The guest quarters assigned to the Champions of Midgard were, in Harry's professional opinion developed through years of evaluating magical architecture, absolutely ridiculous in their opulence. The suite occupied an entire wing of the palace, with crystalline walls that shifted between transparency and opacity based on occupant preference, floors that maintained perfect temperature regardless of external conditions, and furniture that appeared to have been carved from solidified starlight by artisans who considered "excessive grandeur" a starting point rather than a destination.
"Well," Harry observed, his emerald eyes sweeping across the vast space with that particular British restraint that made even genuine amazement sound like polite acknowledgment, "this is certainly... comprehensive. I don't suppose there's a modest cottage option? Perhaps something that doesn't make Buckingham Palace look like a garden shed by comparison?"
Frigga, who had personally escorted them to their accommodations with the sort of maternal attention that suggested she took guest comfort as seriously as most people took cosmic crisis management, laughed with genuine warmth.
"I'm afraid Asgard's definition of 'modest' differs somewhat from Midgardian expectations, Lord Potter," she said, her golden braids catching the ethereal light as she gestured toward the various chambers branching off from the central living space. "Each of you has private quarters should you desire solitude, though the common areas are designed for... collaborative use." Her smile suggested she understood exactly what type of "collaborative use" might occur. "The bathing chambers utilize water from dimensional springs that maintain optimal temperature and possess certain... restorative properties that should prove beneficial after training sessions."
"Dimensional springs," Hermione repeated with scholarly fascination barely concealed by diplomatic courtesy, her amber eyes brightening with academic interest. "That implies stable portals to alternate reality layers where fundamental properties of matter operate according to different physical constants. The engineering implications alone—"
"Can be explored later, love," Daphne interrupted with aristocratic pragmatism, though her own ice-blue eyes held obvious interest in the magical architecture. "Perhaps after we've established basic operational parameters like sleeping arrangements and whether Asgardian breakfast service meets Harry's notoriously specific tea requirements."
"My tea requirements," Harry protested with wounded dignity, "are not *notoriously* specific. They're merely... refined. There's a significant difference between being particular and being unreasonable."
"You once refused to drink tea that was thirty seconds past optimal steeping temperature," Susan pointed out with warm amusement, her red hair gleaming in the crystalline light. "And declared it 'barely fit for cleaning purposes' before vanishing the entire pot rather than subject yourself to inferior beverage quality."
"It was Earl Grey," Harry replied as though this explained everything. "Standards must be maintained, especially regarding morning stimulants that determine one's entire approach to daily crisis management."
Tonks flopped dramatically onto what appeared to be a sofa carved from captured aurora, her violet hair shifting to interested shades of gold as she tested the furniture's comfort levels. "Right, so Harry's tea obsession aside—and it is an obsession, mate, don't argue—we should probably discuss sleeping arrangements before Sif arrives for whatever 'getting to know you' activities Thor's probably planning."
Luna drifted toward the windows with her characteristic otherworldly grace, pale eyes distant as she consulted temporal information visible only to her enhanced perception. "The probability matrices suggest Sif will arrive in approximately forty-three minutes bearing what she believes are appropriate gifts for extended guests—likely weapons, because Asgardian hospitality apparently operates on the principle that nothing says 'welcome' quite like premium violence tools."
"Weapons as gifts," Hermione mused with academic consideration. "Actually rather practical, given that our hosts are divine warriors for whom combat capability represents both professional competence and social currency. Though I suppose we should reciprocate with something equally meaningful from Earth's cultural perspective."
"We could give her one of Tony's prototype energy weapons," Tonks suggested with cheerful irreverence. "Nothing says 'thank you for hosting us' quite like experimental technology that might accidentally create dimensional rifts if mishandled."
"Or," Daphne countered with aristocratic practicality, "we could offer something that demonstrates Earth's magical traditions without requiring extensive safety protocols or potential evacuation procedures. Perhaps a properly enchanted blade from Harry's collection?"
Harry's expression shifted into genuine consideration, his Soul Stone perception already cataloguing which weapons from his extensive armory would represent appropriate gifts for an Asgardian warrior interested in joining their unconventional family. "Actually, I have a ceremonial dagger that Gringotts authenticated as pre-Roman British craftsmanship, enhanced with preservation charms and sharpness enchantments that have maintained effectiveness for approximately two thousand years. Would demonstrate Earth's magical heritage while having practical utility."
"Perfect," Susan approved with maternal satisfaction at watching her husband navigate complex gift-giving protocols with typical Potter competence. "Thoughtful, practical, carries cultural significance, and shows respect for her warrior traditions."
Before anyone could continue this discussion of appropriate diplomatic gift-giving, a soft chime resonated through the quarters—apparently Asgard's version of a doorbell, though it sounded more like crystal singing than mechanical notification.
"That would be Sif," Luna announced unnecessarily, her temporal awareness having already confirmed the arrival. "Seventeen minutes earlier than predicted, which suggests either increased enthusiasm or nervous energy manifesting as compulsive punctuality. Both outcomes carry positive implications for relationship development."
Harry moved toward the entrance with fluid grace, his wives arranging themselves in casual formation that somehow managed to be both welcoming and subtly protective—a family unit receiving a guest who might become something more, if circumstances and genuine compatibility aligned.
The door opened to reveal Lady Sif in what Harry assumed was Asgardian casual attire—which still involved enough leather, metal clasps, and strategic armor plating to make Earth's fashion designers weep with envy or confusion. She held a long object wrapped in what appeared to be cloth woven from captured starlight, her dark eyes bright with carefully controlled excitement.
"Lord Potter. Ladies," she greeted with warrior's formality that couldn't quite conceal the vulnerability underneath. "I hope my arrival doesn't interrupt important matters requiring privacy or coordination?"
"Not at all," Harry replied with that devastating smile that had convinced Dark Lords to surrender and goddesses to reconsider their evening plans. "We were just discussing sleeping arrangements and appropriate gift-giving protocols. Please, come in. Our quarters appear designed to accommodate small armies or possibly very enthusiastic house parties, so there's certainly room for civilized conversation."
Sif entered with warrior's awareness cataloguing every detail—exits, defensive positions, potential threats, and probably the structural integrity of load-bearing crystalline walls. Her professional assessment gradually softened as she took in the family dynamics visible in how the Champions arranged themselves around their shared space.
"I brought—" she began, then paused as though reconsidering her prepared speech. "This is... more difficult than facing frost giants in single combat. At least with frost giants, the appropriate response involves violence and tactical positioning. With this..." She gestured vaguely at the entire situation. "I'm uncertain what constitutes proper protocol."
"Honesty," Hermione said with scholarly directness that made complicated social situations sound manageable through superior communication. "Just... say what you're thinking. We prefer direct conversation over elaborate social performance."
Sif's shoulders relaxed fractionally, as though permission to abandon formal protocols represented significant relief. "Very well. Honesty." She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a sword that made even Harry's extensive weapons collection seem pedestrian—blade forged from metal that seemed to hold captured lightning, hilt wrapped in materials that probably didn't exist in Earth's periodic table, pommel set with a gem that pulsed with what appeared to be actual stellar core matter.
"This is Bright-Edge," Sif said, her voice carrying the reverence warriors reserved for truly legendary weapons. "Forged by Asgard's master smiths four centuries ago, enhanced with enchantments that maintain perfect sharpness across any material, capable of cutting through most magical barriers, and bonded to respond only to wielders it deems worthy of its capabilities."
She extended it toward Harry with both hands, the gesture carrying ceremonial weight that transcended mere gift-giving. "I offer this as token of... serious intent regarding my interest in your family. Among Asgardian warriors, presenting weapons to potential partners represents commitment to shared battles, acknowledgment of equal worth, and promise of mutual protection."
The silence that followed carried profound significance, everyone present understanding that this wasn't merely expensive hospitality—this was Sif declaring genuine intention to pursue something meaningful rather than casual exploration of physical attraction.
Harry accepted the blade with appropriate reverence, his enhanced senses immediately recognizing the weapon's quality and the symbolic weight of its presentation. The sword hummed in his grip, as though conducting its own assessment of his worthiness, before settling into comfortable resonance that suggested approval.
"Lady Sif," he said, his voice carrying that devastating combination of cosmic authority and genuine warmth, "this is... extraordinary. Both the weapon itself and what it represents." His emerald eyes held hers with unwavering focus. "I accept this gift with full understanding of its implications. And I offer this in return—"
He produced the ceremonial dagger with practiced flourish, the ancient blade catching the crystalline light as two millennia of magical preservation made it gleam like new. "Pre-Roman British craftsmanship, enhanced with preservation and sharpness enchantments maintained by my family's magical traditions across generations. Among Earth's magical communities, presenting ancestral weapons represents commitment to shared legacy, acknowledgment of trust, and promise of mutual defense."
Sif accepted the dagger with obvious appreciation for both craftsmanship and symbolic meaning, her warrior's instincts immediately cataloguing its balance, edge geometry, and magical resonance. "Beautiful. Deadly. Ancient yet perfectly maintained." She looked up, her dark eyes holding depths of genuine emotion. "I accept this gift and its implications. Though I confess myself still somewhat terrified by what I've committed to pursuing."
"Good," Tonks said with cheerful bluntness that somehow made serious relationship discussions feel less intimidating. "Healthy fear suggests you understand the scope of what you're considering. Blind confidence would worry us significantly more than honest nervousness."
"The probability matrices favor outcomes where initial vulnerability transforms into genuine connection," Luna added with dreamy certainty. "Though the optimal pathways require approximately four point three more days of varied social interaction across different contexts and stress levels."
"Four point three days," Sif repeated with what might have been amusement beneath her warrior's composure. "Remarkably precise temporal projection for something as unpredictable as relationship development."
"Luna's temporal mathematics," Harry explained with fond exasperation, "tend toward precision that exceeds normal expectations. We've learned to trust her probability assessments, even when they involve decimal points and confidence intervals that sound more appropriate for engineering specifications than emotional compatibility."
Daphne gestured toward the various seating options with aristocratic hospitality. "Perhaps we should sit, share some of the tea that Harry's undoubtedly already preparing using whatever dimensional storage Luna's hidden away, and actually talk? Novel approach, I know, but sometimes direct conversation works better than elaborate ceremonies."
As if summoned by the mere mention, a complete tea service materialized on the crystalline table—cups, saucers, steaming pot that somehow maintained optimal temperature, and accompaniments that suggested Luna had raided either Asgard's kitchens or possibly alternate dimensions where British tea service existed in perfected form.
"How did you—?" Sif started, then shook her head with warrior's pragmatism about accepting impossible things. "Never mind. I'm learning not to question the mechanisms when the results are clearly effective."
"Wise approach," Susan agreed with warm approval. "Luna's methods often exceed normal comprehension, but her outcomes are consistently reliable. We've stopped asking for detailed explanations and started simply appreciating the convenience."
The next several hours passed in conversation that gradually shifted from formal courtesy to genuine connection—Sif sharing stories of centuries spent as Asgard's greatest warrior, the Champions describing their various adventures across Earth's magical and mundane conflicts, everyone discovering shared values regarding protection, loyalty, and the appropriate application of violence when diplomatic options failed.
By evening, when Thor arrived with characteristic enthusiasm to announce dinner arrangements and proposed training schedules for the following day, the atmosphere had transformed from careful assessment to comfortable camaraderie.
"I see you're all becoming properly acquainted!" Thor boomed with obvious satisfaction at witnessing his friends developing genuine connection. "Excellent! Tomorrow we shall demonstrate Asgard's training grounds—weapons practice, tactical exercises, possibly some light sparring that won't result in excessive property damage or require medical intervention!"
"Light sparring," Harry repeated with British skepticism. "Thor, your definition of 'light' typically involves structural damage and occasionally minor geological events."
"Only occasionally!" Thor protested with wounded dignity. "And the geological events were mostly accidental! How was I to know that particular practice field sat atop unstable dimensional barriers?"
"The warning signs posted in seventeen languages might have provided clues," Sif observed dryly, though her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement.
As the evening progressed toward what Asgardians apparently considered dinner time—which involved another feast that made Harry question whether their hosts understood the concept of "modest meals"—the foundations had been established.
Sif had made her intentions clear through both declaration and ceremonial gift-giving. Harry and his wives had accepted her interest with openness tempered by honest acknowledgment of their relationship's complexity. Everyone understood that the next four days would determine whether theoretical compatibility transformed into genuine connection.
And somewhere in Asgard's dungeons, Loki was probably plotting elaborate revenge while simultaneously processing recent revelations about his capacity for enjoying life as a pampered lapdog.
Just another day in the lives of Death's Champions.
Though admittedly, the accommodations were significantly better than their usual post-crisis situations, and the company considerably more attractive than average.
—
Dawn in Asgard arrived with the subtlety of golden thunder—light cascading across crystalline spires like molten glory determined to make sleep impossible through sheer magnificence. Harry, accustomed to Earth's more reasonable approach to sunrise, groaned with British dignity and attempted to bury his face in pillows that somehow remained perfectly comfortable despite being carved from materials that shouldn't logically qualify as fabric.
"Morning people should be illegal," he muttered into the cosmic bedding. "Especially morning people who also happen to be gods with enthusiasm regarding dawn training sessions."
"You say that every morning," Hermione pointed out with scholarly precision barely concealed by fond amusement, already dressed in practical training attire that somehow managed to look both functional and devastatingly attractive. "And every morning you somehow manage to become fully alert within minutes despite your theatrical protests."
"It's the principle of the thing," Harry replied with wounded dignity, finally surrendering to consciousness and reality's unreasonable demands regarding morning functionality. "If I don't complain about early wakings, the universe might interpret that as permission to make them even earlier."
Tonks bounded past wearing training gear that looked like someone had combined combat practicality with punk-rock aesthetic and declared the result perfectly appropriate for sparring with divine warriors, her violet hair already bright with morning enthusiasm.
"C'mon, Harry!" she called with that characteristic energy that suggested caffeine was merely theoretical requirement rather than absolute necessity. "Thor said the training grounds include weapons that predate human civilization, practice dummies that fight back with increasingly creative violence, and possibly some sort of dimensional obstacle course that adapts to user skill levels! This is going to be brilliant!"
"Brilliant," Harry agreed with dry British understatement as he began his own morning preparations, "is one word for 'potentially catastrophic training exercises that might accidentally create diplomatic incidents.' I can think of several others, most involving more creative profanity."
By the time the entire group had assembled—Harry and his five wives in practical training attire enhanced with subtle protective enchantments, because proper preparation was the difference between effective sparring and embarrassing medical evacuation—Thor was already waiting outside their quarters with the sort of barely contained enthusiasm that suggested restraining him had required significant diplomatic effort.
"My friends!" he boomed with volume that made the crystalline walls hum in sympathetic resonance. "Are you prepared to witness Asgard's legendary training facilities where warriors perfect their skills across centuries of dedicated practice?"
"As prepared as we're likely to be before adequate caffeine consumption," Harry replied with aristocratic restraint. "Though I notice you failed to mention whether 'legendary training facilities' includes reasonable safety protocols or merely assumes participants possess divine constitution capable of surviving enthusiastic accidents."
"Both!" Thor declared with the confidence of someone whose definition of safety involved significantly more acceptable risk than Earth's various regulatory agencies typically endorsed. "The training grounds possess healing stations positioned at strategic intervals, enchanted barriers that prevent lethal injury while allowing comprehensive violence, and medical staff standing by for situations requiring immediate divine intervention!"
"How reassuring," Daphne observed with aristocratic skepticism. "Nothing inspires confidence quite like training facilities that require on-site medical personnel as standard operating procedure."
Sif joined them with warrior's punctuality, her armor gleaming with fresh polish and her dark eyes bright with obvious anticipation. "Lord Potter. Ladies. I trust you slept well in your quarters? Asgard's accommodations meet your requirements?"
"The quarters," Harry confirmed with genuine appreciation, "are extraordinary. Though I confess myself uncertain whether crystalline walls that shift transparency based on occupant preference represent sophisticated privacy technology or somewhat disturbing surveillance capabilities."
"Privacy technology," Sif assured with warrior's directness. "Asgard's royal family learned centuries ago that monitoring guest quarters led to diplomatic complications requiring extensive apology ceremonies. The walls respond only to occupant intent, not external observation."
"Previous monitoring incidents?" Hermione asked with scholarly interest in historical precedent.
Sif's expression suggested she was accessing memories that ranged from amusing to mortifying. "Let us simply say that divine guests often engage in activities they prefer remain private, and observing such activities without permission creates situations requiring both formal apology and occasionally emergency treaty renegotiation."
"Understood," Harry said with British appreciation for diplomatic disasters narrowly avoided through superior architectural design. "Privacy enchantments that prevent accidental violations of basic social boundaries—remarkably sensible, actually."
The training grounds, when they finally arrived after traversing approximately seventeen different crystalline corridors that seemed designed by architects who considered "straight lines" a personal insult, exceeded even Thor's enthusiastic descriptions.
The space was vast—easily the size of several football fields—with various sections dedicated to different combat disciplines. Weapon racks lined the walls displaying everything from swords that hummed with barely contained power to spears that appeared forged from captured lightning. Practice dummies stood in organized formations, some stationary and others that appeared to be... moving? On their own? Without visible power sources?
"Are those training dummies alive?" Susan asked with practical concern about the ethical implications.
"Magically animated," Sif clarified with warrior's matter-of-fact explanation. "They adapt to user skill level, providing appropriate challenge without creating actual danger. Though I should mention they're programmed to be... enthusiastic in their defensive responses."
As if summoned by this description, one of the practice dummies suddenly pivoted and launched what appeared to be a training sword toward another dummy with enough force to create audible sonic displacement.
"Enthusiastic," Harry repeated dryly. "Yes, that's certainly one word for 'homicidal training equipment with aggression settings calibrated for divine constitution.'"
Thor clapped him on the shoulder with characteristic enthusiasm that nearly required emergency chiropractic intervention. "You will love it, my friend! Nothing sharpens combat skills quite like practice opponents that genuinely attempt to defeat you while maintaining non-lethal parameters!"
"How non-lethal are we talking?" Tonks asked with the sort of interested tone that suggested she found the violent training equipment more appealing than concerning.
"The enchantments prevent death or permanent injury," Sif explained with warrior's precision about acceptable risk parameters. "Though participants should expect comprehensive bruising, occasional dislocations that require immediate healing, and the sort of full-body soreness that makes one reconsider life choices regarding voluntary combat training."
"Excellent," Hermione said with what appeared to be genuine academic enthusiasm. "Proper consequences for tactical errors provide optimal learning conditions. Training that never hurts provides insufficient motivation for improvement."
Harry exchanged glances with his wives, that wordless communication carrying volumes about their collective assessment: this was going to be educational, potentially painful, and definitely entertaining for anyone watching their cosmic-enhanced capabilities meet Asgardian training protocols designed for divine warriors.
"Right then," he announced with British determination to meet unreasonable challenges through superior competence and stubborn refusal to admit defeat. "Shall we demonstrate why Death chose us as her Champions? I believe it's time Asgard discovered what Earth's magical traditions produce when properly motivated."
What followed was three hours of the most comprehensively violent training session Harry had experienced since fighting Voldemort—except this time, the violence was consensual, supervised, and designed to improve rather than kill.
The practice dummies adapted with terrifying efficiency to each Champion's skill level. What started as basic sword work rapidly escalated into complex multi-opponent scenarios that required tactical coordination, creative magic application, and occasionally desperate improvisation when the animated training equipment demonstrated capabilities that exceeded reasonable expectations.
Harry found himself facing five simultaneous opponents—dummies that moved with fluid precision suggesting they'd absorbed combat knowledge from centuries of Asgardian warriors. His sword work, honed through years of fighting dark wizards and occasionally cosmic threats, met Asgardian combat techniques with the sort of violent cultural exchange that made observers question whether "training" was accurate terminology.
"Your footwork is excellent!" Sif called from her own training area where she was demonstrating advanced spear techniques against opponents that appeared to be learning and adapting in real-time. "Though your guard drops slightly when transitioning from offensive to defensive positioning!"
"Noted!" Harry called back, immediately adjusting his stance even as he parried a strike that would have dislocated his shoulder if not for the protective enchantments woven through the training grounds. "Though I notice your training dummies appear to be cheating! That last one definitely violated several laws of physics!"
"Physics," Thor boomed with laughter from where he was enthusiastically destroying practice opponents with Mjolnir, "is merely a guideline in Asgardian training protocols! We prefer combat techniques that work regardless of dimensional constants!"
Hermione had gravitated toward magical training sections where combat spells could be tested against barriers designed to absorb energy without catastrophic feedback. Her Mind Stone enhancement combined with scholarly precision made her spell work look like geometric violence—perfect angles, optimal power distribution, and the sort of strategic thinking that turned simple combat magic into tactical art.
"The barrier enchantments are fascinating!" she announced while simultaneously maintaining three different spell sequences that would have made most combat mages weep with inadequacy. "They appear to learn from repeated impacts and adjust defensive parameters accordingly! That's remarkably sophisticated adaptive magic!"
Daphne had discovered the spatial manipulation training area—a section of the grounds where dimensional barriers were deliberately weakened to allow teleportation practice without accidentally stranding participants in alternate realities. Her Space Stone mastery combined with aristocratic precision made her combat style look like deadly ballet performed across multiple positions simultaneously.
"This is extraordinary!" she called out while appearing in three different locations within two seconds, each position allowing optimal tactical advantage against practice opponents who were clearly struggling to track someone who could fold space like origami. "The dimensional flexibility here exceeds anything Earth's magical traditions have developed!"
Susan had found the reality manipulation section—a contained area where the fundamental laws of physics could be temporarily adjusted for training purposes. Her Reality Stone capabilities made her look like someone conducting scientific experiments using the universe itself as laboratory equipment.
"I can rewrite local gravity!" she announced with obvious delight while making practice weapons float in patterns that defied conventional physics. "And adjust air density to create barriers! And apparently convince matter that it would prefer being something else entirely!"
Tonks had naturally gravitated toward the most violent section—an area designed for pure physical combat against opponents that hit back with enthusiasm calibrated for Asgardian durability. Her Power Stone enhancement combined with natural metamorphmagus abilities made her look like violence given human form and told to have fun.
"This is brilliant!" she declared while punching through a practice dummy with enough force to create visible shockwaves. "These things actually fight back properly! None of that gentle Earth training nonsense where everyone's worried about liability lawsuits!"
Luna had discovered what appeared to be a temporal combat area—a space where time flowed at variable rates to simulate combat under different speed conditions. Her Time Stone mastery made her look like she was fighting in slow motion while her opponents moved at normal speed, or possibly the reverse, depending on which temporal frame one observed from.
"The chronological flexibility is delightful!" she announced while simultaneously dodging attacks that occurred at three different time speeds. "Though I should mention that one of my opponents appears to be fighting backwards through time, which is creating some interesting causality complications!"
Three hours of this left everyone comprehensively exhausted, thoroughly bruised despite protective enchantments, and absolutely exhilarated by the experience.
"That," Harry declared while accepting water from dimensional storage that Luna had somehow arranged to materialize at convenient intervals, "was possibly the most educational violence I've experienced since accidentally challenging a dragon to single combat during the Triwizard Tournament."
"You did WHAT?" Sif asked with that particular mix of horror and fascination that suggested she couldn't decide whether Harry was brilliant or catastrophically reckless.
"Long story," Harry replied with British understatement that made dragon-fighting sound like minor youthful indiscretion. "Involves elaborate tournament manipulation, attempted murder through magical contract exploitation, and a Hungarian Horntail with attitude problems. The important thing is I survived with most of my dignity intact and acquired several useful insights regarding fireproof enchantments."
Thor bounded over with enthusiasm that suggested three hours of enthusiastic violence had merely whetted his appetite for more athletic activities. "Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent! Your combat techniques combine tactical precision with creative improvisation that rivals Asgard's greatest warriors!"
"High praise," Sif confirmed with warrior's respect that transcended mere diplomatic courtesy. "I've seen combat styles from across the Nine Realms, and yours demonstrate sophistication that typically requires centuries of dedicated training. The fact that you've achieved such proficiency in mere decades speaks to either exceptional instruction or divine intervention."
"Both, actually," Hermione said with scholarly precision about their combined training history. "Harry's had rather aggressive motivation for combat improvement—between fighting dark wizards, protecting friends from cosmic threats, and occasionally preventing universal genocide, there's been significant pressure to develop effective violence techniques quickly."
"Aggressive motivation," Harry agreed with dry humor. "That's a diplomatic way of saying 'life-threatening situations requiring immediate competence or accepting death as alternative outcome.' Remarkably effective educational methodology, though I wouldn't recommend it for general curriculum implementation."
As they made their way toward healing stations for post-training recovery—because apparently even divine training grounds acknowledged that comprehensive violence required medical attention—Sif fell into step beside Harry with warrior's directness wrapped in personal interest.
"You fight like someone who's faced genuine death repeatedly," she observed quietly, her dark eyes holding depths of understanding that came from extensive combat experience. "Not training simulations or theoretical danger, but actual mortality. That changes how one approaches battle."
"Thirteen times," Harry replied with British matter-of-factness about his own resurrection history. "Died properly, I mean, not just 'nearly died' situations that require creative interpretation. When Death herself becomes your patron and eventual employer, mortality becomes somewhat negotiable concept."
Sif processed this information with warrior's pragmatism about accepting impossible facts. "Thirteen deaths. And you chose to continue fighting despite having every excuse to retire from cosmic heroism entirely."
"Not much choice, really," Harry said with that particular combination of cosmic authority and self-deprecating humor. "Universe kept presenting situations requiring intervention, and retirement seemed rather selfish when I possessed capabilities that could prevent mass suffering. Plus my wives would never let me live it down if I abandoned heroism just because dying repeatedly had become inconvenient."
"We absolutely wouldn't," Daphne confirmed with aristocratic certainty. "Though we would appreciate if future death-defying adventures involved advance warning so we could coordinate appropriate backup rather than discovering Harry's died again through emergency resurrection protocols."
"I'll try to schedule my deaths more considerately," Harry replied with devastating British sarcasm. "Perhaps send calendar invitations: 'Harry's Upcoming Death #14, please RSVP with preferred resurrection methodology.'"
The healing stations proved to be crystalline booths that bathed occupants in golden light carrying distinct restorative properties—bruises faded, dislocations corrected themselves, and the sort of full-body soreness that typically required days of recovery vanished within minutes.
"This is remarkable," Susan said with professional medical fascination, her healer training immediately analyzing the magic involved. "The restorative enchantments operate at cellular level, encouraging natural healing rather than forcing artificial recovery. Much more sophisticated than Earth's magical healing, which tends toward brute force rather than elegant biological cooperation."
"Asgard has had millennia to perfect healing magic," Sif explained with obvious pride in her realm's achievements. "When your warriors regularly face opponents that can cause divine-level injuries, developing sophisticated medical magic becomes necessity rather than luxury."
By the time everyone had completed healing protocols and returned to something approaching normal function, morning had stretched toward afternoon and Thor was already planning the next phase of their cultural exchange.
"Tonight!" he announced with characteristic enthusiasm that suggested planning capabilities exceeded normal mortal comprehension, "we feast again! But this time, more intimate gathering! Just our group, proper conversation, perhaps some entertainment that doesn't require emergency medical intervention!"
"Intimate feast," Harry repeated with British skepticism about Thor's capacity for restraint. "That still involves multiple courses of food that defies physics and enough alcohol to compromise judgment across multiple species, doesn't it?"
"Naturally!" Thor confirmed with the sort of shameless honesty that made his enthusiasm somehow endearing rather than merely exhausting. "But fewer guests means actual conversation rather than formal presentations! You can properly know Sif beyond training scenarios and diplomatic courtesy!"
Sif's cheeks colored slightly at this direct acknowledgment of the evening's underlying purpose, though her warrior's composure remained admirably intact. "I would... welcome that. Getting to know all of you beyond combat coordination and crisis management."
"Then it's settled," Harry declared with British determination to approach relationship development with same tactical precision he brought to everything else. "Intimate feast featuring comprehensive conversation, reasonable alcohol consumption, and hopefully minimal property damage."
"Minimal," Thor agreed cheerfully. "Though I make no promises should the mead flow particularly freely and stories become especially entertaining."
As they made their way back toward guest quarters for afternoon recovery before evening festivities, the foundations continued to strengthen. Sif had witnessed their combat capabilities firsthand, seen how they operated as coordinated unit even during chaotic training scenarios. They'd experienced her warrior skills, tactical thinking, and the way she approached challenges with combination of fierce competence and genuine consideration for others' wellbeing.
Three and a half days remained of their extended stay.
And based on current progress, those days would determine whether theoretical compatibility transformed into genuine connection.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!