The rainbow brilliance of the Bifrost fractured into harmonics that shimmered across the golden chamber of Asgard's observatory. The colors danced, fading like the last notes of a song too grand for mortal memory. As the light ebbed, the travelers found themselves grounded again — not merely on Asgardian gold but on something infinitely more human.
For at the center of the chamber stood Queen Frigga. Regal as ever, her posture radiated the kind of poise that could command kings and silence war councils with nothing more than a raised eyebrow — and yet, all that grandeur was softened by the way she held the small boy on her hip. The child clutched a fistful of the queen's flowing gown in one dimpled hand while the other waved with restless magic that sent tiny sparks dancing through the air like miniature fireworks. His dark hair was a halo of soft curls that caught the chamber's golden light, and his impossibly green eyes — Lily's eyes, unmistakably — tracked the arrivals with a scrutiny that went far beyond ordinary babyhood. There was something ancient in that gaze, something that suggested he saw more than colors and shapes and movement.
"Mama!" Haraldr — Harry — crowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he wriggled in Frigga's arms with the kind of unfiltered delight that made gods and hardened warriors alike smile despite themselves. At the sight of Aldrif, his little hands glowed with phoenix fire, tiny fingers curling around flames as naturally as other children grasped rattles or toys. The light pulsed with his heartbeat, warm and welcoming and utterly joyous. "Mama came back! Told Gamma you would!"
Frigga's laugh was low and fond, rich as aged wine and warm as a hearthfire on the coldest winter night. Her eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that suggested she'd been thoroughly charmed by her grandson's certainty. "He has been asking about you constantly, Aldrif," she said, her voice carrying that perfect blend of maternal affection and royal dignity that only she could manage. She shifted Harry slightly on her hip, smoothing his curls with practiced ease. "Declaring your imminent return with the certainty of prophecy. Every few minutes, he would toddle to the windows and announce that you would come soon. I suppose now he can tell me he was right all along."
"Was right!" Harry confirmed with triumphant satisfaction, pointing a glowing finger at his grandmother. "Harry always right about Mama. Mama comes home when Harry says."
"Modest, isn't he?" Frigga murmured, though her smile was pure indulgence.
Aldrif — Lily — crossed the distance in long, elegant strides that carried her forward like flowing water, each step shedding the mantle of cosmic warrior for something infinitely more precious: the grace of a mother coming home. The divine gleam of her armor dimmed and shifted seamlessly into softer leather and linen, practical and welcoming and utterly mortal in its simplicity. She reached for her son with hands that could command armies yet bent wholly toward maternal tenderness. "My darling boy," she murmured as she scooped Harry into her arms, her voice breaking just slightly with emotion. The tension she had carried since Midgard — the weight of responsibility, the fear of failure, the constant awareness of lives hanging in the balance — dissolved into nothing more substantial than morning mist.
She buried her face against his curls, breathing in the scent of him: milk and honey and something indefinably magical, like starlight made solid. "Did you miss Mama while she was away lecturing stubborn wizards about their dreadful manners and worse politics?"
"Missed Mama lots," Harry said with the solemn dignity of someone delivering a state address. He patted her cheeks with glowing hands, as though confirming her reality through touch. His green eyes, so startlingly familiar, studied her face with scientific precision. "Was good boy. Mostly good. Blocks fell down yesterday. But was 'cident. Not Harry's fault gravity got confused."
"Oh, I believe you completely," Aldrif said, though her lips curved with the kind of smile that suggested she suspected the 'accident' had bent several fundamental laws of physics and probably required a team of palace engineers to sort out. "Gravity has always been unreliable. Very temperamental. I'm sure you were simply helping it understand its job better."
"Exactly!" Harry beamed, delighted that his mother understood. "Harry good teacher."
Frigga stepped closer, her silk gown whispering against the golden floor, her silver-threaded braid catching the starlight that filtered through the observatory's crystal dome. She carried herself with the effortless authority of a woman who had weathered Odin's rages, tempered Asgard's pride, and somehow managed to raise both Thor and Loki to functional adulthood without losing her sanity or her sense of humor. Yet when she looked at Harry, her expression transformed into something purely grandmotherly: indulgent, delighted, and utterly besotted.
"An absolute delight," she announced, her voice carrying that measured warmth that only grandmothers possessed — part affection, part conspiracy, part gentle warning. "Although, yes, I must confess his definition of 'mostly behaved' may differ somewhat from conventional understanding. The blocks incident alone..." She paused, her eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter. "Well, let us simply say it involved several palace guards, a heated discussion of architectural theory, and a rather passionate lecture on why 'up' is apparently only a suggestion rather than a law."
Harry perked up immediately, looking from his mother to Frigga as though seeking validation for his perfectly reasonable position. "Blocks fell up," he explained with the patience of someone addressing particularly slow students. "Guards said was wrong way. Harry showed was right way. Blocks happy to go up! Just needed someone to ask nicely."
Sirius barked out a laugh that echoed off the chamber walls, his dark eyes lighting up with unholy delight as he strode forward with all the restless energy of a man who had been barely contained by the requirements of interdimensional travel and civilized behavior. His smile was broad and fierce, transforming his face from merely handsome to something genuinely magnetic. When he grinned like that, it was easy to see why half of wizarding Britain had fallen for him in school and why the other half had wisely run in the opposite direction.
"Physics lessons from a fifteen-month-old!" he declared, his voice booming with approval and barely contained hysteria. "James would have been bloody ecstatic. Christ, the boy's not even out of nappies and he's already revolutionizing higher education and traumatizing authority figures. I'm so proud I could cry."
"You are crying," Remus observed mildly, though his amber eyes were warm with affection as they traced his friend's face. There was something infinitely patient about the way he stood — tall and lean and graceful, like a professor who had spent years perfecting the art of fond exasperation. "Though I suppose that's understandable. It's not every day one discovers their godson has declared war on gravity."
"Also causing property damage," he added in a tone dry as parchment, though his gaze softened unmistakably when it landed on Harry. "Which, incidentally, I am reliably informed is the truest hallmark of Potter genius. Something about the family motto being 'Why follow rules when you can rewrite them entirely?'"
"That wasn't the family motto," Aldrif protested, though she was grinning.
"Should have been," Sirius said firmly.
Harry's head swiveled at the sound of Sirius's voice, those luminous green eyes fixing on him with recognition that went bone-deep, soul-deep, magic-deep. Something cosmic and certain clicked into place behind his gaze. He wriggled in his mother's hold with sudden urgency, reaching toward Sirius with both glowing hands, and then announced with gleeful triumph: "Doggy-man! Doggy-man came too!"
Sirius froze for exactly half a heartbeat, his expression cycling through surprise, delight, and something that might have been emotional overwhelm. Then he laughed, a sound that was rough around the edges, as though it had scraped against something raw and precious in his chest. "That's right, pup. Doggy-man's here. Did you know I was coming?"
"Course!" Harry said with the confidence of someone stating an obvious truth. "Harry always knows when pack comes home."
"Pack," Remus repeated thoughtfully, his voice soft with wonder. "He thinks of us as pack."
"We are pack," Sirius said simply, reaching out to take Harry from Aldrif's arms. "Always have been. Always will be."
The moment Sirius's hands closed around him, Harry's Phoenix fire flared in welcome, enveloping them both in a shimmering aurora of warmth and recognition that pulsed like a heartbeat, like magic itself saying *yes, this is right, this is home, this is family*. Sirius swallowed hard, his throat working against emotion as he pressed his cheek against the boy's hair and just breathed for a moment.
"Merlin's beard, I missed you," he said finally, his voice rough with feeling. "Have you grown? You feel heavier. More solid. Like you're taking up more space in the universe."
"Growed lots," Harry confirmed with solemn pride, reaching up to poke Sirius's nose with one curious finger. "Ate vegetables. Grandmother Frigga says vegetables make strong boys who can lift heavy things and run fast and think good thoughts."
"Vegetables, eh?" Sirius said, his voice taking on the exaggerated seriousness of a man letting a toddler in on the secrets of the universe. He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper that carried to every corner of the chamber. "Well, I'm sure they help. But between you and me, pup, I think cosmic fire and divine lineage might be pulling slightly more weight than broccoli in the 'making you magnificent' department."
Harry considered this with the gravity of a philosopher contemplating the nature of existence. He tilted his head, brow furrowed in concentration, and then nodded decisively. "Cosmic fire tastes better too," he confided in an equally theatrical whisper. "But don't tell Grandmother Frigga. She got *opinions* about vegetables. Very strong opinions."
Frigga arched one elegant silver brow, her expression shifting into something that managed to be both serene and mildly threatening — a look that had cowed kings and made grown princes reconsider their life choices. She folded her hands before her with the kind of precision that suggested she was restraining herself from more dramatic gestures. "Grandmother Frigga has *wisdom*, young one. Opinions are for mortals who have not yet learned the difference between preference and necessity."
"Uh oh," Sirius muttered under his breath. "I think I just got us both in trouble with the Queen of Asgard."
"Good trouble or bad trouble?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity.
"With your grandmother? There's no difference. All trouble with Frigga is educational."
Thor, who had been watching this entire exchange with the kind of delighted fascination usually reserved for particularly entertaining court performances, finally couldn't contain himself any longer. His booming laugh filled the chamber, rich and warm and utterly infectious. He strode forward like a force of nature in human form, all golden hair and impossible breadth and barely restrained enthusiasm.
"Ha! He speaks of vegetables and cosmic fire as though they are equals in importance!" Thor declared, his voice carrying the kind of joy that made the very air seem brighter. "This is truly Odin's grandson — practical wisdom combined with divine perspective! A true prince of Asgard!"
He bent down, peering at Harry with the kind of grin that promised adventures and poor judgment in equal measure. His blue eyes sparkled with barely contained mischief. "Little warrior, Uncle Thor has returned from distant realms! Would you like to see Mjolnir? She has missed you terribly and has been asking about your progress with gravity manipulation."
"Thor," Frigga's voice cut through his enthusiasm like a blade through silk — calm, controlled, and absolutely final.
Thor straightened immediately, his expression shifting from manic enthusiasm to chastened schoolboy so quickly it might have been comedic if not for the very real wariness in his eyes. He'd clearly had this conversation with his mother before. "Perhaps... later, then. When you are older. Much older. And have proper supervision. And safety equipment."
"And a larger courtyard," Aldrif added dryly.
"And insurance," Remus murmured.
Harry giggled, a sound like silver bells in starlight, and reached one pudgy hand toward Thor with complete trust and fearless curiosity. "Hammer-man! Harry want see hammer later. Hammer has pretty lightning?"
"The most beautiful lightning in all the Nine Realms," Thor confirmed solemnly, as though discussing matters of state. "Blue and white and silver, like captured starlight."
"That's *Uncle* Hammer-man," Loki corrected smoothly, stepping from the shadows where he had been observing the reunion with the calculating interest of someone who found family dynamics endlessly fascinating. His voice carried that perfectly modulated tone that managed to be both affectionate and slightly mocking — a verbal sleight of hand that was purely him. "Though, for the record, nephew, I would personally discourage hammers as a proper introduction to Midgardian physics. You seem to have developed your own theories about how the universe should work, and I suspect they are far more elegant than anything involving blunt force trauma."
Harry blinked at him with those too-perceptive green eyes, tilting his head as he studied Loki's face with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for particularly interesting puzzles. Then, with the certainty of someone delivering a divine pronouncement, he announced: "Sneaky-man."
The silence that followed lasted exactly long enough for everyone to process what had just happened. Then Remus snorted, a sound of poorly suppressed laughter, and Sirius burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped Harry, his shoulders shaking with barely controlled hysteria.
"Out of the mouths of babes and oracles," Loki said dryly, though his trademark smirk faltered slightly as Harry reached toward him with the same absolute trust he'd shown everyone else. There was something almost vulnerable in the way his eyes widened, as though he wasn't entirely sure how to process being so easily accepted. "Sneaky-man indeed. Perhaps the child is a seer as well as a philosopher."
"Or simply very perceptive," Aldrif said sweetly, pressing a kiss to Harry's curls while her eyes sparkled with mischief. "He has a gift for seeing the truth of people, don't you, my love? You see past all our masks and pretenses to who we really are."
Harry, clearly delighted with himself and the reactions he'd provoked, repeated his assessment with a broad grin: "Sneaky-man good sneaky. Not mean sneaky. Fun sneaky."
Loki's expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to catalog, finally settling on something that might have been pleased surprise. "Well," he said after a moment, his voice carrying a note of genuine warmth beneath the usual sardonic wit, "that may be the most accurate character assessment I've received in centuries. I am indeed 'fun sneaky' rather than 'mean sneaky.' Most people never bother to make the distinction."
"Most people don't have cosmic awareness and the unfiltered honesty of extreme youth," Frigga observed, moving to smooth Harry's hair with the practiced ease of someone who had been managing the emotional needs of complicated men for centuries. "He sees you as you truly are, my son. Perhaps that is a gift we could all use more often."
It was then that Fawkes, who had been perched regally on Aldrif's shoulder like a living flame made manifest, let out a note that was less song than destiny given voice. The phoenix's feathers blazed as if the sun itself had caught fire in the chamber, each plume a living flame of crimson and gold that cast dancing shadows on the walls and filled the air with the scent of cinnamon and starlight.
Harry's green eyes widened with wonder and scientific fascination, his little hands glowing brighter as he leaned toward the phoenix with the kind of focus that suggested he was cataloging every detail for future reference. "P'tty bird," he declared, his tone both awed and precise, as though he were delivering a formal introduction. "Fire bird. Magic bird. Special bird who knows secrets."
"Look at that," Sirius said, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and amazement. "The pup's already got better descriptive vocabulary than most adults. And he's not even two."
"You had vocabulary at fifteen?" Remus asked in that mild, professorial tone that somehow managed to be both innocent and devastating. He raised one dark brow with perfect academic precision. "I seem to recall your communication style consisting primarily of grunts, inappropriate suggestions, and the occasional coherent sentence when sufficiently motivated by food or the prospect of detention."
"Oi!" Sirius shot back, though his grin never wavered and his eyes sparkled with the kind of warmth that came from decades of this particular brand of affectionate warfare. "Some of us were too busy exploring the more practical applications of human interaction to memorize the bloody dictionary. And those weren't inappropriate suggestions — they were creative proposals for advanced extracurricular activities."
"I stand corrected," Remus said solemnly. "You definitely had vocabulary. Most of it unprintable."
Frigga chuckled, the sound low and warm and infinitely amused. She had the expression of a woman who had raised two boys through adolescence and found the entire male species to be a source of endless, if occasionally exasperating, entertainment. "He recognizes Fawkes for what he truly is," she said with quiet satisfaction, her gaze moving between Harry and the phoenix with something that might have been prophecy. "Children see truths that adults spend lifetimes trying to forget or explain away. They look at the world and accept magic as natural as breathing."
As if to confirm her words, Fawkes tilted his magnificent head, studying Harry with eyes older than empires and wiser than philosophers. The phoenix's gaze held depths that spoke of countless lifetimes, of deaths and rebirths, of secrets older than the stars themselves. Then, with a deliberate grace that made even gods straighten unconsciously, he spread his wings — each feather a flame, each flame a story — and stepped lightly from Aldrif's shoulder onto Harry's tiny outstretched arm.
Golden fire burst outward, not fierce or consuming but tender as a mother's touch, wrapping the chamber in light that hummed with recognition and acceptance. It wasn't divine judgment or fate's heavy hand, but something far more intimate and precious: the acknowledgment of a bond that transcended species, mortality, and the usual rules that governed the universe.
The light embraced them all — mother and child, god and wizard, phoenix and prince — in a glow that spoke of belonging and homecoming and the kind of magic that happened when hearts recognized each other across impossible distances.
Harry squealed with pure delight, a sound that could have powered the Bifrost with its joy, and patted Fawkes's chest feathers with glowing little hands. "Birdy likes Harry! Birdy's friend! Harry's special birdy!"
"Well," Loki said, his voice carrying that particular blend of amusement and resignation that came from watching the universe rearrange itself around someone else's whims, "that settles it definitively. The child now has a familiar. Supervision officially outsourced to a creature of fire and rebirth and infinite wisdom. Frankly, it's probably the most sensible childcare arrangement in the history of the Nine Realms."
"Pretty bird is Harry's friend?" the boy asked hopefully, looking around at the gathered adults as though seeking confirmation of something he already knew to be true. His grip on Fawkes's wing was gentle but possessive, the hold of someone who understood the value of what he'd been given.
"Fawkes will be much more than a friend, darling," Aldrif said softly, her voice thick with emotion as she watched her son bond with the legendary phoenix. She brushed her fingers through his curls, marveling at how natural this all seemed, how *right*. "He'll be your companion, your protector, your guide. He'll help you understand your gifts and teach you wisdom that goes beyond anything mere mortals can offer. He'll remind you that the impossible is just another kind of possible."
She paused, then added in a slightly drier undertone that carried just a hint of maternal concern, "He'll also, hopefully, help you avoid the sort of catastrophic experiments that your current approach to physics tends to produce."
Harry's face lit up with sudden inspiration, as though she'd just solved a puzzle he'd been working on. "Like blocks?"
Aldrif's sigh carried equal parts fondness and exasperation, the sound of a mother who knew she was fighting a losing battle against her child's creative interpretation of reality. "Exactly like the blocks, my love."
"Blocks fell up," Harry explained earnestly to Fawkes, who gave a perfectly timed trill that sounded suspiciously like agreement and encouragement. "Guards said wrong way. Harry said right way. Birdy knows Harry right, doesn't birdy?"
Fawkes sang again, a note of pure crystalline approval that made everyone in the chamber feel suddenly lighter, as though the phoenix had just blessed not only Harry's version of events but his entire approach to existence.
Remus shook his head slowly, his expression torn between academic fascination and the kind of dread that came from contemplating future parent-teacher conferences. "Excellent. A phoenix familiar. Which means every reckless impulse this child develops will now have an immortal, fire-wielding enabler who shares his apparent belief that the laws of physics are more like... gentle suggestions."
"Enabler?" Sirius's laugh boomed through the chamber, rich with approval and barely contained glee. His grin was wide enough to be visible from space and twice as bright. "Moony, that's godfather territory right there. You're stepping on my carefully cultivated reputation for encouraging spectacularly poor judgment and teaching valuable life lessons through creative mischief."
"On the contrary," Loki interjected smoothly, his voice carrying that silken tone that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying himself, "I believe the phoenix is far more qualified for the position than either of you. Consider the credentials: immortal, reborn in flame, capable of interdimensional travel, and entirely immune to both shame and the consequences of encouraging small children to challenge fundamental forces of nature. They would get along famously."
"Are you suggesting my godson and a cosmic firebird are going to team up to terrorize the universe?" Sirius asked, though he sounded more intrigued than concerned.
"I'm suggesting it's inevitable," Loki replied with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "The only question is whether we'll be collateral damage or willing accomplices."
Frigga's smile deepened as she stepped closer to Harry and Fawkes, her hand moving to brush the phoenix's feathers with the ease of someone greeting an old friend. There was something almost ceremonial about the gesture, as though she were offering a blessing or acknowledgment of what had just occurred.
"He has chosen, and that is no small thing," she said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who understood the significance of such bonds. "A phoenix's loyalty is not lightly given, nor easily earned. They choose their companions based on criteria that go beyond the usual considerations of worth or compatibility. Fawkes sees something in Harry that resonates with his own nature."
She looked around at the assembled group, her expression shifting into something more practical but no less warm. "We will need to prepare suitable quarters for him, of course. A phoenix requires specific accommodations."
"Quarters?" Sirius blinked, his expression shifting from delight to mild panic as he contemplated the logistics. "What's he need? A perch? A nest? Maybe a singing bowl for his morning vocal exercises and a small library of philosophical texts for light reading?"
Loki's eyes gleamed with the particular malice that came from having superior knowledge and the opportunity to share it in the most dramatic way possible. He folded his hands behind his back and adopted the tone of a scholar delivering a lecture on obscure but vital academic subjects.
"Phoenixes require roosts aligned with specific cosmic harmonics to maintain proper energy balance during their molting cycles," he said with perfect seriousness, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "The positioning must account for celestial movements, seasonal variations, and the individual bird's personal resonance frequency. Fail to provide adequate accommodation, and the resulting energy displacement could set the entire palace ablaze."
Sirius narrowed his eyes, his expression shifting from panic to suspicion with remarkable speed. "You're making that up."
"Perhaps," Loki said with the kind of smile that could start wars or end them, depending on his mood. "Would you like to test the theory and risk insulting a creature who could immolate you in your sleep? Or perhaps you'd prefer to trust my extensive knowledge of magical creatures and interdimensional beings?"
"Your extensive knowledge of creative storytelling, you mean," Thor rumbled, though he was grinning. "Brother, you've been inventing elaborate explanations for simple things since you were old enough to speak. Remember when you convinced me that thunder was caused by invisible giants playing drums in the clouds?"
"That was a perfectly reasonable hypothesis for a six-year-old to propose," Loki replied with injured dignity. "And technically, it wasn't entirely incorrect. The giants were simply metaphorical rather than literal."
Before anyone could respond to this bit of philosophical sleight of hand, Harry suddenly stilled in Sirius's arms. His expression shifted, his little brow furrowing as his green eyes took on that particular focus that made even Loki pause and pay attention. It was the look of someone who had just noticed something important that everyone else had missed.
"Harry has question," the boy announced with the solemnity of someone delivering a state address. His toddler lisp did nothing to diminish the gravity of his tone or the way every adult in the chamber instinctively leaned closer.
Frigga stepped forward, her voice gentle but alert. She'd spent enough time with precocious princes to recognize when a child believed they had something crucial to contribute to the conversation. "What is your question, little one?"
Harry glanced around the chamber, his eyes moving from face to face with that disconcerting perception that seemed to see through all their careful composure to whatever lay beneath. When he spoke, his words dropped into the silence like stones into still water, creating ripples of recognition and discomfort.
"Why everyone look worried when think Harry not paying attention?" he asked with devastating directness. "Is big problem? Harry help fix?"
The adults exchanged glances, each recognizing the futility of trying to hide their concerns from someone who apparently possessed both cosmic awareness and the unfiltered honesty to call them out on their emotional state. It was remarkable enough coming from any toddler, but this was Harry, who had never fit any conventional mold and seemed determined to redefine the boundaries of what was possible for someone his age.
Aldrif adjusted him on her hip, pressing a kiss to his hair as she chose her words with the careful precision of someone walking through a diplomatic minefield. Her voice carried the weight of maternal protectiveness wrapped around divine authority.
"Not a problem exactly, my darling," she said carefully, her tone pitched somewhere between reassurance and honesty. "More like... grown-up business that requires careful handling. Some people have been making very poor choices that hurt other people, and now the adults need to work together to fix those mistakes and help everyone remember how to make better ones."
Harry tilted his head, processing this information with the kind of serious consideration usually reserved for matters of international importance. Then, with the devastating simplicity that only children possessed, he cut straight to the heart of the matter.
"Bad choices like when Draco's daddy was mean to Draco and his mama?" he asked, his voice carrying a weight of understanding that made several of the adults flinch. "Made them forget how to be happy?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Sirius actually froze mid-breath, his expression shifting from fond amusement to something far more complex. Remus's amber eyes darkened with a mixture of sympathy and anger, while even Thor's perpetual cheerfulness sobered into something approaching solemnity.
Frigga's hand rose to press lightly against her chest, as though struck by both sorrow and fierce pride. Her voice was soft when she spoke, carrying the kind of gentle amazement that came from witnessing unexpected wisdom.
"You remember that, little one?" she asked. "You remember helping Draco and his mother?"
Harry nodded with the gravity of someone confirming an important historical fact. "Draco was very sad. His mama was sad too, but different sad. Like... like someone took away their favorite colors and left only gray. But Mama came and brought colors back. Made them remember how to smile." He paused, his expression brightening with satisfaction. "Draco laughed after. Was good laugh. Harry likes when people laugh good laughs."
Aldrif's eyes were suspiciously bright as she stroked his curls, her voice thick with emotion. "Exactly like that, my love. Some very confused adults used magic to make people forget important things — how to love freely, how to choose for themselves, how to be who they truly are. I'm working with all these wonderful people to help everyone remember, to give them back their colors and their choices and their ability to laugh good laughs."
Harry's little hands began to glow with that warm, welcoming light that seemed to be his default response to emotional situations. He lifted them to pat her cheeks with fierce concentration, his expression taking on the kind of cosmic certainty that made gods reconsider their assumptions about the nature of reality.
"Mama does very good work," he declared with absolute conviction. Then, with the kind of matter-of-fact confidence that could reshape worlds, he added: "Harry help too. Harry knows how to share happy feelings. Make people remember how to smile and laugh and choose good things. Easy."
Thor's booming laugh filled the chamber, though it carried warmth rather than mockery — the sound of someone who had just witnessed something that restored his faith in the fundamental goodness of existence. He reached over to ruffle Harry's curls with one massive hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"Aye, little warrior!" he declared, his voice ringing with approval and something that might have been awe. "You wield joy like the finest weapon ever forged. Stronger than Mjolnir, sharper than any blade, and far more effective at conquering hearts and changing minds. A true prince's gift."
"Blasphemy," Loki muttered automatically, though his lips were fighting a smile and his eyes had gone soft around the edges. "Though I admit, the child's approach to problem-solving has a certain elegant simplicity that I find... aesthetically pleasing."
Fawkes trilled his agreement, golden sparks drifting from his feathers like miniature falling stars. Harry giggled and bounced slightly in Aldrif's arms, delighted that his cosmic firebird companion supported his analysis of the situation.
"See?" he announced with triumph. "Birdy says Harry right. Harry always right about happy things."
Remus's voice was quiet but warm when he spoke, carrying the kind of academic fascination that came from observing something unprecedented. "I think the phoenix might be the first immortal being in recorded history to agree unconditionally with every pronouncement from a toddler. It sets a rather dangerous precedent."
"Dangerous?" Sirius scoffed, his grin returning full force as he shifted Harry to a more comfortable position on his hip. "Moony, you're talking about a fifteen-month-old who can already manipulate gravity, summon cosmic fire, deliver lectures on ethics, and apparently serve as a therapist for traumatized wizarding families. I'd say normal precedents went out the window somewhere around the time he started glowing."
"Doggy-man silly," Harry announced with fond exasperation, patting Sirius's cheek as though comforting a particularly slow student.
"Doggy-man honest," Sirius corrected with wounded dignity, though his eyes sparkled with laughter. "There's a difference, pup."
Frigga's laughter rolled through the chamber like warm honey, softening all their edges and reminding them that despite cosmic implications and interdimensional politics, this was fundamentally a family reunion. Her smile carried the kind of deep contentment that came from watching her loved ones find their way back to each other.
"He speaks more truth in casual conversation than most courtiers manage in formal addresses," she observed, her tone carrying just enough dry humor to make it clear she was speaking from extensive experience. "Do not dismiss wisdom simply because it arrives accompanied by sticky fingers and an inability to properly pronounce complex words."
"See?" Sirius puffed out his chest in mock triumph. "The Queen's on my side."
"The Queen," Loki corrected with silken precision, "is on the child's side. A subtle but extremely important distinction, one that I suspect will become increasingly relevant as he grows older and his capacity for creative chaos expands."
Harry pointed at Loki with all the solemnity of a judge delivering a final verdict. "Sneaky-man talks lots. Uses big words to say simple things."
That observation drew a bark of delighted laughter from Thor, a poorly suppressed snort from Remus that sounded suspiciously like academic appreciation, and left Sirius nearly doubling over with barely contained hysteria. Even Aldrif had to hide her smile against Harry's hair, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Loki stood there for a moment, apparently struck speechless by the accuracy of the assessment. Finally, he managed a rueful smile that carried genuine warmth beneath the usual layers of irony and mischief.
"Out of the mouths of babes and cosmic princes," he said with something approaching wonder. "Perhaps I should work on my communication style. Aim for fewer syllables and more substance."
"Good plan," Harry agreed cheerfully. "Big words make people confused. Simple words make people happy."
---
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