Before Moody could formulate a response that wouldn't involve questioning Dumbledore's sanity—something that had become increasingly difficult over the years—the chamber's communication crystals flared to life with urgent red light that made both men's battle-trained instincts snap to immediate alertness. Minister Cornelius Fudge's voice echoed through the space with barely controlled panic, each word cracking slightly under the strain of maintaining official composure while clearly approaching a complete nervous breakdown.
"Dumbledore! Moody! Emergency session, main conference room, immediately!" Fudge's usually pompous tones had been stripped down to raw administrative terror. "We have a situation that exceeds anything in our crisis management protocols! Hell, it exceeds anything in our 'impossible situations requiring immediate denial' protocols!"
Moody's magical eye spun rapidly as he processed the implications of hearing genuine panic in the Minister's voice—something that suggested problems considerably more serious than the usual political crises or budgetary disasters that typically sent Fudge into theatrical fits.
"When Cornelius abandons his careful political language," he observed grimly, already moving toward the door with the purposeful stride that had carried him through three decades of dangerous situations, "it usually means something has gone so spectacularly wrong that even he can't figure out how to blame it on someone else."
"Quite," Dumbledore agreed, following with considerably more dignity but equal urgency. "Though I suspect 'spectacularly wrong' may not adequately describe whatever has reduced our Minister to genuine panic rather than his usual manufactured outrage."
They found the main conference room in a state of barely controlled chaos that made Moody's paranoid instincts immediately shift into overdrive. Ministry officials crowded around tables that groaned under the weight of reports, maps, witness statements, and what appeared to be photographs that hurt to look at directly. The air crackled with tension and the particular kind of barely controlled hysteria that came from career bureaucrats confronting problems that not only exceeded their training but actively challenged their fundamental assumptions about how reality was supposed to operate.
Fudge stood at the head of the main table, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled in ways that suggested he'd been running his hands through his hair while muttering things that would damage his political image if overheard. His characteristic bluster had been completely replaced by the kind of raw administrative panic that came from discovering that the universe was significantly more complicated than civil service training had suggested.
"Eleven missing persons," he announced without preamble, his political composure completely abandoned in favor of presenting facts with the desperate efficiency of someone hoping that proper procedure might somehow make impossible situations more manageable. "All connected to either the Potter case, the Pettigrew investigation, or the recent capture of the Lestrange brothers and young Crouch. All vanished without trace within a seventy-two hour period. All leaving behind evidence that suggests..."
He stopped, clearly struggling with terminology for phenomena that his extensive political vocabulary had never been designed to address. His hands shuffled through documents with the kind of nervous energy that suggested he was hoping the papers themselves might provide explanations that made sense.
"Evidence that suggests they were removed from our reality by forces operating outside normal magical parameters," he continued with the tone of someone reading words he didn't believe. "Forces that appear to have capabilities that exceed our current understanding of what magic can accomplish."
"What kind of evidence?" Moody demanded, his professional instincts automatically focusing on concrete details rather than theoretical implications—a habit that had kept him alive through situations where less pragmatic Aurors had spent too much time philosophizing and not enough time dodging curses.
"Witness reports," Fudge replied, shuffling through documents with hands that shook slightly—not with fear, but with the particular tremor that came from civil servants discovering that their carefully organized worldview was under assault by forces that refused to follow proper administrative procedures. "Neighbors reporting light displays that made the aurora borealis look like a flickering candle by comparison. Magical signature traces that not only exceeded our instruments' measurement capabilities but actually caused several of them to spontaneously combust."
He paused to pull out what appeared to be the melted remains of a magical detection device, holding it with the kind of reverent bewilderment usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"And testimony from Mrs. Arabella Henderson," he continued with growing reluctance, "who lives next door to the Longbottoms and claims she witnessed what she described as 'gods in golden armor' conducting what appeared to be a rescue operation with military precision and divine authority."
"Gods in golden armor," Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully, his eyes beginning to show the first hints of their familiar twinkle as pieces of an impossible puzzle started falling into place with the satisfying click of a complex lock opening. "Did Mrs. Henderson provide any additional details about these alleged deities?"
Fudge consulted his notes with the desperate thoroughness of someone hoping that careful attention to bureaucratic detail might somehow make insane witness testimony more credible.
"She described beings of extraordinary beauty, both male and female, wearing armor that seemed to be forged from captured starlight," he read with the tone of someone presenting evidence he expected to be immediately dismissed. "She claimed they moved with what she termed 'divine grace' and spoke in voices that 'made the very air itself sing with barely contained power.' She also mentioned that they carried weapons that appeared to be forged from crystallized lightning and seemed to glow with their own inner fire."
"Crystallized lightning," Moody repeated with the kind of skeptical precision that suggested he was mentally cataloging details for future investigation. "Did she happen to mention how exactly one crystallizes lightning, or whether these divine beings offered any explanation for their interior decorating choices?"
"She was quite specific about one particular detail," Fudge continued, his voice growing even more strained. "According to Mrs. Henderson, one of them—a tall, blonde man carrying what she described as 'a hammer that looked like it could level mountains'—was particularly polite throughout the entire operation. He apparently apologized for the noise, assured her that the Longbottoms were 'being taken somewhere much safer than anywhere on Midgard,' and thanked her for being 'a vigilant neighbor who cares for the welfare of others.'"
"Midgard?" Dumbledore's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. "She's certain he used that specific term?"
"Word for word," Fudge confirmed with the precision of someone who had clearly spent considerable time verifying the accuracy of testimony he hoped was complete delusion. "I had her repeat it seventeen times and brought in a memory extraction specialist to ensure we had the exact phrasing."
Moody's magical eye stopped spinning entirely as it focused on Dumbledore with growing suspicion, while his natural eye narrowed with the kind of expression that suggested he was connecting dots he didn't particularly want to connect.
"Albus," he said slowly, his scarred features arranging themselves into the look of someone who had just realized that his headmaster possessed knowledge that hadn't been properly shared with relevant law enforcement personnel, "your expression suggests you've not only heard similar descriptions before, but that you have a theory about what they mean. A theory you've been keeping to yourself."
"Not descriptions," Dumbledore replied with growing certainty, his academic mind beginning to process possibilities that simultaneously exceeded mortal understanding and made perfect logical sense within frameworks most wizards had dismissed as purely mythological. "References. Ancient references in texts so old that most modern wizards assume they describe purely fictional beings whose existence was invented to explain natural phenomena that primitive magical theory couldn't comprehend."
"What bloody texts?" Fudge demanded with the desperate hope of someone looking for any bureaucratic framework that might contain phenomena that were threatening to destroy his carefully constructed political worldview. "Please tell me you're referring to something with proper citations and footnotes rather than ancient poetry that rhymes."
"Norse magical theory," Dumbledore said with the kind of simple certainty that made extraordinary statements sound perfectly reasonable. "Specifically, references to the Æsir—beings of divine authority who govern fundamental forces that existed before magic as we understand it was even conceived. According to the oldest and most reliable sources, they possess the power to travel between what they term the Nine Realms, command energies that make our most powerful magic look like party tricks, and intervene directly in mortal affairs when cosmic balance is threatened by forces that exceed local capabilities to manage."
He moved to the window, gazing out at the London skyline with the expression of someone whose understanding of reality was undergoing rapid and fundamental expansion.
"The texts describe them as protectors of universal order," he continued with growing enthusiasm, "beings whose existence spans millennia and whose power operates according to principles that transcend anything we recognize as conventional magic. They're said to appear during times of great crisis, remove innocent parties from danger, and deal with threats that pose existential challenges to entire realms of existence."
The conference room fell into the kind of profound silence that comes from having one's entire worldview fundamentally reconstructed by information that should have been impossible to believe but somehow made more sense than any alternative explanation.
"You're suggesting," Moody said very carefully, each word chosen with the precision of someone defusing an explosive device, "that our missing persons have been... what, exactly? Recruited by Norse gods? Rescued by mythological beings? Transported to Valhalla for purposes unknown and possibly involving mead?"
"I'm suggesting," Dumbledore replied with the calm that came from having lived long enough to accept that reality was consistently stranger than most people were prepared to acknowledge, "that we are dealing with forces whose existence transcends our current understanding of what's possible, probable, or sensible. Forces that view Tom Riddle's reign of terror as sufficient threat to cosmic stability to justify direct intervention in affairs they would normally leave to local authorities."
"Cosmic stability," Fudge repeated with the tone of someone whose political career was being systematically destroyed by phenomena that refused to conform to proper governmental procedures. "You're telling me that our local dark wizard problem was significant enough to attract the attention of beings who monitor universal balance?"
"Tom Riddle was creating Horcruxes," Dumbledore pointed out gently. "Fragmenting his soul through systematic murder, attempting to achieve immortality through methods that corrupt the fundamental nature of life and death itself. From the perspective of beings whose responsibility includes maintaining cosmic order, such activities would represent the kind of existential threat that requires immediate correction."
Before anyone could formulate a response to that assessment—which would have required most of them to completely reconstruct their understanding of magic, mortality, and their place in the universe—a young Ministry clerk burst through the conference room doors with the kind of barely controlled panic that suggested even more impossible developments had just occurred.
"Minister!" he gasped, clutching a handful of reports that seemed to smoke slightly at the edges while glowing with residual magical energy, "Emergency reports from all our monitoring stations! Massive magical energy discharge detected over northern Scotland, signature patterns that don't match anything in our databases, power levels that caused three of our recording instruments to actually melt, and..."
He stopped, clearly struggling with information that challenged his basic understanding of how reality was supposed to function according to proper Ministry protocols.
"And what appear to be dimensional rifts opening above several major population centers!" he finished in a rush, holding out photographs that seemed to shift and change when observed directly.
Fudge looked at the reports with the expression of someone whose worst nightmares were being systematically exceeded by objective reality that refused to cooperate with political damage control.
"Dimensional rifts?" he asked with the faint hope that perhaps the clerk had misspoken and was referring to something more manageable, like dragon attacks or goblin rebellions.
"Rainbow bridges, sir," the clerk confirmed with the tone of someone reporting facts he desperately hoped someone would tell him were hallucinations brought on by too much coffee and too little sleep. "Massive columns of multicolored light connecting the sky to specific locations on the ground, visible for hundreds of miles in every direction, and according to witness reports that are flooding in from across Britain, being used as transportation methods by beings matching exactly the descriptions Mrs. Henderson provided."
Moody's natural eye narrowed while his magical one began spinning with renewed agitation. "Transportation methods," he repeated grimly. "Are you telling me that these alleged Norse gods are now conducting public transportation operations using rainbow bridges visible across half of Britain?"
"According to the reports, sir," the clerk confirmed with obvious reluctance, "the beings using these bridges appear to be arriving rather than departing. And they seem to be heading directly toward London."
Dumbledore rose from his chair with sudden energy, his academic excitement overriding administrative concerns as he processed implications that were simultaneously terrifying and fascinating.
"They're not hiding anymore," he announced with growing certainty that carried undertones of both wonder and apprehension. "Whatever forces have been operating from the shadows, whatever cosmic authorities have been conducting rescue operations under cover of secrecy—they've decided that subtlety is no longer necessary or appropriate."
"What does that mean?" Fudge asked with the desperation of someone whose carefully planned political career was being systematically destroyed by phenomena that exceeded every crisis management protocol ever devised by civil service training programs.
"It means," Dumbledore replied with profound satisfaction mixed with cosmic apprehension, "that we are about to receive visitors whose existence will fundamentally alter our understanding of magic, power, and our place in the broader universe. And I strongly suspect they have quite a lot to discuss with us about our handling of Tom Riddle's reign of terror, our investigative procedures, and possibly our general competence as guardians of magical Britain."
"Bloody hell," Moody muttered, then straightened as his professional instincts reasserted themselves. "Right then. If we're about to be visited by actual gods, I suppose we'd better make sure the conference room is properly warded and that someone's put the kettle on. Can't receive divine beings without offering proper hospitality, even if they are here to critique our law enforcement techniques."
---
The training grounds of Valhalla stretched beyond any mortal conception of space, their boundaries shifting like living things to accommodate whatever impossible demands Sigurd Fafnirsbane deemed necessary for proper warrior education. Stone circles the size of cities provided arenas for individual combat, while vast plains offered space for tactical exercises involving armies that numbered in the millions. The very air hummed with residual energy from millennia of cosmic warfare training, and the ground bore scars from weapons that could cleave through dimensions.
James Potter stood in the center of one such circle, chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened to him—again. His normally immaculate dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his borrowed training armor showed fresh dents and scorch marks from the last bout. His green eyes held the frustrated intelligence of someone accustomed to quick mastery finding himself thoroughly outclassed for the first time in recent memory.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair in that characteristic gesture that had once driven Lily to distraction. "I've faced Death Eaters, dragons, and worse, but this..." He gestured helplessly at the cosmic weapons scattered around them. "This is like trying to duel while someone keeps rewriting the laws of physics mid-spell."
"Again," Sigurd commanded from his position at the circle's edge, his voice carrying the kind of casual authority that made arguing seem not just futile but conceptually impossible. The legendary dragonslayer stood with his arms crossed, scarred face holding a mixture of amusement and expectation that suggested he'd been through this exact conversation countless times before. "And this time, try to remember that your opponent is not limited by mortal expectations about physics, magic, or the fundamental laws governing combat."
His pale blue eyes held an almost predatory gleam as he studied James's frustrated expression. "You're thinking too much, Potter. Combat here isn't about analysis—it's about instinct elevated to cosmic proportions."
James looked across the circle at his sparring partner and tried not to let complete despair overwhelm him. Erik Bloodaxe stood with the casual confidence of someone who had been perfecting violence as an art form for over a millennium. His armor showed no signs of damage despite having spent the last two hours demonstrating exactly why mortal combat training was inadequate preparation for cosmic warfare. His weapons remained unblunted, and his smile suggested he was enjoying James's education immensely.
"The problem," Erik explained with the cultured patience of someone who had been through this process himself several centuries earlier, his accent carrying hints of ancient nobility mixed with barely contained predatory amusement, "is that you're still thinking like a mortal Auror. You're expecting your opponent to follow rules, to have limitations, to be bound by the same delightfully predictable constraints that governed every fight you experienced while alive."
He gestured elegantly to the weapons scattered around the training ground—swords forged from crystallized starlight that sang when they moved through air, spears that could pierce the barriers between realms and leave doorways hanging open in their wake, shields that could deflect attacks spanning multiple dimensions while their bearers remained untouched by cosmic forces that would unmake mountains.
"Nothing here operates according to the principles you learned on Earth, James," Erik continued, his tone holding the kind of refined amusement that suggested he found James's struggles genuinely entertaining. "Magic here isn't limited by wand movements or spell components or the precise pronunciation of Latin derivatives. It's limited only by will, understanding, and the courage to embrace possibilities that exceed mortal comprehension entirely."
He picked up one of the fallen weapons—a blade that seemed to exist in several dimensions simultaneously—and demonstrated a casual strike that left reality rippling in its wake like disturbed water. "You see? No incantation, no focusing gesture, no carefully channeled power. Just intent given cosmic authority."
"Right," James replied with the dry humor that had once made him popular among his fellow Marauders, wiping sweat from his forehead while attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity despite being thoroughly outclassed by someone who made violence look like performance art. "Because that's not terrifying at all. Next you'll be telling me that thinking happy thoughts makes me fly."
"Actually," Erik's grin turned positively wicked, "that's not entirely inaccurate. Though I'd recommend thinking murderous thoughts—they tend to be more immediately practical in combat situations."
"I'm trying," James replied, his analytical mind clearly struggling with concepts that defied everything he'd been trained to understand about magical combat. "But every instinct I have, everything I was taught at Auror Academy, keeps trying to analyze threats according to patterns that apparently don't apply to anything here."
"Exactly the problem," Sigurd agreed, moving closer with the fluid grace of someone whose very existence had been shaped by millennia of combat against opponents that included dragons, gods, and fundamental forces of chaos. His scarred face held approval mixed with the kind of impatience that suggested he was restraining himself from simply beating the lesson into James through repeated cosmic violence.
"Mortal training teaches you to identify threats, assess capabilities, predict behaviors, respond according to established tactical frameworks," he explained, his voice carrying the rough wisdom of someone who had learned warfare from Odin himself. "Cosmic warfare requires abandoning those assumptions entirely. Here, your enemy might decide mid-fight that gravity works sideways, or that your weapon should be made of poetry instead of steel."
He gestured toward a section of the training ground where other Einherjar were engaged in exercises that defied several laws of physics and at least one fundamental principle of common sense. Warriors fought with weapons that seemed to exist in multiple dimensions simultaneously, their combat flowing seamlessly between individual dueling and massive battlefield coordination that involved strategy across realms, their abilities apparently limited only by imagination and the structural integrity of local reality.
"Watch," Sigurd instructed, pointing to a pair of fighters whose engagement had evolved into something resembling performance art crossed with controlled natural disaster crossed with what appeared to be interpretive dance performed by forces of nature given human form. "Bjorn there is fighting with techniques he developed during the last war against the frost giants—techniques that involve convincing winter itself to take sides in personal combat. His opponent, Valdis, learned her skills defending the rainbow bridge during dimensional incursions that threatened all Nine Realms simultaneously."
The two warriors were creating light displays that would have been visible from orbit, their weapons leaving trails of energy that lingered in the air like frozen lightning while they moved in patterns that seemed to follow musical rhythms only they could hear. More impressive than their individual abilities was the way they seemed to anticipate each other's actions three moves in advance, as if they were engaged in a conversation conducted entirely through violence that had been elevated to the level of cosmic poetry.
"Neither is constrained by mortal limitations," Sigurd continued with obvious pride in his students' progress. "Their strength, speed, magical capacity, and tactical awareness all operate at levels that would seem impossible to Earth-trained fighters. More importantly, they've learned to think impossibly as well."
James watched with growing fascination as Bjorn apparently convinced his own shadow to join the fight as a separate combatant while Valdis responded by temporarily existing in seventeen slightly different dimensions simultaneously, each version of herself attacking from a different angle while they all remained perfectly coordinated.
"How in Merlin's name do I learn to fight like that?" he asked, his analytical mind beginning to process the tactical implications of combat that transcended normal limitations while simultaneously trying to maintain his sanity in the face of physics that had clearly given up and gone home.
"By dying to everything you think you know about warfare," came a new voice from behind them, rich with amusement and carrying the kind of authority that made even cosmic warriors pay attention.
Brunhilde approached with the fluid grace that had once made her the most feared Valkyrie in Asgard's service, and the kind of predatory confidence that suggested she found the entire training exercise moderately entertaining. She wore practical training armor that somehow managed to look both functional and ceremonial, each piece perfectly fitted and bearing runes that seemed to shift meaning based on who was looking at them. Her expression carried the kind of amused compassion that suggested she understood exactly what James was experiencing while simultaneously being prepared to make it significantly worse if necessary for his education.
"By accepting that strength here isn't about physical power—it's about will given cosmic authority," she continued, her voice carrying hints of divine authority mixed with distinctly mortal humor. "Speed isn't about reflexes—it's about understanding reality deeply enough to convince it to cooperate with your intentions. Victory isn't about superior tactics—it's about embracing the impossible so completely that impossibility becomes just another weapon in your arsenal."
"Wonderful," James muttered, though his tone held more fascination than complaint. "So basically, I need to learn to think like a god while maintaining enough humanity to remember why I'm fighting in the first place."
"Now you're beginning to understand," Erik said with approval, twirling his weapon in patterns that left geometric shapes hanging in the air like cosmic calligraphy. "Though I'd recommend starting smaller—perhaps try thinking like a very ambitious demigod with anger management issues."
"Encouraging," James replied dryly, though there was something in his green eyes that suggested he was beginning to see the possibilities rather than just the obstacles. "Any other helpful advice? Maybe something about how thinking happy thoughts will let me fly?"
"Actually," Brunhilde said with a grin that was equal parts beautiful and terrifying, "the flying part comes naturally once you stop believing in gravity as a fundamental constraint. The happy thoughts... well, those are optional. I personally prefer righteous fury as a power source."
She gestured for him to follow her to a different section of the training ground, where weapons were arranged in displays that seemed to shift and change based on who was observing them. Each weapon appeared to exist in a state of potential, waiting for the right wielder to give it definite form and purpose.
"Choose," she instructed simply.
James looked at the array of options with growing bewilderment mixed with something that might have been excitement. Swords that hummed with their own power and seemed to be conducting conversations in languages he couldn't understand, axes that contained miniature storms complete with thunder that spelled out tactical advice in ancient runes, spears whose points disappeared into dimensional rifts that might lead anywhere in the Nine Realms, hammers that created their own gravitational fields and appeared to be judging him based on criteria he couldn't begin to guess at.
"Choose what, exactly?" he asked, though his tone suggested he was beginning to suspect the answer wouldn't follow normal logical patterns.
"Your weapon," Brunhilde replied with the patience of someone who had guided countless warriors through this transition and genuinely enjoyed watching them discover capabilities they'd never imagined possessing. "Not based on what you think you should use, not according to what worked when you were alive and operating under mortal limitations, but based on what calls to you. What feels like an extension of your will rather than a tool you have to master through technique and practice."
"So less 'learn to use this sword' and more 'find the sword that already knows how to be used by me'?" James asked, his analytical mind trying to wrap itself around concepts that defied his understanding of how weapons were supposed to work.
"Exactly," Sigurd confirmed with something approaching pride in his student's growing comprehension. "Cosmic weapons choose their wielders as much as wielders choose them. The right match creates a partnership that transcends normal limitations entirely."
James moved through the display slowly, his hands extended as he tried to sense whatever connection Brunhilde was describing. The process felt distinctly unscientific, like trying to solve an equation using intuition instead of mathematics, but he'd learned enough about Valhalla to trust that normal rules didn't apply here.
Most of the weapons felt foreign when he approached them—powerful but fundamentally incompatible with something essential in his nature. The axes seemed to approve of his combat experience but found his motivations insufficiently bloodthirsty. The hammers respected his determination but questioned his subtlety. The spears acknowledged his tactical training but seemed to prefer wielders with more straightforward approaches to problem-solving.
But when his fingers closed around the grip of what appeared to be a sword forged from crystallized light itself, he felt something click into place with an almost audible sensation of rightness.
The weapon responded to his touch like a living thing that had been waiting specifically for him, its weight shifting to accommodate his grip perfectly, its balance adjusting to match his stance and fighting style as if it had been observing his previous training sessions and taking notes. When he lifted it experimentally, trails of golden fire followed its movement through the air, and he could swear he heard something that might have been cosmic approval humming along his bones.
"Well," Erik observed with obvious interest, having followed them from the combat circle with the predatory curiosity of someone who collected information about potential opponents as a professional habit, "that's unexpected. Heartseeker—forged from the essence of protective love and designed to cut through deception to strike at the truth of any situation."
His expression grew more thoughtful as he studied James's interaction with the weapon, noting the way the sword seemed to be teaching James proper grip and stance through some kind of telepathic communication. "It's been waiting in that display for over three centuries, refusing every warrior who approached it. Apparently, it has very specific standards regarding its wielder's motivations."
"Three centuries?" James asked, testing the sword's balance and finding it perfect in ways that defied his understanding of weaponcraft. The blade seemed to anticipate his movements, suggesting improvements to his form through subtle shifts in weight distribution. "What kind of standards?"
"It chooses wielders who died protecting others," Brunhilde explained with approval, clearly pleased by the match between warrior and weapon. "Warriors who understand that sometimes love requires violence, that protection often demands the willingness to destroy whatever threatens those you're sworn to defend."
"So it approves of suicide missions undertaken for family preservation?" James asked with the kind of dark humor that had once made Sirius worry about his friend's tendency toward heroic martyrdom. "Because if so, I definitely qualify."
"It feels..." James paused, struggling to articulate the connection he felt to the weapon, which seemed to be sharing emotions and intentions directly with his consciousness in ways that bypassed language entirely. "It feels like it understands why I'm here, what I want to accomplish. Like it approves of my motivations and is willing to help me achieve goals that might be slightly beyond normal mortal capabilities."
"Cosmic weapons," Sigurd explained with satisfaction, clearly pleased by James's selection and the speed with which he was adapting to concepts that usually took decades for mortal-raised warriors to internalize, "respond to the wielder's fundamental nature rather than their technical skill or combat experience. Heartseeker has been waiting centuries for someone whose death demonstrated the kind of sacrificial love it was designed to channel and amplify."
"So it's not just a sword," James said slowly, feeling the weapon's response to his growing understanding like warm approval flowing through his hands. "It's more like... a cosmic amplifier for protective instincts?"
"Among other things," Erik replied with the kind of smile that suggested he was looking forward to discovering exactly what those other things might be through direct combat experience. "It also has opinions about tactical decisions and has been known to refuse to work with wielders whose approach to combat it finds insufficiently motivated by genuine care for others."
"Meaning it won't work if I'm fighting for the wrong reasons?" James asked, though something in his tone suggested he found the concept oddly comforting rather than limiting.
"Meaning," Brunhilde said with the voice of someone who had witnessed Heartseeker's previous wielders in action, "it will make you more effective than you can possibly imagine when you're fighting to protect something you genuinely love, and completely useless if you try to use it for selfish purposes or casual violence."
She gestured back toward the combat circle where Erik was already taking position with obvious enthusiasm and what appeared to be genuine anticipation. "Now you begin to understand the difference between mortal and cosmic warfare. This isn't about overpowering your enemies through superior technique or greater magical reserves—it's about becoming the truest, most powerful version of yourself and allowing that truth to reshape reality according to your will and intentions."
"Right then," James said, raising Heartseeker and feeling something that was definitely not normal magic flow through his consciousness, burning away assumptions about limitations while revealing possibilities that exceeded his previous understanding of what was achievable through applied violence in defense of family. "Let's see what cosmic love-motivated warfare looks like in practice."
"Finally," Sigurd called from his position at the circle's edge, his scarred face showing the kind of anticipation that suggested he'd been waiting for this moment since James's training began. "But this time, stop trying to fight like an Auror following ministry-approved combat protocols. Fight like a father protecting his family, like a husband defending his wife, like a man who understands that some things are worth any sacrifice and is prepared to remake the universe to ensure their safety."
"No pressure," James muttered, though his grip on Heartseeker felt more confident than it had any right to, and something in his green eyes suggested that cosmic authority was beginning to feel natural rather than overwhelming.
Erik raised his own weapon—a blade that seemed to contain its own weather system and appeared to be conducting a small orchestra of destruction—with the fluid grace of someone who had been perfecting violence as an art form for over a millennium. "Ready when you are, James. Though I should mention—I've been looking forward to this particular lesson for some time."
"Because you enjoy beating up recently deceased fathers?" James asked, settling into a stance that felt both familiar and completely new, as if Heartseeker was teaching him combat forms that had never been developed on Earth.
"Because," Erik replied with a grin that was equal parts charm and predatory anticipation, "I've never had the opportunity to fight someone wielding concentrated parental protective instincts given cosmic authority. It should be genuinely interesting to see how love translates into practical combat applications."
"Well," James said, feeling cosmic fire flow through his veins while Heartseeker hummed with what could only be described as eager approval, "let's find out together."
When he moved against Erik this time, he fought not with Auror training but with love translated into violence, with protective instincts given cosmic authority, with the absolute conviction that family was worth remaking the universe to defend. Heartseeker responded like a living extension of his will, cutting through Erik's dimensional defenses and striking with precision that defied physics while trailing golden fire that burned away illusion to reveal the truth of each moment.
The resulting combat was spectacular enough to draw observers from across the training grounds—not just for the display of power that left craters in supposedly indestructible stone and created aurora effects in broad daylight, but for the moment when mortal determination transcended its own boundaries and became something worthy of legend.
Erik, for his part, responded to James's transformation with the kind of delighted laughter that suggested he genuinely appreciated being challenged by someone who could match his millennia of combat experience through sheer motivated intensity rather than technique.
"Much better!" he called out between exchanges that would have been visible from orbit, parrying a strike that left reality rippling in its wake. "Though you might want to work on your follow-through—cosmic authority is wonderful, but tactical awareness still matters!"
"Working on it!" James replied, ducking under a counterstrike that temporarily convinced gravity to work in spirals while launching an attack that Heartseeker guided with precision that exceeded his understanding of combat geometry. "Any other helpful suggestions?"
"Try not to destroy the training ground!" Brunhilde called from the sidelines, though her tone suggested she was enjoying the spectacle. "We've already had to rebuild it twice this century!"
Above them, in halls where gods planned interventions across multiple realms, his family continued reshaping the balance between worlds, one impossible decision at a time.
The education of James Potter, Einherjar, had begun in earnest.
And across the cosmos, forces that had remained hidden for millennia began to acknowledge that the age of secret protection was ending, and the age of open warfare between light and darkness was about to begin with the kind of spectacular violence that would make legends seem conservative by comparison.
"Again," Sigurd commanded, his voice carrying satisfaction mixed with the kind of anticipation that suggested James's real education was just beginning. "And this time, try to remember—in cosmic warfare, the only limitations are the ones you accept."
James raised Heartseeker, feeling its eager approval resonate through his bones, and prepared to discover exactly what unlimited protective love looked like when given the authority to reshape reality according to its intentions.
The universe, it seemed, was about to find out what happened when a father's love for his family was given cosmic proportions and permission to rewrite the fundamental laws governing combat.
It was going to be educational for everyone involved.
---
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