing a cape whose protective spells you'd already destroyed through tactical self-immolation—"
"Okay, yes, that was poor equipment management," I admitted.
"That was you in a nutshell," Ginny said, but her voice had gone softer. "Brave, brilliant, and completely terrible at keeping yourself alive. Which is why you need us."
I looked at Diana, silently begging for support.
She just smiled that Amazon smile that meant "you're on your own, little hero."
"They have a point," she said. "Fighting someone who wears your face requires backup from people who know who you really are. Not the cosmic-level powerhouse. Not the Justice League member. The person underneath all that."
"Plus they broke into the Watchtower," Flash added, vibrating with barely contained amusement. "Past security systems designed by BATMAN. That's either really impressive or really concerning."
"How DID you get past security?" Batman asked, and I could tell he was genuinely curious despite the whole "my space station was infiltrated" thing.
The twins exchanged identical grins. "Trade secret."
"Also possibly involving some creative applications of magical theory that technically aren't illegal but definitely aren't approved," Hermione added, because even during unauthorized break-ins, she felt compelled to provide detailed methodology.
"We'll discuss enhanced security measures later," Batman said, which was Batman-speak for "that was actually impressive but I'm going to pretend to be annoyed."
My interdimensional visitor—Alexander Luthor, the guy whose dimension we were trying to save—had been watching this whole exchange like someone witnessing a completely alien life form. His armor's systems were probably running analysis on family dynamics that didn't match any corporate structure he'd ever seen.
"You have people," he said slowly, "who care enough about you to break into a secure space station just to make sure you don't face darkness alone."
"Apparently," I said.
"Voldemort has strategic partnerships," Alexander continued, his voice carrying this weird mix of wonder and envy. "People who work with him because it benefits them. You have... this."
He gestured at my British found family, who were all standing there looking stubborn and determined and like they were absolutely prepared to follow me into another dimension whether I wanted them to or not.
"This is family," Sirius said quietly. "Not because we're related by blood—though some of us are—but because we choose to be. Because we care about what happens to this idiot even when he's trying to protect us by keeping us in the dark."
"Especially then," Remus added.
I felt something tight in my chest start to loosen. "You're really not going to let me do this without you."
"Absolutely not," they said in unison.
"Even though it's dangerous."
"ESPECIALLY because it's dangerous," Hermione said firmly. "We didn't survive a war with Voldemort just to let you face another version of him alone."
"Besides," Fred added, his grin returning, "someone needs to provide running commentary about all the ways evil-you is doing villainy wrong."
"Can't have evil-you thinking he's successfully impersonating our Harry," George agreed. "We've got quality control standards to maintain."
I looked at Diana again. She just nodded.
"They can come," she said. "Their knowledge of Voldemort's tactics and your pre-power personality provides strategic advantages that justify the risk."
"Plus keeping them here would just result in unauthorized interdimensional travel attempts," Batman added. "Which would be harder to coordinate."
"We absolutely would follow you through unauthorized portals," the twins confirmed cheerfully.
I sighed. "Fine. You can come. But you follow League protocols, you maintain tactical distance from cosmic-level threats, and you absolutely do NOT engage Voldemort directly without backup."
"We promise to follow League protocols," Hermione said in that tone that meant she'd already found seventeen loopholes.
"We'll maintain appropriate tactical distance," Ron agreed, with the sincerity of someone who absolutely meant it until circumstances required heroic stupidity.
"We definitely won't engage Voldemort directly," the twins said together, "without comprehensive backup and probably some really excellent last-minute planning."
"I'm going to regret this," I muttered.
"Probably," Ginny agreed. "But you'd regret leaving us behind more."
She was right. Of course she was right.
Because the thing about family—real family, the kind you choose rather than the kind you're born into—is that they don't let you face monsters alone. Even when the monster wears your face.
---
# **The Watchtower — Team Assembly Area**
*(Or: How I Accidentally Assembled the Most Chaotic Strike Team in Interdimensional History)*
The team assembly area looked like someone had taken a military briefing room, given it to Tony Stark to redesign, and then asked an interior decorator who'd never seen a military briefing room to make it "more inviting." Holographic displays showed dimensional coordinates, tactical assessments, and what appeared to be comprehensive psychological profiles of everyone involved—because of course Batman had psychological profiles. He probably had them color-coded by "likelihood of doing something heroically stupid."
I stood in the middle of what was rapidly becoming organized chaos, watching my "specialized strike team" grow from "a few key personnel" to "basically everyone I've ever met who thinks I need adult supervision."
"Right," I said, trying to project confidence while my brain screamed that I had no business leading an interdimensional invasion. "Let's establish team composition before this turns into the entire Justice League plus every teenager I've ever trained with."
"Too late!" came a cheerful voice.
I turned to see Kara Zor-El leading what looked like the entire Young Justice roster through the door. Miss Martian floated beside her, her green skin practically glowing with determination. Artemis had her bow. Aqualad moved with that calm Atlantean confidence. Kid Flash vibrated in place like an overly caffeinated hummingbird.
"We heard you were planning interdimensional intervention against evil alternate you," Kara said. "Obviously we're coming."
"Obviously?" I repeated weakly.
"Harry," Miss Martian—Megan—said gently, "did you really think we'd let you face an alternate version of yourself without the people who've been fighting beside you since Young Justice formed?"
"I was hoping you'd respect my tactical assessment—"
"Your tactical assessment," Artemis interrupted, "is that you should face cosmic-level threats with minimal backup to avoid putting people at risk. Our tactical assessment is that you're an idiot."
"A well-meaning idiot," Aqualad—Kaldur—clarified. "But an idiot nonetheless. You operate better with backup, Harry. You coordinate more effectively with allies. And you make significantly fewer catastrophically poor decisions when surrounded by people who can tell you that your latest brilliant plan is actually catastrophically stupid."
"I make excellent plans," I protested.
"You make plans that would be excellent," Robin—Dick Grayson—said, appearing from somewhere with that Bat-family stealth that was genuinely creepy, "if they didn't consistently involve you volunteering for the most dangerous parts while trying to minimize everyone else's risk."
"That's called leadership—"
"That's called a martyrdom complex," Batgirl—Barbara Gordon—corrected, settling beside Robin. "And we're here to make sure you don't get yourself killed trying to protect everyone else."
I looked around at Young Justice—my team, the people I'd been working with since this whole superhero thing started—and felt that familiar mix of warmth and exasperation.
"You're all coming," I said. Not a question.
"Obviously," they confirmed in unison.
"Even though it's dangerous."
"ESPECIALLY because it's dangerous," Kid Flash—Wally—said, still vibrating. "Someone needs to provide running commentary about how evil-you is doing villainy wrong. Can't leave that to people who don't have experience with your specific brand of heroic incompetence."
"I'm not incompetent—"
"You set yourself on fire twice last week," Megan reminded me gently.
"That was—different contexts!"
"Same pattern of poor safety management," she said. "You walked into a ceremonial brazier while wearing a compromised cape."
"Can we PLEASE stop bringing up the cape fire?"
"No," everyone said together.
I groaned and looked at Diana, who was clearly trying not to laugh.
"They have a point," she said. "Your tendency toward self-sacrificing heroism requires oversight from people who understand that protecting others doesn't mean ignoring your own safety completely."
"I don't ignore my own safety—"
"You set yourself on fire," Kara reminded me. "Twice. One week."
"DIFFERENT CONTEXTS!"
Before anyone could bring up the cape fire AGAIN, the doors opened and another wave of people entered.
Daphne Greengrass—Diamond—moved with aristocratic grace, her ice-blue armor shimmering. Susan Bones—Spitfire—practically crackled with phoenix fire energy. Neville Longbottom—Druid—had that quiet confidence of someone who'd grown into his power. Luna Lovegood—Seer—floated slightly above the floor in robes that looked like moonlight.
"Harry," Daphne said in that posh accent that made everything sound like a royal decree, "did you really think we'd let you face an alternate version of yourself without the people who've been training beside you since Hogwarts?"
"How many people are going to say that exact sentence today?" I asked the universe.
The universe didn't answer, but I suspected the number was "too many."
"I was hoping," I tried weakly, "that you'd respect my tactical assessment—"
"Your tactical assessment," Susan interrupted, her voice warm but firm, "is wrong. You're trying to protect everyone by concentrating all the risk on yourself. We're trying to distribute the risk appropriately because team effectiveness requires everyone accepting reasonable danger."
"I'm best qualified to handle the dangerous parts—"
"You're best qualified to coordinate operations," Neville said calmly. "Not to absorb all the risk personally because you have guilt issues about other people getting hurt."
"I don't have guilt issues—"
"You have COMPREHENSIVE guilt issues," Luna said dreamily. "Your aura shows consistent patterns of self-sacrifice ideation and protective instinct overdevelopment. Very interesting from a psychological maladaptation perspective. Probably requires therapy, but we're providing field support instead because therapy takes too long and you're about to face evil alternate you."
"I don't need therapy—"
"You absolutely need therapy," Hermione said. "But we'll table that discussion for after we save the dimension."
I looked around at what was now a truly absurd number of people. My British found family. Young Justice. My Hogwarts resistance friends. The Justice League watching with varying expressions of amusement and concern.
"How many people are coming on this operation?" I asked Diana weakly.
She consulted a holographic display. "Current count? Forty-three."
"Forty-three," I repeated.
"Forty-five if we include Jean and Deedee," she added, "though they've explained they can't directly participate in combat due to primordial entity restrictions."
Right. Because my girlfriend was the Flame of the Beginning and my other girlfriend was literal Death, and apparently cosmic law prevented them from fighting mortals directly without risking dimensional collapse.
No pressure.
"I'm leading an interdimensional invasion with forty-five people," I said, the absurdity hitting me.
"You're leading an interdimensional intervention," Superman corrected gently, "with comprehensive backup from people who care about you."
"Some operations require proving that cooperation is stronger than individual capability," Wonder Woman added. "That love and trust can accomplish what strategic superiority can't."
"Some operations," Batman said, "require enough backup that even your most catastrophically poor decisions can be mitigated through contingency planning."
I looked at Alexander, who was staring at the assembled group like he was witnessing aliens.
"You have forty-five people," he said slowly, "who care enough about you to break into space stations, develop counter-assessments to your planning, and coordinate interdimensional invasions specifically to keep you alive."
"Apparently."
"Voldemort has strategic partnerships," Alexander continued. "People who work with him because it benefits them. You have... this."
He gestured at the chaos—British teenagers, cosmic entities, superheroes, wizards, my eleven girlfriends who were all watching this with various expressions of amusement.
"Family," Diana said simply. "People who care about outcomes beyond their own benefit. Who'd rather risk their own safety than let Harry face darkness alone."
"Family," Alexander repeated, like the concept was foreign.
"Some problems," Superman said, "require accepting that cooperation is more valuable than superiority."
"Some problems," Batman added, "require trusting people to care about your wellbeing beyond your tactical utility."
"Some problems," I said quietly, looking at forty-five people who'd somehow decided my questionable decision-making was worth supporting, "require accepting that trying to protect everyone by facing danger alone isn't actually heroic. It's just scared. And pretending it's leadership doesn't make it less scared."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either brilliant breakthroughs or emotional processing requiring tissues.
"Did Harry just admit he's scared?" Fred asked George.
"I think so," George confirmed. "Someone mark the calendar."
"I'm terrified," I admitted. "I'm about to face someone who thinks like me but has none of my moral limitations. That's literally the scariest thing I can imagine."
"More scary than Voldemort with a body?" Ron asked.
"More scary than basilisks?" Hermione added.
"More scary than that time you thought you'd killed Ginny?" the twins said together.
"More scary than all of those," I confirmed, "because this isn't just Voldemort. This is me. What I could have been if I'd lost my fight against Tom Riddle's soul in my head."
"You won that fight," Jean said gently, her cosmic awareness probably reading my emotional state like a book, "because you had something Tom Riddle never understood. People who loved you. Who gave you reasons to keep fighting when giving up would have been easier."
"Voldemort lost that fight," Death—Deedee—added, "because the version of you in his dimension didn't have those connections. Faced his battle alone, in a place where love couldn't reach him."
"And now," Bekka said, moving closer with that New Genesis grace, "you're going to prove the difference between winning and losing isn't power or intelligence. It's having people who care enough to fight beside you even when fighting beside you means confronting darkness that wears your face."
"No pressure," Barda added.
"No pressure at all," I agreed, feeling something settle in my chest that might have been hope. "Just forty-five people who care enough to coordinate comprehensive intervention in my operational planning."
"Exactly," Diana said. "Now let's finalize deployment parameters and prove that love and cooperation are stronger than enhanced tyranny."
"When you put it like that," Alexander said, "it almost sounds achievable."
"Almost," Batman agreed. "Now let's discuss the seventeen contingency protocols I've developed for preventing Harry from implementing self-sacrificing strategies during critical mission phases."
"Seventeen seems excessive—"
"Seventeen is conservative," Batman interrupted. "Based on documented patterns of heroic stupidity. Preliminary analysis suggested twenty-three, but I eliminated six as too stupid even for you."
"What were the six?"
"Scenarios involving voluntary consumption of unknown substances, deliberate exposure to reality-warping effects, attempted negotiation with entities known for eating negotiators, and three variations on 'heroic sacrifice through creative misapplication of physics.'"
"I feel offended."
"You should be," Batman confirmed. "But you're probably too busy planning some variation of those scenarios for the actual operation."
"I'm not planning creative misapplication of physics—"
"Yet," everyone said in unison.
"I hate all of you."
"You love us," they replied perfectly synchronized. "We're the reason you're still alive despite your dedication to creative self-endangerment."
And looking at forty-five people who'd somehow decided my catastrophic approach to heroism was worth supporting, I realized they were absolutely right.
Time to prove that love, friendship, terrible jokes, and comprehensive operational oversight could overcome evil alternate me with enhanced capabilities.
No pressure.
Just everything that mattered, hanging in the balance of whether we could coordinate the most chaotic strike team in documented history.
Again.
*Great. Just great.*
—
# **Earth-3 — The Dimensional Breach Point**
*(Or: That Awkward Moment When You Realize Evil You Has Been Redecorating Reality Like a Pinterest Board from Hell)*
Look, I've had some weird Tuesdays. There was that time I accidentally absorbed a dying star while fighting off space pirates. The incident with the sentient pizza that tried to negotiate diplomatic immunity. That whole thing with the interdimensional tax auditor who turned out to be a chaos demon with really strong opinions about proper receipt documentation.
But materializing in an alternate dimension where evil me had turned systematic oppression into an art form?
That was a new personal best for "Tuesdays That Make You Question Your Life Choices."
The dimensional transport felt like someone had put my molecules in a blender, hit "frappe," added some cosmic horror for flavor, and then reassembled me while reading the instructions backwards. My stomach was somewhere near my left ear, my magical core was doing the mambo, and I was pretty sure at least three of my internal organs had briefly existed in different time zones.
"Okay," I said, materializing in what looked like a warehouse district designed by someone who'd watched every dystopian movie ever made and thought "yeah, but it needs more oppressive architecture," "does anyone else taste colors? Because I'm definitely tasting the concept of 'purple' right now and it's very concerning."
"That's dimensional sickness," Alexander Luthor said, looking way too calm for someone who'd just been liquified and reconstituted across realities. His blue and silver armor gleamed in the dim light filtering through clouds that looked like they'd been personally arranged by a weather service that had given up on joy. "Your sensory processing is trying to recalibrate to slightly different universal constants. Give it a minute. The synesthesia will fade."
"The what now?"
"Tasting colors," Hermione Granger translated, already pulling out her wand and about seventeen different scanning devices because apparently even interdimensional travel didn't excuse her from conducting comprehensive empirical analysis. "Seeing sounds. Smelling emotions. Standard neurological confusion when your brain realizes physics works slightly differently here."
"I can smell emotions?" Ron Weasley asked, his freckled face scrunched up in concentration. "Is that what that is? I thought someone had brought really weird cheese."
"That's fear," Remus Lupin said quietly, his werewolf senses probably picking up things that made my magical resonance look subtle. "Pervasive, systematic fear. This entire district reeks of it."
I looked around at what used to be Metropolis and felt my stomach—now returned to approximately the right location—do a slow, uncomfortable roll.
The buildings were intact. That was the first thing you noticed. No rubble, no destroyed infrastructure, no signs of the kind of chaotic violence you'd expect from supervillain occupation. Everything was clean, organized, functional.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because the buildings weren't homes—they were filing cabinets for people. Each one identical, efficient, designed to maximize occupancy while minimizing anything that might feel like actual living. Surveillance cameras sprouted from every corner like technological mushrooms, their lenses tracking movements with the kind of comprehensive attention that made Big Brother look like a casual hobbyist.
And the people. Gods, the people.
They moved through the streets with that particular kind of purposeful hurry that said "I have somewhere to be and lingering will result in consequences I'd rather not experience." Nobody made eye contact. Nobody spoke unless absolutely necessary. Everyone walked like they were being graded on their efficiency and failure meant reeducation.
"This is cheerful," Fred Weasley said, his usual grin faltering like someone had hit the pause button on his natural joie de vivre. "Very welcoming. Really captures that 'systematic dehumanization with really excellent infrastructure maintenance' vibe."
"It's like if George Orwell and a corporate efficiency consultant had a baby," George added, pulling out one of those experimental magical devices that looked like it might either save the world or blow up spectacularly—usually both. "And that baby grew up to become a city planner with serious intimacy issues."
"Focus," Wonder Woman said, and when Diana Prince used that voice, even gods paid attention. Her Amazon senses were probably detecting threats in spectrums I couldn't even conceptualize, and her hand had drifted to where her lasso hung like she was expecting to need it very soon. "We're in hostile territory. Every system here is monitored. Every communication intercepted. Every breath probably logged in a database somewhere."
"Logged how?" Kara Zor-El asked, her Kryptonian vision scanning wavelengths that would make normal physics professors weep into their tenure reviews. "Because I'm seeing surveillance tech that operates on principles that shouldn't exist yet. Like, 'technology from fifty years in the future' kind of shouldn't exist."
"Voldemort upgraded their systems," Alexander said, and the way he said that name—with this mix of guilt and horror and really comprehensive self-recrimination—made it clear he'd spent a lot of time thinking about this. "Integrated magical detection with advanced technology. Created hybrid monitoring systems that track everything from biosignatures to magical resonance to—" He paused. "To emotional states."
"I'm sorry," Susan Bones said, and flames started flickering around her hands in that way they did when her phoenix fire responded to moral outrage by suggesting we solve problems through creative combustion, "did you just say emotional states? They're monitoring people's feelings?"
"Analyzing them," Alexander corrected, his holographic display showing schematics that made my brain hurt and my moral center scream. "Correlating emotional patterns with probability of resistance behavior. Identifying individuals whose psychological profiles suggest potential opposition to civic management protocols."
The silence that followed was the kind usually reserved for moments when everyone simultaneously realizes they're in way over their heads but nobody wants to be the first to admit it.
"Thought crime," Hermione said finally, her voice flat with the kind of horror that came from actually understanding history instead of just memorizing it for tests. "They've implemented actual thought crime detection through emotional surveillance and predictive behavioral analysis. Like the worst parts of every authoritarian regime ever, except optimized."
"That's..." I started, then stopped because my brain was busy trying to process the full implications while my magical core was suggesting we solve this problem by setting the entire surveillance network on fire and maybe whoever designed it too.
Who was me.
Sort of.
In the absolute worst possible way.
"Harry," Jean said gently, her cosmic awareness probably reading my emotional state like a giant neon sign that said "MORAL OUTRAGE APPROACHING STELLAR ENERGY LEVELS," "destroying the surveillance network would alert them we're here."
"I know," I said through teeth so gritted they were probably forming diamonds. "I'm just processing the fact that someone with my face looked at systematic oppression and thought 'you know what this needs? Better data analytics and comprehensive psychological profiling.'"
"That's what Tom Riddle does," Sirius Black said, and his voice carried that edge it got when he was remembering Azkaban and all the other times Dark Lords had turned human suffering into an optimization problem. "He sees systems and figures out how to make them more effective at causing pain. We've seen it before, pup. This is just..."
"Bigger," I finished. "So much bigger."
"And more sophisticated," Remus added, his werewolf instincts probably screaming warnings about predators and things that wore human shapes without understanding what humanity meant. "Voldemort in our dimension was powerful but fundamentally limited by his inability to delegate or trust anyone. This version has learned to coordinate. To build systems that function without his direct oversight."
"It's brilliant," Daphne Greengrass said, and everyone turned to stare at her with expressions that ranged from "excuse me what" to "did you just compliment evil-Harry's oppression network?"
"What?" she said, ice crystals forming around her fingers in that defensive way they did when people questioned her tactical assessments. "I'm not saying it's good. I'm saying it's brilliant. Horrifying, morally bankrupt, everything we're here to stop—but from a strategic perspective? This is probably the most effective oppression network ever designed by anyone anywhere."
"That's really not helping," Ron said.
"It's not supposed to help," Daphne shot back. "It's supposed to make us understand what we're facing. This isn't just Voldemort being powerful. This is Voldemort being intelligent about power. Using Harry's strategic planning to create systems that maintain themselves through institutional mechanisms instead of just personal violence."
"Self-sustaining tyranny," Batman said, because of course he'd already analyzed this entire situation and developed seventeen contingency plans while the rest of us were still processing the dystopian architecture. "Oppression that doesn't need constant enforcement because the population has been conditioned to enforce it themselves."
"How do we fight that?" Ginny Weasley asked, and for once her usual confidence had wavered—just a little, just enough to make it clear that even she was having trouble wrapping her head around systematic dehumanization at this scale.
"We don't fight the system," Superman said, and his voice carried that warmth that made you believe impossible problems had solutions if you just looked hard enough and maybe punched the right things. "We fight what created it. Remove Voldemort from the equation, and the Crime Syndicate loses the organizational intelligence that makes this level of coordination possible."
"Cut off the head," I said, my tactical analysis already running scenarios that all ended with me confronting someone who looked exactly like me but had none of my soul. "Let the body collapse from its own inefficiency."
"Essentially," Batman agreed. "Though I'd phrase it with less decapitation imagery since we're trying to minimize lethal force."
"I was speaking metaphorically—"
"Were you though?" everyone asked in unison.
Before I could defend my completely reasonable metaphor about organizational disruption through strategic leadership removal, the air around us shifted in that way that made my magical core scream warnings about incoming violence and really poor life expectancy projections.
"Contact," Kara said, dropping into that Kryptonian combat stance that meant something was about to get punched through a building. "Multiple signatures. Fast movers. Coordinated approach."
"The Crime Syndicate?" I asked, my armor materializing in waves of black and gold divine metal that flowed like liquid starlight and probably looked way cooler than I felt given that I was about to fight people who worked for evil me.
"Worse," Alexander said. "Syndicate enforcers. Voldemort's personal security detail."
"Wait," Fred interrupted, "evil-Harry has minions? Like, actual 'yes master' minions?"
"Comprehensive minions," Alexander confirmed. "Recruited from populations with enhanced capabilities. Trained in coordinated tactics. Equipped with hybrid tech that combines advanced Earth-Prime systems with his magical modifications."
"So we're fighting evil-me's evil army," I said, watching figures emerge from shadows with the kind of synchronized precision that suggested either really good training or mild hivemind, "this is just fantastic. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my Tuesday."
They materialized from rooftops and alleys—about twenty figures in armor that looked like someone had taken my aesthetic preferences, run them through an evil filter, and added enough weapons to qualify as a small military invasion. Black and silver instead of black and gold. Sharp edges instead of flowing curves. Everything about them screamed "we work for the bad guy and we're really committed to the bit."
"Dimensional travelers," one of them said, voice amplified through helmet systems that made even simple statements sound like threats delivered by a robot that had given up on customer service, "you are required to report for processing and integration into civic management protocols."
"Processing," I repeated. "Integration. Civic management protocols."
"Brainwashing," Daphne translated. "They're going to try to brainwash us into accepting systematic oppression as normal civic participation."
"Yeah, that's not happening," I said.
"Resistance will result in escalated compliance measures," the enforcer continued, like they were reading from a script written by someone who'd turned human rights violations into proper procedures. "Up to and including lethal force authorization."
"They're going to kill us," Ron said. "Evil-Harry's minions are going to try to kill us for not wanting to be brainwashed into accepting oppression. That's where we're at now."
"Apparently," Kaldur—Aqualad—agreed, his water-bearers already forming defensive patterns.
"Well," I said, letting fire start to crawl up my arms in that controlled way I'd learned meant "intimidating but not accidentally incinerating allies," "I have some thoughts about that plan."
"Thoughts involving violence?" the twins asked hopefully.
"Comprehensive violence," I confirmed. "The kind that makes oppressive security forces reconsider their career choices and maybe their entire approach to systematic exploitation of vulnerable populations."
"That's our boy," Ginny said, pulling out her wand with that particular smile that meant someone was about to learn why threatening people she cared about was poor life planning.
"Forty-five against twenty," Superman observed. "Terrible odds."
"For them," Batman agreed.
"For them," everyone confirmed.
The enforcers shifted into combat formation—professional, practiced, suggesting they'd done this before and expected it to work because most dimensional travelers probably didn't bring forty-five heavily armed friends who genuinely cared about each other.
They were about to get a very educational lesson about why that assumption was catastrophically wrong.
"Teams," Diana commanded, her voice cutting through rising tension like a sword through bureaucratic nonsense. "Alpha through Epsilon. Standard formation. Coordinate through tactical channels. Remember—we're not here to conquer. We're here to prove cooperation beats oppression."
"Even when oppression has really good data management," I added.
"Especially then," she confirmed.
The enforcers charged with the kind of coordinated aggression that suggested they'd trained for this scenario and probably expected it to go like all their other encounters with dimensional travelers—fast, brutal, effective.
What they got instead was a masterclass in why fighting people who actually cared about each other was way more dangerous than fighting people who just followed orders.
Kara hit first—Kryptonian speed turning her into a blonde missile of righteous fury that sent three enforcers flying before they even processed they were under attack. Starfire followed immediately, her stellar fire turning the street into something that looked like a miniature sun had decided to have opinions about systematic oppression.
The British wizard contingent moved like they'd been fighting together since they were eleven—because they had. Ron's shield work covered Hermione's spell sequences. The twins deployed experimental magical devices that made armor suddenly very concerned about structural integrity. Ginny provided aerial support while Neville's plant magic turned the street itself into an ally that really didn't appreciate evil overlords.
Young Justice flowed like water—Megan's telepathy providing real-time coordination while Robin and Batgirl exploited openings created by Kid Flash's speed and Artemis's precision archery. Every movement was practiced, coordinated, the result of training together until they functioned less like a team and more like a single organism with really good tactical instincts.
And me?
I went straight for the leader.
The enforcer who'd been giving orders had slightly different armor markings—command authority, probably really comprehensive briefings about appropriate responses to dimensional travelers and standard procedures for dealing with resistance.
"You made a mistake," I said, my voice carrying across the battlefield with amplification that made sure everyone heard. "You work for someone who wears my face."
The commander shifted into a defensive stance—competent, trained, suggesting this wasn't their first supernatural cage match.
"And?" they asked.
"And," I replied, letting fire erupt around my hands with the kind of controlled intensity that came from years of practice at not accidentally barbecuing allies, "that means I know exactly how you were trained. What weaknesses you were taught to compensate for. What tactics you consider most effective."
"You're saying you can predict our patterns."
"I'm saying," I corrected, fire intensifying until my armor started glowing like I'd swallowed a star and it had opinions, "I designed your training protocols. Everything you're doing right now, I taught you. Or rather, the version of me you work for taught you, using patterns I developed for saving people and applied to oppressing them."
"So?"
"So," I said, and smiled in that way that probably looked terrifying to people who weren't used to cosmic-level power wrapped in divine armor, "I know all the weaknesses."
"That's—"
"Checkmate," I finished.
The street erupted in golden flames—controlled, precise, hot enough to overwhelm their armor's thermal protection without actually killing anyone because even in dimensions where evil me ran the show, people probably didn't deserve to die for making poor employment decisions.
Enforcers dropped weapons, stripped compromised armor, and very sensibly decided that continuing this fight would be bad for their health insurance claims.
"I'm giving you one chance," I said to the commander, who'd removed her helmet to reveal someone who looked like she'd made a lot of choices she was currently reconsidering. "Go back to Voldemort. Tell him the version of Harry Potter who won his fight against darkness is here. And tell him that everything he thinks he knows about how I'll approach this is wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"Wrong because he expects me to fight him alone," I said, gesturing at forty-five people who'd decided my catastrophic approach to heroism was worth supporting. "To minimize collateral damage by concentrating all danger on myself. To try to outthink him using frameworks he recognizes."
"And you're not?"
"Oh, I'm definitely going to try to outthink him," I confirmed. "But not alone. Not by concentrating danger on myself. Not using frameworks he'd expect."
I looked at my team—wizards, superheroes, cosmic entities, teenagers with really good instincts and questionable decision-making skills when it came to following me into danger.
"I'm going to prove," I said, "that the difference between us isn't power or intelligence. It's understanding that some battles can't be won alone. That cooperation beats individual superiority. That love and trust accomplish what optimal tactics can't."
"You're betting everything on friendship," the commander said.
"I'm betting everything on family," I corrected. "People who care about outcomes beyond their own benefit. Who'd rather risk their own safety than let each other face darkness alone."
"He'll be ready for you."
"Good," I said. "Because I'm ready for him. And unlike him, I'm not facing this alone."
The commander looked at my assembled team—at forty-five people who'd coordinated a response that defeated twenty enhanced enforcers without a single casualty—and something shifted in her expression.
"You really think you can win."
"I think we have to try," I said. "Because the alternative is accepting that suffering in other dimensions isn't our problem. And that's not who we are."
She looked at her team, then at mine, then back at me.
"I'll deliver your message," she said. "Though I don't think he'll believe you're actually betting everything on cooperation."
"He won't," I agreed. "That's what makes it work."
As the enforcers retreated—conscious, intact, possibly reconsidering their career paths—I turned to forty-five people who'd followed me into another dimension to fight evil alternate me.
"Well," I said, "that went better than expected."
"You didn't set yourself on fire even once," Hermione observed.
"I'm growing as a person."
"You're learning basic safety protocols," she corrected. "Which is progress but let's not oversell it."
"I'll take what I can get," I said.
Because honestly? Not setting myself on fire during interdimensional combat operations was probably the best I could hope for given my track record.
Time to prove that love, friendship, terrible jokes, and really comprehensive backup could beat evil alternate me with enhanced capabilities and really excellent organizational efficiency.
No pressure.
Just an entire dimension's freedom hanging in the balance.
*At least this time I remembered to bring everyone instead of trying to protect them by facing danger alone.*
*Growth.*
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