The first thing Harry noticed upon waking was the complete absence of a hangover—a benefit, he suspected, of the Soul Stone's influence maintaining optimal bodily function regardless of the previous evening's festivities. The second thing he noticed was the distinctly uncomfortable surface beneath him, which turned out to be polished crystalline flooring rather than anything remotely resembling a proper bed.
The third thing he noticed was that he was, inexplicably, holding a delicate porcelain teacup filled with what smelled like perfectly brewed Earl Grey.
"How—?" he began, his voice carrying that particular British morning confusion that suggested reality had exceeded reasonable expectations even by cosmic standards.
"Don't question it, love," Hermione murmured from beside him, somehow also holding a teacup despite the fact that they were sprawled across Asgard's Great Hall floor among approximately three dozen unconscious Asgardian warriors in various states of alcoholic surrender. Her hair was its usual morning chaos, but her amber eyes were clear and focused. "Luna did something with temporal manipulation and dimensional storage. The tea service just... appeared. I stopped asking questions about her methods years ago."
Around them, the Great Hall resembled the aftermath of a natural disaster conducted entirely through the medium of premium alcohol. Thor lay sprawled across what had once been the high table, now tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, his cape tangled around his massive frame like a golden shroud. Volstagg had apparently attempted to use his own beard as a pillow and succeeded only in creating a complex knot that would probably require professional intervention to untangle.
Fandral was draped across a bench with the kind of theatrical abandon that suggested even unconscious, he maintained perfect aesthetic positioning. Hogun sat propped against a pillar, somehow still upright despite being demonstrably asleep, his expression suggesting that even his subconscious refused to relax its vigilance.
The Warriors Three's various romantic interests and drinking companions were scattered about in equally undignified positions, creating a tableau that would probably inspire epic poetry about the dangers of Asgardian hospitality and premium mead.
Daphne emerged from behind a fallen tapestry, her platinum hair somehow still perfect despite the circumstances, carrying what appeared to be a complete tea service on a golden tray that definitely hadn't existed moments before.
"Luna found it in a storage dimension," she explained with aristocratic matter-of-factness, as though interdimensional tea acquisition was routine morning procedure. "Apparently Asgard's palace maintains emergency provisions across multiple reality layers. Very practical, really."
Susan appeared with a basket of what looked like fresh pastries, her red hair catching the morning light streaming through the crystalline windows. "Also dimensional storage. The kitchens are apparently accessible through temporal shortcuts if you know how to ask politely."
Tonks bounded over with her characteristic energy despite the early hour, her violet hair bright with morning enthusiasm. "Right, so we've got tea, pastries, and approximately thirty unconscious gods who are going to wake up with hangovers that could probably be classified as natural disasters. This is already shaping up to be an excellent morning."
Luna drifted past carrying additional teacups with that dreamy precision that suggested she was navigating multiple timelines simultaneously. "The probability matrices indicate optimal tea temperature for the next seventeen minutes, after which thermal degradation will compromise flavor profiles. Also, someone should probably check on Loki. His dimensional signature seems... displaced."
Harry, now fully upright and nursing his impossibly acquired tea, felt his enhanced senses suddenly focus with sharp clarity. "Displaced how, exactly?"
Luna tilted her head, pale eyes distant as she consulted temporal information visible only to her. "He's not where he should be. The tracking enchantments Hermione placed on his canine form suggest he's... mobile. Which is peculiar, given that Chihuahuas typically don't possess significant ambulatory capacity during sleep cycles."
Sif, who had apparently maintained consciousness through sheer warrior discipline and possibly spite, straightened from her position near the alcove entrance. Her dark eyes immediately sharpened with professional concern.
"The Chihuahua-prince is missing?" she asked, her voice carrying that particular edge that preceded tactical operations. "That represents a potential security breach, regardless of his current diminutive stature."
Hermione set down her teacup with academic precision that barely concealed rising concern. "His transformation includes behavioral constraints that should prevent unauthorized departure from designated areas. If he's moved, either someone carried him or the spell parameters require adjustment."
"Or," Daphne added with aristocratic logic, "he's discovered that even divine mischief gods in canine form can't resist basic mammalian comfort-seeking behavior during sleep."
Harry rose to his feet with fluid grace, his emerald eyes beginning to pulse with Soul Stone enhancement as he extended his cosmic awareness across the Great Hall. The sensation was immediate and precise—every sleeping soul registered in his consciousness like stars in a carefully mapped constellation, their spiritual signatures distinct and identifiable.
And there, tucked in a corner behind an overturned feast table, was a very small, very divine spiritual signature pressed against something decidedly more human.
"Found him," Harry announced, his voice carrying that particular combination of amusement and resignation that came from discovering cosmic complications had taken predictably absurd turns. "And... oh, this is going to be awkward for everyone involved."
---
The corner in question had apparently become an impromptu resting place for Lady Astrid—the blonde Asgardian maiden whose enthusiasm for small, adorable animals had been legendary throughout the previous evening's festivities. She lay curled on her side against an ornate cushion that had somehow survived the general chaos, her golden hair spread in artistic disarray across expensive fabric.
And nestled with perfect, peaceful contentment against the considerable décolletage that her evening gown had been specifically designed to emphasize, snoring with tiny, squeaky breaths that somehow managed to be both adorable and cosmically inappropriate, was Chihuahua-Loki.
The small dog had apparently discovered that silk, warmth, and generous curves represented optimal sleeping conditions and had committed himself to this location with the same determination he typically reserved for conquering realms and causing diplomatic incidents.
"Oh, bloody hell," Tonks breathed with barely contained laughter, her violet hair cycling through increasingly amused shades of purple and gold. "He's literally motorboating her while unconscious. That's... actually impressive, in a deeply disturbing sort of way."
Sif's expression cycled rapidly through professional concern, tactical assessment, and what appeared to be genuine horror at the diplomatic implications. "We need to extract him immediately. If Lady Astrid wakes to find herself... thus accommodated by a transformed prince, regardless of his current species, the political complications will be—"
"Extensive," Daphne finished with aristocratic understatement, her ice-blue eyes gleaming with barely suppressed mirth. "Though I confess myself curious about how we're supposed to extract a sleeping Chihuahua from that particular location without waking either party."
Susan stepped forward with practical concern, her red hair catching the morning light as she knelt beside the sleeping pair. "The transformation has been in place for approximately twelve hours. Loki's behavioral patterns should have achieved sufficient modification for safe restoration to his proper form."
She paused, processing the full implications of what she'd just said. "Though perhaps we should relocate him first, given that restoring him to full size while he's currently positioned... there... would create a situation requiring immediate memory modification for everyone involved."
"Too late for relocation," Luna announced with dreamy certainty, her pale eyes tracking temporal threads visible only to her enhanced perception. "Lady Astrid achieves consciousness in approximately forty-seven seconds, and any attempt to move Loki will trigger his own awakening through disruption of established comfort patterns. The probability matrices indicate we're committed to this particular timeline branch regardless of our preferences."
Harry sighed with the profound resignation of someone whose cosmic responsibilities regularly included managing situations that exceeded reasonable expectations for absurdity.
"Right then," he said, raising one hand with careful precision as orange Soul Stone energy began to coalesce around his fingers like liquid starlight. "When I restore him, everyone be prepared for immediate extraction procedures. Hermione, prepare memory modification spells for Lady Astrid—make it gentle, we're not traumatizing civilians just because Loki can't control his sleeping habits. Daphne, spatial displacement ready for emergency repositioning. Susan, reality anchors to prevent any instinctive magical backlash from Loki when he realizes his current situation. Tonks, be prepared to physically restrain him if necessary. Luna, just... do whatever temporal manipulation you do that makes impossible situations slightly less catastrophic."
His wives moved with the perfect synchronization of practiced coordination, each taking positions that suggested years of managing cosmic complications through superior teamwork and mutual understanding.
"On three," Harry continued, his voice carrying that devastating combination of cosmic authority and British determination to maintain protocol even during absurd circumstances. "One... two... three."
---
The transformation was instantaneous and absolutely devastating in its social implications.
One moment, a small Chihuahua nestled peacefully against comfortable warmth. The next moment, Loki Laufeyson—God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, approximately six feet of pale, lean aristocratic danger—manifested at full size.
Which meant he was now lying atop Lady Astrid, his face buried in the considerable décolletage that had previously accommodated a significantly smaller occupant, his arms instinctively wrapped around her in what could generously be called an intimate embrace and more accurately described as a position requiring immediate explanation to several branches of Asgardian law enforcement.
For exactly two seconds, blessed unconsciousness preserved everyone's dignity.
Then Lady Astrid's eyes snapped open.
Her scream could probably be heard in neighboring realms. "BY ODIN'S BEARD! WHAT—WHO—GET OFF ME THIS INSTANT!"
Loki jerked awake with the disorientation of someone whose last clear memory involved being a very small dog receiving unwanted but admittedly comfortable attention, and whose current reality included full-size human form in extremely compromising circumstances with a woman he didn't recognize.
"I—what—how did I—?" His pale green eyes widened with genuine horror as he processed his position, his arms still wrapped around Lady Astrid in a way that would require significant diplomatic explanation. "This isn't—I was just—there was—"
He scrambled backwards with more haste than dignity, managing to tangle himself in his own cape and Lady Astrid's voluminous skirts simultaneously, creating a catastrophic knot of expensive fabric that sent them both tumbling in opposite directions with the grace of particularly uncoordinated furniture.
Lady Astrid, now freed from unwanted embrace but thoroughly confused about how she'd acquired an unconscious prince as a sleeping companion, sat up with her hair in magnificent disarray and her expression cycling through shock, outrage, and dawning mortification.
"You—I—we—" she sputtered, trying to preserve modesty while simultaneously pointing accusingly at Loki. "What manner of depraved enchantment—"
"No enchantment!" Loki protested with genuine panic, his usual silver tongue apparently still compromised by sleep deprivation and existential confusion. "I was—earlier I was—there was this transformation, you see, and I may have been temporarily a very small—"
He stopped, processing the full implications of attempting to explain that he'd spent the evening as a Chihuahua who had voluntarily chosen her cleavage as optimal sleeping arrangements.
Harry stepped forward before this situation could deteriorate further into accusations requiring formal investigation. His emerald eyes glowed with Soul Stone authority as he addressed Lady Astrid with calm, commanding precision.
"My Lady," he said, his voice carrying that devastating combination of aristocratic authority and cosmic gravitas, "please accept my sincere apologies for this deeply unfortunate situation. Prince Loki spent yesterday evening in an... altered form for educational purposes. You kindly provided comfort to what you believed was a small animal requiring care and attention. The restoration of his proper form occurred at an unfortunately inopportune moment, creating circumstances that were entirely unintentional and deeply regrettable for all parties involved."
Lady Astrid blinked rapidly, processing this explanation while Hermione's subtle golden energy wrapped around her consciousness like silk, gently smoothing the sharp edges of trauma and replacing them with confused but calm acceptance that strange things happened during Asgardian feasts and sometimes princes ended up in peculiar positions through no fault of anyone involved.
"I... see," Lady Astrid said slowly, her outrage settling into bewildered acceptance. "Then this was... accidental? Not some elaborate scheme or unwanted advance?"
"Completely accidental," Harry confirmed with absolute sincerity. "And please accept this small token of apology for the distress caused."
He gestured, and Luna produced from absolutely nowhere a small jewelry box containing what appeared to be an extremely expensive bracelet that definitely hadn't existed moments before but now looked like it had been family heirloom material for several generations.
Lady Astrid accepted it with dazed gratitude, her memories already reorganizing themselves into something less traumatic and more comedic—an amusing anecdote about feast chaos rather than grounds for formal complaint.
Loki, meanwhile, had managed to extract himself from the tangle of fabric and was now standing with as much dignity as someone who'd just woken up from unwanted motorboating could muster. His pale face carried genuine mortification mixed with dawning understanding about his previous evening's activities.
"I was the small dog," he said slowly, horror creeping into his cultured voice. "The small dog that the ladies kept... cuddling. And feeding treats. And calling 'precious' while scratching behind my ears."
"Yes," Harry confirmed with merciless cheerfulness. "You were adorable. Everyone agreed. Very yappy, but adorable."
Loki's expression suggested he was experiencing several levels of existential crisis simultaneously. "I... enjoyed the ear scratching," he admitted with the hollow voice of someone confronting uncomfortable truths about themselves. "And the treats. The treats were actually quite good."
"Character development," Tonks announced with obvious satisfaction. "Nothing builds humility quite like discovering you genuinely enjoyed being a pampered lapdog."
Before Loki could formulate a response that preserved any shred of his dignity, the Great Hall's massive doors crashed open with the force of divine authority exercised through superior carpentry.
Odin strode in with Gungnir striking the crystalline floor in perfect rhythm, his single blue eye blazing with the kind of paternal fury that had probably terrified generations of misbehaving princes. Frigga followed with more grace but equal determination, her expression suggesting that motherly patience had reached its absolute limits.
"LOKI!" Odin's voice boomed across the hall with enough force to wake every unconscious reveler simultaneously. "Your... recreational choices during last evening's feast have been brought to our attention. Along with detailed reports of your current... compromising discovery."
Thor jerked awake from his position across the tilted table, hammer materializing in his hand with the automatic response of someone whose subconscious was always ready for combat. "What—Father—I was merely—"
He processed the scene: Loki standing disheveled and mortified, Lady Astrid clutching an expensive bracelet while looking confused, and Harry standing with his wives like the world's most attractive disaster management team.
"Oh," Thor said with dawning understanding and barely suppressed laughter. "Oh, this is magnificent."
Odin's gaze swept across his younger son with the weight of millennia of disappointed parenting. "Loki Laufeyson, your behavior—both as mischief god and apparently as household pet—has exceeded even our considerable tolerance for your particular brand of chaos. You will be escorted immediately to the palace dungeons pending formal judgment regarding your recent invasion of Midgard, your attempted manipulation of the Tesseract, your alliance with the Chitauri, and—" he paused significantly "—your complete inability to maintain appropriate boundaries even while transformed into a Chihuahua."
Frigga stepped forward with maternal authority that somehow made divine judgment look like concerned parenting. "We will discuss your behavioral patterns at length, my son. Though I confess myself unsurprised that even canine transformation failed to moderate your talent for creating awkward situations."
Loki opened his mouth, probably to deliver some silver-tongued defense, but apparently his recent experiences had temporarily short-circuited his legendary rhetorical abilities. He simply stood there, looking like a prince who'd just discovered that cosmic humiliation was both thorough and educational.
"I... have no defense," he finally admitted with hollow resignation. "I was a dog. I enjoyed being a dog. And I apparently chose to sleep in a location that created maximum embarrassment upon restoration to proper form." He paused. "I may require therapy. Extensive therapy."
"Dungeons first," Odin declared with the finality of continental drift. "Therapy later. Guards!"
Several Asgardian guards—who had apparently been waiting just outside the Great Hall for precisely this moment—entered with professional efficiency. They approached Loki with the careful attention of people who had learned through experience that even disgraced princes required significant security protocols.
As they began escorting him toward his inevitable imprisonment, Loki turned back toward Harry with an expression that combined grudging respect, genuine horror, and what might have been the beginning of actual character growth.
"Potter," he said quietly, "your educational methods are... effective. Devastatingly, humiliatingly, psychologically scarring effective." He paused. "I find myself genuinely uncertain whether I should thank you or declare eternal enmity."
Harry's smile was pure weaponized British charm. "Why not both? Keeps things interesting."
Loki actually laughed—a genuine sound rather than his usual theatrical performance. "Indeed. Perhaps imprisonment will provide adequate time for processing... recent revelations about my capacity for canine contentment."
As the guards led him away toward whatever dungeons Asgard maintained for housing misbehaving princes, the Great Hall began its gradual return to consciousness. Warriors groaned, maidens stretched, and approximately three dozen hangovers achieved simultaneous manifestation with the force of natural disasters.
Thor rose unsteadily to his feet, his cape tangled around his massive frame like golden seaweed. "Did I... did I just witness my brother admit to enjoying life as a lapdog?"
"You did," Harry confirmed cheerfully. "Along with the inevitable awkward awakening when we restored him to proper size while he was... let's say 'optimally positioned' for maximum embarrassment."
Thor's booming laughter rolled across the hall like friendly thunder. "By the Norns! This day is already legendary! The tale of Loki the Contented Chihuahua shall echo through the Nine Realms for centuries!"
Sif shook her head with warrior's practicality, though her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "Only in Asgard could divine imprisonment be preceded by canine sleeping arrangements and accidental motorboating."
"Only in Asgard?" Hermione asked with scholarly precision. "I'm fairly certain this level of chaos is universal constant wherever Loki exists."
As the Great Hall slowly returned to something resembling normal function—with servants appearing to clear away the wreckage of last evening's feast while the various warriors and maidens attempted to piece together exactly what had happened and why they were waking up in such undignified positions—Harry and his wives gathered for a moment of relative privacy.
"Well," Daphne said with aristocratic understatement, "that was certainly an educational morning. Dimensional tea acquisition, missing prince recovery, accidental intimate positioning, and successful diplomatic incident resolution before breakfast. Rather typical for us, really."
"We should probably discuss departure arrangements," Susan added with practical concern. "Thor will need time to complete his business regarding Loki's formal sentencing, and we should coordinate our return to Earth before anyone decides our presence creates additional diplomatic complications."
Tonks grinned with characteristic enthusiasm. "Plus I really want to tell Tony about the Chihuahua incident. The look on his face will be absolutely priceless."
Luna tilted her head with dreamy wisdom. "The probability matrices suggest optimal departure timing within the next six hours, allowing for proper farewells, final diplomatic courtesies, and sufficient temporal buffer to avoid Amora's next attempt at social interaction."
Harry sipped his impossibly acquired tea with the satisfaction of someone whose cosmic responsibilities regularly included managing situations that exceeded reasonable expectations while maintaining perfect British composure.
"Right then," he said with that devastating combination of authority and amusement, "let's coordinate our departure, say our proper goodbyes, and return to Earth where hopefully the worst thing we'll face is Tony's insufferable smugness about his portal technology."
His wives exchanged knowing glances that suggested they all understood that "hopefully" was doing considerable optimistic heavy lifting in that statement.
But for now, they had tea, they had successfully resolved the Loki situation through creative education, and they had gained what might actually become a genuine friendship with Lady Sif—assuming she could handle the full complexity of joining their already unconventional family structure.
All in all, not a bad morning's work for Death's Champions.
Even if it did involve more accidental motorboating than anyone had reasonably anticipated.
—
The Great Hall had achieved something approaching civilized functionality by mid-morning, though "civilized" by Asgardian standards still involved approximately three dozen warriors nursing hangovers that could probably be classified as meteorological events, several overturned tables that no one had bothered to right, and at least one tapestry that had somehow caught fire during the night and was still smoldering gently in the corner.
Harry stood with his wives in a relatively clear section near the massive windows, golden morning light streaming across crystalline floors and illuminating the aftermath of what Thor would undoubtedly describe as "a feast worthy of legend" and what any reasonable health and safety inspector would describe as "grounds for immediate venue closure pending extensive structural review."
Hermione had conjured a practical planning table from somewhere—possibly dimensional storage, possibly creative transfiguration, possibly just academic determination made manifest—and was organizing their departure logistics with the same crisp efficiency she brought to everything from cosmic crisis management to grocery shopping.
"Right," she announced, tapping the crystalline surface with one finger to emphasize key points, her amber eyes bright with organizational satisfaction. "Thor's indicated he'll need approximately six hours to complete formal proceedings regarding Loki's sentencing and coordinate with the Allfather about ongoing security protocols. That gives us a departure window sometime after midday, assuming no additional diplomatic complications arise."
"Diplomatic complications," Daphne repeated with aristocratic skepticism, her platinum hair catching the morning light as she arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You mean like yesterday's attempted mental manipulation by Asgard's resident enchantress? Or the accidental motorboating incident that required memory modification and expensive jewelry as diplomatic compensation? That sort of complication?"
"Exactly those sorts," Hermione confirmed without missing a beat. "Though I'm cautiously optimistic that we've exhausted Asgard's capacity for generating novel forms of chaos, at least for the immediate future."
Tonks snorted with obvious skepticism, her violet hair shifting to doubtful shades of purple-gray. "Love, we're standing in a palace where the God of Mischief just spent twelve hours as a Chihuahua who chose to sleep in someone's cleavage. I don't think 'exhausted capacity for chaos' is a phrase that applies to this realm under any circumstances."
"The probability matrices support Tonks' assessment," Luna added with dreamy certainty, her pale eyes distant as she consulted temporal information visible only to her. "Asgard generates chaos at approximately 47% higher baseline rates than Earth, with significant probability spikes during feast conditions, family gatherings, and any situation involving Loki in any form."
Susan leaned against the planning table with practical concern, her red hair gleaming like captured flame in the golden light. "More importantly, we should coordinate with the Avengers about our return. Tony's probably already rebuilt his portal generator three times and is working on version four with increasingly unnecessary features."
"Knowing Stark," Harry said with fond exasperation, his emerald eyes glinting with amusement, "he's added holographic displays, a sound system that plays AC/DC during dimensional transit, and possibly an espresso machine. Because apparently interdimensional travel requires premium coffee service."
"To be fair," Hermione observed with scholarly precision, "premium coffee service does improve most experiences, including potentially traumatic ones like stepping through unstable wormholes that might accidentally deposit you in alternate dimensions where physics works differently."
The conversation was interrupted by the distinctive sound of armored footsteps approaching with purpose—not the heavy tread of guards performing routine patrols, but the measured, confident gait of someone whose warrior training made even walking look like tactical preparation for immediate combat.
Lady Sif emerged from behind a fallen tapestry, her dark eyes bright with morning clarity despite the previous evening's festivities, her armor gleaming with fresh polish that suggested she'd been awake for hours performing morning weapon maintenance and possibly some aggressive training to work through complicated feelings about recent social developments.
"Lord Potter," she said, her husky voice carrying across the Great Hall with warrior's directness, "might I... interrupt your departure planning? There are matters I would discuss before you depart for Midgard."
Harry turned toward her with that devastating smile that managed to be both welcoming and slightly concerned, his posture shifting into something more open and attentive. "Of course, Lady Sif. Though I should warn you that our departure planning typically involves considerable debate about optimal timing, necessary diplomatic courtesies, and whether Tony Stark's latest technological innovations will accidentally create temporal paradoxes."
Sif's lips quirked into something that might have been a smile, though it carried the careful control of someone approaching sensitive topics with tactical precision. "I confess myself less concerned about Stark's technological ambitions and more interested in... the possibility of extending your stay in Asgard."
The statement hung in the golden air like a diplomatic proposal wrapped in personal interest, and Harry's wives immediately shifted their attention from departure logistics to this significantly more intriguing development.
"Extending our stay?" Daphne asked with aristocratic interest that barely concealed growing curiosity, her ice-blue eyes tracking Sif's expression with the precision of someone trained to read complex social dynamics. "For what purpose, if you don't mind my asking?"
Sif straightened her shoulders with warrior's courage, as though preparing to charge into battle against forces that exceeded normal tactical parameters. "To give me—to give all of us—time to better understand your... family structure. Your relationship dynamics. The practical reality of what joining such an arrangement would actually mean."
She paused, processing her own directness, then continued with admirable honesty. "Yesterday evening provided insights into your coordination, your mutual protection, your obvious affection for each other. But witnessing something during crisis situations and actually experiencing the daily reality are entirely different matters."
"You want a trial period," Susan said with warm understanding, her maternal instincts immediately recognizing the wisdom in Sif's approach. "Time to see if the theoretical compatibility matches the practical reality before making commitments that would affect everyone involved."
"Precisely," Sif confirmed with obvious relief at being understood. "I am... drawn to Lord Potter in ways I find both exhilarating and somewhat terrifying, if I'm being completely honest. But I'm also aware that pursuing him means accepting all of you, becoming part of something rather larger than traditional romantic partnerships."
Her dark eyes moved across each of them with careful assessment. "I would know you. Not just as allies or friendly acquaintances, but as potential... family, I suppose. Sisters, perhaps, though Asgard lacks precise terminology for relationships that exist outside conventional marriage structures."
Hermione leaned forward with scholarly enthusiasm that made academic interest look like genuine warmth, her amber eyes bright with appreciation for Sif's methodical approach. "That's remarkably sensible, actually. Most people either rush into things based on physical attraction or spend so long overthinking possibilities that opportunities pass entirely. You're proposing something balanced—extended proximity that allows natural relationship development without artificial pressure."
"Plus," Tonks added with characteristic bluntness wrapped in genuine support, "it means we get to actually know you too. Because you're absolutely right—loving Harry means accepting all of us. But it also means we need to genuinely care about you, trust you, enjoy your company beyond crisis management and formal dinners."
Luna tilted her head with dreamy wisdom, her pale eyes showing glimpses of probability matrices resolving themselves into pleasing configurations. "The time-streams suggest considerable compatibility potential, but the optimal pathways require approximately four to six days of sustained social interaction across varied contexts—formal settings, casual conversation, shared meals, collaborative activities, and periods of comfortable silence."
"Four to six days?" Harry repeated with British practicality that barely concealed his obvious interest in spending more time with the formidable Asgardian warrior. "That's... actually quite specific temporal precision, Luna."
"The probability mathematics are quite clear," Luna replied with serene certainty. "Less than three days provides insufficient data for informed decisions. More than seven days risks creating artificial relationship dynamics based on extended guest protocols rather than genuine connection."
Before anyone could respond to Luna's temporal relationship advice, the Great Hall's atmosphere shifted with the weight of divine attention manifesting in physical space. The massive doors opened with ceremonial precision—not crashing dramatically as they had earlier, but swinging smoothly on hinges that probably predated human civilization, announcing arrivals of significant importance.
Thor strode in first with his characteristic enthusiasm barely contained by morning formality, his cape billowing with that particular dramatic flair that suggested even walking was an opportunity for theatrical presentation. His blue eyes blazed with genuine warmth as he spotted Harry and his wives.
"My friends!" he boomed, his voice carrying across the crystalline expanse with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever discovering that everyone he loved was in the same room. "I trust the morning finds you well-rested and adequately supplied with sustenance appropriate for Earth palates?"
"We conjured tea," Harry replied with aristocratic understatement, gesturing toward their impossible breakfast service. "Luna did something with dimensional storage and temporal manipulation. The specifics remain somewhat mysterious."
"Excellent! Mysteries are the spice that seasons life's feast!" Thor declared with the absolute conviction of someone who had never met a metaphor he couldn't mix enthusiastically. "Though I confess myself surprised to find you gathered thus—I had expected you might still be abed, recovering from yesterday's... comprehensive celebration of friendship and appropriate behavior modification."
Behind Thor came the Warriors Three, each moving with their characteristic styles—Volstagg's jovial confidence that suggested he'd already consumed enough breakfast to supply a small army, Fandral's aristocratic grace that made even morning grogginess look like aesthetic choice, and Hogun's granite solemnity that probably remained constant regardless of time, circumstance, or cosmic intervention.
"Lord Potter," Fandral said with a courtly bow that managed to convey both respect and that roguish charm that had made him legendary, "might I express my profound hope that yesterday's festivities did not create undue complications requiring your premature departure? Asgard rarely hosts guests of such... distinguished capabilities and entertaining social dynamics."
Volstagg nodded enthusiastically, his magnificent beard practically bouncing with agreement. "Indeed! Your presence has enlivened our halls in ways we have not experienced since—well, since the last time Thor brought home something that wasn't supposed to be domesticated! Though I confess you lot are significantly better at conversation and considerably less likely to eat the furniture!"
"That was ONE time," Thor protested with wounded dignity, "and the creature was clearly malnourished and required immediate assistance! How was I to know it considered royal tapestries an acceptable food source?"
"It ate three tapestries depicting the founding of Asgard," Hogun observed with his characteristic granite delivery, "and attempted to consume Odin's ceremonial staff before being diplomatically relocated to environments more suited to its dietary requirements."
Harry's emerald eyes glinted with barely suppressed laughter, his Soul Stone perception showing him that this was clearly a well-worn story that the Warriors Three enjoyed retelling at every opportunity. "I promise we're considerably less likely to consume royal furnishings, though I make no guarantees about Tonks during extended social events. Her appetite for chaos occasionally manifests in unusual ways."
"Oi!" Tonks protested with cheerful offense, her violet hair flashing indignant shades of red. "I only set fire to that one tapestry, and it was already damaged! Plus it improved the color scheme! The previous design was terrible—all those muddy browns and depressing greys!"
Before anyone could explore the fascinating topic of Tonks' interior decorating philosophy through controlled arson, the atmosphere shifted again with even more significant weight. The Warriors Three immediately straightened into formal attention with the automatic response of people whose survival instincts had been honed through centuries of divine court dynamics.
Odin entered with Frigga at his side, Gungnir striking the crystalline floor in measured rhythm that made even the morning light seem to pulse in synchronization with cosmic authority made manifest. His single blue eye swept across the assembled group with the thoroughness of someone cataloging every detail for future strategic reference.
"Champions of Midgard," Odin's voice boomed with divine gravitas that made the very air seem heavier, each word weighted with eons of accumulated authority, "we understand you contemplate departure from our realm. While we appreciate your respect for diplomatic protocol and your consideration of our hospitality's limitations, we find ourselves... reluctant to see such distinguished guests depart quite so precipitously."
Frigga's smile was warm and maternal as she stepped forward with grace that made even walking look like an art form perfected across millennia. "Indeed, my lord husband speaks truth. Your presence has brought... considerable entertainment to our halls." Her eyes sparkled with genuine amusement. "Along with innovative approaches to justice, memorable educational demonstrations, and the most unusual sleeping arrangements we've witnessed in several centuries."
"Not to mention," Odin continued with what might have been the faintest hint of humor beneath his divine authority, "you have successfully managed what we ourselves have struggled to achieve across multiple millennia—making our younger son genuinely question his behavioral choices through methods that didn't require imprisonment, exile, or elaborate magical punishments that inevitably backfired in spectacular fashion."
Thor bounded forward with enthusiasm that made his armor rattle, his massive frame radiating joy at the prospect of extended time with his Earth allies. "Father speaks wisdom! You must stay! There is so much of Asgard you have not yet experienced—the training grounds where warriors perfect their skills across centuries of practice! The Great Library containing knowledge accumulated from across the Nine Realms! The gardens where Mother cultivates plants that exist in multiple dimensions simultaneously!"
"The feasting halls," Volstagg added with the dreamy expression of someone whose primary love language was premium cuisine, "where master chefs prepare dishes using ingredients that don't technically exist in your realm's physics! The experience is transcendent!"
"The armories," Sif contributed with warrior's enthusiasm, her dark eyes bright with genuine interest, "containing weapons forged by master craftsmen whose techniques predate human civilization! I would be... honored to demonstrate Asgardian combat techniques, should you be interested in such cultural exchange."
Harry exchanged glances with his wives, that wordless communication carrying volumes of shared consideration, tactical assessment, and mutual recognition that this represented an opportunity for relationship development that exceeded mere political convenience.
*Well,* Daphne observed through their mental bond with aristocratic pragmatism, *we did just establish that Sif wants extended time to properly evaluate whether joining our unconventional family structure represents genuine compatibility or merely crisis-induced infatuation.*
*Plus the Allfather himself has extended the invitation,* Hermione added with scholarly precision about diplomatic hierarchies. *Refusing would represent significant breach of protocol, possibly create offense, and definitely miss opportunities for cultural exchange that could benefit future Earth-Asgard relations.*
*And honestly,* Susan contributed with maternal warmth, *Sif seems genuinely sincere about wanting to know us beyond crisis management and formal dinners. That deserves respect and appropriate time investment.*
*The probability matrices strongly favor acceptance,* Luna confirmed with dreamy certainty. *The optimal timeline branches involve approximately five days of Asgardian hospitality, during which relationship foundations are properly established, cultural exchange occurs, and everyone discovers whether theoretical compatibility matches practical reality.*
*Plus,* Tonks added with characteristic enthusiasm barely contained by mental communication protocols, *Asgardian training grounds sound absolutely brilliant. I bet their combat techniques involve significantly more property damage than Earth protocols typically allow.*
Harry turned back toward Odin with that devastating smile that had convinced Dark Lords to surrender and goddesses to reconsider their evening plans, his emerald eyes carrying genuine warmth beneath cosmic authority.
"Your Majesty," he said with aristocratic courtesy that somehow made acceptance sound like conferring favor rather than receiving it, "we would be honored to extend our stay and experience more of Asgard's legendary hospitality. Though I feel compelled to mention that our presence tends to generate unexpected complications—yesterday's Chihuahua incident being merely the most recent example of our talent for creating memorable situations that exceed normal expectations."
"Complications," Odin replied with something that might have been a smile beneath his divine gravitas, "are the price of hosting guests whose capabilities exceed conventional parameters. We consider it... acceptable risk for the entertainment value alone."
Frigga's laugh was musical and genuine, transforming her features into something that radiated maternal warmth capable of melting even the coldest hearts. "Indeed! The tale of Loki the Contented Chihuahua shall echo through Asgard's halls for centuries, bringing joy to generations yet unborn. That alone justifies any complications your continued presence might generate."
Thor clapped Harry on the shoulder with enough enthusiasm to rattle several nearby crystalline pillars, his grin threatening to outshine Asgard's golden spires. "YES! This is magnificent! We shall show you wonders beyond mortal imagination! Train together in techniques perfected across millennia! Share tales of valor over mead that would make lesser beings question the fundamental nature of reality itself!"
"Plus," Sif added with careful hope that barely concealed obvious personal interest, "it would give us time to properly... become acquainted. All of us. In contexts beyond crisis management and formal court presentations."
Her dark eyes met Harry's emerald gaze with warrior's directness wrapped in vulnerability, making it clear that this wasn't merely political convenience or royal command—this was personal desire to understand whether theoretical attraction could transform into genuine connection.
Harry's smile softened into something warmer, more intimate, carrying depths of appreciation for Sif's honest approach to complicated relationship dynamics. "I believe that would be... welcome. For all of us."
He glanced back at his wives, seeing their various expressions of support, interest, and obvious satisfaction at witnessing their husband handle delicate social negotiations with his characteristic combination of cosmic authority and devastating British charm.
"Then it's settled!" Odin declared with divine finality that made the decision feel like cosmic law rather than mere social coordination. "The Champions of Midgard shall remain as honored guests for—" he glanced at Luna with what might have been amusement "—shall we say five days? That appears to be the optimal duration according to probability matrices and temporal mathematics, if I understand correctly."
Luna beamed with dreamy satisfaction at having her calculations validated by the Allfather himself. "Precisely five days provides optimal conditions for relationship development, cultural exchange, and discovery of whether theoretical compatibility matches practical reality across varied social contexts."
"Five days of Asgardian hospitality," Daphne mused with aristocratic consideration. "I suppose that means we'll need to coordinate with Earth regarding our extended absence. The Avengers might have opinions about their newest members conducting extended diplomatic missions without advance notice."
"I shall personally contact Heimdall," Thor offered with characteristic enthusiasm for solving practical problems through divine authority, "and request he relay messages to your realm! Stark's mechanical servants can surely receive communications explaining your continued presence in Asgard for purposes of cultural exchange and... relationship exploration."
His grin suggested he understood exactly what type of "relationship exploration" was being diplomatically discussed, and found the entire situation magnificently entertaining.
"Right then," Harry said with British practicality wrapped in obvious satisfaction at how this situation had resolved itself. "Five days of Asgardian hospitality, comprehensive cultural exchange, weapons training, legendary cuisine, dimensional gardens, and—most importantly—proper time for getting to know Lady Sif beyond crisis management and accidental motorboating incidents."
"THAT WAS ONE TIME," Loki's voice echoed faintly from whatever dungeon he currently occupied, apparently having either escaped or been positioned close enough to hear Great Hall conversations, "AND ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT FOR THE TIMING OF MY RESTORATION!"
"The dungeons," Hogun observed with granite practicality, "may require additional soundproofing. The prince's complaints are becoming... persistent."
"Let him complain," Odin declared with the dismissive authority of someone whose parenting had survived multiple apocalypses and occasional realm-conquering attempts. "Perhaps extended contemplation of his recent behavioral choices will encourage genuine character development. Though I confess myself skeptical based on several millennia of evidence suggesting otherwise."
Frigga's expression softened with maternal affection that somehow encompassed both exasperation and unconditional love. "He is young yet, my lord. Perhaps this particular lesson will prove more effective than previous attempts at behavioral modification."
"He's several centuries old," Volstagg observed with characteristic bluntness.
"Young by Asgardian standards," Frigga clarified with perfect composure. "Adolescence extends considerably when one possesses divine lifespan and access to cosmic mischief-making tools."
As the morning stretched toward midday and the Great Hall gradually achieved something resembling normal function—with servants clearing away the last remnants of feast chaos while warriors recovered from hangovers that would become legendary in their own right—the Champions of Midgard found themselves committed to an extended stay in Asgard.
Five days to explore the realm of gods, train with legendary warriors, experience cuisine that defied normal physics, and—most significantly—discover whether Lady Sif's obvious interest in Harry could transform into genuine connection with his entire unconventional family.
The morning had started with interdimensional tea, missing Chihuahua princes, and accidental intimate positioning requiring diplomatic resolution.
It was ending with extended hospitality, royal blessing for relationship exploration, and the promise of adventures that would probably exceed everyone's expectations for entertainment value.
Just another typical morning for Death's Champions.
Though admittedly, the accommodations were significantly more luxurious than their usual post-crisis situations, and the company considerably more attractive than average cosmic complications typically provided.
"Right," Harry said with devastating British understatement that made extended diplomatic missions sound like casual weekend plans, "shall we discuss proper accommodation arrangements, training schedules, and whether Asgardian breakfast service includes adequately prepared tea? Because I have standards regarding morning beverages, and I'd hate for our extended stay to be marred by suboptimal Earl Grey preparation."
Thor's booming laugh echoed across the Great Hall with genuine delight. "Oh, my friend, I assure you—Asgard's hospitality extends even to the most demanding British tea protocols! Though I confess myself curious whether your standards exceed Mother's legendary attention to beverage perfection!"
"Challenge accepted," Frigga said with maternal amusement that somehow made competitive tea preparation sound like wholesome family bonding.
The next five days were going to be absolutely legendary.
Or possibly catastrophic.
Probably both.
Definitely entertaining.
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