Remus Lupin settled across from Sirius Black with the careful, measured movements of a man who had learned that hope was a luxury he could rarely afford. His long fingers wrapped around a butterbeer that had gone untouched for the better part of an hour, and his pale amber eyes—flecked with gold in the tavern's flickering candlelight—studied his friend's face with the intensity of someone cataloguing every micro-expression for future analysis.
There was something almost ethereally elegant about Remus in the way he held himself, despite the threadbare quality of his robes and the carefully mended patches that spoke of a life lived on society's margins. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried the precise diction of someone who had been educated well beyond his current circumstances—cultured, controlled, and sharp enough to cut glass when necessary.
"Rescued," he repeated, the single word weighted with a skepticism so profound it felt almost tangible. "By mysterious benefactors who believed in your innocence when the entire wizarding world had written you off as a mass-murdering lunatic." He paused, letting the words settle like stones in still water. "These unknown saviors somehow managed to penetrate Azkaban's defenses—defenses that have held against the most powerful dark wizards for over three centuries—extract you without triggering so much as a whisper of alarm, and keep you hidden for four days while every Auror in Britain systematically dismantled the countryside looking for you."
Remus leaned forward slightly, his movements fluid and predatory despite their restraint. "Forgive me if I find the logistics somewhat... challenging to accept."
Sirius threw back his head and laughed—not the bitter, broken sound that had become his default over the past week, but something rich and warm and utterly magnetic. He had the kind of presence that commanded attention without effort, even after twelve hours in hell. His dark hair fell across his forehead in waves that managed to look artfully disheveled rather than merely unkempt, and when he smiled—really smiled—it transformed his entire face into something that reminded everyone why he'd once been the most sought-after bachelor at Hogwarts.
"Moony," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture that was pure theatrical charm mixed with genuine affection, "you magnificent, paranoid bastard. I've missed that beautiful brain of yours more than you could possibly imagine." He leaned back in his chair with the fluid confidence of someone who owned every room he entered, even when that room happened to be a dingy tavern filled with suspicious witches and wizards. "Trust me, if someone had spun me this tale a week ago, I'd have recommended immediate psychiatric evaluation followed by a very long holiday somewhere with excellent security and terrible communication with the outside world."
His gray eyes—still sharp as flint despite everything Azkaban had thrown at them—met Remus's with the kind of steady honesty that had always been his greatest weapon against doubt. "I know exactly what you're thinking. That I've finally cracked completely. That one day of dementors have scrambled whatever was left upstairs and now I'm constructing elaborate fantasies because the truth is too horrible to process."
"The thought had crossed my mind," Remus admitted with dry humor, though his expression remained carefully neutral. "Along with several other theories, most of which involve varying degrees of psychological trauma and creative interpretation of reality."
Before Sirius could launch into what was clearly going to be an epic defense of his mental faculties, the Floo roared to life with a sound like distant thunder. Emerald flames swirled higher than usual, and Amelia Bones stepped through with the kind of commanding presence that made seasoned criminals confess to parking violations.
She was magnificent in the way that certain women simply were—tall, statuesque, with auburn hair that caught the light like liquid fire and curves that suggested both strength and femininity in equal measure. There was something almost sensual about her confidence, the way she moved through space as if it existed purely for her convenience, and when her green eyes swept the room, they missed absolutely nothing.
What made her entrance even more striking was the baby carrier secured across her chest, from which peered an eighteen-month-old girl with bright, curious eyes and wispy blonde hair that seemed determined to escape whatever styling attempts had been made earlier in the day.
"Sorry I'm late," Amelia announced, settling into the booth with the kind of fluid efficiency that suggested she could probably manage a small war while simultaneously hosting a dinner party. She adjusted the carrier with practiced ease, brushing a gentle finger across her niece's cheek. "Someone decided that now was the perfect time to demonstrate her opinions about proper infant fashion, didn't you, love?"
Susan Bones gurgled happily and waved her chubby fists in what appeared to be complete agreement with this assessment.
"Hello, little warrior," Sirius said, his voice dropping into the warm, gentle tones he reserved for small children and very good friends. "You've gotten so big since I saw you last. And so beautiful. You're going to break hearts when you're older, aren't you?"
Susan made a sound that might have been agreement and reached toward him with obvious fascination, apparently unbothered by the fact that he was supposedly a dangerous criminal.
"She likes you," Amelia observed with clinical interest, her professional instincts filing away every detail of the interaction. "Which is fascinating, considering she usually regards strangers with the kind of suspicion I normally reserve for suspects who claim they were 'just holding it for a friend.'" She leaned forward, fixing Sirius with the full force of her attention. "Children are excellent judges of character, Mr. Black. Better than most adults, in my experience."
"Dogs and babies," Remus murmured with something that might have been amusement. "The ultimate character witnesses."
"Exactly," Amelia agreed, then shifted into full professional mode. "Now then. Explain to me how this miraculous rescue occurred without anyone—not the guards, not the wards, not the monitoring charms, not the dozen different security protocols that have kept Azkaban inviolate for centuries—noticing anything unusual."
Sirius's casual demeanor became more focused, though he retained that natural magnetism that made people want to listen to him even when he was discussing the weather. "The timing wasn't coincidence," he admitted, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was equal parts nervous energy and unconscious vanity. "My... rescuers... they arranged for Peter to be discovered. Guided you to exactly the right location at exactly the right time, made absolutely certain the evidence would be found in a way that couldn't be disputed, covered up, or conveniently lost by anyone with political motivations to maintain the status quo."
Remus straightened with the predatory grace of someone focusing completely on a puzzle that didn't quite make sense. "Why?" The single word carried the weight of desperation carefully wrapped in intellectual curiosity. "What possible motivation could justify the resources, planning, and risk involved in such an elaborate operation? We're talking about forces capable of circumventing magical security that's considered theoretically impenetrable."
Sirius was quiet for a moment, clearly wrestling with how to phrase something that was going to sound completely insane regardless of his word choice. When he looked up, his expression had shifted into something more serious, more vulnerable than his usual confident charm.
"Because they're family," he said finally, the words carrying simple honesty that somehow made them more impactful than any dramatic declaration. "And family protects its own, regardless of cost, complexity, or the opinions of people who think they understand how the universe works."
Before either Remus or Amelia could formulate a response to that cryptic statement, the Floo flared green again. Ted Tonks stepped through first, moving with the quick, economical grace of someone equally comfortable in both magical and Muggle environments. His brown hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it—whether from Floo travel or general Ted-ness was anyone's guess—and his expression carried that particular blend of sharp intelligence and fundamental decency that had somehow convinced the most beautiful woman in their year to marry him despite her family's strenuous objections.
"Sorry we're late," he said in the Scottish accent that became more pronounced when he was tired or stressed. "Someone insisted on bringing half her toy collection and then couldn't decide which half was more essential to the evening's activities."
Behind him came Andromeda Tonks, and even after years of marriage, motherhood, and the general wear of daily life, she moved like the aristocrat she'd been born to be. Her dark beauty was the kind that aged gracefully—classical features that became more striking with maturity rather than less—and there was something almost feline in her elegance, the way she surveyed any room she entered as if assessing both its potential and its threats.
"Daddy, you're stepping on my feet again," came an exasperated voice from behind them, carrying the particular brand of long-suffering patience that only children could master.
"Sorry, love," Ted said with fond embarrassment, stepping aside to reveal eight-year-old Nymphadora Tonks in all her colorful glory.
Her hair was currently a vivid purple that seemed to shift and shimmer in the candlelight, perfectly matching her mood of bright curiosity mixed with slight impatience at adult inefficiency. She bounced on her toes with the kind of irrepressible energy that suggested she found the entire world endlessly, fascinatingly complex and was determined to understand every bit of it through careful observation and strategic questioning.
"Wotcher, everyone!" she announced cheerfully, apparently unbothered by the serious atmosphere that had settled over the table. "Mummy said we were coming to hear something important, but she wouldn't tell me what. Is it the kind of important that's boring, or the kind that's actually interesting?"
"Definitely the interesting kind," Sirius assured her with a grin that was pure mischief. "The kind that's going to make your parents question everything they thought they knew about how the world works."
"Excellent!" Tonks replied with obvious satisfaction. "I love it when adults get confused. It makes them more fun to talk to."
"Sirius," Andromeda breathed, and her carefully maintained composure cracked like ice under pressure. The aristocratic mask she wore for the world dissolved completely, revealing simple, profound relief. "Oh, thank Merlin. When the emergency owls came, when they said Peter was alive, was the real traitor—" She crossed to him in three quick steps, pulling him into a fierce embrace that spoke of years of worry and guilt finally finding resolution. "I could barely process it. All this time, we thought... I thought..."
"I know, Dromeda," Sirius said softly, returning the hug with genuine warmth. Despite everything—despite years of separation, political disagreement, and the general chaos that had defined both their lives—the bond between cousins who had survived the insanity of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black together remained unbroken. "I'm sorry you had to carry that. I'm sorry any of you had to believe I was capable of..."
"Don't," Andromeda interrupted fiercely. "Don't you dare apologize for being the victim of that rat's deception. Apologize for disappearing without explanation and scaring us half to death, maybe, but never for being innocent when the world decided you were guilty."
"Aye, what she said," Ted agreed, settling beside his wife with the kind of steady, reassuring presence that had always been his greatest strength. "We should have known better. We should have trusted what we knew about you instead of what the Prophet was screaming."
"You had evidence," Sirius pointed out reasonably. "Physical evidence, magical evidence, witness testimony—"
"We had manipulation," Remus corrected with quiet intensity. "Carefully constructed manipulation designed to make us believe the unthinkable about someone we'd known for seven years."
"Daddy," Tonks interjected with the directness that only children possessed, "who exactly is Peter? And why does everyone look like somebody died?" Her hair shifted to curious blue as she studied the adults with obvious fascination. "Also, why are we meeting in a pub instead of at home? This feels like spy stuff."
The question hit the table like a splash of cold water, reminding everyone present that some truths were significantly more complex to explain than others, particularly when your audience included an eight-year-old with an insatiable appetite for information.
Andromeda exchanged meaningful glances with Ted, clearly trying to figure out how to explain betrayal, false imprisonment, and the general nightmare of the past twelve years in terms that wouldn't traumatize their daughter or give her nightmares for the foreseeable future.
"Peter Pettigrew was someone we all thought was a friend," she began carefully, then seemed to realize the profound inadequacy of any simple explanation. "Someone who was secretly working for very bad people. Someone who let Sirius take the blame for terrible things he didn't do."
"Like a double agent?" Tonks asked with obvious fascination, practically vibrating with interest. "Like in those spy films Daddy watches when he thinks I'm asleep but I'm actually listening from the stairs?"
"Something very much like that, sweetheart," Ted agreed, his Scottish accent thickening with emotion while he shot his daughter a look that promised a conversation about eavesdropping later. "The important thing is that the truth came out eventually. Sirius is innocent, everyone knows it now, and justice has been served."
"But there are still questions," Amelia interjected with professional focus, automatically adjusting Susan's position when the baby started to fuss. Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to getting answers from people who really preferred not to give them. "Questions that need immediate answers." She fixed Sirius with the kind of stare that had made hardened criminals voluntarily confess to crimes they'd committed in other countries. "Starting with where exactly you've been for the past four days, who these mysterious rescuers are, and why they chose now to reveal themselves."
Sirius took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for what was either going to be the most important conversation of his life or the moment his friends decided he'd finally lost his mind completely. When he looked up, his expression was serious in a way that commanded attention and made everyone lean forward despite themselves.
"Before I explain anything," he said slowly, his natural charisma shifting into something more intense, more profound, "I need all of you to promise me something. Promise me that no matter how impossible, how insane, how completely contrary to everything you think you know about reality what I'm about to tell you sounds, you'll hear me out completely before making any judgments about my sanity or truthfulness."
Remus's expression softened with the kind of patience that came from fifteen years of friendship through impossible circumstances. "Sirius," he said gently, his cultured voice carrying the weight of shared history and unshakeable loyalty, "we've known you since we were eleven years old. We're not going to abandon you now just because—"
"Lily and Harry are alive."
The words fell into the sudden, absolute silence like stones dropping into a bottomless well.
Remus went white as fresh parchment, his elegant composure shattering completely as he gripped the edge of the table hard enough to leave permanent finger marks in the wood. His amber eyes went wide with something that was equal parts desperate hope and profound terror, as if he was afraid to believe but couldn't quite stop himself from wanting it to be true.
Amelia's professional mask cracked entirely, her mouth falling open in shock that transcended decades of Auror training. Her free hand instinctively tightened on Susan, who seemed to sense the sudden shift in atmosphere and looked around with worried baby eyes.
Ted and Andromeda stared at Sirius with expressions that cycled rapidly through disbelief, desperate longing, and growing concern for his mental state. Even Tonks went quiet, apparently recognizing that something monumentally important was happening even if she didn't fully understand what.
"That's impossible," Remus whispered, his voice hollow with the kind of pain that came from having hope destroyed and rebuilt too many times to count. "Sirius, I know you want to believe they survived, I know we all want that, but we saw the house. We saw what Voldemort did to Godric's Hollow. James—"
"James is dead," Sirius continued relentlessly, understanding that this had to be said all at once or the moment would be lost entirely. "He died exactly as we always thought—standing between Voldemort and his family, buying precious seconds for Lily to protect Harry. Buying time for her to do what she needed to do."
His voice grew stronger, more confident, as if speaking the words was making them more real. "But Lily..." He paused, clearly steeling himself for the part that was going to sound completely insane. "Lily is not what any of us thought she was. Lily Evans Potter is actually Aldrif Odinsdottir, Princess of Asgard, daughter of Odin All-Father, and current vessel of a cosmic entity called the Phoenix Force."
The silence that followed was so complete they could hear Tom polishing glasses behind the bar three tables away, hear the soft crackle of flames in the fireplace, hear the gentle sounds of Susan playing with her own fingers in fascinated baby concentration.
"When Voldemort attacked Godric's Hollow," Sirius continued into that silence, his voice gaining momentum and conviction with every word, "when he killed James, when he tried to murder Harry, Lily's true nature awakened completely. She didn't just defeat Voldemort—she erased him from existence entirely. Scattered his soul across multiple dimensions so thoroughly that he can never, ever return to threaten anyone again."
"Sirius," Remus said finally, his voice carrying the gentle, careful tone normally reserved for friends who had suffered beyond their ability to cope rationally, "I understand that the dementors, that place—"
"The dementors didn't drive me mad, Moony," Sirius interrupted with growing urgency, his natural magnetism shifting into something more commanding, more desperate to be believed. "I know exactly how this sounds. If I were sitting where you are, if someone were telling me this story, I'd be thinking the same thing. But I am telling you the absolute, literal truth."
"How?" Amelia demanded, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know the answer. Her professional instincts were clearly warring with her personal skepticism. "How could you possibly prove something like that? What evidence could you offer that would make us believe our best friends have been secretly alive for two years while we grieved them?"
"By taking you to see them," Sirius replied with simple directness. "By taking you to James's funeral, which is happening tomorrow evening at sunset in the golden halls of Asgard itself."
If the previous silence had been complete, this one was absolutely profound. Even the background noise of the tavern seemed to fade away, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
"Asgard," Ted repeated slowly, his Scottish accent making the word sound even more foreign and impossible. "As in the home of the Norse gods. The mythological realm that exists only in ancient legends and children's bedtime stories."
"Not mythological," Sirius said with growing confidence, clearly encouraged by the fact that no one had yet called for the men with the butterfly nets. "Real. As real as magic, as real as anything else we take for granted in this world. I've been there, walked in the palace of the All-Father himself, seen courts and halls that make Hogwarts look like a garden shed."
His expression softened with something that looked like wonder mixed with profound affection. "I've seen Harry—his real name is Haraldr now—playing with toys that glow with cosmic fire while his grandmother teaches him Asgardian lullabies and spoils him absolutely rotten with the kind of royal treatment that's going to make it very interesting when we try to explain why Earth doesn't have servants whose only job is anticipating a toddler's every whim."
"His grandmother," Remus said faintly, as if testing the words to see if they made any more sense when spoken aloud.
"Queen Frigga," Sirius confirmed with a smile that was becoming more natural and joyful by the moment. "Who, I have to say, is absolutely besotted with her grandson in the way that only grandmothers can be. She's been teaching him to speak Asgardian, telling him stories about his mother's childhood, and generally ensuring that he understands exactly how special and loved he is."
Tonks, who had been following this entire conversation with the intense focus of someone trying to solve the world's most complex puzzle, suddenly spoke up with the clarity that only children could bring to impossible situations.
"Mummy," she said thoughtfully, her hair shifting to contemplative green, "remember those old family stories you used to tell me? About how the Black family was supposed to be descended from something special? Something that made us different from other wizarding families?"
Andromeda went very still, her dark eyes focusing on her daughter with sharp, sudden attention. "What about those stories, love?"
"Well," Tonks continued with the logical directness that made adults simultaneously proud and uncomfortable, "if Cousin Sirius is telling the truth, if there really are gods and cosmic thingies and people who are much more than they seem, then maybe those old stories weren't just stories. Maybe some of the things we thought were impossible are just... really, really unlikely."
She looked around the table with bright, curious eyes. "Maybe the universe is much bigger and stranger than we thought, and we just haven't been paying attention to the right things."
The insight hit the table like a revelation, causing several adults to sit back and reconsider everything they thought they knew about reality.
"Out of the mouths of babes," Amelia murmured, looking at Tonks with newfound respect while automatically bouncing Susan when the baby started to get restless. "You're absolutely right, sweetheart. Just because something sounds impossible doesn't mean it actually is impossible."
"Exactly!" Sirius exclaimed with obvious relief, his natural enthusiasm reasserting itself now that someone was finally taking him seriously. "Look, I'm not asking you to believe me because the story makes perfect logical sense. I'm asking you to trust me enough to let me show you the truth, even if that truth is bigger and stranger and more wonderful than anything you were prepared for."
Remus was quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with concepts that challenged every assumption he'd ever made about the nature of reality. His long fingers drummed against the table in a complex rhythm that spoke of internal debate between hope and skepticism, between the desire to believe and the fear of being crushed by disappointment again.
Finally, he looked up with the expression of someone who had made a decision that would either vindicate his faith or prove his complete foolishness.
"If you're lying to us," he said quietly, his cultured voice carrying absolute sincerity and a warning that was somehow all the more effective for its gentleness, "if this is some elaborate deception or psychological breakdown, I will never forgive you for giving me hope about James and Lily only to destroy it again more completely than Voldemort ever could."
"I understand completely," Sirius replied with perfect honesty.
"But," Remus continued, his voice growing stronger with conviction and resolve, "if you're telling the truth, if they're really alive, if there's actually a chance to see them again, to attend James's funeral properly and honor him as he deserves..." He straightened with visible determination. "Then I'll follow you into the halls of the gods themselves, and damn the consequences."
"Count me in," Amelia declared immediately, her professional instincts overriding personal skepticism in favor of investigating the impossible. "If there's even a remote possibility this is genuine, I need to see it with my own eyes. And if James Potter is being given honors by cosmic forces and divine royalty..." She looked down at Susan, who was watching everything with bright, fascinated attention. "He deserves to have his friends there to witness it. All of us."
"The whole family goes together," Ted added firmly, his arm tightening around Andromeda's shoulders with protective determination. "Whatever we discover, whatever we learn, we face it as a unit. That's how the Tonks family has always operated, and we're not changing that policy now."
"And me too!" Tonks announced with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for Christmas morning or unexpected snow days. "I want to meet the cosmic Phoenix thingy and see the palace with the spoiling servants and find out if Harry still remembers me!"
"The Phoenix Force," Sirius corrected with a grin that was pure mischief and affection, "and yes, you'll definitely get to meet her. Though I should warn you, she has some very definite opinions about proper behavior, responsible use of power, and the importance of not setting things on fire just because you can."
"That sounds reasonable," Tonks replied with the serious consideration of someone who had definitely set things on fire before and learned valuable lessons from the experience.
"How do we get there?" Andromeda asked with the practical directness that had always characterized her approach to impossible situations. "If we're really going to travel to another realm for a funeral tomorrow evening, we need to understand the logistics involved. Do we pack bags? Should we dress formally? Are there customs we need to observe?"
Sirius rose from the table with renewed energy and confidence. "We meet our transportation," he replied with growing excitement. "Someone who's been waiting very patiently for us in a location private enough for what's about to happen."
He led them out of the Leaky Cauldron, through Diagon Alley's twisting, familiar streets to a small, cramped courtyard behind Flourish and Blotts. The space was utilitarian and normally used for book deliveries, but it was completely deserted and surrounded by high walls that would contain any unusual magical phenomena from curious observers.
Standing in the center of the courtyard with theatrical nonchalance, examining his perfectly manicured fingernails as if they were the most fascinating thing in the universe, was a tall figure in elaborate black and green robes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
When he looked up at their approach, his smile was sharp enough to cut diamond and twice as dangerous, carrying the kind of predatory charm that suggested he found the entire situation deliciously entertaining.
"Ah," said Loki Laufeyson, God of Mischief and Lies, in cultured tones that carried the accumulated sophistication of centuries, "the mortals arrive at last. I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Black had lost his nerve entirely, though I suppose I should have expected punctuality issues from people who measure time in such charmingly limited increments."
The reaction was immediate and dramatically varied.
Remus stepped back instinctively, every magical sense he possessed suddenly screaming warnings about power levels that defied measurement or comprehension. His elegant composure cracked slightly as he found himself face to face with something that registered as fundamentally other in ways that made his carefully ordered worldview shift uncomfortably.
Amelia's free hand went to her wand while her other arm tightened protectively around Susan, her professional instincts cataloguing threats and escape routes even as her rational mind struggled to process what she was seeing. The baby, however, seemed utterly fascinated by the newcomer's elaborate costume and began reaching toward him with obvious interest.
Ted automatically pulled his wife and daughter behind him with pure protective instinct, his Scottish accent thickening as he muttered what sounded like either prayers or very creative curses, possibly both.
Andromeda stared at the figure with the kind of recognition that came from growing up surrounded by descriptions of otherworldly beauty and power, her aristocratic breeding apparently including some education about divine aesthetics that the others lacked.
Tonks, however, stepped forward with the fearless curiosity that had already gotten her into more trouble than her parents cared to count, her hair cycling through several colors before settling on fascinated gold.
"Blimey," she announced with the directness that only children could manage, "you're very pretty. Are you the cosmic thingy Sirius mentioned?"
Loki's expression shifted from theatrical menace to genuine delight, his entire demeanor warming in the way that suggested he didn't often receive such straightforward compliments.
"I am Prince Loki of Asgard," he replied with a bow that managed to be both perfectly courtly and subtly mocking, "God of Mischief and Lies, brother to Thor the Thunder God, Uncle to young Haraldr, and—most relevantly for this evening's activities—your transportation to realms far beyond mortal comprehension."
He straightened with that razor-sharp smile that suggested he was enjoying every moment of their obvious bewilderment. "As for being pretty, I prefer 'devastatingly beautiful' or perhaps 'supernaturally attractive,' but I'll graciously accept the compliment in the spirit it was offered."
"You're actually a god," Amelia said, her voice carrying the tone of someone testing a hypothesis she still wasn't entirely sure she believed. "A literal, genuine, honest-to-Merlin god. Standing in a delivery courtyard behind a bookshop."
"Quite literal, I assure you," Loki confirmed with obvious amusement, his green eyes dancing with the kind of mischief that suggested he found their shock deliciously entertaining. "Though I prefer to think of myself as a highly evolved being with reality-altering magical abilities, a refreshingly flexible relationship with conventional morality, and exceptionally good cheekbones."
He gestured gracefully to the assembled group with theatrical flourish. "Now, if you're quite finished processing the impossibility of my existence, we do have a schedule to maintain. Asgardian funerals wait for no one, not even grieving mortals who require additional time to adjust their fundamental understanding of how the universe operates."
"Wait just a bloody minute," Ted interjected, his Scottish accent making his skepticism sound even more pronounced, "we're really doing this? We're really going to travel to another realm with someone we've literally just met?"
"Someone we've just met who claims to be a Norse god," Remus added with the kind of careful precision that suggested he was trying very hard to maintain his sanity through careful articulation of facts.
"Someone we've just met who claims to be a Norse god and wants to take us to a funeral for people we thought were dead," Andromeda continued, her aristocratic breeding apparently including training in identifying increasingly improbable situations.
"Don't forget the part about cosmic entities and reality-altering magic," Amelia added dryly while Susan gurgled happily, apparently completely unbothered by the presence of divine beings in her immediate vicinity.
"When you put it like that," Sirius said with the first genuine, unreserved laughter they'd heard from him in over a decade, "it does sound rather completely mad. But yes, we're really doing this. Because James deserves a proper goodbye from people who loved him, because Lily and Harry deserve to see their friends again, and because some things are more important than maintaining comfortable illusions about how the universe works."
Loki stepped forward, his expression becoming more serious despite the inherently theatrical nature of his entire existence. "I feel compelled to mention," he said with uncharacteristic directness, "that what you're about to experience will fundamentally alter your understanding of reality. You cannot witness cosmic forces in action, walk in the halls of gods, see the true scope of existence across multiple realms, and return unchanged to your previous assumptions about what's possible."
He looked each of them in the eye with an intensity that seemed to see straight through to their souls, cataloguing their fears, hopes, and hidden motivations with the casual thoroughness of someone accustomed to reading mortals like particularly simple books.
"If you come with me tonight," he continued with growing gravity, "if you attend this funeral, if you witness your friends alive and transformed into something divine, you become part of something larger than your mortal realm. You become bridges between worlds, keepers of cosmic secrets, participants in events that will fundamentally reshape how magical and divine realms interact for centuries to come."
"Are you trying to scare us away?" Amelia asked with the dry humor that had made her a legend among her Auror colleagues, automatically rocking Susan when the baby started to fuss.
"I'm ensuring informed consent," Loki replied with surprising sincerity and what might have been respect. "What we're offering isn't simply a reunion or funeral attendance. It's initiation into awareness of forces and responsibilities that most mortals never have to handle, knowledge that will change how you see everything for the rest of your lives."
Tonks looked up at her parents with an expression of concentrated hope mixed with the kind of stubborn determination that suggested she'd already made up her mind regardless of adult concerns.
"Please?" she said with all the focused intensity that only childhood desire could achieve. "Please can we go see the Phoenix thingy and the palace and meet Harry with his glowing cosmic toys? I promise I'll be good and not touch anything important without permission."
Andromeda looked down at her daughter, then at her husband, then at Sirius with the expression of someone weighing impossible choices against equally impossible consequences.
"We've spent our entire lives being told that magic has limits," she said finally, her voice carrying the conviction of someone who had just made a decision that would change everything. "That there are boundaries to what's possible, rules governing what can exist, assumptions about reality that can't be challenged. If there's a chance those boundaries are nothing more than comfortable illusions..." She squared her shoulders with aristocratic determination. "Then we need to see for ourselves what lies beyond them."
"All of us together," Ted confirmed with quiet strength, his arm tightening around his family with protective resolve. "Whatever we discover, whatever we learn, whatever changes as a result, we face it as a unit. That's what families do for each other."
"Together," Remus agreed, his cultured voice growing steadier as he made peace with the impossible and embraced the potential for hope. "James was our brother in everything but blood. If he's being honored by gods and cosmic forces, then his friends should be there to witness it, to celebrate his life properly."
"And if Lily really is this Aldrif person," Amelia added with growing resolve, her professional instincts accepting the impossible because the alternative was missing something monumentally important, "she needs to know that her friends love her regardless of what she is or where she came from originally."
Loki's smile shifted from theatrical to genuinely warm, carrying approval and what looked suspiciously like pride in their collective courage.
"Excellent," he said with obvious satisfaction. "I do so enjoy working with mortals who choose adventure over safety, truth over comfortable lies, and growth over stagnation."
He raised his voice slightly, and power thrummed through the words like distant thunder, making the air itself seem to vibrate with barely contained energy.
"Heimdall!" he called to the sky with divine authority. "Open the Bifrost! We have honored guests who wish to attend a hero's funeral and witness the impossible made manifest!"
The rainbow light that answered his summons was unlike anything the mortals had ever experienced—not harsh or blinding, but warm and welcoming, carrying harmonics that spoke of travel between worlds, of distances measured in concepts rather than miles, of transportation that transcended mere physical movement.
"Step into the light," Loki instructed with gentle authority. "Hold tightly to each other, and prepare to see wonders that will redefine your understanding of existence itself."
As they moved forward together—Sirius leading with renewed confidence, the others following with varying degrees of trepidation and excitement—Susan chose that moment to let out a delighted giggle, as if she understood better than any of them that they were about to embark on the greatest adventure of their lives.
The last thing any of them heard before the Bifrost claimed them was Tonks's excited laughter mixing with her baby cousin's giggles as they traveled between worlds at the speed of light and love, her hair cycling through every color of the rainbow in pure joy.
The age of separation between magical and divine realms was ending.
The age of cosmic cooperation was about to begin.
And it would all start with friends who loved each other enough to step into impossible light and trust that the universe was far more wonderful and strange than they had ever dared to imagine.
---
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