The Fortress of Solitude
Arctic Circle – Unapologetically Frosty, Moderately Glowing, Emotionally Chaotic
Crystal towers pulsed with refracted starlight, each hum of the structure in sync with the woman screaming bloody murder in the birthing chamber.
Lilly Kent – superhero, magical anomaly, one-time mother in a past life, current wife of Earth's favorite overpowered alien boy scout – clenched the Kryptonian sheet beneath her. Which hovered. Because of course even the beds levitate here.
Sweat beaded down her temples. Red hair clung to her face like an overdramatic stage curtain. Her eyes, normally the color of a warm forest, were now practically glowing with magic and sheer bloody stubbornness.
And Kelex, the robotic midwife, hovered calmly at her side like a smug Alexa in a lab coat.
"Contractions intensifying. Cervical dilation now 10 centimeters. Uterine rhythm at optimal sync. Commence pushing, Lady Kent."
"Kelex," she gasped, through gritted teeth, "if you don't stop using clinical metrics to describe me hatching a tiny Kryptonian velociraptor, I will turn you into a teapot. With legs. And feelings."
"Threat registered. Updating trauma response subroutines… 'British Witch Mode: Level 3' engaged."
Another contraction hit like a magical uppercut to her insides.
Lilly arched forward with a guttural groan, muttering a spell under her breath just to keep from accidentally lighting the birthing suite on fire. Her magic flared in a wave of shimmering crimson.
"Remind me why I didn't just adopt a cat and call it a life?" she wheezed.
"Because you are statistically incapable of living a quiet life, Lady Kent. Also, felines and Kryptonian toddlers are notoriously incompatible. The last subject accidentally laser-eyed a Maine Coon in half."
"…Charming."
—
For a moment, in the lull between waves of pain and magic, her head fell back. Her eyes fluttered closed.
And the past came roaring back.
Lily Evans Potter.
Brilliant. Stubborn. Dangerously curious. The girl who hexed James Potter in front of the entire Great Hall, then married him in a dress that made Dumbledore cry.
The girl who died for her baby boy.
She remembered it. All of it.
Harry's impossibly soft hair. The smell of baby powder and treacle tart. Her final whispered lullaby. Voldemort's wand pointed at her chest. Green light. The screaming void.
She never screamed. Never begged.
Just hoped.
Please let him have lived. Please let Neville have grown up beside him like a brother. Please let someone have read to him bedtime stories and teach him how to ride a broom and not let Sirius teach him the word "bollocks" at age four—
A soft sob escaped her lips.
Harry…
—
Now she was someone else.
Now she was Lilly Kent.
And a sassy Italian witch named Sindella had strode into her life like chaos wrapped in sequins and said, "Hey, sister. Let's blow something up."
Sindella. A sister worthy of the name. Not Petunia, who couldn't love her if she came gift-wrapped with tea towels.
Sindella, who married Giovanni Zatara, a man with more charm than wardrobe budget.
Sindella, who was glowing and pregnant and due literally any minute now.
"Race you to a baby," Lilly had grinned last week, pointing her hand at a watermelon to "practice."
Sindella had replied, "Only if we get to name them after Shakespearean dueling ghosts."
—
Another BOOM echoed through the walls. The Fortress trembled gently like it had just heard gossip from Mars.
"Incoming seismic report. Disturbance identified: Lobo, The Main Man. Engaged with Kal-El in Metropolis. Current outcome: violent posturing, probable shirtless headbutting."
"Oh, for the love of Merlin's left boot, Clark!" Lilly shouted. "You had one job! One! Show up, hold my hand, and don't let the baby come out while I'm yelling at a toaster!"
"Technically, I am a biomechanical medical assistant, not a toaster."
"I am two minutes of agony and one wand flick away from you being a very polite waffle iron."
—
Kelex chirped nervously, doing a pass over her glowing belly.
"New data. Fetal energy fields indicate rare dual-inheritance pattern. Significant magical energy resonance with Kryptonian cell structure. Probable outcome: twins."
"TWINS?!" Lilly shrieked.
"Confirmed. Would you prefer a notification chime or celebratory fanfare?"
"I would prefer morphine!"
—
Her back arched again, a ribbon of crimson magic coiling through the air, laced with heat vision sparks. Her fingers clenched the edge of the birthing bed — which, mercifully, didn't float away.
A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"Harry… Neville… if you're out there… I hope you're safe. I hope you had birthdays and friends and late-night talks in Gryffindor Tower and grew up as the brothers you are meant to be."
She closed her eyes. Let the power inside her surge. "I'm doing this again. For you. For them. For this second chance."
"Lady Kent… push."
And with a roar that cracked through the Fortress of Solitude like a battle cry— With hair ablaze and magic igniting every crystal tower— With a scream that sang of ancient magic, mother's love, and fierce defiance—
Lilly Kent, once Lily Evans Potter, gave birth to twins.
—
Meanwhile — King's Cross Station — But Dreamier and Weirder This Time
The white mist coiled like breath on a winter morning. Familiar. Ethereal. Just unnervingly... clean. No owl poop, no screaming toddlers, not even the smell of coffee and regret.
Harry Potter stood barefoot, head tilted, frowning at the eerie calm. The air had that too-quiet quality of a waiting room designed by someone who'd clearly never waited for anything in their life.
Next to him stood Neville Longbottom, equally barefoot and 99% confused.
"So… we're dead?" Neville asked, rubbing the back of his neck like he half-expected to find a 'Kick Me, I'm a Martyr' sign stuck there.
Harry exhaled. "Looks like it. Again, in my case. I was hoping this time came with a complimentary snack. Maybe a chocolate frog. Or tea. Definitely tea."
Neville squinted at the endless white. "Is this… heaven?"
Harry snorted. "If it is, I want a refund. Last time I was here, I met Dumbledore's ghost and had an existential crisis in my pants. I was kinda expecting him to show up again."
"Well," came a voice like a chime breaking the silence, "he was scheduled. But he's been… demoted. For meddling."
The air shifted.
Reality rippled.
Like a god had sneezed somewhere in the multiverse and a family of dysfunctional cosmic forces decided to stage an intervention.
And suddenly—
There were seven of them.
Not walking in. Not conjured. Just there.
Dream: Pale, ethereal, his black robes rippling with unseen winds, hair falling over sharp cheekbones like poetry that resents you. Death: Combat boots, ripped jeans, black tank top with a skull made of flowers. Her smirk said I've seen it all, and I still think you're cute. Despair: Small, hunched, eyes bottomless. Her skin looked like sadness sculpted in flesh. Desire: Golden, glittering, androgynous beauty, lounging in a way that made you think of sex and heartbreak and power all at once. Destiny: Massive. Robed. Book chained to his wrist. His eyes were stitched shut, and somehow still burned with knowing. Delirium: Half-glitter, half-grunge, hair shifting colors like a lava lamp having a seizure, chewing a balloon animal. Destruction: Big. Bearded. Covered in paint and sawdust, arms crossed like a biker Buddha. David Harbour levels of world-weary hot.
Harry blinked. "Oh, brilliant. We're being haunted by the cover of a goth rock concept album."
Neville edged behind him. "Are we being judged?"
"No, darling," Death said with a smirk and a Brooklyn twang that sounded suspiciously like Kat Dennings on her second espresso, "you're being invited."
"To what, exactly?" Harry asked warily.
"Existential karaoke night," Delirium chirped.
"She's joking," Desire purred, strutting closer like a lioness who knew her reflection had never lost a fight. "Mostly. We're here because you two little anomalies kicked fate in the shin. And we liked it."
Destiny turned a page in his book. "Your paths were severed. Lives twisted. Threads snapped."
"Someone," Despair muttered, "decided you had to suffer. Alone. Isolated."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Dumbledore."
Dream's voice was soft thunder. "He thought he knew better than the pattern."
Desire's golden lips curled. "He thought pain would purify you."
"Classic manipulative grandpa move," Death added. "But hey, you still got to save the world. Good job, buttercups."
Neville looked like someone had handed him an exploding flobberworm. "Wait. We weren't supposed to…?"
Destruction — actual bear of a man Destruction — stepped forward, voice low and rough like gravel and wisdom. "You were supposed to grow up as brothers. Your lives were meant to intertwine. To heal each other."
Desire leaned in to Harry, close enough for his skin to crawl. "But someone decided a hero had to be alone. Tragic. Sexy. Marketable."
"Stop hitting on the dead guy," Death muttered, rolling her eyes.
"Make me, little sister."
"Gladly."
Destruction cleared his throat loudly.
Neville blinked. "Wait. Brothers?"
There was a beat.
Then Desire's eyes glinted like spilled honey and broken promises. "Oh yes. Little Longbottom over there? Lily Potter's godson."
Harry's head snapped toward Neville. "What?!"
Neville looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. "I—I didn't tell you. I thought… you'd be ashamed. I mean, I was basically a squib for most of our lives. Gran said it was better not to burden you. That you had enough."
Harry's eyes softened. Then darkened.
"I wasn't ashamed," he said, stepping forward. "I was alone. You were my family, Neville. And that… that should've meant something."
He pulled him into a hug.
A proper one. Bone-cracking. Brother-making.
Death sniffled dramatically. "Gods, I love a good emotional breakthrough."
Delirium floated by upside down. "Now kiss!"
"Del," Dream said gently.
"Right, right. Too soon."
Destiny turned another page.
"It is time," he intoned.
"Time for what?" Harry asked, still holding onto Neville.
"To choose," Dream said. "Move on. Let go. Or…"
Desire licked their lips. "Reboot."
Neville blinked. "Reboot?"
Destruction's eyes twinkled. "Another universe. One that needs you. And she's already there."
"She?" Harry asked, and his voice broke just slightly.
Death stepped forward. Placed a hand on his cheek. Warm. Real. Infinitely kind. "Lily. Your mum. Our favorite fiery redhead. She's already living again."
"As Lilly Kent," Delirium sang. "Two Ls! Twice the sass!"
"She remembers everything," Dream added. "And she just gave birth. To twins."
Harry swayed.
Neville grabbed his shoulder. "Mate—twins?"
Despair murmured, "You missed so much. In your first life. Do you want to miss it again?"
Harry looked at Neville.
Neville looked at Harry.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Same team?"
Neville smirked. "Always."
They turned.
And together, hand in hand, the two godbrothers stepped into the light—
—reborn.
And somewhere far away in a glowing crystal fortress, one of the newborn twin boys opened his eyes for the first time.
They were green as the killing curse and shone like destiny's favorite joke.
—
The fog didn't part—it remembered it had somewhere else to be and slunk away with a sulk. In its place shimmered a lounge woven from starlight and raw narrative: plush chairs that didn't exist until you thought about them, a fireplace that burned with untold stories, and coffee tables shaped like metaphors.
In the center of this cosmic green room floated the Multiversal Baby Monitor — a ring of light and reality, rotating slowly and showing the two newborns in cradles of magic and crystal.
One baby howled like he was owed answers, rent, and reparations. The other blinked with unnerving serenity, drooling on a glowing blanket like he was already planning a tactical assault on destiny.
"Oooh, look at that glare," said Delirium, giggling upside down with her bubblegum pink curls flowing toward the floor-that-wasn't. "That one's definitely Harry. He's already judging the lighting like a baby art critic."
"Naturally," drawled Desire, draped luxuriously across a divan stitched from longing and silk. Their golden eyes sparkled as they licked their lips. "He was the Master of Death. And now? Kryptonian and Homo Magi? Daddy issues, trauma scars, a soul like cracked obsidian and cheekbones sharp enough to gouge reality? Mmm. Delicious."
"You say that about everybody with parental trauma," muttered Death, sipping from a skull-shaped thermos that read: Ashes of Mortality (Light Roast). She wore black eyeliner and cosmic sarcasm like armor, her boots kicked up on a nebula-shaped ottoman. "Still, I'll admit — kid earned it. All three Hallows. Used them. Mastered them. And he still chose to die to give a noseless racist a chance at redemption. Dumbass. I love him."
"He broke my prison," murmured Dream, tall and pale as moonlight, shadows curling at his feet. His voice was the sound of poetry read in a whisper just before sleep. "Shattered fate's decree. He deserves more than rebirth. He deserves choice."
"He already chose," rumbled Destiny, his voice a thousand echoes down a corridor of books. He never looked up from the great tome chained to his arm. "Twice."
"And he always loses," came Despair's voice, soft and aching. She sat in a corner of cracked mirrors and mist, clutching her gray shawl like a shield. "Family. Love. Self-worth. It's always just out of reach."
"Then let's not make him lose again," Destruction said, his arms crossed. He looked like a Viking who'd discovered barbecue and therapy. "Let's give for once. Build, not break."
"Agreed," Death said, setting her thermos down and dusting off her leather jacket. "Harry gets his legacy. But we tweak it."
"Enhance it," Desire purred, applying lip gloss made of stardust and sin.
"Balance it," Destiny added, turning another page like it hurt.
"Ensure it remains his," Dream whispered.
—
Dream extended a pale hand toward the glowing image of baby Harry.
"The Elder Wand has changed hands through blood, murder, mercy, and mastery. He tamed it with none of these. Let the echoes remain. The spells, the instincts, the language of wandlore itself — burned into his core."
"The Cloak's gift too," Death added, twirling her fingers. "But not fabric. Not anymore. Let it be biological. His Kryptonian cells will carry it like a latent virus — a passive cloak that hides him from gods, monsters, even me."
"But the Stone?" Desire asked, twirling a golden ring on their finger. "You're really going to deny the boy a visit to his trauma bingo hall?"
"The Resurrection Stone is folly," Destiny said without looking up. "It disrupts what must be. It tempts grief. It unravels peace."
"Boring," muttered Desire.
Destruction, surprisingly thoughtful, added, "But it was meant to connect. Let him feel them. Let him know they rest. Not ghosts. Not illusions. Just… echoes. So he doesn't have to wonder."
"Approved," Death said, brushing her bangs aside with a grin. "Kid's gonna cry like a Hallmark card come to life, but hey — emotional growth."
—
"Alright, my turn," said Destruction, rolling up sleeves that smelled faintly of whiskey and woodsmoke. "He's half-Kryptonian. Sun's already his battery. Let's make it do more."
He reached out, sparks of celestial fire dancing between his fingertips, and tapped the image of Harry's chest.
"His magical core now functions as a solar converter. More sunlight, more magic. And not just stronger. We're talking weirder. Reality-bending. Spell-punching. Terraforming a moon just because it was ugly."
"Kryptonian might," Dream said, smiling faintly, "augmented by intention. A being whose spells are as inevitable as sunrise."
Delirium clapped. "He's gonna go full sparkle wizard! Exploding glitter bolts! I want to braid his cape!"
"He'll need a wand that doesn't explode from sheer attitude," Death muttered.
"Or…" Desire leaned forward, their smile knife-sharp, "he is the wand now."
—
Neville, for his part, had drooled on a holy relic.
"He slew the last Horcrux," Dream said, staring into the vision. "Without prophecy. Without fame. Just intent."
The Sword of Gryffindor floated in astral space nearby, shimmering with old magic and newer pride.
"The sword grows stronger from what makes it bleed," Destruction said, lifting the blade. "So let Neville's body do the same."
He gently tapped the baby's chest, and for a heartbeat, the child glowed gold.
"Every pain, every hardship, every blow — he absorbs it. Not just to endure, but to grow. Stronger. Wiser. Braver."
"Sounds messy," Death said with a smirk. "Poetic. I like it."
"But not invincible," whispered Despair. "Not unbreakable. Just… someone who gets back up. Every time."
"He is resilience made flesh," Destiny confirmed.
"He's the cinnamon roll with the lava core," Delirium added proudly.
—
The babies slept now in their cradles of magic and story. One scowling (clearly plotting interdimensional revenge for being born again), the other snoring softly with a bit of magic-saliva bubble forming.
"So. Names?" Death asked, crossing her legs and raising an eyebrow. "We calling them Hadrian and Neville again, or going full Kal-El and Ned Stark's baby?"
"Let Lilly and Clark name them," Desire murmured. "But they'll always carry echoes."
Dream, watching them both, tilted his head.
"One shall become legend," he said, voice like lullabies laced with nightmares. "The other, myth."
Delirium blinked. "Wait. What's the difference?"
Death smiled — dry, fond, and a little tired.
"Legends die," she said. "Myths live forever."
—
Meanwhile — back at the Fortress of Solitude
The crystalline doors burst open with a gust of snow and an audible whoosh, as if the Fortress itself was rolling its eyes and announcing, "Look who finally showed up."
Superman landed like a comet kissed by righteousness, a blur of red cape, blue suit, and righteous indignation. His boot crunched on the ice as he stood tall, broad, beautiful, and just a little bit sheepish. A tear in his suit stretched across his shoulder where Lobo's chain had grazed him. His curls were damp with sweat and space-biker gore.
"Please tell me I'm not too late," Clark Kent said, voice hopeful and heartbreakingly sincere.
From across the room, a very tired, very unimpressed Lilly Kent lifted her head from her hovering recovery couch. Her red hair stuck out in chaotic curls, some matted to her temple with sweat, others defying gravity with the kind of tenacity that suggested caffeine-fueled spells were involved. Her hospital gown sparkled faintly—either from residual magic or sheer dramatic spite.
"You," she said, with the calm of a woman who had absolutely been through it, "are exactly thirty-seven seconds late. Which, in case you were wondering, is just long enough to miss the alien-magical-baby birth scene and the terrifying duet they performed at full volume."
Clark blinked. "Wait. They?"
"Twins," Kelex piped up, floating serenely into the conversation like a snarky British soap bubble. "An outcome I did attempt to mention during active labor, but someone"—he floated a degree to the left for effect—"was too busy fighting the interstellar equivalent of a WWE reject to answer his comms."
Clark's eyes went wide as he crossed the room in a blink, dropping to his knees beside Lilly. "You did all this alone?"
"I had Kelex," she said dryly, patting the bot's head. "Which is like birthing with a sarcastic Alexa who moonlights as a weather balloon."
"Rude," Kelex muttered. "I'll have you know my midwife subroutines are ranked within the top 3% of all Kryptonian medical AI."
Lilly looked at Clark. "He also tried to play elevator music to relax me. I hexed his speaker into a foghorn."
Clark took her hand gently, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
"I'm hormonal, sleep-deprived, and dangerously full of afterbirth magic," she said sweetly. "But sure, I'll take unbelievable."
A soft gurgle drew their attention.
Two crystalline bassinets hovered nearby, glowing faintly like divine nightlights. The first baby had a mess of thick black curls, tiny fists clenched in righteous fury, and piercing emerald green eyes that hit Clark like a truck made of memory.
The second was rounder, sleepier, with a gentle weight to his magic. His pale green eyes blinked slowly, like he was already bored of the universe and waiting for something interesting to happen.
Clark stood, voice barely above a whisper. "They're… perfect."
"They're loud," Lilly corrected. "And they sneeze with heat vision. I nearly lost an eyebrow."
"They have your eyes," Clark murmured, crouching beside the bassinets.
Lilly tilted her head. "Different shades. But yes. Harry's. And the one with the pale green eyes is Neville. I'd know those eyes anywhere."
Clark turned to her, his eyes full of questions he didn't know how to ask. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "I remember all of it, Clark. The nursery. The laughter. The last lullaby I ever sang. I remember dying for them. And now… they're here. Again. Different, yes. But still them."
Clark stood tall again, shoulders straightening under the weight of that revelation. "Then… we give them back their names."
She smiled, exhausted but radiant. "Hadrian and Neville."
Clark leaned down and kissed her forehead, reverent. "Middle names," he said, quietly. "Jonathan and Jordan."
Lilly blinked, mist forming in her eyes. "For your fathers."
"For the men who gave me everything."
Lilly looked at her sons again, voice breaking softly. "Hadrian Jonathan Kent."
"Neville Jordan Kent," Clark finished.
He turned to Kelex. "Begin house registry protocol. Kryptonian designation: Har-El and Nev-El."
Kelex lit up like a smug Christmas drone. "Confirmed. Welcome, Har-El and Nev-El. Sons of the House of El. Bloodline updated. Lineage: exceptional."
The Fortress vibrated subtly, like it was purring. Crystals shimmered as ancient recognition flowed through the air. The boys' names carved themselves in glowing glyphs on the chamber walls.
Har-El. Nev-El.
—
Later – Crystal Nursery
Lilly reclined in a suspiciously over-engineered hover-chair, twin babies dozing on her chest like tiny furnaces of destiny. Her magic pulsed gently around them, tuning itself instinctively to their Kryptonian energy.
Clark stood nearby, arms folded, the universal posture of a proud-but-terrified dad who was ready to wrestle a black hole but not a dirty diaper.
"I keep expecting someone to show up with a prophecy and a weird accent," Lilly murmured, eyelids fluttering.
Clark chuckled. "Please. Don't say that. Constantine will actually materialize with a cigarette and some cryptic nonsense."
"Oh, I'd hex him into a musical theatre enthusiast if he tried."
Clark grinned. "I'd pay to see that."
Lilly looked down at the boys, then back at Clark. "Do you think we'll get it right this time?"
"I think," he said, crouching beside her again, "you're the strongest person I've ever known. And I've met Diana."
"Flatterer."
"Truth-teller."
Lilly closed her eyes. "Let's raise them with books and board games. Flying lessons and magical shields. Let's give them joy. Not just survival."
Clark kissed the crown of her head. "Let's give them everything."
Outside, the stars sparkled. Inside, a redhead and a Kryptonian held the future. And the future—miraculously, impossibly—was sleeping soundly.
—
Days Later
The crystalline glow of the Fortress pulsed with a warm, farewell hum, as though even it understood the moment: this was goodbye—for now. Not the tragic, slow-motion goodbye with epic orchestras and misty eyes, but the kind that came with forty-eight hours of interrupted sleep, two magical-Kryptonian infants who sneezed like tactical weapons, and a diaper bag that had been enchanted to hold enough to resupply a small nation.
Lilly Kent stood tall beside her husband, and if the Fortress could applaud, it probably would have. She was radiant, all recovered and then some, exuding the kind of power that came from being dead once, defying fate, and then looking it in the eye and saying, "Not today, sweetheart."
Her armor glimmered in scarlet and gold—a bodysuit that looked tailored by war gods and blessed by celestial tailors. Segmented plates hugged her like a love letter to both fashion and battle-readiness. Beneath, black leather under-armor whispered with subtle enchantments, protection spells stitched into the seams like lullabies with bite. Her scarlet cloak trailed behind her, hood draped over her shoulders, rippling despite the absence of wind—which, if you asked Kelex, was likely the Fortress just being theatrical.
Hadrian was cradled in her arms, snuggled into a starwoven blanket that shimmered with cosmic comfort. He blinked up at her, eyes glowing softly emerald, a tiny flicker of light sparking each time his magic hiccupped.
"I'm not wearing the El crest," Lilly said for what had to be the fifth time that morning, arching an eyebrow at her husband without even looking at him.
Clark Kent—farmboy of steel, six feet of earnest sincerity, and very unfair jawline—offered her his best puppy-eyed smile. His suit had been fully mended, courtesy of Kelex, and the S-shield gleamed on his chest like hope itself. In his arms, Neville burbled contentedly, entirely unconcerned about the bit of drool now glistening on said crest.
Clark tilted his head. "Not even a little crest? Just tucked into the cape?"
"Not even a secret crest in invisible ink."
He grinned. "It's not about branding. It's about unity. Legacy."
"Clark," Lilly said flatly, shifting Hadrian slightly, "you want us to match. This is about team aesthetics, not legacy."
"Okay, fair, but matching is good for morale."
Kelex hovered into view with the effortless smugness of a robot who once hacked a satellite just to access The Great British Bake Off.
"If I may interject," he said, voice dry and vaguely British, "my style subroutines suggest that color coordination improves mission cohesion by 17.4%."
"Thank you, Kelex," Clark said, shooting his wife a smug glance.
"However," Kelex continued, drifting a precise degree to the side as if dodging future laser glares, "Mistress Kent's current ensemble achieves optimal intimidation and aesthetic harmony without the El branding. A sigil would, frankly, be overkill."
Lilly smirked. "Thank you, Kelex."
"I contain multitudes," the AI sniffed.
Clark sighed and adjusted Neville, who was now drooling dreamily and flaring his fingers like he was orchestrating a tiny invisible orchestra. "At least let me get matching boots made."
"We'll discuss it after I've slept for more than forty-five consecutive minutes," Lilly replied sweetly. Then, to Kelex: "Did you run the diagnostics?"
"Indeed. Power reserves at full capacity. Cloaking field engaged. Magical containment charms stable. Infant vitals: absurdly overperforming. If they were stock options, I'd invest."
Lilly chuckled. "You're a treasure. Hold down the Fortress while we're gone."
"Please," Kelex said. "I've upgraded the nursery with reinforced crystal barriers and built a lactation spa where the meditation chamber used to be. I've subscribed to multiple parenting blogs and integrated select recommendations. I am, as they say, prepared."
Clark blinked. "Wait… blogs?"
"There is an entire subsection of the internet devoted to Kryptonian-magic hybrid infant care."
"No, there isn't."
"There is now," Kelex said cheerfully.
Lilly shifted Hadrian and whispered something ancient and melodic in his ear. The baby cooed softly, a brief pulse of magic flickering over his blanket.
"Ready?" Clark asked.
"No," Lilly said. "But I am extremely motivated by the promise of pancakes and an actual bed."
Clark laughed. "Ma's already got the griddle going."
"I can smell the syrup from here," she muttered, floating a few inches into the air as her cloak flared slightly.
Clark followed, cradling Neville securely. "Sindella was due around the same time. Any word?"
Lilly's smile dimmed just a touch. "Nothing yet. But knowing her? She probably transfigured her contractions into butterflies and summoned a midwife from a fairy ring. Still... I'd feel better if she checked in."
"She will," Clark said, his voice gentle. "Giovanni won't let anything happen to her. He's probably already threatened a few fates on her behalf."
"True." She smiled. "Still... it'll be nice to have family close."
Clark nodded. "We'll bring them together."
Kelex floated after them, stopping at the threshold as the giant crystalline doors began to slide closed.
"Safe travels. May your diapers be few and your naps uninterrupted."
"You're a poet, Kelex," Lilly called back.
"I try."
And with that, the doors sealed with a quiet hum, and the Fortress was still once more.
Outside, the sun cast sharp gold across the frozen horizon as two cloaked figures lifted into the air—trailing stardust and hope. Their babies slept in their arms, two tiny heartbeats wrapped in ancient power and improbable second chances.
The world waited. Smallville waited. Pancakes, too.
And so the House of Kent flew home.
---
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