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There are a few things about your family that need to be clarified.
First, your mother is Granger. Full name Hermione Granger. The most powerful superhero the United Kingdom has ever produced.
She can intercept intercontinental ballistic missiles with her bare hands, calculate the optimal rescue route for every trapped person in a collapsing building within a single second, and last month she pulled a runaway oil tanker out of the Thames without even getting her hair wet. The BBC consistently rates her approval rating at over ninety-seven percent. The remaining three percent are your father's fans.
Second, your father, codename Voldemort, is the most terrifying supervillain on the planet.
You've never seen a complete list of his abilities, because MI6 adds new entries every few months. He controls half the underworld, owns at least three secret bases, two private satellites, and a strange sonic frequency that can automatically disable any electronic device. The Guardian calls him "the greatest threat to civilized society." The Daily Mail called him "the sexiest terrorist of the century" — your mother burned every newspaper in the house the day that story came out.
Third, they are mortal enemies. Archenemies. Sworn foes. They've been chasing each other across major global cities for nearly twenty years.
Fourth, they have you and your sister.
You never asked how that happened. Your sister asked once. Your mother's face transformed into a meteorological phenomenon you'd never seen on a human being, and your father — the man supposedly capable of making entire cabinets beg for mercy — suddenly found the view outside the window extremely worthy of his attention.
So you reached an unspoken family agreement: don't ask, don't tell, don't let them occupy the same enclosed space.
The agreement held for fifteen years.
Until your school sent home the parent-teacher conference notice.
You stared at the cream-colored card embossed with the school crest, its politely worded "cordial invitation for parents to attend," and felt a chill penetrate to your very marrow. Your sister took the notice from your hand and voiced what you were both thinking:
We're doomed.
You called your mother first. On the other end of the line, she was holding up the landing gear of a Boeing 737 with one hand (you could hear the passengers screaming in the background and her steady breathing). She said: "Of course I'll be there, sweetheart. Tuesday, right? I'll clear my schedule."
You called your father next. When he answered, the background was suspiciously quiet. He said: "Parent-teacher conference. How... quaint. I'll attend."
You hung up and looked at your sister. Your sister looked at you. You reached another silent consensus: we are completely and utterly doomed.
Maybe call one of them back and say it was cancelled?
You didn't have the nerve. Your mother could tell if you were lying through voice-stress analysis. Your father had an intelligence network composed of various AIs and spies — he probably knew about the conference before the notice was even sent.
Tuesday afternoon.
You sat in the hallway of Westfield Academy, your school tie strangling your neck. Your sister sat beside you, her phone on her lap with a live news feed open. Just in case. In case they started fighting, she said, at least you'd know the evacuation routes.
Your mother arrived first.
She wore a sharply tailored navy coat, her brown curls pinned up, and her ankle boots were clearly expensive.
No combat suit or cape. Aside from the way she walked — as if ready to accelerate to supersonic speed at any moment — she looked like any respectable middle-class mother attending a parent-teacher conference.
She sat down beside you, squeezed your shoulder, and smiled at your sister.
"He confirmed he's coming?" she asked.
You nodded.
Her smile didn't change, but you saw her fingers move inside her coat pocket. You knew that pocket contained a micro-communicator linked to the UK Superhero Administration's emergency channel.
Mum. Are you calling for backup. This is a parent-teacher conference.
Five minutes later, the fire door at the end of the hallway swung open.
Your father entered differently from normal people. No dramatic smoke or lightning effects, but the fluorescent lights in the corridor did flicker. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit with no tie. He looked like a hedge fund manager who controlled billions in assets and couldn't care less. Except for his eyes — that dark red iris glowed faintly under the fluorescent lights, causing a passing Year 7 student to walk directly into the wall.
He walked toward you, unhurried, a smile curving at the corner of his mouth.
"Children," he said, nodding.
Then he looked at your mother.
Your mother looked at him.
What happened next was difficult to describe. They stared at each other for a few seconds. The temperature in the hallway dropped several degrees. A parent on the phone in the next class abruptly ended their call and hurried away. Your sister quietly switched her phone to video mode.
"Granger."
"Riddle."
Your mother stood, the hem of her coat brushing against the chair. She now faced him, about a meter apart — a distance that, for two superpowered individuals capable of destroying cities, was essentially face-to-face.
"You're late," she said.
"Two minutes. I had business."
"Business. What business, destabilizing Eastern Europe again?"
"Central Asia, actually. And it was handled before I arrived."
Your form teacher, Mrs Henderson, opened the classroom door at that moment. She was a math teacher in her fifties, wearing thin-rimmed glasses and a scarf printed with daisies. She saw the scene in the hallway, produced a standard professional smile, then confusion, then recognition, and finally her face went very pale.
"Mr Riddle and... Ms Granger? Please, um. Come in."
Her voice was half an octave higher than usual.
You followed your parents into the classroom. This room was normally used for Year 10 math, with quadratic equation steps posted on the walls and a motivational poster that said "Believe in Yourself." Your father looked at that poster, and the curve of his smile deepened.
Please don't comment on the poster. Please.
Three chairs were arranged across from Mrs Henderson's desk. You sat in the middle. Your mother on your right. Your father on your left. They were separated by your shoulder width plus the width of two armrests, and there was something unnameable vibrating in the air that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
Mrs Henderson opened your grade book, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Well, your child is doing reasonably well in most subjects—"
"Reasonably well," your mother repeated.
"'Reasonably well' is generous rhetoric for mediocrity," your father said, more succinct.
The one time they agreed, and it was to criticize your grades!
"I didn't say mediocre!" Mrs Henderson waved her hands frantically. "They're doing very well! Really very well! Especially in, uh—"
She flipped rapidly through the grade book, searching for lifelines.
"—History! Top marks in History."
Your father tilted his head slightly toward you, with a hint of private satisfaction. Your mother pressed her lips together but said nothing.
The next fifteen minutes were the longest of your life. Every word from Mrs Henderson was a tightrope walk. She mentioned your excellent PE grades — your father asked "what type of physical training?" and your mother's spine went rigid. She mentioned you sometimes daydreamed in class — your mother's eyebrow rose precisely one millimeter, and she said "we'll address that at home," to which your father replied "which home?" and the angle and speed at which your mother turned to look at him caused Mrs Henderson to knock over her coffee cup.
Coffee spilled across the grade book. Mrs Henderson fumbled for tissues. Your mother raised her hand, her fingertip flicked lightly, and the coffee stain vanished from the paper, the writing perfectly intact. Mrs Henderson stared blankly at the clean book.
Your father's scoff was soft, but you saw the tips of your mother's ears turn red.
Mum. You used superpowers in front of a Muggle. Just to show off.
"Showing off, Granger?" your father's voice was low, with infuriating amusement.
"That was practical," she said, not looking at him. But her chin lifted slightly.
"Practical. Of course." His gaze traveled from the tips of her ears down the side of her neck to the hand holding her handbag, and you pretended not to see any of it. If your sister were here, she'd be spamming the family group chat with vomiting emojis.
Mrs Henderson cleared her throat. She had accepted reality and decided to end this as quickly as possible.
"Is there anything... else you'd like to discuss about your child's education?"
"Yes." They spoke at the same time, stopped at the same time, and turned toward each other at the same time.
"You first," your father said, with a courtesy that bordered on offensive.
"What I wanted to say," your mother shifted her gaze from him back to Mrs Henderson, "is that we'd prefer more advanced curriculum options. Our child is not being sufficiently stimulated."
"Not sufficiently stimulated." Your father repeated her words in a tone that made the phrase sound entirely unrelated to education.
You wanted to melt into the floorboards.
Your mother finally turned to face him directly. The distance between them, due to her movement, had shrunk to less than half a meter. Her eyes were deep amber, and under the classroom's fluorescent lights, they looked nearly aflame.
"Do you have something to add, Riddle?"
"Several things," he replied. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers steepled, those dark red eyes watching her from above his own hands. "None suitable for this setting."
Mrs Henderson's chair made a loud, jarring screech as she pushed herself and it back roughly half a meter.
You hated your life.
You stood up.
"I think we're done here," you said, with all the dignity a fifteen-year-old could muster. "Thank you, Mrs Henderson. For everything. And I'm sorry about... this."
Your gesture at "this" encompassed your two parents, this classroom, and the air between them that was visibly heating up by the second.
Mrs Henderson nodded at you, vigorously and gratefully, practically pleading.
In the hallway, you walked ahead. They walked behind you. You could hear their footsteps — your mother's crisp, authoritative heels, your father's steady, unhurried leather soles. The two rhythms synced for a few beats, then diverged.
Your sister waited at the school gates, phone still raised. She saw the three of you emerge and raised an eyebrow at you.
"How bad?"
"They were making eyes at each other in front of my math teacher," you said flatly.
Your sister snorted and pocketed her phone. Behind you, your mother's voice: "I was not!"
Your father said nothing. He stood two paces behind your mother, that too-handsome face wearing a smile that made you want to call the authorities.
Your mother turned to glare at him. He tilted his head at her.
She turned back and yanked her keys out of her bag with some force.
"I'm taking you two home," she said, to you and your sister only. "Riddle, don't follow me."
"I wasn't planning to," he said.
This was a lie. All three of them — including you, including your sister, and probably including Mrs Henderson still suffering tachycardia in the classroom — knew it was a lie.
Your sister pulled your arm toward your mother's car. You glanced back. Your father stood where he was, hands in his trouser pockets, watching your mother's retreating figure. Your mother looked back once before opening the car door.
The eye contact lasted only an instant. Then she got into the driver's seat, the engine started, and the car drove away.
He would absolutely be at Mum's flat tonight.
You leaned against the back seat window and closed your eyes. Your sister leaned in and whispered: "Twenty quid says he's there before midnight."
You didn't respond.
You wouldn't even take the bet. It was the most certain thing in the world.