# **The Private Beach in Atlantean Waters**
*(Or: How to Go From "Best Beach Day Ever" to "Interdimensional Crisis Management" in Under Five Minutes)*
You know what's great about having a private beach that's basically on lock thanks to Atlantean security protocols and Queen Mera's habit of giving anyone who messes with you a verbal atomic wedgie? Nobody shows up uninvited. Literally nobody. Your relaxation is basically sacred—until today.
Because today, as I was halfway through proving to Jean that sunburned superheroes are not a good look, a Javelin came screaming down from the sky like a meteor with a serious attitude problem. And my first thought wasn't "Yay! Visitors!" Nope. It was more like, *Well, there goes the most peaceful three hours of my life.*
"Harry," Jean said, her cosmic-senses-on-high mode kicking in faster than I could say "pass the sunscreen." Her hand found mine and gave that squeeze that meant: *We're in this together. Somehow. Again.* "That's Diana's transport."
I blinked at her like, thanks for the memo, Captain Obvious. "I know," I said, scanning the Javelin like I was a kid trying to cheat at Battleship. "And… she brought everyone."
Bekka, who apparently doesn't do subtle, straightened into her New Genesis battle-ready pose. "Everyone?" she asked. Her voice made it sound like she really didn't want everyone to mean everyone.
"Everyone," I confirmed. My super-hearing picked up energy signatures like my brain was a cosmic metal detector. Kara's solar-crackling energy. Kori's warm-as-summer radiation. Zatanna's magical aura that could easily double as expensive perfume. Raven's vibe, all controlled and intimidatingly calm. Megan's telepathy, like a gentle brain hug. Mareena's water mojo. Tia's Kryptonian enhancements. And Deedee… well, Deedee basically screamed *I am Death incarnate, and I think this is hilarious.*
"That's not a social call," Barda said, because apparently warrior instincts come with free tactical analysis. "That's a full-on, deployed, all-hands-on-deck mission with your mother in command."
I groaned and got to my feet, because apparently, three hours of sun and sand had officially ended. "So… something's happened. Something bad enough that it's worth interrupting our first real day off in six months. Or something super weird involving cosmic cupcakes. One of the two."
The Javelin landed with that scary "we know exactly what we're doing" precision, ramp extending like it had a grudge against gravity. And then I saw them: every woman I've ever cared about, plus my mom, all staring at me like I was either about to save the universe or accidentally destroy it with my beach towel. Expressions ranged from "serious and tactical" to "seriously judging your life choices" to Deedee's universal-death-goddess version of trying not to laugh.
"Harry," Diana said, stepping forward with the kind of Amazon elegance that could make a traffic jam look graceful. Armor still on. Because apparently, saving the day and looking good are mutually mandatory. "I apologize for interrupting your day, but we need to talk. It's important."
I raised an eyebrow. "Important enough to deploy the entire relationship squad?" I tried to joke, because that's what I do when I'm slightly terrified. "That's either surprise birthday-party-level good news, or 'grab your cape, the universe is about to explode' kind of bad news."
Diana's sigh was the diplomat's version of brace yourself. "It's… complicated," she said. Translation: *Everything's bad, and if I try to explain it quickly, you'll panic. Or cry. Or both.*
Kara stepped forward, her blonde hair catching the sun like it had its own personal Instagram filter. I tried to focus on her face, but her hair was basically shouting *"Look at me, Harry, I'm glowing!"* and my enhanced vision was like, *dude, pick a focal point*. She was in jeans and a t-shirt, which somehow managed to scream "I could crush a car with my bare hands while looking effortlessly cute." Typical Kryptonian problem.
"Harry," she said, her voice that weirdly precise Kryptonian tone that somehow makes even bad news sound like a motivational speech. "We've got a situation. An interdimensional visitor showed up at the Watchtower this morning claiming to be from… Earth-3. Where, apparently, everyone we know as heroes are basically villains who've turned the world into their personal dictatorship."
I blinked. Twice. "Earth-3?" I said, because apparently that's the polite, nerdy way to ask, *So… all of us are evil in that dimension?*
"Basically," Zatanna said, floating closer with the kind of poise that made me wonder if she was born walking on air or if magic just helped her cheat physics. Her beach-appropriate outfit still screamed "I should be on stage in Vegas doing something illegal with sparkles," and her blue eyes were analyzing everything around us like she had a magical PhD in *bad ideas incoming*. "But it's not just moral inversion. Their Lex Luthor is trying to play hero, their Crime Syndicate is running organized planetary domination, and… well…" She glanced at Diana, who apparently had vetoed the last hundred ways Zatanna had tried to phrase this.
"Their version of you," Diana said, finally, her tone calm like she was delivering a weather report instead of universe-level bad news, "…is one of their biggest threats."
I did a slow blink. Then another. And yes, I'm pretty sure my brain did that dramatic "insert existential dread here" screeching sound. Of course there'd be a version of me somewhere who turned out evil. Multiverse theory basically guarantees it: infinite realities, infinite choices, infinite Harrys. Somewhere, there's a me who made terrible decisions. And probably one who invented a villain-themed TikTok account.
"Their version of me," I muttered, trying to wrap my brain around it. "You mean… I'm a villain over there? Leading this other world's… uh… evil Justice League?"
"Not exactly," Diana said, because apparently calm parental energy is what you need when explaining multiversal moral philosophy to your panicking, slightly sunburned kid. Her hand on my shoulder was warm and grounding, which was nice, because otherwise I was halfway convinced I was about to get punched by my alternate evil self in my own beachfront living room.
Then Raven stepped forward, because of course she did. Violet eyes glowing with that *please don't cry, you idiot, but also here's the emotional horror* look she perfected over years of being half-demon and judging everyone simultaneously.
"Harry," she said, in that spooky, dimension-bending voice that made my skin crawl a little in the best possible way. "What do you remember about falling through the Veil? That… place between dimensions where you fought Tom Riddle's soul fragment?"
The question hit me harder than a punch from Barda — and trust me, that's saying something. Thinking about *that* place, about that fight, about how close I'd come to losing myself… yeah, not exactly what you want to be doing on a perfect beach day with cosmic SPF 500 sunscreen.
"I remember," I said quietly, finding Jean's hand like it was my anchor to reality. There's something about physical contact with a telepath who's survived multiple end-of-the-universe scenarios that makes dredging up your worst memories slightly less awful. "I remember falling. Being somewhere that wasn't… anywhere. Between realities, where bodies don't matter and consciousness is basically the Wi-Fi connection. And I remember Tom Riddle's soul fragment—the piece of Voldemort that had been crashing in my head rent-free since I was a baby—finally showing up as something I could actually fight."
My voice cracked. Which, for the record, is not my favorite look. "It knew everything about me. Every fear. Every weak spot. Every battle plan I'd ever cooked up. Because, hey, fifteen years as my uninvited brain roommate? Plenty of time to study for the final boss fight."
"And you won," Diana said firmly, squeezing my shoulder in that *Amazonian Mom of the Year* way that basically says: *You're alive. You made it. Stop beating yourself up.*
"I won," I echoed, though it didn't sound convincing even to me. Because, oh yeah, my brain had already started assembling the obvious, horrible conclusion like some kind of cosmic IKEA furniture.
"I destroyed the soul fragment. Cut it out of my consciousness. Came through the Veil into your dimension free of Voldemort's influence."
"In our dimension," Megan said gently, her telepathic voice wrapping around my mind like a weighted blanket made of Martian empathy. Her red hair caught the sunlight. Her green skin practically glowed with *let's make this easier for you before you implode*.
"You won that battle *here*, Harry. But multiverse theory suggests—"
"That there are other dimensions," I finished, the words tasting like battery acid. "Other realities where other versions of me fell through other Veils and fought the same battle against the same soul fragment."
"And in at least one of those realities," Batman's voice cut in over my comms—because of course Batman was eavesdropping on my trauma like the world's grimmest podcast host—"the outcome was different."
For a second, I just stood there, the ocean roaring behind me, trying to pretend the sand under my feet was solid enough to hold this conversation. My tactical brain wanted to reject it, shove it into the "nope" folder. But multiverse theory? Yeah, it was basically wagging its eyebrows going told you so.*
"You're telling me," I said slowly, "there's a dimension where I lost. Where Tom Riddle's soul fragment won. Where something that looks like me but thinks like Voldemort walked out of that Veil and into a reality that had no idea what just showed up at their door."
"That's exactly what we're telling you," Superman's voice joined the comm channel, steady and full of that *we-can-do-this* hope that's basically his brand. "Alexander Luthor—the visitor from Earth-3—has provided documentation of someone he calls Voldemort. Someone who looks like you, thinks with your strategic brilliance, and has spent the last two years helping the Crime Syndicate perfect their conquest methods."
The beach suddenly felt less like a vacation spot and more like a crime scene. Jean's hand tightened around mine. Bekka stepped closer. Barda shifted into that "I will literally tackle you if you go nuclear" stance she does when she's worried about me.
"Someone who looks like me," I repeated, my voice flat. "Helping villains. Causing pain. Using my face, my power, my plans… to hurt people instead of protect them."
"Harry—" Diana started, but I was already on my feet, marching toward the water like a kid in a coming-of-age movie, only with way more cosmic-level panic and slightly less music. Sometimes, processing existential dread requires sand under your toes and a decent ocean view.
"Show me," I said, trying for calm but sounding more like *I-just-found-out-my-doppelganger-is-a-psychopath*. "Whatever footage, whatever reports Alexander brought. I need to see what I look like… when I lose."
Kori stepped closer, glowing like the sun had personally decided to vibe-check me. Her Tamaranean accent made even dire warnings sound like encouragement from a motivational poster.
"Harry," she said gently, and somehow it *worked*, "you don't have to see this right now. We can wait until you've processed the news… until you're ready for images that will still be horrible no matter how tactically prepared you are."
"No," I said firmly, even though my hand was shaking where I clutched Jean's. "If someone out there is wearing my face, using my powers to hurt people, I need to see it. I need to know what darkness looks like when it's me. If I'm going to stop him, I have to know what I'm facing."
"Help stop him?" Mareena's voice was calm, like an ocean current telling me not to freak out. She practically radiated crisis-management vibes, and her red hair caught the sunlight like she'd memorized the concept of heroic cinematography. "Harry… you *do* realize this isn't your responsibility, right? Some other dimension's you doesn't automatically make it your job."
"It *absolutely* makes it my job," I said, all heroic chest-thumping and righteous indignation, which is a polite way of saying I was panicking but trying not to crumble. "Someone out there is using my face, my powers, my body to hurt people. If my knowledge—my brain, my strategies—can stop that, then I *have* to help."
Deedee leaned against a palm tree like she was judging mortal dramatic tendencies for fun. "Of course you do," she said, voice dripping amusement. "We told Diana you'd say that. That's why we're all here—not to stop you, but to make sure you survive the mental meltdown that's about to happen."
Tia floated closer, radiating confidence like she was designed specifically to handle impossible scenarios—and apparently impossible beach lighting physics, because her blonde hair was blinding.
"We've seen everything," she said quietly. "The surveillance, the reports, the behavioral analysis, the whole Alexander Luthor package. Harry… this other version doesn't just *look* like you. He moves like you. He thinks like you. But… he's wrong. Fundamentally, horribly wrong."
"Wrong how?" I asked, though I already suspected I wouldn't like the answer.
"Red eyes," Zatanna said, magical senses buzzing. "Blood red. Like someone replaced your irises with rubies soaked in pure evil. Facial features sharper, more serpentine, like someone sculpted your face into predatory perfection. And the way he moves—it's like watching someone who knows human behavior academically but has zero empathy or soul."
I swallowed. My stomach dropped like it had just discovered an invisible cliff.
"Tom Riddle," I muttered, voice low enough to feel like I was cursing myself and the universe at the same time. "That's what Tom Riddle would look like if he won… if he crawled out of that dimension between worlds wearing my face but thinking with his consciousness."
"That's our assessment," Batman said over the comm, in that voice that makes you feel like your brain is about to be scanned by a cosmic polygraph. "Based on everything we know about Tom Riddle—personality structure, strategic genius, total lack of empathy—combined with your powers, your intelligence, and whatever weird genetic upgrades Alexander gave you… this Voldemort is basically what would happen if the darkest parts of your brain went full-on supervillain and leveled up to god mode."
I stared at the waves, letting the ocean do its thing while my brain tried desperately to pretend that this wasn't the single worst "what-if" scenario I'd ever had to imagine.
"I need to see it," I said finally, my voice rough like I'd been yelling at bad coffee. "The footage. The reports. Everything. If I'm going to stop the guy wearing my face, I need to know what losing looks like."
Diana moved beside me, radiating that Amazonian "I will crush anything that threatens my kid" energy. Somehow, even with the multiverse falling apart around me, she made it feel like maybe survival was still possible.
"Harry," she said, warm hand on mine, like she'd been doing this whole 'cosmic crisis management' thing since the dawn of time, "are you sure you want to see this now? We can wait—until you've had more time to process, until you're emotionally ready for… well, whatever you're about to see."
"I'm sure," I said, though my voice sounded rougher than intended. "Because waiting won't make it easier. And people in Alexander's dimension are suffering right now because of someone wearing my face. Every second I stall is another second of someone else's nightmare. So yeah… I want to see it."
"Then we do it together," Jean said, her cosmic awareness zeroed in like she had laser-targeting installed in her brain. "All of us. You're not doing this alone. Not now, not ever."
"Together," Bekka echoed, voice sharp and commanding like a New Genesis drill sergeant with heart.
"Always together," Barda said, and I swear her shoulder radiated "don't worry, bub, I got you" energy.
"We're not leaving you alone with this," Kara added, her words practically glowing with Kryptonian determination.
"Never alone," Kori said, her stellar energy wrapping around me like a slightly warm, slightly terrifying cosmic blanket.
"Not even for a second," Zatanna said, magic humming in her tone like expensive protective enchantments.
"We've got you," Raven said, calm but omniscient, like a half-demon therapist who also happens to be telepathically monitoring my panic levels.
"Always," Megan agreed, gentle as ever, providing mental support without making me feel like my brain had been invaded.
"Through everything," Mareena added, ocean powers creating a subtle but reassuring force field of calm.
"No matter what," Tia said, energy practically screaming *prepared for anything*.
"Even when it hurts," Deedee finished, her grin making the apocalypse feel almost like a manageable problem.
I looked around at them—all eleven of these extraordinary, slightly terrifying women who had decided my habit of volunteering for impossible problems was worth supporting instead of smacking me upside the head—and felt something weird, warm, and maybe even heroic settle in my chest.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound calm, which was funny because my brain was screaming *HAHAHAHA NOPE*. "Show me. Show me what I look like when darkness wins. Because if I'm going to stop this… *Voldemort-who-looks-like-me*, I need to know exactly what I'm up against."
Diana pulled out one of those Justice League holographic projectors, the kind that screams *tactical briefing but also your life is about to get way more complicated*. She paused, finger hovering over the activation button, and I swear I could see the mental tug-of-war behind her eyes: mom mode vs. hero mode.
"Remember," she said softly, and this was the *don't panic, Harry* speech she saved for moments like this, "this isn't you. This is a version from a dimension where you lost a fight you won here. The person you are—the one we all love—is the product of choices you made, battles you survived, and a moral compass that somehow survived intact. What you're about to see is a possibility, not destiny."
"Yeah, yeah, I understand," I said, though my brain was screaming, *liar, liar, panic pants on fire*.
She hit the button.
And there I was.
Sort of.
It was my face, my height, my build—but with a twist so wrong it made my stomach do that "I might throw up" thing. Eyes blood red instead of green, radiating the kind of cold intelligence that treated humans like chess pieces instead of actual people. Skin so pale it looked like it was auditioning for a vampire role in a high school play. Facial features sharp, serpentine, carved down until every bit of warmth and compassion had been surgically removed.
And the expression… gods, the expression. Calculating, detached, like someone was reading a lab report on human suffering instead of noticing real people in pain. No empathy. No hesitation. Just pure, terrifying efficiency.
"That's… Tom Riddle," I muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "That's me if I'd lost. If I'd fallen through that Veil and come out… like that."
The hologram moved, and I could see him—Voldemort, as the files labeled him—coordinating what looked like a tactical briefing with the Crime Syndicate. Every movement was precise, calculated, optimized. No checking on teammates. No pause to consider collateral damage. When he spoke, it was my voice, my speech patterns, even my tactical vocabulary… but the message was pure villain energy: civilian casualties? Acceptable. Moral limits? Optional. Compassion? Completely absent.
"He's wearing your face," Jean said quietly, squeezing my hand, "but he isn't you. Look at him—he doesn't move like you. He doesn't think like you. He doesn't care like you do."
"But he could've been me," I said, the words tasting like ashes in my mouth. My tactical brain was analyzing every move, every command, while my emotional side screamed, *don't think about it, don't think about it!* "If I'd lost… if Riddle's fragment had taken over… that's what I'd have become."
"No," Diana said firmly, and when she said it, all my self-pity and spiraling logic hit a sudden brick wall. "What you *might* have become. In one specific dimension, under one specific set of circumstances, with one specific outcome. That isn't you. He made different choices—or had choices forced upon him. The person you are exists because you fought and won. The person he is exists because another version fought and lost."
I stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the footage like a guy watching the world's worst home movie. Someone wearing my face was out there causing systematic suffering with my powers. The holograms showed him doing it all—coordinating military ops, optimizing resource extraction, running population control programs. It was like watching an evil TED Talk titled *"How to Conquer Planets Efficiently."*
"He's… good at it," I said finally, my voice sounding hollow even to me. "Strategic planning. Tactical coordination. Making conquest run like a Swiss watch. He's using everything I know—every trick, every skill, every pattern I've perfected—and using it to make oppression more efficient."
"Because Tom Riddle loves a challenge," Raven said, and I could feel her empathic radar sweeping my brain like TSA security. "Your genius combined with his lack of moral restraint? That's the kind of dangerous intelligence that finds planetary conquest *fun*."
"And Alexander enhanced him," Batman's voice chimed in over the comm. Because of course he did. Batman probably had my heart rate, magical output, and cortisol levels on a spreadsheet by now. "Genetic modifications. Magical amplification. Physical abilities off the charts. All of it guided by a consciousness that sees people as resources rather than lives."
I stared at the display, watching my own face twisted into something cruel. That wasn't a villain-of-the-week. That was a monster with my playbook. My chest tightened, my hands shook, and my magic core flickered like a dying lightbulb—which probably set off some alarm in the Watchtower.
"I need to stop him," I said quietly. "Not just because he's wearing my face. Not just because he's using my skills. But because—" I swallowed. "Because somewhere under all that, there might still be a version of me trapped inside. Watching. Aware. Unable to stop it."
You could've heard a pin drop. Even the ocean seemed to take a break from being dramatic.
"Harry," Diana said carefully, like she was defusing a bomb (which, to be fair, I kind of was), "you understand that's probably not possible? If Tom Riddle's fragment won, your counterpart's consciousness is most likely destroyed or completely subsumed."
"Probably," I said. My voice had that edge it gets when my heroic impulse starts arm-wrestling my survival instincts. "But if there's even a tiny chance—if some version of me is trapped in there, experiencing everything Voldemort does but unable to stop it—I have to try. Because that's what I'd want someone to do for me."
"Of course it is," Deedee said warmly. Death herself, sounding like the world's most supportive big sister. "Which is why you're not doing this alone. Yes, you're going to help Alexander stop him. Yes, you're going to use your own tactical genius to outthink him. But you're doing it with backup. Comprehensive backup. The kind of backup only cosmic-level friends can provide."
"Comprehensive backup," I echoed, glancing around at eleven women who could each take on a small army before breakfast and apparently had decided this was their group project for the week.
"You didn't think we'd let you face this alone, did you?" Kara asked, Kryptonian resolve making it clear this wasn't actually a question. "Someone wearing your face is hurting people. We're going to stop him. That's what families do—especially when the problem is an evil interdimensional version of you."
"Especially then," Kori said, her stellar glow radiating pure determination. "Because facing darkness that wears your face is exactly the kind of battle that requires the most friendship, the most love, and the strongest memory of who you are versus what you could've been."
I looked at the hologram one more time—my own face planning planetary conquest like it was a really fun puzzle—and made a decision that I knew was going to wreck my calendar, my mental health, and probably several dimensional boundaries.
But it was necessary.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound like someone who actually had their life together instead of having a full-blown existential crisis, "let's do this. Let's figure out how to stop someone who thinks like me, plans like me, strategizes like me—but who apparently skipped the lesson on empathy and basic human decency."
"Together," Jean said, her cosmic awareness locked on me like a heat-seeking missile.
"Always together," everyone else said at the same time. Honestly, I had no idea how they coordinated that, but it sounded epic.
And as I looked around, I tried to take it all in: Diana, radiating the kind of maternal pride that made you feel like maybe surviving the multiverse was possible; Jean, with that cosmic confidence that screamed *we got this*; Bekka, looking like a royal who could bench-press a small army; Barda, exuding warrior strength like someone had cranked it up to eleven; Kara, hope glowing around her like she was literally made of sunbeams; Kori, warmth and cheer rolled into a stellar ball of "don't panic, Harry"; Zatanna, magical precision like she could pull a rabbit out of a hat and simultaneously fix reality; Raven, calm and steady enough to make a black hole look like a spa day; Megan, telepathic backup that made me feel like my brain wasn't completely alone; Mareena, diplomatic wisdom that probably could negotiate peace between a shark and a kraken; Tia, enhanced Kryptonian abilities that made the laws of physics nervous; and Deedee—Death herself—looking like she knew exactly how this was going to go, and somehow smiling anyway.
I stared at all of them, my brain simultaneously screaming panic panic panic and holy wow we actually have a chance.
Maybe, just maybe, we could actually do this.
We could stop someone wearing my face but none of my soul.
We could save a whole dimension that really, really needed it.
We could prove that even if darkness won in one reality, light—with a lot of determination, teamwork, and emotional support systems that would make a therapist weep—could still pull off a victory.
No pressure, right?
Just the usual: the fate of an entire dimension, plus confronting an evil version of myself who was basically me if I'd gone rogue and skipped all moral classes in school.
Time to see if love, teamwork, and twelve extraordinary women (plus me, the guy who's probably panicking too much) were enough to take down someone who knew exactly how I thought… because he was me, in every single way that actually mattered… except the one that counted.
—
# **The Watchtower — Observation Deck**
*(Or: How to Watch Your Worst Mistake Meet His Better Self and Process Feelings You Didn't Know You Had)*
Alexander Luthor stood in the Watchtower's observation deck, staring at the monitor displaying real-time surveillance of the beach conversation happening several thousand miles below. His armor's systems were providing tactical analysis, threat assessment overlays, and biometric readings that his strategic planning protocols kept trying to process through frameworks designed for corporate espionage rather than interdimensional emotional crisis management.
He should have been focusing on the strategic briefing. On Diana's carefully measured explanation of the situation. On the Justice League's systematic approach to informing their Harry about the existence of his evil alternate dimensional variant.
Instead, he couldn't stop watching the boy.
*Their* Harry. Earth-Prime's Harry. The version who'd won.
The surveillance feed showed someone who looked exactly like the monster Alexander had accidentally created—same height, same build, same basic facial features. But the resemblance ended there in ways that made Alexander's chest tight with something he didn't quite have words for.
This Harry's eyes were green. Not the blood-red that characterized Voldemort's predatory stare, but a vivid, almost luminous green that held depths suggesting someone who looked at the world and saw people worth protecting rather than resources worth exploiting.
This Harry's skin was healthy, sun-touched from beach activities rather than the corpse-white pallor that made Voldemort look like he'd been carved from marble by a particularly disturbed sculptor.
This Harry's features were softer, more human, carrying expression lines around his eyes and mouth that suggested someone who smiled frequently and genuinely rather than someone whose only emotional range was "calculating" to "mildly amused by others' suffering."
But it was the way he moved that really got Alexander's attention.
Every gesture, every shift in posture, every unconscious motion betrayed someone who was fundamentally connected to the people around him. When Diana spoke, he leaned forward with obvious concern. When Jean squeezed his hand, he responded immediately with reassuring pressure. When the holographic display showed Voldemort's face, he flinched—actually flinched, like the image physically hurt to witness.
Empathy. Connection. *Humanity*.
Everything Voldemort had systematically eliminated from his behavior patterns because emotional investment was inefficient and caring about people interfered with optimal strategic planning.
"He's crying," Alexander said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as the surveillance feed showed tears tracking down Harry's face while he watched footage of his alternate self coordinating systematic conquest operations. "He's watching someone with his face cause suffering, and he's genuinely distressed about it."
"Of course he is," came Cyborg's voice from the observation deck's speakers, warm and matter-of-fact in that way that suggested this was completely expected behavior rather than remarkable psychological responses. "That's what empathy looks like, Alex. What it's supposed to look like when someone with power actually cares about the people that power affects."
Alexander was quiet for a moment, watching Harry wipe at his eyes with the kind of self-conscious gesture that suggested he was embarrassed by his emotional response but couldn't suppress it. Around him, eleven women had moved closer in a coordinated protective formation that looked spontaneous but was clearly the result of really comprehensive relationship dynamics and possibly some light telepathic coordination.
"Voldemort never cries," Alexander observed, his tactical analysis providing comparative behavioral assessments even while his emotional processing was struggling with implications he didn't quite want to face. "I've reviewed two years of surveillance footage, intelligence reports, psychological profiles compiled by our best analysts. He doesn't cry. He doesn't flinch at violence. He doesn't show any emotional distress when confronted with suffering—not even suffering he directly causes."
"Because Tom Riddle's consciousness eliminated those responses," Batman's voice joined the channel, because of course Batman was monitoring from multiple locations simultaneously and probably had analysis running on seventeen different threat scenarios. "Empathy interferes with strategic efficiency. Emotional connection creates vulnerabilities that enemies can exploit. Caring about people limits the range of tactics available for achieving objectives."
"So he removed them," Alexander said, watching Harry accept comfort from people who clearly loved him while processing information that would have made most tactical analysts recommend immediate psychological intervention. "Systematically eliminated every aspect of emotional response that might interfere with optimal conquest methodology."
"Which is exactly what we'd expect from someone whose consciousness is dominated by Tom Riddle's personality structure," Batman confirmed. "But watching the two of them side by side—your Voldemort and our Harry—really drives home the difference between someone who has power and someone who deserves it."
Alexander pulled up split-screen comparison footage on his armor's HUD. Left side: Voldemort coordinating systematic population control measures with the kind of casual competence that made military efficiency experts weep with professional envy. Right side: Harry crying on a beach while surrounded by people who were helping him process difficult information about alternate dimensional variants.
The contrast was... profound.
"He's surrounded by people who love him," Alexander observed, zooming in on the protective formation that had developed around Harry without any apparent coordination or tactical planning. "Eleven women who could individually handle most cosmic-level threats, all focused on providing emotional support during psychological crisis management."
"Because that's what happens when you're someone people want to protect," Cyborg said, his voice carrying gentle emphasis on words that Alexander was beginning to recognize as important. "When you spend your life helping others, protecting the vulnerable, caring about people even when it's strategically inefficient—they care back. They want to help you. They form support networks because they genuinely value your existence beyond your tactical utility."
"Voldemort doesn't have that," Alexander said quietly, pulling up organizational charts showing the Crime Syndicate's command structure. "He has allies, strategic partnerships, mutually beneficial arrangements. But nobody who would cry with him. Nobody who would hold his hand during difficult conversations. Nobody who loves him for who he is rather than what he can do for them."
"Because Tom Riddle's approach to relationships is fundamentally transactional," Batman observed. "People are assets to be cultivated, threats to be neutralized, or irrelevant variables to be ignored. The concept of genuine emotional connection—of caring about someone's wellbeing beyond their strategic utility—doesn't exist in his psychological framework."
Alexander watched Harry stand up from the beach blanket, his movements slightly unsteady as he processed information that was clearly affecting him on profound levels. Jean moved with him, one hand on his back providing steady physical contact. Bekka positioned herself on his other side, ready to provide support if his emotional processing resulted in structural instability. Barda maintained protective overwatch from a position that allowed her to monitor both Harry and the surrounding environment.
It was like watching a military operation, except instead of coordinating tactical responses to external threats, they were coordinating emotional support during psychological crisis.
"This is what I was trying to create," Alexander said, his voice hollow as the full implications hit him like a hostile takeover bid from someone with unlimited resources. "When I found that boy in the crater. When I decided to enhance him, turn him into a weapon that could stand against the Crime Syndicate. This is what I thought I was making—someone powerful enough to protect people, surrounded by allies who genuinely cared about his wellbeing, operating from a framework of protecting others rather than exploiting them."
"Instead you got Voldemort," Cyborg said gently. "Because the boy you found had already lost his battle against Tom Riddle's soul fragment. The consciousness that emerged from that dimensional transport wasn't Harry anymore—it was something wearing Harry's face while thinking with Voldemort's mind."
"And I enhanced it," Alexander said, the weight of that decision settling over him like particularly uncomfortable armor. "Took someone who was already dangerously intelligent and completely amoral, and gave him genetic modifications that pushed his capabilities beyond conventional measurement. Made him strong enough to handle anyone, smart enough to outthink everyone, and powerful enough that moral restraint became optional rather than necessary."
On the surveillance feed, Harry was looking at the holographic display again, studying footage of Voldemort with the kind of systematic analysis that suggested he was already planning intervention strategies and tactical approaches for confronting someone who thought exactly like him.
"He's going to help us," Alexander said, though it wasn't really a question. "He's going to volunteer for the interdimensional intervention operation. Because he's looking at someone wearing his face causing suffering, and his first response is 'I need to stop this' rather than 'this isn't my problem.'"
"Of course he is," Batman confirmed. "That's who Harry is. Someone who takes responsibility for problems even when they're not technically his fault. Someone who feels obligated to help people even when helping them is strategically complicated and personally painful. Someone who looks at suffering caused by an alternate version of himself and decides that makes it *more* his responsibility rather than less."
"That's..." Alexander paused, working through implications with the kind of systematic analysis that had once made him legendary at corporate crisis management. "That's completely backwards from every rational strategic assessment. If someone wearing your face is causing problems, the logical response is to distance yourself from the situation to avoid association with their actions. Taking responsibility for their behavior makes no tactical sense."
"Unless you understand that responsibility isn't about tactical utility," Cyborg said, his voice warm with what sounded like genuine affection for someone he'd apparently only met through surveillance footage and strategic briefings. "It's about recognizing that you have capabilities that could help, and deciding that having those capabilities creates an obligation to use them regardless of whether the problem is technically yours to solve."
Alexander pulled up additional surveillance feeds showing the Justice League's preparation for interdimensional intervention. Superman reviewing tactical analysis with the kind of hopeful determination that suggested he genuinely believed impossible problems could be solved through sufficient effort. Wonder Woman coordinating diplomatic outreach to ensure comprehensive backup for operations that might require cosmic-level resources. Flash running probability scenarios at superhuman speeds while maintaining what appeared to be a completely inappropriate level of optimism about success rates.
Heroes. Actual heroes, operating from frameworks that prioritized protecting others over advancing their own interests.
"This is what my dimension could have been," he said quietly, watching Earth-Prime's Harry accept comfort from people who genuinely cared about his emotional wellbeing during crisis management. "If the boy I found had been this version instead of Voldemort. If the consciousness that emerged from dimensional transport had been someone who cared about protecting people rather than dominating them."
"Your dimension could still become that," Batman said, his voice carrying the kind of matter-of-fact certainty that made even impossible statements sound reasonable. "That's why we're helping. Because Earth-3 deserves the chance to be protected by someone who understands that power means responsibility rather than opportunity. Someone who looks at suffering and wants to stop it rather than optimize it."
On the surveillance feed, Harry was standing now, his posture straightening as he worked through emotional processing and emerged on the other side with obvious determination. His girlfriends maintained their protective formation, but their expressions had shifted from concerned to supportive—recognizing that he'd moved from "receiving difficult information" to "planning tactical response."
"He's made his decision," Alexander observed, watching Harry's body language shift from emotionally overwhelmed to strategically focused. "He's going to help. Going to use his knowledge of his own thought patterns to counter someone who thinks like him but lacks his moral framework."
"Which means," Batman said, "we need to finalize our intervention strategy. Figure out how to coordinate interdimensional operations that account for opposition from someone whose intelligence matches Harry's, whose capabilities exceed conventional measurement, and whose complete lack of empathy makes him fundamentally unpredictable in ways that moral actors can't easily anticipate."
"How do you fight someone who thinks like your best strategist but has none of their limitations?" Alexander asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer wasn't going to be comforting.
"Very carefully," Batman replied. "With comprehensive backup, really excellent contingency planning, and the understanding that some battles can't be won through superior tactics alone. Sometimes you need something Voldemort doesn't have and can't understand."
"What's that?"
"People who love you enough to fight beside you even when the odds are terrible," Cyborg said simply. "People who care about your wellbeing beyond your strategic utility. People who would rather risk their own safety than let you face darkness alone."
On the surveillance feed, Harry turned to his assembled girlfriends and said something that made them all move closer in a coordinated embrace that looked spontaneous but was clearly the result of really comprehensive emotional attunement. Diana joined them, her maternal presence adding weight to whatever support structure they were forming around someone who was processing the knowledge that his worst fear had been realized in another dimension.
"That's what I should have given the boy I found," Alexander said quietly, watching a support network function with the kind of efficiency that would make most organizational management systems jealous. "Not genetic enhancements or tactical training or advanced technology. Just... people. People who would care about him beyond his utility as a weapon. People who would help him stay connected to humanity even when power made it easy to forget why humanity mattered."
"You didn't have that to give," Batman said, not unkindly. "Your dimension was already falling apart. The Crime Syndicate had already demonstrated that power without conscience was more effective than conscience without power. You were trying to create a weapon that could match their capabilities while maintaining moral frameworks they'd abandoned."
"And I failed," Alexander said. "Because I focused on the power part and assumed the moral framework would naturally follow. That someone enhanced to cosmic levels would automatically use those enhancements to protect people rather than exploit them."
"You failed because the person you found had already lost his battle against darkness," Batman corrected. "If Earth-3's Harry had been the version we're watching now—the version who won his fight against Tom Riddle's soul fragment—your enhancement procedure would have created exactly what you intended. Someone powerful enough to stop the Syndicate, smart enough to outthink them, and good enough to remember that the point of power was protecting people rather than dominating them."
Alexander watched Earth-Prime's Harry disentangle himself from the group embrace, his expression shifting to something determined and focused. He was saying something to Diana—probably volunteering for the intervention operation, offering to help stop someone who wore his face but had none of his humanity.
"He's going to save my dimension," Alexander said, the realization hitting him with the force of a comprehensive quarterly earnings report that exceeded all projections. "Not because he's obligated to. Not because we deserve it. But because he looks at suffering caused by someone wearing his face and decides that makes him responsible for stopping it."
"That's what heroes do," Cyborg confirmed. "They help people. Even people from other dimensions. Even when the problems are complicated and the solutions are painful. Even when they're confronting alternate versions of themselves who represent everything they've fought not to become."
"Even when it hurts," Alexander added quietly.
"Especially when it hurts," Batman agreed. "Because that's the difference between people who have power and people who deserve it. The ones who deserve it help anyway, even when helping is difficult, even when the benefits don't justify the costs, even when every rational analysis suggests that protecting others isn't worth the personal sacrifice."
On the surveillance feed, the group was moving toward what appeared to be transport equipment—probably preparing to return to the Watchtower for comprehensive tactical briefings and really detailed intervention planning.
Alexander Luthor, corporate strategist extraordinaire and accidental creator of his dimension's greatest threat, made a decision that was probably going to complicate his life significantly but felt absolutely necessary.
"I want to meet him," he said firmly. "Earth-Prime's Harry. The version who won. I want to look him in the eyes and see what the boy I found could have become if he'd fought harder, lasted longer, held on to his humanity despite everything trying to take it away."
"You want closure," Batman observed, his voice carrying that clinical precision that made even psychological analysis sound like tactical assessment.
"I want hope," Alexander corrected. "I want to see proof that the person I was trying to create actually exists somewhere in the multiverse. That my plan wasn't fundamentally flawed—just applied to the wrong version of the right person."
"Then you'll meet him," Cyborg said warmly. "And you'll discover that sometimes the best thing you can do after making the worst mistake of your life is help clean up the consequences. Even when cleaning up means confronting what you created and accepting help from people who succeeded where you failed."
"No pressure," Alexander said, though his voice carried something that might have been actual hope rather than just desperate optimism.
"No pressure at all," Batman confirmed. "Just the fate of your entire dimension hanging in the balance of whether we can coordinate effective intervention against enhanced tyranny guided by cosmic-level intelligence and really excellent organizational management."
"When you put it like that," Alexander observed, watching Earth-Prime's heroes prepare for the kind of impossible operation that apparently passed for routine Tuesday activities in dimensions where good guys actually won, "it almost sounds manageable."
Time to find out if meeting the version of Harry who'd won would make confronting the version who'd lost feel more or less impossible.
No pressure.
Just everything he'd ever tried to protect, waiting to see if heroes from another dimension could succeed where he'd failed.
Again.
---
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