The Great Hall of Asgard had been transformed for a hero's funeral, though transformed was perhaps too modest a word for what had occurred. The already magnificent chamber—with its soaring columns of crystallized starlight and vaulted ceiling that displayed the movements of celestial bodies—now pulsed with energies that spoke of transitions between life and death, between mortal existence and eternal honor.
Frigga moved through the preparations with quiet grace, her hands trailing silver light as she adjusted the placement of Asgardian mourning flowers that bloomed in impossible colors. "The arrangement must be perfect," she murmured to her attendants, her voice carrying that distinctive blend of maternal warmth and regal authority. "This mortal gave his life for love—the least we can do is honor him properly."
"Mother," Thor approached, Mjolnir at his side, his usually boisterous demeanor subdued by the solemnity of the occasion. "The Einherjar are assembled. Father wishes to begin soon."
"Your father," Frigga replied with a knowing look, "is struggling more than he admits with this loss. James Potter reminded him of someone."
"Who?"
"A younger version of himself, before the weight of ruling Nine Realms taught him that some sacrifices are too heavy to bear." She touched Thor's arm gently. "Be gentle with your father today. And with your brother—Loki has been unusually quiet since James passed."
Meanwhile, in the preparation chambers, the mortal contingent was struggling with both grief and the sheer cosmic scale of their surroundings.
"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered, tugging at his formal Asgardian robes with obvious discomfort. "These things weigh more than my motorcycle. How do they expect us to walk in them?"
"Language," Andromeda chided automatically, though her aristocratic composure was clearly strained. Her dark hair was perfectly arranged despite her tears, and she held herself with the rigid posture that had been drilled into her since childhood. "We're representing James's memory here."
"James would have laughed himself sick seeing us all trussed up like this," Ted observed gently, his Scottish accent more pronounced than usual under stress. He was trying to comfort his wife while managing his own grief—a delicate balance that required all his considerable emotional intelligence. "Remember his reaction to dress robes at school? 'Why do wizards think suffering equals formal?'"
Remus stood apart from the others, his scholarly demeanor completely abandoned as he stared at his hands. "I should have been there," he said quietly, his voice carrying that particular self-recrimination that had haunted him since Hogwarts. "If I'd been with them that night—"
"You'd be dead too," Amelia interrupted firmly, her professional training finally finding solid ground in protecting someone from destructive guilt. "James chose to stand and fight. That was his choice, Remus. Don't diminish it by second-guessing strategy."
"The lady speaks wisdom," came Loki's voice from the doorway, causing several of them to jump. He entered with that characteristic fluid grace, looking impeccably composed in his formal armor except for something haunted around his green eyes. "Self-recrimination is a luxury the living cannot afford when honoring the dead."
"Easy for you to say," Sirius snapped, his grief making him more confrontational than usual. "You didn't know him."
"Didn't I?" Loki's smile held no humor whatsoever. "I know what it means to stand against impossible odds for people who will never understand the sacrifice required. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, to have others question your methods while benefiting from your protection." He paused, looking directly at Sirius. "James Potter and I had more in common than you might think."
"Like what?"
"We both loved people who were determined to throw themselves into danger," Loki replied quietly, his usual theatrical flair completely absent. "The difference is that James succeeded in saving his family. I'm still working on mine."
Before anyone could respond to that surprisingly vulnerable admission, Tonks burst through the door with her usual energy, though even she seemed subdued. "They're ready for us," she announced. "And, um, fair warning—it's bloody spectacular out there. Like, 'makes the Ministry's ceremonial chambers look like a broom closet' spectacular."
"Nymphadora," her mother began.
"Don't call me that! Especially not today!" But the protest lacked her usual fire. "Sorry, Mum. I'm just... this is all a bit much, isn't it?"
Ted wrapped his arm around his daughter's shoulders, pulling both his girls close. "Aye, it is. But James deserves 'a bit much,' don't you think?"
The Great Hall, when they entered it, took their breath away completely. The Einherjar stretched back in perfect formation, their ranks seeming to extend into infinity. Warriors of every conceivable species stood in respectful silence, creating a tapestry of honor that transcended individual worlds or cultures.
"Bloody hell," Sirius whispered again, his bravado finally cracking completely. "Look at them all."
At the center of it all, on a platform carved from crystallized starlight, lay James Potter.
The sight of him dressed in ceremonial robes that honored both his mortal heritage and divine recognition broke something in all of them. Remus made a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. "He looks so young," he managed. "God, Lily, he looks exactly like he did at graduation."
Aldrif—for in this moment she was both Lily and the cosmic force she had become—stood beside the platform with Harry in her arms. The Phoenix Force flickered around the edges of her form like living flame, but her expression was purely, devastatingly mortal in its grief.
"He was young," she said softly, her voice carrying harmonics that resonated through the hall. "Too young to die, too young to become a legend, too young to know that his sacrifice would reshape the balance between worlds." She looked down at Harry, who was staring at his father's still form with that unsettling awareness that marked him as far beyond an ordinary toddler. "But old enough to choose love over safety, courage over survival, sacrifice over self-preservation."
"Mama," Harry said solemnly, reaching toward the platform. "Daddy sleeping?"
"Yes, darling," Aldrif replied, her divine composure wavering slightly. "Daddy's sleeping now. He's very tired from protecting us."
"Wake up later?"
The question hung in the cosmic air like a challenge to the fundamental nature of mortality, and it was Odin who answered, his voice carrying the weight of millennia as he approached from his throne.
"Young Prince," he said, and the title carried such gravitas that everyone present understood they were witnessing something unprecedented—the All-Father acknowledging a mortal child as royal, "your father has earned a different kind of awakening. He sleeps now in honor, and will wake in glory among the greatest warriors ever to draw breath."
Harry studied Odin with those impossible green eyes, then nodded as if cosmic metaphysics made perfect sense to him. "Daddy brave."
"Yes," Odin agreed, something suspiciously like moisture gathering in his single eye. "Your father was extraordinarily brave."
Thor stepped forward, Mjolnir held respectfully at his side. "I wish I had known James Potter in life," he said, his usual cheerful bombast replaced by genuine reverence. "But I have seen the evidence of who he was—in friends who loved him without reservation, in a son who inherited his courage, in a wife who became cosmic fire defending his legacy."
"He would have liked you," Sirius said suddenly, surprising himself with the words. "James always had a soft spot for people who led with their hearts."
"And he would have tried to convince you that your hammer needed a better name," Remus added with a watery smile. "Something more... theatrical. James had very strong opinions about dramatic presentation."
"Theatrical?" Thor looked genuinely intrigued. "What did he suggest for dramatic presentation?"
"Usually involved elaborate pranks and terrible puns," Andromeda said dryly, though her aristocratic composure was clearly cracking. "James Potter never met a situation he couldn't make simultaneously more complicated and more amusing."
"Sounds like someone else I know," Odin observed, his single eye fixing pointedly on Loki.
"Father," Loki protested with mock wounded dignity, though there was something genuine underneath the theatrics, "I resent the comparison. My pranks are works of art. Apparently James Potter's were merely... enthusiastic."
"They were terrible," Amelia confirmed, but she was smiling through her tears. "Absolutely awful. The kind of jokes that made you groan and laugh simultaneously. He once convinced half the Auror department that the Ministry cafeteria was serving actual dementor food as a 'morale building exercise.'"
"What happened?" Ted asked, despite himself being drawn into the shared memories.
"Kingsley spent three days investigating a nonexistent conspiracy before James confessed," Amelia replied. "But the confession came in the form of a singing valentine delivered by a trained phoenix, so really, the prank just evolved."
"A singing phoenix?" Thor's eyes lit up with genuine delight. "That's brilliant! Loki, why have we never—"
"Because Mother specifically forbade it after the incident with the bilgesnipe chorus," Loki replied smoothly.
"What incident with the—" Tonks started.
"We are not discussing the bilgesnipe incident," Frigga interrupted firmly, though her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed amusement. "Especially not at a funeral."
"James would have wanted us to discuss the bilgesnipe incident," Aldrif said softly, and for a moment she was purely Lily Potter, remembering her husband's irrepressible spirit. "He always said funerals should include at least one story that makes everyone question the deceased's judgment."
"In that case," Sirius said, straightening with sudden purpose, "let me tell you about the time James decided to impress Lily by transforming the entire Gryffindor common room into a working replica of the Hogwarts Express..."
What followed was something unprecedented in Asgardian funeral tradition—a sharing of memories that transformed grief into celebration, sorrow into laughter, loss into affirmation of life fully lived. Thor found himself genuinely laughing at James's more ridiculous exploits. Loki contributed several observations about the strategic brilliance hidden within apparently foolish pranks. Even Odin allowed himself to smile at tales of youthful mischief that reminded him of his own sons' more creative endeavors.
But it was when the formal ceremony began that the true weight of what they were honoring became clear.
"We gather," Odin began, his voice carrying to every corner of the impossible hall without need for amplification, "to honor James Potter, who died as all warriors hope to die—protecting those he loved from enemies who threatened everything he held sacred."
The words resonated with harmonics that seemed to reach beyond the hall itself, carrying across dimensions to realms where other ceremonies honored other heroes.
"He was not born to our realm," Odin continued, his single eye fixing on James's still form with something approaching paternal pride, "yet he embodied everything we value most in those who would stand between darkness and light. Courage without hesitation. Love without condition. Sacrifice without regret."
"He also had terrible taste in jokes," Loki added suddenly, causing a ripple of startled laughter through the assembled multitude. When Odin fixed him with a stern look, he continued with uncharacteristic earnestness, "But that terrible taste came from a spirit that refused to let darkness have the final word. Even facing death, James Potter would have tried to make his killer laugh. That's not naivety—that's a form of courage I'm still learning to understand."
Aldrif stepped forward then, and when she spoke, her voice carried both mortal grief and cosmic authority in equal measure.
"James," she began, and for a moment the divine transformation fell away entirely, leaving only Lily Potter saying goodbye to the man she had loved completely. "You died not knowing who I really was, not understanding the cosmic forces that would soon reshape our son's life, not realizing that your sacrifice would echo across realms and change the balance of power between worlds."
Her voice grew stronger, more confident, as she found the words to honor both the man he had been and the legend he was becoming. "You died as James Potter—Gryffindor, Auror, Marauder, terrible joke-teller, devoted friend, loving husband and father. But your death made you something more—a bridge between mortal courage and divine recognition, proof that heroism transcends bloodlines and power levels and magical abilities."
She looked directly at his peaceful face, speaking to him as if he could hear her across whatever distance separated life from death. "You saved us, James. Not just Harry and me, but everyone. Your love, your courage, your absolutely ridiculous willingness to stand in front of dark lords with nothing but determination and terrible jokes—it gave me the strength to become who I needed to be, to access power I'd never dreamed of using, to protect our son and reshape the very foundations of how our worlds interact."
The Phoenix Force's presence flared around her, visible as golden flames that danced across her armor without burning. "Your sacrifice will be remembered in songs sung by gods and mortals alike. Your son will grow knowing that he came from love pure enough to defy death itself, strong enough to bridge realms, courageous enough to face impossible odds without yielding."
She stepped closer to the platform, placing one hand on James's folded ones with infinite gentleness. "Sleep well, my love. Your watch is ended, your duty fulfilled, your legacy secured. Rest now, and know that when the final battles come, when Ragnarok itself demands the best from all realms, we will face them carrying the strength you gave us."
The ceremony that followed transcended anything the mortal attendees had ever witnessed. The Einherjar began a battle-song that made the very air vibrate with harmonics of honor and remembrance, their voices joining in choruses that seemed to reach across time itself to embrace every warrior who had ever stood against the darkness.
As the song reached its crescendo, James Potter's body began to glow with gentle light that had nothing to do with magic as mortals understood it. This was recognition from the universe itself that a life had been lived with such honor that death became merely transition rather than ending.
The light intensified until his physical form became transparent, revealing something that made even gods straighten with awe—a figure of pure light that was unmistakably James, but James as he truly was beneath flesh and bone. The essential spirit that had driven him to love completely, fight fearlessly, and sacrifice everything for those he cherished.
"Valhalla calls," Odin announced with ceremonial finality, raising Gungnir high as rainbow light began to build around the platform, "and the halls of the honored dead open to receive a hero."
"Wait!" Harry suddenly called out, his childish voice somehow carrying across the vast hall. Everyone turned to look at him as he struggled in his mother's arms, reaching toward the ascending spirit. "Daddy! Daddy wait!"
The figure of light paused, turning toward his son with infinite love and gentle amusement visible even in his transformed state.
"Tell him, Harry," Aldrif whispered, understanding somehow what her son needed to say.
"Daddy," Harry said with the absolute certainty that only small children possess, "I be good. I be brave like Daddy. I protect Mama and make terrible jokes!"
The sound that came from James's spirit might have been laughter, might have been a sob of joy, might have been both. It wrapped around Harry like a benediction before the Bifrost energy claimed him completely.
"Daddy happy!" Harry announced with scientific precision as the light faded, his green eyes tracking something none of the adults could see. "Daddy say tell Uncle Sirius stop crying and make proper mischief instead!"
Sirius let out a startled laugh-sob, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Even dead, he's managing us all," he muttered, but his voice held profound affection.
"Some things," Remus observed, his scholarly composure finally returning, "transcend mortality."
And in the gentle light of crystallized starlight, as impossible flowers bloomed in tribute to a hero's passing, the assembled gods and mortals began to understand that James Potter's greatest magic hadn't been his wandwork or his courage—it had been his absolute, infectious belief that love and laughter could conquer anything, even death itself.
"He would have made a fine Asgardian," Thor declared suddenly.
"He would have driven us all completely mad within a week," Loki replied.
"Exactly," said Odin with something that might have been pride. "The best of us usually do."
—
James Potter woke to the sound of laughter—rich, warm, thoroughly masculine laughter that spoke of camaraderie forged in battle and tempered by shared understanding of sacrifice. He sat up slowly, his head swimming slightly as consciousness returned, and found himself in a hall that made Hogwarts' Great Hall look like a garden shed.
Valhalla stretched before him in impossible grandeur, its walls rising so high they disappeared into golden mist that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. Tables laden with food and drink extended in every direction, and seated at those tables were warriors from every conceivable realm and era—their armor and weapons as varied as their origins, but all sharing the unmistakable bearing of those who had died with honor.
"Easy there, son," said a voice beside him, and James turned to find a man roughly his own age extending a hand to help him steady himself. The stranger wore armor that looked like it had been forged in the heart of a star, and his grin carried the kind of easy confidence that spoke of someone who had never met a challenge he couldn't charm his way through—or failing that, fight his way past with considerable style. "The transition always takes a bit of getting used to. One moment you're dying heroically, the next you're waking up in the most magnificent feast hall in all creation with the mother of all headaches and absolutely no idea what's expected of you."
"James Potter," James replied automatically, accepting the offered hand and finding his new companion's grip warm and reassuringly solid. Something about the stranger's manner—that particular blend of aristocratic elegance and predatory awareness—reminded him uncomfortably of certain Slytherins he'd known, though the warmth in the man's eyes suggested rather different motivations. "Though I have to admit, I'm not entirely sure how I got here or what 'here' actually is."
"Erik Bloodaxe," the stranger replied with obvious satisfaction, settling back into his chair with fluid grace, "and before you ask—yes, that's actually my name, and no, I don't recommend trying to pronounce it in the original Norse unless you want to sound like you're choking on something unpleasant." His grin widened, revealing the kind of smile that probably got him into as much trouble as it got him out of. "As for where you are, my dear fellow, welcome to Valhalla—the Hall of the Slain, Odin's own feast hall, final resting place for warriors who died with such spectacular honor that the Allfather himself decided they deserved eternal recognition."
James blinked, processing that information with the methodical precision that had served him well as both student and Auror. "Valhalla. As in, Norse mythology Valhalla. As in, I'm actually dead and this isn't some elaborate hallucination brought on by dark curse trauma."
"Oh, you're definitely dead," Erik confirmed cheerfully, pouring what appeared to be mead from a pitcher that refilled itself as he worked. "Spectacularly so, from what I hear. Standing between your family and the worst dark wizard in recent history, outmatched and outgunned but refusing to yield even an inch." He raised his cup in casual salute. "Admirable form, really. Textbook heroic sacrifice with just the right amount of desperate bravery and protective instinct."
"You make it sound like you were taking notes," James observed, his natural tendency toward dry humor asserting itself despite the cosmic strangeness of his situation.
"In a sense, I was," Erik replied with growing amusement. "We all were. Deaths like yours don't happen every day, Potter. Most of us arrived here through fairly straightforward battlefield heroics—died sword in hand, took as many enemies with us as possible, earned our place through conventional martial prowess." His expression grew more thoughtful, though still tinged with that characteristic roguish charm. "You, on the other hand, managed to die in such a way that it awakened cosmic forces, triggered divine transformations, and fundamentally altered the balance of power between realms. That takes a special kind of magnificent stupidity."
"Gee, thanks," James said dryly. "Always nice to have one's life choices validated by... wait, what do you mean, cosmic forces and divine transformations?"
Before Erik could answer, a new voice interrupted their conversation—smoky, authoritative, carrying the kind of amused confidence that suggested its owner found most situations genuinely entertaining.
"Erik, darling, stop terrorizing the new arrival with your particular brand of helpful exposition," the voice said, and James turned to see a woman approaching their table with the fluid grace of someone equally comfortable commanding armies or holding court at royal gatherings.
She was strikingly beautiful in the way that certain warriors were—all sharp edges and dangerous curves, with platinum blonde hair braided in intricate patterns that managed to look both practical and ceremonial. Her armor was clearly functional rather than decorative, but worn with the kind of unconscious elegance that spoke of someone who had been born to both battle and nobility. Most notably, her smile suggested she found the entire universe mildly amusing and was perfectly prepared to fight anyone who disagreed with her assessment.
"Lady Brunhilde," Erik said with theatrical gallantry, rising smoothly and offering a bow that managed to be both respectful and slightly mocking, "meet James Potter, newly arrived from Midgard and currently struggling with the transition from mortal concerns to cosmic significance. James, meet the most dangerous Valkyrie ever to grace these halls and the woman who's going to explain interdimensional politics to you whether you want to understand them or not."
"The most dangerous former Valkyrie," Brunhilde corrected with a smile that was equal parts warmth and warning, settling gracefully into a chair that appeared at the table as if summoned by her presence. "We've been extinct for several millennia now, which is why our halls haven't seen new arrivals in rather a long time." She studied James with obvious interest, her gaze cataloging details with the precision of someone accustomed to evaluating both allies and enemies in the space of a heartbeat. "You, however, represent something of a special case."
"In what way?" James asked, his analytical mind seizing on the puzzle even as he struggled to process the impossibility of his current situation. Something about her manner reminded him of McGonagall—that particular blend of maternal concern and absolute competence that suggested she could solve any problem through strategic application of superior organization and controlled violence.
"Your wife," Brunhilde said with the directness of someone who preferred truth to diplomatic circumlocution, "is Princess Aldrif Odinsdottir of Asgard, current vessel of the Phoenix Force, and one of the most powerful beings in the known universe. Your son is Haraldr Jameson Potter, heir to both Asgardian nobility and mortal magic, carrier of divine blood and cosmic awareness, destined to serve as a bridge between realms that have remained separate for far too long."
The silence that followed could have been cut with a blade. James stared at her with the expression of someone whose worldview had just been not merely challenged but completely reconstructed from first principles.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice carrying that particular tone of polite disbelief that suggested he was trying very hard to process information that exceeded his conceptual framework, "but did you just say that Lily—Lily Evans, who I met on the Hogwarts Express when we were eleven years old, who hexed me for showing off and being an arrogant toerag, who agreed to marry me after seven years of absolutely terrible attempts at courtship involving progressively more desperate romantic gestures—that Lily is actually..."
"Aldrif Odinsdottir," Brunhilde confirmed with gentle patience, though her eyes sparkled with amusement at his obvious confusion, "daughter of Odin Allfather, sister to Thor and Loki, hidden on Midgard as an infant to protect her from those who would use her divine heritage for political gain." She leaned forward slightly, clearly enjoying his growing bewilderment. "She lived as Lily Evans, fully believing herself to be exactly what she appeared, until the night that madman attacked your family."
"When she awakened to her true nature and erased him from existence," Erik added helpfully, clearly savoring James's expression of mounting astonishment. "Scattered his soul across multiple dimensions, destroyed his horcruxes, and generally made it very clear that threatening her family was the kind of poor life choice that results in cosmic-level retaliation."
James was quiet for a long moment, his mind working through implications that seemed to multiply faster than he could catalogue them. Finally, he started to laugh—not the bitter laughter of someone whose life had been revealed as a lie, but the delighted amazement of someone who had just discovered that reality was far more extraordinary than he had ever dared to imagine.
"She always was extraordinary," he said, his face lighting up with the kind of paternal pride that transcended death itself. "I used to joke that she was too perfect to be entirely human, but I thought I was being metaphorical. The way she could make flowers bloom out of season, how she always seemed to know exactly what people needed to hear, the way magic responded to her like it was eager to please..." He shook his head, grinning with genuine delight. "I should have known. Seven years of courtship, and I never once suspected I was trying to woo an actual goddess."
"Oh, the courtship stories," Erik said with obvious relish. "I heard about some of those from the warriors who've been monitoring Midgard. Tell me the singing valentine incident was exaggerated."
"It was not exaggerated," James replied with the kind of dignity that suggested he remained proud of decisions that any reasonable person would consider questionable. "Though in my defense, I was seventeen and desperate, and she had just rejected my invitation to Hogsmeade for the fourth consecutive week."
"What did you actually do?" Brunhilde asked, clearly fascinated despite herself.
"I convinced a phoenix to deliver a singing valentine," James said, his expression growing more animated as he warmed to the story. "Specifically, I wrote a song about her eyes being more brilliant than the brightest stars, her smile outshining the sun, and my undying devotion transcending death itself—which, given current circumstances, proved surprisingly prophetic—and then I convinced Fawkes to perform it during breakfast in the Great Hall."
"A phoenix," Erik repeated slowly. "You convinced an actual phoenix to serve as your personal romantic courier."
"Dumbledore's phoenix," James clarified. "Who, it turns out, has a surprisingly good singing voice and an even more surprising willingness to participate in teenage romantic schemes, especially if you promise to provide high-quality musical material."
"How did she react?" Brunhilde asked, clearly torn between amusement and professional assessment of strategic thinking.
"She hexed me," James replied cheerfully. "Specifically, she hexed me with something that made my hair change colors every time I said her name, and the effect lasted for three weeks. It was mortifying, humiliating, and absolutely worth it, because it was the first time she'd acknowledged my existence with anything approaching personal attention."
"And this was your idea of successful courtship?" Erik asked, clearly fascinated by the psychology involved.
"It was progress," James insisted with the kind of stubborn optimism that had probably driven everyone around him slightly mad. "Prior to the singing valentine incident, she pretended I didn't exist. After the singing valentine incident, she actively sought me out for the specific purpose of expressing her displeasure. That represented a significant improvement in our relationship dynamic."
"Your understanding of relationship dynamics," Brunhilde observed with growing amusement, "explains a great deal about how you managed to marry a goddess without realizing what she was."
"In my defense," James replied with characteristic good humor, "she's a very convincing mortal. Excellent attention to detail, perfect commitment to the role, absolutely no obvious tells that she was secretly divine royalty masquerading as a Muggle-born witch."
"Except for the part where magic responded to her like she was its favorite person," Erik pointed out.
"Except for the part where she could make impossible things happen when she was emotional," Brunhilde added.
"Except for the part where she always seemed to know things she had no business knowing," James acknowledged, "but I attributed that to her being extremely clever rather than cosmically aware." His expression grew more thoughtful. "Though looking back, there were signs. The way she could calm angry magical creatures just by talking to them. How she always seemed to end up with the most challenging academic projects and somehow made them look effortless. The fact that she never seemed surprised by anything magical, no matter how extraordinary..."
He trailed off, clearly reassessing seven years of shared history through an entirely new lens. "Good lord, I was courting an Asgardian princess and I thought my biggest competition was Severus Snape."
"Speaking of your son," Brunhilde said gently, steering the conversation toward more immediate concerns, "Haraldr is currently being spoiled absolutely rotten by Queen Frigga, learning to speak Asgardian from the palace scholars, and apparently charming everyone he meets into submission through strategic deployment of cosmic-enhanced cuteness."
James's face lit up with paternal pride so fierce it seemed to illuminate the air around him. "That sounds exactly like Harry. He always did have excellent timing and an instinct for getting adults to do what he wanted through pure charm." His expression grew more serious as implications began to settle in. "But what does this mean for him? Growing up as... what did you call him? Heir to Asgardian nobility and mortal magic?"
"It means," Brunhilde said with growing solemnity, "that your son will face challenges and opportunities that exceed anything most beings ever encounter. He'll need guidance that spans realms, wisdom that transcends any single magical tradition, and the kind of strength that comes from understanding both his heritage and his responsibilities."
"It means," Erik added with characteristic bluntness, though his tone carried genuine concern, "that the boy's going to need all the help he can get, from every source available. The kind of power he'll inherit, the expectations that will be placed on him, the enemies who will see him as either a threat or a prize to be claimed—it's not a life that allows for childhood innocence."
Before James could ask what that meant, a new voice interrupted their conversation—deeper than Erik's, carrying authority that seemed to make the very air around them stand at attention.
"James Potter."
They turned to see a figure approaching that commanded immediate respect. Tall and powerfully built, scarred by countless battles, wearing armor that seemed to be forged from the concept of honor itself, the warrior carried himself with the kind of presence that suggested he was accustomed to leading others through impossible situations and bringing them home alive.
"I am Sigurd Fafnirsbane," he said with formal courtesy, settling at their table with the fluid grace of someone whose very presence seemed to raise the stakes of any conversation, "Marshal of the Einherjar, commander of Valhalla's host, and currently your potential instructor in the arts of cosmic warfare."
His voice carried the kind of gravelly authority that suggested he had been shouting orders across battlefields for longer than most civilizations had existed, and his eyes held the particular weariness of someone who understood exactly what victory cost and was prepared to pay that price as often as necessary.
"My potential what now?" James asked, clearly struggling to keep up with developments that seemed to be accelerating beyond his ability to process them.
"The Einherjar," Sigurd explained with the patience of someone accustomed to explaining complex concepts to new arrivals who were still adjusting to the scope of their new existence, "are the chosen slain—warriors selected by the Valkyries for training and service in Odin's host. We are the army that will stand with the gods when Ragnarök comes, the final battle between order and chaos, the ultimate test of everything worth defending."
He leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more intense as he continued. "For three thousand years, since the last Valkyries fell in the wars that reshaped the cosmic balance, our halls have been sealed. No new warriors, no fresh perspectives, no additional strength for what's coming." His eyes fixed on James with growing interest. "Your arrival changes that. The manner of your death, the cosmic forces involved, the divine recognition your sacrifice has earned—it creates an opening we haven't had in millennia."
"You're asking me to train as a warrior?" James said slowly, his mind working through implications that seemed to multiply faster than he could catalogue them.
"I'm offering you the choice," Sigurd corrected with respectful directness, his tone suggesting he understood exactly how overwhelming the decision must seem. "You died honorably, protecting what mattered most to you, and that death has earned you a place in these halls regardless of what you choose to do with eternity. You can feast and rest and enjoy the companionship of heroes for all time, with no obligations beyond being yourself and sharing your stories with those who understand what sacrifice means."
He paused, his expression growing more serious as he continued. "But if you choose to train as one of the Einherjar, if you accept the disciplines and responsibilities that come with cosmic warfare, you become part of something larger. Part of the force that will stand between all realms and whatever darkness threatens them. It's not an easy path, Potter. It requires giving up the luxury of peaceful eternity in exchange for preparation that spans centuries, training that will remake you from the ground up, and ultimately, the responsibility of standing ready to die again for the same principles that brought you here."
James was quiet for a long moment, processing options that seemed almost too large for human understanding. Around them, the great hall continued its eternal celebration, but their corner had fallen into the kind of reverent silence that accompanied truly significant decisions.
Finally, he looked up with the kind of determination that had defined his entire life—the same unwavering resolve that had driven him to stand between his family and certain death.
"Will it help protect Lily and Harry?" he asked simply, cutting through cosmic complexity to focus on what mattered most. "Will becoming one of these Einherjar give me the ability to help them face whatever's coming?"
"Eventually," Brunhilde said with growing respect, clearly approving of his priorities, "though 'eventually' in cosmic terms operates on scales that mortal understanding finds challenging. The training alone will take decades, possibly centuries. The responsibilities that follow will span multiple lifetimes." She leaned forward, her expression growing more serious. "But yes—the stronger our forces, the better prepared we are for threats that span realms, the more effective we become at protecting everything worth defending."
"Then yes," James said without hesitation, his voice carrying the same unwavering conviction that had driven him to stand against Voldemort with nothing but love and determination. "Yes, I'll train. I'll become whatever I need to become to help protect my family and everyone else who stands against darkness."
Sigurd smiled with obvious satisfaction, the expression transforming his scarred features completely. "I was hoping you'd say that," he rumbled, extending his hand in the warrior's grip that sealed oaths across realms. "Welcome to the Einherjar, James Potter. Your real education begins now."
As their hands clasped, James felt something change in his fundamental nature—not magic as he'd understood it, but something deeper. Purpose that transcended individual existence, connection to forces that spanned all possible worlds, and the absolute certainty that some bonds were strong enough to connect the living with the honored dead.
"Fair warning," Erik said with characteristic cheerfulness, raising his cup in salute, "the training is absolutely brutal. Sigurd here has a tendency to throw new recruits into impossible situations just to see how they handle themselves under pressure."
"It builds character," Sigurd replied with the kind of gravitas that suggested he had been using that exact justification for several millennia.
"It builds trauma responses," Brunhilde corrected with fond exasperation, "though I admit the results tend to be impressive."
"What kind of impossible situations?" James asked, though his tone suggested curiosity rather than concern.
"Oh, the usual," Erik replied airily. "Single combat with frost giants, strategic planning exercises involving the defense of entire realms, survival training in dimensions where the laws of physics are more like friendly suggestions..." He paused, grinning wickedly. "Though I suspect in your case, he'll start with something truly challenging."
"Such as?" James prompted.
"Learning to work with your new brothers-in-law," Brunhilde said with obvious amusement. "Thor and Loki have very strong opinions about family protection, very different approaches to problem-solving, and absolutely no experience dealing with mortal relatives who insist on being reasonable about cosmic-level threats."
James considered that information for a moment, then started to laugh. "You know what? After seven years of convincing Lily Evans to marry me, I'm reasonably confident I can handle a couple of Asgardian princes. How difficult could it possibly be?"
The expressions on his companions' faces suggested that his confidence might be somewhat misplaced, but none of them had the heart to tell him that just yet.
Above them, in the halls of the living, his son played with toys that glowed with cosmic fire while learning that family could span dimensions, love could bridge worlds, and some bonds were strong enough to connect the living with the honored dead.
The next phase of an impossible story was about to begin.
---
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