Frigga swept forward with the kind of decisive grace that had once ended wars and negotiated peace treaties with nothing more than strategic repositioning and perfectly timed observations. Her smile carried the calm authority of someone who had spent millennia managing the emotional and logistical needs of gods, warriors, and small children — often simultaneously, and usually while maintaining perfect composure in the face of absolute chaos.
"Perhaps," she suggested with the kind of diplomatic smoothness that could have convinced Odin to wear pastels, "we should relocate this increasingly philosophical discussion to somewhere more suited to extended conversation and the consumption of refreshments." Her gaze swept the observatory's soaring arches with practiced assessment. "The observatory serves admirably as a stage for dramatic arrivals and cosmic revelations, but it was never designed for comfortable family councils. Unless, of course, you prefer standing about looking impressively uncomfortable while debating the metaphysical implications of toddler phoenix bonding."
Remus straightened slightly, his posture still carrying that scholar's dignity even as relief flickered across his aristocratic features. "An excellent suggestion, my lady," he agreed with the kind of warm gratitude that suggested his spine had been filing formal complaints for the past hour. "Though I confess, between Dumbledore's office with its mechanical menagerie, interdimensional travel that defies every law of physics I thought I understood, and now this golden cathedral to celestial geometry, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever again set foot in a room that doesn't look like it was specifically designed to make mortals contemplate their cosmic insignificance."
"Don't forget the talking hat," Sirius added with a grin that could have powered half of Brooklyn. "That thing probably gave you nightmares for weeks."
"The Sorting Hat was actually quite reasonable," Remus replied with academic precision. "It simply sat there, made its pronouncement, and moved on. Very civilized. Unlike certain other magical encounters involving exploding snap cards and dungbombs."
"Hey, those dungbombs were a legitimate diversionary tactic—"
"The kitchens," Loki interjected smoothly, his tone carrying that particular blend of helpfulness and mischief that had historically preceded some of his most memorable pranks. His smile curved with conspiratorial delight. "Wonderfully practical. Utterly mortal-friendly. Designed for comfort rather than cosmic intimidation. Excellent for clandestine councils of war... or family gatherings that don't require craning one's neck to appreciate the architecture."
He paused, lowering his voice like a man offering forbidden knowledge to fellow conspirators. "And the cooks are absurdly fond of Harry. I would not be surprised if there were a veritable siege of treats awaiting us. They have... considerable enthusiasm when it comes to young princes. Last week, I witnessed them engage in what could only be described as a competitive pastry preparation tournament, all because he mentioned liking 'sweet things.'"
Harry's head popped up from Aldrif's shoulder like a prairie dog sensing opportunity, green eyes bright with immediate and intense interest. "Kitchen has cookies?"
Frigga chuckled, that warm sound that had soothed countless royal tantrums over the centuries, and swept forward to smooth his perpetually disheveled hair with the practiced touch of someone who had been managing impossible-haired royalty for longer than some civilizations had existed. "The kitchen has whatever young princes request, little one. Within reason, of course."
Sirius arched a dark brow, his voice carrying that particular edge of sardonic amusement that suggested he had firsthand experience with Harry's creative interpretations of reasonable requests. "Define reason. Because just yesterday, he tried to feed a unicorn jellybeans until it sneezed rainbows and then insisted we needed to 'catch the colors' for his art project. I'm not entirely certain the Asgardian kitchens are prepared for that level of imaginative chaos."
"They are far more prepared than you give them credit for," Frigga replied with serene confidence, though her eyes sparkled with something that might have been anticipatory amusement. "Our cooks have managed Thor's legendary appetite and Loki's... creative dietary experiments. They've risen to challenges that would send lesser kitchen staff into early retirement. But I imagine the true challenge lies not in recipes or quantities, but in restraint."
"Restraint?" Thor repeated with booming incredulity, striding forward with the kind of enthusiastic momentum that had historically resulted in furniture casualties. "What manner of restraint is required for cookies? The boy has faced cosmic forces and emerged victorious! If young Harry desires feasting, then let there be feasting worthy of his courage! He is of Asgard now—our tables do not falter under the weight of celebration, and neither should our celebrations falter under the weight of enthusiasm!"
Aldrif shifted Harry on her hip with the expert balance of someone who had clearly been managing energetic small beings for some time, her expression carrying that particular blend of maternal authority and barely suppressed exasperation that could stop armies in their tracks. "Spoken like someone who has never tried putting a sugar-charged toddler to bed after three honeycakes and a mug of hot chocolate. One poorly timed feast, and the only thing toppling will be the palace walls when he decides to test his phoenix's fire magic at midnight because the pretty flames would 'make night-time sparkly.'"
Harry beamed proudly at this assessment, as though being described as a potential architectural threat was the highest possible compliment. "Harry make fire-pretty! Night needs more colors, like daytime!"
"Absolutely not," Aldrif said without missing a beat, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of suppressed maternal laughter. "Nighttime has perfectly adequate colors already. They're called stars."
"But stars are far away," Harry pointed out with devastating toddler logic. "Fire-colors are close. Better for sharing."
Remus leaned slightly toward Sirius, voice pitched low with academic appreciation. "I see that maternal firmness runs strongly in the family. Quite impressive, really."
"Yeah," Sirius replied, his voice carrying a note of respectful wariness. "Still terrifying, though. Like, Bryce Dallas Howard in a Jurassic Park movie levels of terrifying. You know she's probably right, you know she's definitely capable of handling whatever chaos is coming, and you also know you probably don't want to test her patience."
"I beg your pardon?" Loki interjected silkily, his brows arching with delighted curiosity as he fell into step beside them. "Who is this mysterious Howard, and should I be professionally jealous of her apparent ability to inspire such respect through maternal authority? Because that sounds like precisely the sort of skill I should add to my repertoire."
"Don't encourage him," Thor groaned, though his expression suggested fond exasperation rather than genuine annoyance. "The last time he decided to research Midgardian cultural references, we ended up with three weeks of him quoting something called 'reality television' and insisting that palace politics could benefit from 'more dramatic confessionals.'"
"The confessionals were an excellent idea," Loki replied with unrepentant dignity. "Think of how much more efficiently we could resolve court disputes if people simply announced their grievances directly to a magical viewing device."
"That's called a trial, brother."
"Yes, but trials lack proper dramatic timing."
Harry, who had been following this exchange with the focused attention of someone decoding important adult mysteries, suddenly turned back to his grandmother with hope writ plain across his small features. "Gamma promise cookies now?"
Frigga crouched gracefully, bringing herself to his eye level with the fluid motion of someone who had spent centuries perfecting the art of royal dignity at any altitude. Her smile carried both warmth and the kind of gentle cunning that had successfully managed Odin's temper for millennia. "If you promise to eat something properly nutritious first, little prince. Cookies taste far better after supper—that is the secret magic that all grandmothers learn, but we only share it with those wise enough to understand the importance of patience."
Harry considered this with the gravity of someone negotiating crucial treaty terms, his small face scrunched in concentration. Finally, he nodded once, as though concluding a matter of state. "Deal. But... big cookies?"
"Reasonably sized cookies," Frigga countered smoothly.
"Medium-big cookies?"
"We shall see what the kitchens offer."
Harry's face lit up as though she had promised him the moon and several reasonably attractive stars. "Okay!"
"Well," Sirius muttered as they began making their way through Asgard's labyrinth of impossibly gilded halls, "at least the initial negotiations are off to a promising start. Though I notice nobody actually defined 'reasonably sized' or 'medium-big,' which feels like it might come back to haunt us."
"Diplomatic ambiguity," Remus observed with academic appreciation. "Leave room for creative interpretation while maintaining the appearance of clear boundaries. Very clever."
"I learned from the best," Frigga replied serenely.
As they walked, Harry twisted around on Aldrif's shoulder, his eyes fixing on the rainbow bridge platform they were leaving behind with the kind of intense focus that suggested Important Thoughts were being formulated. His tiny hand patted Fawkes's iridescent feathers with solemn certainty, as though sharing a cosmic secret with his phoenix companion.
"Next time," he announced with the matter-of-fact tone of someone stating an obvious universal truth, "we bring more friends home. Pretty bird knows lots of people who need hugs and cookies and maybe some fire-colors too."
Fawkes trilled in what could only be described as enthusiastic agreement, his song carrying harmonics that seemed to make the very air shimmer with possibility.
Remus exhaled slowly, exchanging a long look with Sirius that conveyed approximately seventeen different concerns and twice as many philosophical questions. "Do you get the distinct impression that his solutions to complex problems are always going to sound that... elegantly simple?"
"Simple?" Sirius shook his head, his expression shifting to something between admiration and the kind of wariness usually reserved for approaching thunderstorms. "No, Moony. That wasn't simple at all. That was terrifyingly effective. He just solved the philosophical problem of cosmic loneliness by suggesting we invite everyone over for snacks and entertainment. That's not childish logic—that's the kind of solution that reshapes universes."
Loki's smile took on a distinctly predatory edge. "I like this child more every moment. Such wonderfully ambitious thinking."
"That's what worries me," Aldrif muttered, though her tone carried more affection than actual concern.
Thor clapped his hands together with enough enthusiasm to rattle nearby windows. "Then it is decided! We shall feast, we shall plan, and we shall prepare for the most magnificent gathering of friends that any realm has ever witnessed!"
Frigga's quiet smile confirmed what they were all beginning to suspect: the true adventure had only just begun. And at its center was a fifteen-month-old boy with cosmic awareness, a phoenix familiar, and the kind of uncompromising logic that could make gods, kings, and tricksters alike reconsider not just their plans, but their fundamental understanding of how problems should be solved.
The kitchen, they were about to discover, was merely the first stop on a journey that would redefine their concept of reasonable expectations.
—
The Royal Kitchens of Asgard existed in defiance of conventional architectural logic, sprawling across what appeared to be several acres of gleaming surfaces, hanging copper implements, and hearths large enough to roast entire boars without breaking stride. Steam rose from countless cauldrons in aromatic clouds that spoke of spices gathered from across the Nine Realms, while the air hummed with the comfortable chaos of a kitchen designed to feed gods, heroes, and their occasionally impossible appetites.
At the center of it all stood a table that could have seated a modest diplomatic summit, its ancient oak surface worn smooth by centuries of meal preparation and council meetings. The kitchens, Aldrif reflected as she settled Harry into an ornately carved high chair that had probably been crafted for Thor and Loki in their distant youth, had always served as the palace's unofficial parliament—the place where real business was conducted between the formal audiences and ceremonial pronouncements.
Harry surveyed his new surroundings with the kind of systematic attention that suggested he was cataloguing every interesting detail for future reference. His green eyes tracked the movement of kitchen staff with scientific precision, lingering particularly on a group of young apprentices who had abandoned all pretense of working in favor of stealing glances at the legendary prince who could manipulate gravity and summon cosmic fire.
"Big kitchen," he announced with obvious approval, his small hands already beginning to glow with anticipatory excitement. "Good smells. Happy people. Harry likes."
Fawkes, perched regally on the high chair's back, preened with the satisfaction of someone who had successfully guided his charge to an optimal location for both comfort and tactical advantage. The phoenix's feathers caught the firelight from the massive hearths, creating an aurora effect that made several of the kitchen staff pause in their work to stare with unconcealed wonder.
"Pretty bird likes too," Harry added with scientific certainty, patting Fawkes's wing. "Kitchen has good fire-energy for phoenix growing."
"Growing?" Aldrif asked with the kind of maternal wariness that suggested she suspected this observation might have larger implications than immediately apparent.
Before Harry could elaborate on phoenix development theory, Thor appeared beside their table with the momentum of a man who had just made a discovery that would reshape his understanding of the universe. His massive hands cradled what could only be described as an architectural achievement in baked goods—a cookie so large and elaborately constructed that it probably qualified as structural engineering rather than pastry.
"BEHOLD!" he declared with enough enthusiasm to rattle the copper pots hanging from the ceiling, his voice carrying the kind of reverence usually reserved for witnessing cosmic phenomena. "The mortals were not exaggerating! These 'cookies' are indeed miraculous! Sweet as mead, yet solid as armor! Fortifying as a feast, yet delicate as—" He paused, taking another enormous bite, then continued with his mouth full and his dignity completely abandoned, "—as whatever the most delicate thing in creation might be!"
His blue eyes were wide with the wonder of someone who had just discovered that the universe contained pleasures he'd never imagined, and his usually perfect golden hair was dusted with what appeared to be sugar and possibly chocolate. The cookie in his hands was already half-demolished, though it had clearly started out large enough to serve as a small shield.
"Brother," Loki observed with that particular blend of affection and exasperation that characterized his interactions with Thor's enthusiasms, "you appear to have discovered the concept of dessert. Try not to let it go to your head. The kitchen staff are already looking at you like you might declare war on their pantry."
"War?" Thor's expression shifted to one of horrified confusion, as though the suggestion was so offensive he couldn't properly process it. "Why would anyone declare war on something so magnificent? This is the opposite of war! This is... this is diplomatic alliance! Cultural exchange! The beginning of a beautiful friendship between Asgard and the noble art of cookie creation!"
He held up the remaining portion of his architectural marvel with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "We must establish formal trade relations immediately. Import entire shipments. Train our own bakers in these techniques. Everyone in the Nine Realms should know of this wonder!"
Harry clapped his hands together with obvious delight, his own cookie—considerably smaller but no less appreciated—clutched in his tiny fist like a treasured possession. "Hammer-man discovered cookies! Harry discovered cookies yesterday! We can discover together!"
"An excellent plan, young warrior!" Thor boomed, then leaned closer with conspiratorial intensity. "Tell me—are there other varieties? Other flavors and shapes and... configurations... of this miraculous food?"
Harry's face lit up as though Thor had asked him to explain the fundamental secrets of the universe, which, in the context of toddler cookie expertise, was essentially accurate. He began listing varieties with the serious precision of someone delivering a comprehensive academic lecture.
"Chocolate chip is classic," he announced with authority that suggested deep research. "Oatmeal raisin is sneaky-good but looks boring. Sugar cookies are for decorating with pretty colors. Gingerbreak—" he paused, frowning with concentration, "—gingerbread men are for special occasions when you need cookies that look like people."
Thor's expression was one of religious awakening. "Cookies... that look like people?"
"Little cookie-people," Harry confirmed with enthusiasm. "With faces and buttons and sometimes little hats. You can eat their heads first, or save heads for last. Is strategy decision."
"Strategy," Thor repeated reverently. "Even their consumption involves tactical consideration. Truly, this is the most sophisticated food creation in the history of warfare."
Loki pinched the bridge of his nose with the expression of someone who had just watched his brother discover a new obsession that was going to dominate the next several months of conversation. "Please tell me you're not about to redesign Asgardian military strategy around cookie consumption."
"The thought had occurred to me," Thor admitted with the kind of innocent honesty that made everyone at the table simultaneously laugh and worry about the future of interdimensional politics.
Frigga settled into her chair with the fluid grace of someone who had been managing the enthusiasms and obsessions of impossible men for millennia, her expression carrying that particular maternal mixture of fondness and resigned acceptance. She accepted a delicate cup of tea from one of the kitchen staff with practiced ease, then fixed her sons with the kind of look that suggested she was prepared to manage whatever chaos was about to unfold.
"Perhaps we could discuss the rather more pressing matters that brought you all racing across dimensions?" she suggested with gentle authority, though her eyes sparkled with humor. "Before Thor declares cookie diplomacy a formal state policy and Loki begins plotting how to weaponize dessert for tactical advantage."
"Actually," Loki said with that sharp smile that had historically preceded some of his most memorable schemes, "dessert weaponization has considerable potential. Consider the psychological impact of siege warfare conducted entirely through strategic delivery of superior baked goods. The enemy would be so demoralized by the quality differential that—"
"Loki," Aldrif interrupted with maternal firmness, though she was fighting back a smile. "Focus. We have actual problems that require actual solutions, not theoretical military applications for pastry."
"Spoilsport," Loki muttered, though he settled back in his chair with obvious interest. "Very well. Let us discuss the systematic destruction of ancient magical traditions and the political restructuring of an entire civilization. Far less creative than cookie-based psychological warfare, but I suppose it will have to suffice."
Sirius, who had been contentedly demolating his own cookie while watching the family dynamics with obvious fascination, leaned forward with the kind of expression that suggested he was shifting from observer to active participant in whatever planning was about to occur.
"Right then," he said, brushing crumbs from his hands with decisive efficiency. "Where do we start? With Dumbledore's promise to use his positions to tackle the marriage contracts? The Death Eater trials that are turning into a complete shambles? Or the small matter of explaining to the wizarding world that everything they thought they knew about power, authority, and cosmic justice was wrong?"
Remus, who had been maintaining scholarly composure despite the surreal nature of their situation, straightened in his chair with the kind of academic focus that suggested he was mentally organizing complex information into manageable categories.
"Dumbledore was quite definitive about his intentions," he said, his voice carrying that particular precision that came from someone who had spent years translating political chaos into comprehensible frameworks. "As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, he has the authority to call for immediate review of all marriage contracts registered within the last century. He's planning to invoke emergency powers, claiming threats to magical stability that require urgent intervention."
"Emergency powers," Frigga repeated thoughtfully, her expression shifting into something more calculating as she processed the implications. "A useful precedent. It suggests external threat rather than internal reform, which typically encounters less resistance from established power structures."
"Exactly," Aldrif agreed, settling back in her chair as Harry contentedly worked his way through his cookie with the methodical precision of someone who had learned to appreciate good things properly. "Frame it as protection rather than revolution. Present the marriage contract review as defending magical Britain from dangerous foreign influences, rather than admitting that their own ancient families have been practicing systematic mind control for generations."
"Politically astute," Loki observed with obvious approval. "Allow them to maintain face while dismantling the systems they've used to maintain power. They can claim they were deceived rather than complicit, victims rather than perpetrators." His smile turned particularly sharp. "Though I suspect several prominent families will find that distinction rather more difficult to maintain than they expect."
Sirius's expression darkened, his voice taking on the edge that had historically preceded some of his more dramatically violent impulses. "Speaking of prominent families, we've got a rather significant complication developing. The trials aren't going the way anyone expected."
"How so?" Frigga asked, though something in her tone suggested she suspected she wasn't going to enjoy the answer.
Remus sighed, running a hand through his graying hair with the gesture of someone who had been dealing with more political frustration than any reasonable person should be expected to manage. "Half the captured Death Eaters are claiming Imperius Curse. Systematic magical compulsion. They're presenting themselves as victims rather than criminals, insisting they spent years under Tom Riddle's mental control with no ability to resist his commands."
The temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop several degrees. Even the kitchen staff, who had been maintaining polite distance while clearly eavesdropping on every word, went very still. Harry looked up from his cookie with that uncanny perception that seemed to allow him to sense when adult conversations were moving into dangerous territory.
"Bad people lying?" he asked with the directness that only small children could manage.
"Some of them, yes," Aldrif replied carefully, her voice carrying both honesty and the kind of maternal protection that suggested she was editing the full truth for appropriateness. "Some people are trying to avoid consequences for their choices by claiming they didn't have any choices to make."
Harry considered this with the gravity of someone processing important moral philosophy. "But people always have choices. Even little choices. Even scared choices. Still choices."
"Exactly right, little prince," Frigga said with fierce pride, reaching over to smooth his perpetually disheveled hair. "Choices made in fear are still choices. Choices made under pressure are still choices. Only when the mind itself is stolen, when the true self is locked away completely, does choice disappear."
"Like Draco's mama," Harry added with scientific precision. "Her choices were stolen. Bad magic took her real choices away. But other people..." He paused, his small face scrunching with concentration as he worked through complex concepts, then nodded decisively. "Other people just chose easy things instead of right things."
Loki's expression had shifted during this exchange, his usual theatrical amusement replaced by something considerably more dangerous. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of controlled fury that suggested he was restraining himself from more dramatic responses through considerable effort.
"Lucius Malfoy is leading this particular defense strategy," he said with silken precision. "Claiming years of unwilling service to the Dark Lord, presenting himself as another victim of Tom Riddle's systematic abuse of the Imperius Curse."
His green eyes blazed with cold fire as he continued, his tone growing progressively more deadly. "The same Lucius Malfoy who spent years systematically destroying his wife's mind through magical marriage contracts. The same man who was in the process of conducting similar psychological reconstruction on his own infant son. The same individual who treated mind control as a recreational activity and family management technique."
"The very same," Sirius confirmed grimly. "And he's not alone. Half the Malfoy social circle is suddenly claiming they were all victims of magical compulsion, forced to commit atrocities against their will, traumatized by years of unwilling service to dark magic."
"While simultaneously," Remus added with academic precision that couldn't quite mask his disgust, "filing lawsuits to recover their confiscated property, demanding reparations for their 'wrongful imprisonment,' and insisting that their family assets were illegally seized during their 'period of magical enslavement.'"
Loki went very, very still. The kind of stillness that historically preceded some of his most memorable acts of creative vengeance. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft enough to be conversational yet somehow managed to convey the impression that nearby furniture was at risk of spontaneous combustion.
"I should have killed the peacock when I had the chance," he said with the matter-of-fact tone of someone discussing missed opportunities for household maintenance. "Clean, efficient, no opportunity for legal complications or political theater. A simple application of neck-snapping followed by judicious disposal of the remains. Sometimes the direct approach is best."
"Loki," Thor began warningly, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely opposed to the concept.
"I'm merely observing," Loki replied with wounded innocence, "that some problems are best solved before they have the opportunity to become more complex problems. Political strategy 101: eliminate sources of future complications while they're still manageable complications."
"Murder isn't political strategy," Aldrif said firmly, though her tone carried the kind of maternal authority that suggested she understood the temptation while firmly disapproving of the proposed solution. "It's short-term thinking that creates long-term problems. Dead martyrs inspire followers. Living examples of consequences serve as warnings."
"Besides," Sirius added with dark humor, "killing Lucius now would deprive us of the opportunity to watch his entire defense crumble when everyone realizes that the Imperius Curse doesn't explain twenty years of systematic family abuse predating Voldemort's return to power."
Harry, who had been following this conversation with the intense focus he brought to all adult discussions involving concepts of justice and consequences, suddenly straightened in his high chair. His expression shifted into that particular look of cosmic certainty that made gods reconsider their assumptions about the nature of reality.
"Harry has idea," he announced with the solemnity of someone delivering a state address.
Every adult at the table immediately gave him their complete attention, having learned from experience that Harry's ideas tended to be both simple and devastatingly effective in ways that usually required significant cleanup afterward.
Frigga leaned forward with gentle encouragement. "What is your idea, little one?"
Harry looked around the table, ensuring he had everyone's full attention, then delivered his proposal with the matter-of-fact confidence of someone who had clearly given this considerable thought.
"Truth magic," he said simply. "Like for Uncle Peter when he was pretending to be dead. Truth magic shows real truth, not pretend truth. Put truth magic on lying people. Then everyone sees real choices instead of pretend choices."
The kitchen fell into absolute silence. Even the kitchen staff had stopped all pretense of working in favor of staring at the fifteen-month-old who had just solved a complex legal and political problem with the kind of elegant simplicity that professional strategists spent careers trying to achieve.
Remus was the first to find his voice, though it came out slightly hoarse with something that might have been awe. "Veritaserum," he said slowly, as though testing the word for hidden meanings. "Mass administration of Veritaserum during testimony. Force complete honesty from everyone claiming Imperius defense."
"Not just testimony," Sirius added, his expression brightening with the kind of vindictive satisfaction that suggested he was enjoying the implications. "Require it for all their civil suits as well. If they want their property back, if they want reparations, if they want to be treated as victims rather than criminals, they have to submit to complete magical honesty about their actions, motivations, and decision-making processes."
Loki's smile returned full force, sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous. "Diabolical. Absolutely diabolical. I'm so proud." He turned to Harry with something approaching reverence. "Young prince, you have just proposed the most elegant form of legal warfare I've encountered in centuries. Force them to choose between maintaining their lies and achieving their goals. They cannot have both."
"Plus," Aldrif added with growing satisfaction, "it establishes precedent. If magical truth-telling becomes standard practice for legal proceedings involving claims of mental compulsion, it becomes much harder for future criminals to hide behind similar defenses."
Frigga's expression was one of quiet pride mixed with the kind of maternal concern that came from watching one's grandchild casually revolutionize judicial procedure before mastering proper sentence structure. "A remarkable solution, little one. Though I suspect the political implications will be... extensive."
Harry beamed at the approval, his small face lighting up with the satisfaction of someone who had successfully solved a puzzle that had been troubling the adults. He turned his attention back to his cookie with renewed focus, apparently considering his contribution to legal reform complete.
"More truth magic," he announced around a mouthful of cookie, "means more people remember how to make good choices. Good for everyone."
"Except the people who prefer making bad choices," Sirius pointed out with characteristic dry humor.
"Those people," Harry replied with devastating toddler logic, "need to learn better."
Thor's laughter boomed across the kitchen, rich with approval and delight. "Aye! Let them learn through consequence rather than theory! Nothing teaches wisdom like being forced to confront the truth of one's own actions!"
"The logistics," Remus said thoughtfully, his scholarly mind already working through practical applications, "would be complex but manageable. Dumbledore has the authority to mandate Veritaserum use in cases involving claims of mental compulsion. As Chief Warlock, he can establish it as emergency protocol for national security investigations."
"And as Supreme Mugwump," Aldrif added, "he can make it international policy. Set the precedent that any witch or wizard claiming magical compulsion as a defense must submit to complete truth verification, regardless of jurisdiction."
"The Ministry will resist," Sirius warned. "Half their convictions from the last war were probably based on people who had legitimate Imperius claims, and the other half were based on people who claimed false ones. Mandatory truth-telling threatens the entire structure of their criminal justice system."
"Then the system needs to be threatened," Loki said with characteristic bluntness. "Systems that cannot survive contact with truth are systems that deserve destruction."
Before anyone could respond to that observation, one of the kitchen staff approached their table with the careful deference of someone who had been elected by their colleagues to interrupt what was clearly a council of war involving cosmic royalty and interdimensional politics.
"Your Majesties," the young woman said with a perfectly executed curtsy, "forgive the intrusion, but we've received word that Master Draco has awakened from his nap and is asking for Prince Haraldr. Should we prepare additional refreshments for a playdate?"
Harry's head popped up immediately, cookie temporarily forgotten in favor of more interesting social possibilities. "Draco awake! Draco wants to see Harry! Harry wants to see Draco too!"
His excitement was immediately infectious, phoenix fire beginning to dance around his small hands as he bounced in his high chair with anticipation. Fawkes trilled approvingly, apparently as enthusiastic about the prospect of social interaction as his young companion.
"Where is Draco now?" Aldrif asked, already beginning to rise from her chair with the practical efficiency of someone who had learned to manage toddler logistics with divine precision.
"The healing gardens, Your Highness," the kitchen staff member replied. "Lady Narcissa is feeling much improved, and Master Draco has been asking about exploring outside. Master Fandral suggested that fresh air and sunlight might be beneficial for both of them."
Loki's eyebrows rose with delighted interest. "Fandral is personally overseeing their recovery? How... attentive of him."
"Shut up," Sirius muttered, though he was grinning. "Some of us think it's nice that she's found someone who appreciates her for who she really is rather than what she can be magically compelled to become."
"Oh, I agree completely," Loki replied with that sharp smile. "I simply find it fascinating how quickly certain Warriors Three members develop deep personal interest in rescue operations involving beautiful women newly freed from magical oppression."
"Friends!" Harry announced with obvious delight, apparently having followed enough of this conversation to understand that they were about to embark on a social adventure. "Draco and nice mama and pretty-man-who-likes-mama!"
"That," Frigga observed with dry humor, "may be the most accurate summary of the situation anyone has provided."
Thor rose from his seat with characteristic enthusiasm, still clutching the remains of his architectural cookie achievement. "Then let us gather our allies and continue this council in the gardens! Strategy is always improved by fresh air and the opportunity for small warriors to expend energy through play rather than gravity manipulation!"
"Plus," Sirius added with the kind of anticipation that suggested he was looking forward to watching cosmic politics unfold among landscaping and playground equipment, "I'm curious to see how Draco's handling his transition from magical compulsion victim to potential prince of Asgard. Should be educational for everyone involved."
As they began gathering themselves for the short journey to the gardens, Harry reached up to pat Fawkes's feathers with obvious affection and growing excitement.
"Come on, pretty bird," he said with the authority of someone who had clearly made important decisions. "Time to show Draco the best fire-colors. Maybe teach him about choosing good things and making happy-laugh sounds."
Fawkes trilled his agreement, and somehow, the sound carried harmonics that suggested the phoenix was looking forward to the opportunity to serve as both magical familiar and therapeutic counselor to traumatized children.
The complexity of interdimensional politics was about to collide with toddler friendship dynamics, family healing, and the kind of strategic planning that happened when gods decided that the best way to reshape civilization was through careful application of truth, consequences, and really excellent cookies.
It was, everyone agreed, going to be either the most successful diplomatic initiative in history or the most spectacular failure. Possibly both simultaneously.
But first: playtime in the healing gardens, where two small boys would continue the important work of learning how to make good choices, share fire-colors, and occasionally defy the laws of physics in service of creative play.
---
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