The Bifrost terminus glowed beneath their boots, threads of rainbow light dissolving into golden stone with the soft musical chime of crystallized starlight. The vast expanse of Asgard stretched before them, all shining spires and impossible beauty that made even the most magnificent wizard architecture look like a child's sandcastle. Harry adjusted his emerald-trimmed cloak with the kind of unconscious regal air that suggested *yes, I am used to interdimensional airports now, thank you very much*.
He turned to Heimdall, who stood there like a literal wall of bronze and judgment—the kind of man who could probably glare a supernova into changing its orbit and make it apologize for the inconvenience. Those molten gold eyes held the weight of eons and the patience of stone. Harry offered a slight bow, perfectly balanced between sincere respect and that dry Potter sarcasm he'd weaponized better than most people handled swords.
"Lord Heimdall," Harry said smoothly, his voice carrying the practiced poise of someone who could talk down both Death Eaters and alien conquerors before his morning coffee, "your hospitality, vigilance, and—dare I say it—impeccable poker face, have been nothing short of exemplary. Should cosmic bureaucracy ever descend upon us—and it usually does when gods get bored—rest assured that Earth's champions hold the Gatekeeper of Asgard in the very highest regard." His lips quirked into that devastating smile. "And possibly mild terror, but that's just good sense."
Heimdall's lips twitched just enough to suggest amusement beneath that eternal bronze composure. "The honor is mine, Harry Potter. Your reputation travels far, even across realms untouched by Midgard's wars." His molten-gold gaze swept over the women at Harry's side with solemn respect that carried the weight of ancient recognition. "And yours, Champions of Death. Few among the Nine Realms bear such titles without having carved them into the very bones of reality."
Daphne arched one perfectly sculpted blonde eyebrow, her lips curving into that aristocratic smirk that had made lesser nobles reconsider their life choices. Even in her traveling robes, she moved with the fluid grace of old money and older magic. "Champions of Death? How wonderfully dramatic. I do hope it comes with appropriate benefits package—dental, cosmic immunity, perhaps a nice pension plan?"
"Better than 'Potter's Posse,'" Tonks muttered, her dark hair flickering to hot pink as she elbowed Harry with the casual violence of someone comfortable with both affection and assault. Her compact frame radiated that dangerous energy of controlled chaos barely held in check. "Though I still vote for 'The Magnificent Seven' if we're going for dramatic."
Harry gave her a look of such withering British disdain it could have withered a phoenix. "Tonks, we are six. Basic arithmetic remains undefeated by your enthusiasm."
"Details," she shot back with a grin that promised trouble.
"I'll put 'Champions of Death' on the next set of business cards, shall I?" Harry continued with silky sarcasm. "Right between 'Interdimensional Consultants' and 'Gods Reduced While You Wait.'"
Thor chose this moment to stride forward with the subtlety of a thunderstorm having an identity crisis, his massive frame moving with that particular brand of divine confidence that suggested the universe had been specifically designed for his personal entertainment. His voice boomed like he was auditioning for the role of Narrator of All Existence.
"HA! Well spoken, my friends!" Thor's grin could have lit up a small galaxy as he gestured expansively with his free hand. "Heimdall, you see? These mortals have wit as sharp as their blades and twice as dangerous!"
"They are not mortals," Heimdall corrected quietly, his tone carrying that particular quality that made the hairs on everyone's necks stand up and take notice—the voice of someone who saw *everything* and occasionally let slip that reality was far stranger than most people imagined.
Thor ignored him in the way only Thor could—not through rudeness, but through that magnificent obliviousness that came with being a god who'd spent centuries assuming the universe would simply adjust itself to his mood. He clapped Harry on the shoulder with a hand the size of a dinner plate, the impact echoing across the crystalline expanse.
"Harry, son of Potter, I find myself most fond of your tongue—"
He paused as the group collectively burst into snickers. Thor's brow furrowed with the particular confusion of someone who'd just stepped in something unpleasant but wasn't quite sure what.
"Why do you laugh? I meant the sharpness of his words! His... eloquence of speech!"
"Of course you did, Thor," Hermione said dryly, her amber eyes sparkling with that particular brand of intellectual mischief that suggested she was filing this away for future teasing ammunition. Her bushy brown hair caught the rainbow light as she crossed her arms with scholarly precision. "Absolutely what you meant. No other possible interpretation."
"Totally what you meant," Susan added, smothering a grin behind her hand. Her red hair gleamed like burnished copper in the eternal light, and her hazel eyes danced with barely suppressed laughter. "We would never dream of suggesting otherwise."
Luna tilted her head with that dreamy, otherworldly grace that made her look like she was perpetually listening to music no one else could hear. Her platinum blonde hair drifted around her face like spun moonlight. "Words are like tongues, you know. They taste different depending on who uses them. Harry's taste like stormlight and mischief with just a hint of that particular darkness that comes from staring into the abyss and making it blink first."
That earned her several *what did she just say?* stares, but Luna simply smiled serenely as if she'd commented on the weather rather than delivered what might have been either poetry or prophecy.
Harry, utterly unfazed by the cosmic weirdness surrounding him, gave a courtly half-bow with that particular brand of aristocratic grace that suggested he'd been born knowing exactly how to make even simple gestures look like declarations of empire.
"Thor, if I had a galleon for every time someone complimented my tongue, I'd own the Daily Prophet by now. And possibly the Ministry of Magic. I'd certainly run both more efficiently."
Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Not helping your case, you impossible man," but her cheeks had pinked in that particular way that suggested she was thinking thoughts that definitely weren't appropriate for public consumption.
Heimdall's expression remained hewn from granite, but his voice carried a faint warmth that could melt glaciers and probably had, once or twice, during particularly eventful centuries. "Walk well upon the golden road, Champions of Earth. The palace awaits, as do answers—some older than your world, some younger than your lives. You will need all your wit, all your unity, to face what lies ahead in the halls of the Allfather."
Susan glanced at Harry with that particular look that said she was already calculating odds and finding them entertainingly terrible. "No pressure, then."
"Pressure?" Harry scoffed, adjusting his cloak with exaggerated drama that somehow managed to look genuinely regal. "Darling, I was born under pressure. Raised under a staircase, educated under duress, and I've been under fire more times than I can count. Pressure and I are old friends. We have tea together on Tuesdays."
Thor let out a booming laugh that made the golden bridge hum in harmonic resonance, the crystalline surface vibrating like a struck tuning fork. "YES! That is the spirit! Come! To the palace, where feasting, answers, and perhaps some light revelry await!"
Tonks smirked, her dark eyes glinting with that particular brand of trouble that suggested she was already planning something spectacular and possibly illegal. "Define 'light.'"
Daphne muttered to Hermione, her aristocratic voice pitched low enough to avoid Thor's ears, "I think his version of 'light revelry' probably involves earthquakes. And possibly the structural integrity of several buildings coming into question."
Harry shot Heimdall one last wry glance, emerald eyes sparkling with mischief. "If the palace roof comes down, I want it on record that it wasn't my fault this time. My track record with ancient magical architecture is... checkered."
Heimdall inclined his head with the grave solemnity of someone making an oath. "I will bear witness to your innocence, Lord Potter."
"Traitor," Harry muttered under his breath, though his lips quirked into that devastating grin that had launched a thousand rumors and probably caused several diplomatic incidents, as he and his wives stepped onto the golden road, the gates of Asgard glimmering like the dawn of eternity before them.
---
The procession began across the impossible expanse of the Rainbow Bridge, each step sending crystalline notes chiming into the cosmic wind like a symphony written by the universe itself. The bridge stretched on endlessly, a frozen aurora made manifest in solid form, shimmering with colors that didn't have names in any mortal language. Beneath the transparent crystalline surface, glimpses of the yawning cosmic void swirled like dark seas flecked with newborn stars and the dreams of dying gods.
And yet, despite the terrifying beauty beneath their feet, the footing was perfect—traction immaculate, stability absolute. Because of course Asgard's architects would never let their gods slip and fall on their own divine infrastructure. That would be undignified.
Harry took it all in with the cool appraisal of someone who'd learned to find the tactical advantages in even the most spectacular circumstances. His emerald eyes caught the rainbow light, reflecting it back like gems that had learned to burn. His cloak stirred slightly in the cosmic wind, the fabric moving with that particular grace that suggested it had been tailored by someone who understood both fashion and physics on a fundamental level.
He leaned just enough toward his wives to make the gesture intimate without breaking stride, his mental voice carrying that signature British sarcasm that could cut glass.
*I'll admit,* he murmured through their mental link, voice dripping with aristocratic poise, *this is rather more impressive than the Floo Network. Less soot in the lungs, fewer pratfalls out of fireplaces, and significantly less risk of ending up in Knockturn Alley by mistake. Though the dimensional displacement methodology here appears to predate human civilization by several millennia. Show-offs.*
*Show-offs indeed,* Tonks shot back instantly, her mental voice vibrant with that particular brand of anarchic glee she brought to everything. She bounced forward with her boots clicking musical counterpoints on the crystal surface, her hair rippling from dark brown to electric blue that matched the bridge's otherworldly glow. *But credit where credit's due—this is a damn sight more dramatic than Apparition. I mean, rainbows, cosmic vistas, zero risk of splinching yourself across three counties. Style points definitely awarded.*
"HA!" Thor's booming laugh ricocheted down the bridge like friendly thunder, echoing off crystalline surfaces that turned sound into visible light. He strode several paces ahead with his arms swinging like he was already leading a victory parade through the cosmos. "You see, Harry Potter! Midgard's wizards twist and vanish like startled rabbits fleeing a fox! But in Asgard—" He threw both massive arms out to encompass the shimmering horizon, cape billowing dramatically. "We arrive with the splendor of the heavens themselves! Travel should be an *experience*, not merely transportation!"
Harry arched one dark brow with surgical precision, his voice carrying that devastating dryness that could wither flowers. "Yes, Thor. I'd noticed. This bridge is less 'transportation system' and more 'cosmic catwalk designed by someone with a flair for the dramatic and unlimited access to crystallized rainbow energy.' What's next? A choir of Valkyries singing dramatic accompaniment every time you nip out for groceries? Perhaps some interpretive dance?"
Thor's grin somehow managed to become even more blindingly enthusiastic. "If only! The Valkyries are often otherwise occupied with... administrative duties. But I shall suggest it to Father! It would be *glorious!* Imagine—every journey accompanied by soaring harmonies and the thunder of wings!"
"Thor," Harry said with the patience of someone explaining basic concepts to a very enthusiastic golden retriever, "you do realize that would make a simple trip to the market take approximately four hours and require a full orchestra?"
"Your point being?" Thor asked with genuine confusion.
Hermione's sharp sigh cut across their banter like a blade through silk. Her amber eyes darted across the crystalline surface with the intensity of someone trying to reverse-engineer divine architecture through pure intellectual force. *Rainbow spectrum energy crystallized into stable matter while retaining transparency at a quantum level?* Her mental voice carried that particular academic frustration that came from encountering something that shouldn't exist. *This violates at least seventeen laws of physics and possibly challenges the fundamental nature of matter itself. The energy requirements alone should—*
She stopped herself mid-thought, cheeks faintly pink with embarrassment. *Oh. Right. Magic. Divine-scale magic operated by beings who predate human understanding of physics by geological ages. Of course it's impossible. That's rather the point.*
Harry smirked, his mental voice warm with affection and amusement. *Darling, you just had the Asgardian equivalent of a Muggle trying to reverse-engineer a dragon's fire-breathing mechanisms using only basic chemistry. Admirable effort, doomed from the start, entertaining to witness.*
*It's the principle of the thing,* Hermione shot back, though her mental voice carried fond exasperation. *Just because something is magical doesn't mean it shouldn't make *sense*.*
*Says the witch who transfigures cats into cushions before breakfast,* Daphne's aristocratic mental voice purred with dry amusement. *Frankly, I'm impressed they managed to make something so terrifyingly vast look this aesthetically pleasing. Back home, Ministry wizards would have turned it into some damp stone tunnel with inadequate lighting and called it a triumph of magical engineering.*
Susan wrinkled her nose in mock thoughtfulness, her red hair catching the rainbow light like burnished copper. *Imagine the maintenance requirements, though. How many poor souls have to polish this thing? Or is it self-cleaning? Please tell me it's self-cleaning, because the alternative is too horrifying to contemplate.*
"Self-cleaning!" Thor declared proudly, clearly eavesdropping on their mental conversation without a shred of shame or subtlety. His voice carried the satisfaction of someone delivering excellent news about household management. "The Bifrost is perfection incarnate! Why, I myself once spent three days attempting to discover its maintenance protocols, only to learn that it maintains itself through pure cosmic will! Magnificent, is it not?"
Harry cut in smoothly before Thor could launch into what was clearly going to be an extended monologue about divine infrastructure. "Yes, yes, Thor. We all know you once wrestled a frost giant on this bridge while juggling flaming hammers. Or fought off an army of dark elves using nothing but your biceps and natural charm. Spare us the greatest hits compilation of 'Asgardian Tourism: A Thor Story' for now, will you? Some of us are still processing the basic impossibility of walking on crystallized rainbows."
Thor blinked, then laughed even louder, the sound rolling across the bridge like benevolent thunder. "By the Norns, you wound me, Harry! And yet..." He paused thoughtfully. "You are not entirely wrong. I may have embellished certain details in past retellings."
"May have?" Daphne asked sweetly, her voice carrying that particular acidic quality that could strip paint.
"The frost giant was only slightly larger than myself," Thor admitted grudgingly. "And there was only one hammer. Though it was *definitely* flaming."
Tonks snickered through the mental link. *If this is his idea of humble bragging, I'm genuinely terrified of what dinner conversation is going to sound like. Please tell me Asgardian meals don't traditionally include live entertainment consisting of Thor recounting his greatest victories.*
*Oh, they absolutely do,* Luna's dreamy certainty drifted into the bond like sunlight on water. *The probability matrices are quite clear. There will be at least three separate stories involving trolls, two concerning the structural integrity of various bridges, and one memorable incident with a particularly argumentative goat. The goat story is surprisingly touching.*
*How do you know that?* Susan asked, genuinely curious.
*I asked the bridge,* Luna replied matter-of-factly. *It remembers everything that's ever walked across it. Thor has very... vivid footsteps.*
Everyone processed that for a moment.
*I'm not going to ask what that means,* Hermione decided.
*Probably for the best,* Harry agreed.
Luna, meanwhile, had drifted toward the bridge's railing and was gazing down into the cosmic void with wide, wondering eyes that seemed to be cataloguing infinity. When she finally spoke aloud, her voice carried that airy lilt that suggested she was translating concepts from languages that didn't exist yet.
"It hums, you know. Not just with music, but with intention. The bridge isn't merely a road—it's a promise made manifest. Every step whispers the same message: *Go forth. Arrive whole. Do not look down unless you're prepared to understand forever.* The crystalline structure holds memories like amber holds insects, preserving moments of transit across eons of use."
Everyone went quiet for a beat, because that was peak Luna—equal parts poetry and cosmic truth delivered with the casual air of someone commenting on the weather.
"...Right," Susan said finally, her practical nature reasserting itself. "So, just don't look down then. Got it. No peering into the existential abyss while walking."
Harry's grin widened into something that could have powered a small star. "Personally, I intend to keep looking forward. If the universe wants to impress me, it had best come up with something shinier than crystallized rainbows and impossible architecture." He flicked his cloak back with unconscious regality, striding with the kind of confidence that suggested *yes, I own this bridge now, thank you kindly*.
"Besides," he added with that devastating dryness, "I've spent enough time staring into abysses. They never have anything interesting to say. It's all 'embrace the darkness' this and 'surrender to despair' that. Terribly repetitive. I much prefer conversations with better dialogue."
Thor jogged up beside him, his grin as wide and bright as a sunrise over Asgard. "Harry Potter, your arrogance is worthy of Asgard itself! You speak as though you could challenge the cosmos to single combat!"
Harry arched a brow, the very picture of British aristocratic sass. "That wasn't arrogance, Thor. That was having standards. There's a difference. Arrogance would be claiming I could *win* such a fight. I merely said I wouldn't be impressed by poor presentation."
"And if the cosmos failed to meet your standards?" Thor asked, clearly delighted by the conversation.
"I'd write a strongly worded review," Harry replied without missing a beat. "Five stars for ambition, two stars for execution, zero stars for customer service. The black holes in particular need work—far too grabby, not nearly enough conversational skills."
---
They had made it halfway across the impossibly long bridge when four figures appeared ahead—not emerging from shadows or materializing from thin air, but walking toward them with the kind of easy swagger that said *yes, we've killed monsters before breakfast and still had time for a proper training session before lunch*.
At their head strode Lady Sif, and she was quite simply everything the word "warrior goddess" had ever aspired to mean. She moved like every step had been sharpened to a blade's edge—all deadly grace wrapped in form-fitting black leather and gleaming steel that emphasized rather than concealed her dangerous curves. Her dark hair flowed in perfect battle-ready waves that somehow managed to look both practical and devastating, and her armor struck that impossible balance between functional protection and aesthetic perfection that only divine craftsmanship could achieve.
Behind her came the Warriors Three, a study in Asgardian approaches to looking heroic and faintly ridiculous at the same time—though anyone foolish enough to focus on the "ridiculous" part would likely find themselves comprehensively educated about the "heroic" portion.
Fandral the Dashing led their triangle formation, his blonde mustache waxed to geometric perfection that could have been used as a ruler. He radiated the kind of aristocratic swagger that suggested he'd stolen hearts, horses, and possibly entire kingdoms in equal measure, all while maintaining perfect grooming standards. His rapier hung at precisely the angle where it could be drawn for either combat or dramatic flourish—whichever would get him more attention from interested parties.
Hogun the Grim looked like he'd been carved from a boulder that had once personally offended a mountain. His expression carried the warmth of a particularly stern funeral, and the war hammer at his side suggested he had very strong opinions about problem-solving—namely, that most problems could be resolved through the strategic application of blunt force trauma until they ceased to exist. His dark eyes missed nothing and forgave less.
Volstagg the Voluminous presented quite the opposite image: enormous, booming, with a beard so magnificently thick that entire civilizations of small creatures could have established thriving metropolises in its depths without him noticing. His eyes twinkled with perpetual merriment even as his hands rested casually on weapons that had seen more battle than most kingdoms had seen harvests. He looked like a man who believed calories and killing blows were equally important to maintaining optimal warrior stamina.
They moved as one unit despite their vastly different styles, centuries of shared battlefields turning even casual walking into something resembling lethal choreography.
Thor's face lit up like a small sun the moment he spotted them, his voice booming across the crystal expanse with genuine joy that could probably be heard in several neighboring realms.
"My friends! Warriors of Asgard! Companions of countless battles and even more questionable decisions! You honor me with your presence on this most auspicious of days!"
He spread his arms wide as if announcing the arrival of spring itself, cape billowing dramatically in the cosmic wind. "Behold—my allies of Midgard! Harry Potter and his wives, who fought at my side against the Chitauri invasion with courage that would make the Einherjar weep with pride and beauty that could inspire sagas!"
And then, with all the ceremonial gravitas of a king presenting the crown jewels to visiting dignitaries, Thor raised the yapping Chihuahua in his massive hand high above his head.
"AND BEHOLD!" he declared with the satisfaction of someone delivering the punchline to a joke several millennia in the making, "LOKI! The God of Mischief, reduced at last to proportions that accurately reflect his contributions to civilized discourse and his capacity for reasonable decision-making!"
The reaction was immediate and spectacular.
Fandral's composure shattered like fine crystal, his aristocratic bearing dissolving into laughter so roguish and delighted it probably impregnated several nearby stars and inspired at least three new constellations. "By the Nine Realms! I did not think your brother could possibly improve upon his charming personality, and yet—here we stand, witnesses to the impossible!"
Hogun's granite face cracked into what might generously be called a smile, though it looked more like a geological event. "At least in this form he cannot stab anyone. Improvement achieved through downsizing—elegant solution."
Volstagg's booming laugh physically shook the bridge, the crystalline surface vibrating in harmonic sympathy. "Glorious! Magnificent! I have dreamed of this day for centuries, though I confess I imagined it would involve more fire and perhaps some dramatic screaming. This—this is infinitely better! More civilized! Less property damage!"
Lady Sif, however, did not immediately join in the general hilarity. Instead, she stopped in her tracks, her warrior's instincts automatically cataloguing Harry and his companions with the precision of someone whose survival had always depended on instantly evaluating threats, allies, and everything in between. Her dark eyes moved over the group with professional assessment that gradually shifted into something more personal and considerably more interested.
Her gaze lingered on Harry in particular, taking in the way he carried himself—that perfect balance of relaxed confidence and coiled readiness that marked someone who'd faced real danger and emerged not just alive but improved by the experience. When her eyes finally locked with his emerald gaze, the temperature on the bridge seemed to spike several degrees.
"Thor," she said, her husky, battle-tested voice carrying across the crystalline expanse with the authority of someone accustomed to being heard and obeyed, "your Midgardian allies are..." She paused, her warrior's vocabulary clearly searching for words that could encompass both professional assessment and personal appreciation. "...most impressive."
Her eyes had not left Harry's. Not once.
Harry tilted his head with that particular brand of aristocratic grace that suggested he'd been born knowing exactly how to make even casual gestures look like declarations of empire. His emerald eyes gleamed with amusement and something deeper—the kind of confidence that came from knowing your own worth and being completely comfortable with others recognizing it as well. He offered the faintest of smirks, the kind that said *yes, I noticed you're staring, and yes, I am absolutely worth staring at, and yes, I find your interest both flattering and intriguing*.
With a slight inclination of his head that managed to be both respectful and subtly challenging, he replied, "Lady Sif. Your reputation precedes you across the realms—consummate warrior, loyal friend, defender of Asgard, possessor of impeccable tactical judgment." His smile warmed just enough to transform from politely courteous to genuinely appreciative. "I'm flattered to discover it's entirely accurate."
The compliment—delivered with that lethal combination of polished British courtesy, cosmic authority, and just enough personal warmth to suggest genuine interest—landed with surgical precision. Lady Sif, consummate professional that she was, didn't falter or blush or do anything as undignified as giggling. But there was absolutely no mistaking the flicker in her dark eyes: pleased surprise, definite appreciation, and something that might have been the beginning of genuine intrigue.
"Lord Harry Potter," she replied, every syllable clipped with military precision but threaded with unmistakable personal interest, "Thor's accounts of your tactical brilliance and..." She paused delicately, her gaze flicking briefly to the Chihuahua still squirming in Thor's grip before returning to Harry's face. "...diverse problem-solving capabilities have been most illuminating. Though I confess, the reality exceeds even the most colorful descriptions."
Inside the mental bond, the commentary exploded like a synchronized fireworks display.
*Oh,* Daphne's aristocratic mental voice purred with silky amusement and that sharp competitive edge that made her dangerous in both drawing rooms and actual battlefields, *how absolutely fascinating. I do wonder exactly which aspects of Harry's 'diverse capabilities' our distinguished Asgardian warrior finds most... tactically relevant.*
*She's practically conducting a visual inventory,* Hermione's thoughts snapped in with scholarly precision, though the undercurrent was pure territorial heat barely contained by intellectual analysis. *Professional assessment, certainly, but layered with obvious personal interest and speculation about... compatibility factors on multiple levels. Though I suppose we should commend her for having excellent taste in potential partners. Objectively speaking, of course.*
*Credit where credit's due,* Susan added with her characteristic pragmatism, though her mental voice carried undertones of wry amusement, *she's not even attempting to hide her interest. That suggests either remarkable honesty about her intentions... or absolute confidence in her ability to compete for what she wants. Either way, it's noteworthy.*
*I vote we let her try,* Tonks practically cackled, her violet hair flashing with pure anarchic glee, *Could be highly entertaining. And honestly—look at him. All cosmic authority and perfectly tailored danger with that devastatingly attractive 'I'm-powerful-enough-to-be-gentle-but-don't-test-me' energy radiating off him like heat from a forge. Hard to fault a warrior woman for appreciating superior... tactical assets.*
*The probability matrices suggest multiple interesting developments,* Luna's dreamy certainty drifted through the bond like moonlight on still water, *There are many potential outcomes branching from this moment, some quite... unconventional by most cultural standards. But the variables hinge entirely on how we choose to respond. The pathways of affection are often stranger and more wonderful than the dance of the stars.*
Harry absorbed the entire mental conversation without missing a conversational beat, his expression remaining perfectly controlled while his wives provided running commentary on what was shaping up to be either a diplomatic triumph or a magnificently entertaining disaster.
He dipped his head fractionally toward Sif, his smile warming just enough to acknowledge her obvious interest without making any promises about availability—the perfect balance of appreciation and diplomatic caution.
"Thor's accounts, I'm afraid, have a tendency to expand in both scale and dramatic flourish with each retelling," Harry said with that devastatingly dry humor that could cut crystal. "The last time he described our encounter with the Chitauri invasion, I was apparently forty feet tall, glowing like a small star, and single-handedly holding off their entire fleet with nothing but wandwork and British stubbornness."
He paused, emerald eyes sparkling with mischief. "Though I confess, fighting alongside Asgard's prince has been... educational. I've learned that there's apparently no tactical situation that cannot be improved by the strategic application of enthusiasm and a really impressive hammer."
Thor, blissfully oblivious to the undercurrents swirling beneath the surface conversation, boomed with laughter that could have been heard on neighboring worlds. "HA! Forty feet? Nonsense, my friend! You were at least *fifty* feet tall! And glowing brighter than the Bifrost itself! The very air crackled with your power!"
"Thor," Harry said with the kind of patient exasperation usually reserved for explaining basic concepts to particularly enthusiastic golden retrievers, "if you continue inflating my accomplishments at this rate, by next week I'll apparently have been tall enough to use Asgard's spires as toothpicks while personally redesigning several constellations for better aesthetic appeal."
"Now there's an idea!" Thor exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. "The constellation of the Great Serpent has always been poorly positioned..."
"Thor," Harry interrupted with devastating dryness, "if you inflate my legend any further, I'll have to start paying property taxes on my own reputation."
The Warriors Three had fallen into their customary loose formation during this exchange, their collective presence radiating the kind of easy confidence that could only be forged through centuries of getting into—and more importantly, getting out of—utterly impossible situations. They observed Harry and his companions with the professional interest of veterans who understood that half of any conflict involved recognizing who in the room could kill you fastest—and whether they had any particular interest in doing so.
Fandral, naturally, was the first to break ranks and insert himself into the conversation. With a bow so elaborate it probably violated several laws of physics and at least one minor treaty, he flourished his hand across his chest while his perfectly waxed mustache gleamed like spun gold in the rainbow light.
"Lord Potter," he said, his voice a masterpiece of aristocratic charm layered with genuine appreciation, "Heimdall's accounts of your tactical ingenuity, creative problem-solving, and..." He paused with theatrical timing, his eyes flicking meaningfully toward the furiously yapping Chihuahua still imprisoned in Thor's massive fist, "...innovative approaches to conflict resolution have spread throughout the Nine Realms like wildfire. And yet even the most colorful tales failed to prepare me for this magnificent reality."
His grin turned absolutely wicked. "Truly, sir, to weaponize canine humiliation with such devastating effectiveness while maintaining perfect diplomatic courtesy? *Masterstroke.* I am genuinely inspired."
Harry inclined his head with that devastating mixture of British courtesy and cosmic gravitas that somehow made even acknowledgments sound like declarations of imperial authority. "Well, you know what they say, Lord Fandral—necessity is the mother of invention, desperation is the father of creativity, and Loki is the god of being insufferably dramatic about everything. Reducing him to pocket size was simply... efficient resource management with a side benefit of poetic justice."
The Chihuahua snarled with impotent fury, tiny teeth bared in what would have been genuinely threatening if delivered by something larger than a teacup. Thor adjusted his grip with the careful precision of a man holding a very angry, very small storm cloud.
"Brother," Thor rumbled, his voice carrying theatrical patience that barely concealed genuine amusement, "your protests have been duly noted, officially recorded, and summarily dismissed by committee vote. Perhaps in the future you will remember this moment before embarking on elaborate schemes involving alien invasions, family betrayal, or indeed troubling anyone equipped with an enchanted stick and the audacity to use it creatively."
Volstagg let out a laugh so booming it created visible ripples across the bridge's crystalline surface, the sound rolling like friendly thunder across impossible distances. "By the sagas and the stories yet to be written! At last! Centuries of anticipation, and I have lived to witness the day when Loki the Silver-Tongued, the God of Mischief himself, was brought to heel by a Midgardian wizard with cheekbones sharper than half of Asgard's ceremonial statuary! Truly, the Norns weave patterns stranger and more wonderful than any mortal mind could devise!"
"His bark," Harry observed with silk-wrapped steel, "has always been significantly worse than his bite. Now, fortunately, they're equally ineffective."
*God, you're absolutely unbearable when you're being smug,* Tonks shot through the mental link, her mental voice vibrating with barely contained laughter, *And I love every magnificent, arrogant second of it. Never change.*
*The man has weaponized British understatement,* Daphne added with aristocratic appreciation, *It's genuinely artistic.*
Hogun, who had remained silent throughout the exchange with the patience of granite weathering storms, finally inclined his head with grave formality toward Harry. "Power measured not by capacity for destruction, but by wisdom in its restraint. To neutralize a threat of Loki's... creativity... without resorting to lethal force requires not only strength of will, but genuine imagination and moral clarity." His dark eyes carried the weight of someone who had seen enough battles to understand the true cost of victory. "My respect, Lord Potter."
Harry accepted it with a small nod, though his emerald eyes glimmered with mischief. "Imagination is the one weapon Loki has never mastered. Trickery, yes. Deception, of course. But creativity? That requires an honesty he's never possessed."
Sif had fallen into step beside him, her armor clinking softly, her dark eyes sharp with both military interest and something a shade more personal. "An astute observation," she said. "And rare. Most underestimate Loki—or overcompensate in their fear of him. You, however, reduce him to size both literally and strategically." Her lips quirked almost imperceptibly. "Impressive."
Daphne's mental voice slid into his mind like silk and steel. *Oh, impressive, is it? How very… illuminating.*
*She's practically eyeing him like a prospective weapons upgrade,* Hermione added crisply, though there was definitely a hint of territorial heat beneath the scholarly tone.
Susan, ever pragmatic, added, *At least she's honest about her interest. Better than the simpering courtiers back home who pretended to only care about family crests while undressing Harry with their eyes.*
*I say let her shoot her shot,* Tonks chimed in with wicked amusement. *Could be fun watching Asgard's deadliest warrior try to keep up with our cosmic Casanova.*
*Probability threads suggest compatibility,* Luna whispered dreamily, as if she were narrating the weather. *But the timing pathways are… delicate. Too many variables for certainty just yet.*
Harry kept the smile polite, charming, and infuriatingly unreadable as he answered Sif aloud. "I've had the benefit of good teachers, Lady Sif. And, admittedly, a touch of luck. Though I do find that luck tends to favor those willing to act boldly."
Thor clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle the bridge. "Ha! Spoken like a warrior born! Boldness and cheek in equal measure—aye, you shall fit well at Asgard's tables. Though beware—our mead flows faster than even your British wit."
"Thor," Harry drawled, voice silk over steel, "I was raised in a culture where one cannot get through a wedding reception without four duels, five drunken arguments about Quidditch, and at least one elderly aunt hexing the buffet table. I think I'll manage."
Volstagg roared his approval. "Yes! This one *must* sit beside me at the feast. We shall see who topples from the bench first—the wizard or the warrior!"
"Assuming," Fandral said with a sly grin, "that Lady Sif does not claim him first. For surely a man who makes even Loki look… manageable… deserves Asgard's finest company."
Sif gave him a look that could have cut stone. Fandral only winked.
Harry, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, replied, "I've always found that the finest company is rarely chosen—it chooses you. And it never hesitates to remind you when you're out of line." He glanced back at his wives, whose combined stares were radiating enough unspoken commentary to fuel a small sun. "As you can see, I am already extremely well-chosen."
The bridge itself seemed to hum with amusement at that, its crystalline notes vibrating like laughter as the golden spires of the palace drew nearer.
Harry thought privately to his wives, *Well. Thus far today we've domesticated a god, turned him into a lapdog, drawn the eye of Asgard's champion, and received a dinner invitation from the loudest Viking I've ever met. Not bad for a Tuesday.*
Tonks snorted again. *Just wait till dessert.*
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