The thing about training with an ancient Greek hero who'd achieved legendary status through a combination of martial excellence and really unfortunate heel-related decisions, Harry Potter was learning at age seven, was that Achilles had *opinions* about modern combat training.
Strong opinions. Loud opinions. Opinions delivered with the kind of intensity that made you wonder if maybe dying gloriously in battle had given him too much time to think about proper sword technique.
"No, no, NO!" Achilles shouted, his translucent form flickering with frustration in the Underworld's training arena. "You're holding the practice sword like it's a garden tool! This is a WEAPON, not a spade!"
"It's heavy!" Harry protested, adjusting his grip on the bronze practice blade that definitely weighed more than seemed reasonable for something designed for a seven-year-old.
"Heavy builds strength!" Achilles declared, in the tone of someone who'd been saying this exact phrase for approximately three thousand years. "You want to be strong enough to actually USE a sword in combat, yes?"
"I can use gold manipulation in combat," Harry pointed out reasonably. "I can just make weapons appear. Or turn enemy weapons into butterflies. That seems more efficient."
"CHRYSOKINESIS IS NOT A SUBSTITUTE FOR PROPER COMBAT TRAINING!" Achilles bellowed, and several nearby spirits of dead warriors looked over with expressions that suggested they'd heard this argument seventeen times today. "What happens when you're too exhausted to manipulate metals? What happens when you face an opponent who can counter your abilities? You need FUNDAMENTALS!"
"Papa Hades," Harry said, turning to where his divine grandfather was observing the training with poorly concealed amusement, "can you explain to Achilles about modern magical combat theory?"
"Achilles is right," Hades said, because apparently he was going to be unhelpful today. "Relying solely on your divine abilities makes you predictable. Combat versatility requires understanding multiple fighting styles."
"I'm SEVEN," Harry emphasized. "Can't I learn versatility when I'm, like, twelve?"
"Muscle memory starts young," Achilles said firmly. "By twelve, bad habits are already forming. We start now, we start RIGHT."
From across the training arena, Rose was having considerably more success with her portion of the lesson, which involved Achilles teaching her about movement and positioning rather than actual weapons work.
"Good!" Achilles called to her, his tone noticeably warmer. "You're staying light on your feet! That's exactly right!"
"Why is he nice to Rose?" Harry muttered to Hades.
"Because Rose is following instructions," Hades replied. "And because she's not arguing about the philosophical validity of sword training."
"I wasn't arguing philosophically, I was arguing *practically*."
"To Achilles, there's no difference."
Rose, who was five and still thought training was basically advanced playing, was currently practicing dodging imaginary attacks with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested this was the best game ever invented.
"Like this?" she called, demonstrating a surprisingly graceful sidestep.
"Perfect!" Achilles said, and Harry tried not to feel jealous about the obvious favoritism. "You're a natural! In another few years, you'll be ready for actual weapons training!"
"I want to learn the sparkly sword!" Rose announced, pointing at Achilles' translucent blade with obvious longing.
"That's a spiritual manifestation of my legendary blade," Achilles explained patiently. "Not a sparkly sword."
"Looks sparkly," Rose insisted.
"It's... okay, it is somewhat sparkly," Achilles admitted. "But sparkly with PURPOSE."
"Can Rose make sparkly sword?" she asked hopefully.
"When you're older and have proper training, you can manifest whatever weapon suits you best," Achilles promised. "Though I recommend starting with something practical rather than something sparkly."
"Sparkly IS practical," Rose declared with the absolute certainty of a five-year-old who'd decided something was true and wasn't interested in alternative perspectives.
Harry tried his sword technique again, this time adjusting his grip the way Achilles had demonstrated. The practice blade still felt awkward—too heavy, too long, the balance all wrong for his seven-year-old arms.
"Better," Achilles acknowledged grudgingly. "Your stance is improving. Now try the basic strike sequence again. Overhead, diagonal, thrust. Remember: economy of motion. Every movement should serve a purpose."
Harry went through the sequence, his movements slow and deliberate. The blade cut through the Underworld air with a whisper-soft sound, leaving faint trails of disturbed spiritual energy.
"Good," Achilles said, and Harry felt a surge of pride that was probably pathetic but he'd take it. "You're thinking about each movement. That's crucial. Speed comes later. Precision comes first."
"How much later?" Harry asked hopefully.
"Years," Achilles replied without sympathy. "Many years. Combat mastery requires patience, dedication, and accepting that you'll be terrible at it for quite a while before you become adequate."
"That's not very encouraging."
"Combat training isn't supposed to be encouraging. It's supposed to keep you alive."
"I'm seven and live in a warded cottage in England," Harry pointed out. "My biggest threats are Rose's occasionally aggressive mistweaving constructs and Dad's experimental cooking."
"Your father's cooking is genuinely dangerous," Hades observed from his observation position. "Remember last week's incident with the 'fusion cuisine'?"
"We don't talk about that," Harry said firmly. "Shadow is still traumatized."
"Shadow is a cosmic phoenix," Achilles pointed out. "How did your father's cooking traumatize a semi-divine bird?"
"Dad tried to make it eat," Harry explained. "Shadow has standards about food. Dad's cooking violated those standards. Multiple times."
"That's actually impressive in a terrible way," Achilles said thoughtfully.
"Dad excels at being impressively terrible," Harry agreed. "It's basically his signature move."
"Your father is standing right here," Hades said mildly.
Everyone turned to see James Potter materializing at the edge of the training arena, looking slightly disheveled and carrying what appeared to be homemade sandwiches wrapped in cloth that might have been kitchen towels.
"I brought lunch!" James announced cheerfully. "Completely trauma-free sandwiches! No experimental fusion techniques! Just normal, boring, British sandwiches that won't make anyone question reality!"
"The bar has been set remarkably low," Hades observed.
"The bar is on the floor," James agreed. "But I'm confident I can clear it this time."
Rose abandoned her movement training to rush toward her father with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Christmas morning. "Daddy! I'm learning to dodge! Watch!"
She proceeded to demonstrate her sidestep technique, which had evolved from "surprisingly graceful" to "interpretive dance with combat themes."
"That's brilliant, Rosie!" James said warmly, scooping her up for a hug. "Very dodge-like. Much movement. Very impressive."
"Achilles says I'm natural!" Rose reported proudly.
"Of course you are," James agreed. "You're a Potter. We're naturally good at everything except cooking and making reasonable life choices."
"That's a very specific skill set," Achilles observed.
"We're working on expanding it," James replied. "Slowly. With mixed results."
They broke for lunch—even spiritual training required normal human eating schedules, apparently—and settled on the arena benches with James's sandwiches, which turned out to be actually edible and completely free of experimental ingredients.
"These are good," Harry said, surprised.
"Your shock wounds me," James said with exaggerated hurt. "I'm perfectly capable of making normal food."
"You set the kitchen on fire last month," Harry pointed out.
"That was ONE TIME."
"It was three times," Lily's voice called out, and everyone turned to see her materializing with more supplies and that expression mothers got when they'd been left alone with family chaos for exactly two hours and were ready for backup.
"I counted," she continued, settling beside James and accepting a sandwich. "The flambé incident, the experimental broiling situation, and that thing with the toaster that we're still not entirely sure how to categorize."
"The toaster was possessed," James insisted.
"The toaster was fine until you tried to make it toast three things simultaneously."
"That's not how possession works."
"That's also not how toasters work."
"Can we not relitigate my cooking disasters during Harry's training break?" James asked plaintively.
"Your cooking disasters are evergreen content," Lily replied. "Always relevant. Never not worth discussing."
Rose had finished her sandwich and was now creating translucent butterflies that chased each other around the training arena in elaborate aerial ballet. Achilles watched with the fascination of someone who'd never seen mistweaving before and wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.
"That's remarkable," he said finally. "The constructs maintain their cohesion even without her active concentration."
"Rose has gotten very good at sustained manifestation," Hades explained with obvious pride. "She can maintain multiple constructs simultaneously now, each with independent behavioral patterns."
"How many can she maintain at once?" Achilles asked with professional interest.
"Currently? About seven, maybe eight smaller constructs," Lily said. "The record is twelve, but that exhausted her completely and she slept for fourteen hours."
"Twelve independent constructs," Achilles repeated, sounding impressed despite himself. "At age five, that's extraordinary."
"Rose is very talented," Harry said loyally, watching his sister's butterflies perform increasingly complex aerial maneuvers. "She's going to be way more powerful than me when she's older."
"Different power, not necessarily more," Hades corrected gently. "Your abilities complement each other. Harry manipulates the physical world through metals and shadows. Rose creates semi-real constructs that bridge imagination and reality. Both are valuable in different situations."
"Harry's being modest," James said, ruffling his son's hair affectionately. "Did you see his gold summoning last week? Pulled coins from three different rooms simultaneously while maintaining their separation in mid-air. That's advanced telekinetic control combined with material manipulation."
"Dad," Harry protested, embarrassed by the praise.
"What? I'm proud! You're doing well! I'm allowed to be proud!"
"Can you be proud quieter?"
"Absolutely not. Loud pride is the best kind of pride."
"James," Lily said in her warning tone, "let Harry have his moment without making it awkward."
"Being proud of my son isn't awkward!"
"The volume makes it awkward."
"I'm being NORMALLY LOUD."
"There's nothing normal about your volume, dear."
"That's probably fair."
After lunch, training resumed with Achilles demonstrating defensive techniques that Harry was supposed to learn but were definitely designed for someone with longer arms and better coordination.
"The key to defense is reading your opponent," Achilles explained, moving through a series of blocks and parries with fluid grace that came from three thousand years of practice and possibly death-enhanced muscle memory. "Every attack has tells—shifts in weight, changes in stance, the angle of their shoulders. You learn to read these signals, you learn to counter before the attack even begins."
"That sounds complicated," Harry said, attempting to mimic the defensive stance and mostly succeeding in looking like he was stretching awkwardly.
"Combat IS complicated," Achilles replied. "That's why training starts young. We build the foundation now, add complexity gradually. By the time you're teenager, these movements will be automatic."
"What if I don't want to be in combat when I'm a teenager?" Harry asked reasonably. "What if I want to be, like, a peaceful scholar who studies ancient texts and avoids all fighting?"
"Then you'll be a peaceful scholar who can defend himself when scholarly disputes become violent," Achilles said without missing a beat. "Trust me, academic arguments get surprisingly physical sometimes."
"They do?" Harry asked skeptically.
"Oh yes," Hades confirmed. "I've witnessed several academic conferences dissolve into actual combat. Scholars can be remarkably passionate about footnote formatting."
"That seems excessive."
"Most things involving scholars are excessive," Achilles agreed. "That's why even peaceful scholars should know basic combat. You never know when someone's going to challenge your thesis with a sword."
"Is that a real thing that happens?"
"It happened once in ancient Greece," Hades said. "Very memorable conference. Multiple casualties. The footnote debate was never resolved."
"I'm starting to think ancient Greece was chaos," Harry observed.
"Ancient Greece WAS chaos," Achilles confirmed. "Structured chaos with excellent philosophical foundations, but definitely chaos."
"That's basically our family," James said proudly. "We're carrying on the tradition."
"I'm not sure that's something to be proud of," Lily muttered.
"Why not? Chaos with philosophical foundations is ADVANCED chaos."
"That's not better, James."
"Agree to disagree."
The training continued through the afternoon, with Harry gradually improving his defensive techniques and Rose mastering increasingly complex movement patterns. By the time they finished, Harry's arms felt like overcooked pasta and his brain hurt from trying to remember seventeen different defensive positions.
"You did well today," Achilles said, and coming from him that was basically a standing ovation. "Both of you. Harry, your sword work is improving. Rose, your footwork is excellent."
"Thank you!" Rose said, beaming with five-year-old pride.
"Yeah, thanks," Harry added, trying not to sound too exhausted.
"We'll continue next week," Achilles said. "Same techniques, adding complexity. Eventually we'll introduce sparring partners."
"Sparring partners?" Harry repeated with dread.
"Other spirits who volunteer to help with training," Hades explained. "Soldiers who understand that getting beaten by a child isn't shameful if it helps the child learn."
"I'm going to get beaten by dead soldiers," Harry said flatly.
"Repeatedly and educational," Achilles confirmed cheerfully. "Best way to learn."
"I hate this."
"You'll thank me when you're older and can defend yourself properly."
"Will I though?"
"Probably not," Achilles admitted. "But you'll be ALIVE to resent me, which is the important part."
---
Two years later, when Harry was nine and Rose was seven, their training with Achilles had evolved from "basic fundamentals that make you want to cry" to "intermediate techniques that make you want to cry more efficiently."
Harry had grown considerably, which helped with the whole "wielding weapons designed for humans with fully developed muscles" situation. He was still slight for his age—the Potter metabolism apparently prioritized brain development over bulk—but he'd developed the kind of wiry strength that came from consistent training and Lily's insistence on "proper nutrition" (which was code for "eat your vegetables or Shadow will judge you").
Rose had discovered that she genuinely LOVED combat training, which delighted Achilles and terrified everyone else.
"She's seven," James said to Lily one evening, watching their daughter practice defensive techniques with disturbing enthusiasm. "Seven-year-olds aren't supposed to be that excited about learning to hurt people."
"She's not learning to hurt people," Lily corrected. "She's learning self-defense."
"She made a translucent training dummy yesterday and spent three hours practicing different strikes on it."
"That shows dedication."
"That shows CONCERNING ENTHUSIASM."
"She's just passionate about her training."
"She named the dummy 'Practice Jeff' and apologizes to it after every hit."
"See? That shows empathy."
"That shows that our daughter is polite about violence, which might actually be MORE concerning."
"I think it's sweet."
"You think EVERYTHING she does is sweet."
"She's our daughter. Everything she does IS sweet."
"Last week she created a translucent bear and had it chase Harry around the garden."
"Harry needed to practice his evasion technique."
"He was TERRIFIED."
"Terror is an excellent motivator for speed development."
"I don't know how to argue with that because it's technically true but feels wrong."
Harry's combat training had progressed to actual sparring sessions with volunteer spirits—dead warriors who'd agreed to help train the Lord of the Dead's grandson, presumably because turning down Hades seemed politically unwise.
His first real sparring partner had been a Roman legionnaire named Marcus who'd died during the Punic Wars and had apparently spent the last two thousand years perfecting his technique out of sheer boredom.
"You're too predictable," Marcus said, easily deflecting Harry's attack. "I can see every move three seconds before you make it."
"That's because I'M NINE," Harry protested, trying not to sound too frustrated. "And you're a professional soldier with TWO THOUSAND YEARS of practice!"
"Age is irrelevant," Marcus replied, which was easy for a dead person to say. "Your technique reveals your intentions. You shift your weight before striking, telegraph your movements with your shoulders. Fix those tells, you become unpredictable."
"How do I fix tells when I don't know I'm doing them?"
"Practice and repetition until your body learns to move without conscious thought."
"That sounds like it takes forever."
"It does," Marcus confirmed cheerfully. "That's why we start young."
"I hate everyone," Harry muttered, adjusting his stance and trying again.
This time his attack was faster, less telegraphed. Marcus still deflected it easily, but his expression suggested mild approval.
"Better," he said. "You're thinking about your movement. Now we work on not thinking about it at all."
"How do I not think about moving while moving?"
"That's the challenge," Marcus agreed. "Welcome to the frustrating part of combat training."
Rose's training had taken a different direction. Instead of focusing purely on physical combat, Achilles had started teaching her how to integrate her mistweaving abilities with defensive techniques.
"Your constructs can be shields," he explained, demonstrating with translucent barriers that Rose manifested at his direction. "They can be distractions. They can even be offensive weapons if you're creative about it."
"Like making Practice Jeff real and having him fight?" Rose asked hopefully.
"No," Achilles said firmly. "We're not making Practice Jeff real. Practice Jeff is fine as a training dummy."
"But he could help!"
"Practice Jeff doesn't have combat training."
"I could teach him!"
"Practice Jeff is an ILLUSION. You can't teach illusions advanced combat techniques."
"Not with that attitude," Rose muttered, sounding eerily like James.
"Did you just sass me?" Achilles asked, sounding more amused than offended.
"Maybe," Rose admitted. "Mummy says sass is genetic."
"Your Mummy is right about most things."
"She's right about everything," Rose corrected. "Daddy says Mummy being right is a universal constant."
"Your Daddy is also right about that."
By age ten, Harry had developed a fighting style that Achilles described as "frustratingly effective despite being technically questionable."
He'd learned to integrate his chrysokinesis into combat in ways that made traditional fighters uncomfortable. He could summon gold mid-fight, reshape it into defensive barriers, even create temporary weapons when needed.
"That's cheating," Marcus complained after one particularly creative sparring session where Harry had manifested a golden shield from his practice sword's hilt.
"It's creative problem-solving," Harry corrected, slightly out of breath but grinning. "There's a difference."
"It violates the spirit of honest combat."
"Combat isn't supposed to be honest. It's supposed to be EFFECTIVE."
"Achilles, your student is being difficult," Marcus called to where the legendary warrior was observing.
"My student is being STRATEGIC," Achilles corrected, looking insufferably pleased. "He's learned to use his natural advantages instead of fighting against them. That's actually excellent combat thinking."
"It's still frustrating to spar against," Marcus grumbled.
"Good," Harry said cheerfully. "Frustrating opponents make mistakes."
"Did you just quote Sun Tzu at me?"
"Maybe," Harry said, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly. "Papa Hades gave me books about military strategy."
"Of course he did," Marcus sighed. "Why wouldn't the Lord of the Dead give his ten-year-old grandson books about warfare?"
"Because education is important?" Harry suggested.
"That's not a real answer."
"It's the answer I'm giving you though."
Rose's fighting style, meanwhile, had evolved into something that made professional warriors uncomfortable for entirely different reasons.
She'd learned to use her mistweaving constructs as extensions of herself—translucent copies that could fight independently while she directed their movements. It was like fighting one person who was simultaneously three people, except the extra people could phase through attacks and reform instantly.
"This is deeply unsettling," her sparring partner (a Greek warrior named Theron) said after Rose's constructs had successfully cornered him three times in five minutes.
"Thank you!" Rose said brightly, taking the comment as a compliment.
"That wasn't—I wasn't—" Theron paused, collecting himself. "You're eight. You shouldn't be this good at combat multiplicity."
"Multiplicity?" Rose repeated, testing the word.
"Fighting as multiple entities simultaneously," Theron explained. "It's an advanced technique usually requiring years of mental discipline."
"Oh," Rose said. "I just think about what I'd do if I was in three places at once. Seems logical."
"That's not how most people's brains work."
"Maybe their brains should work better," Rose suggested helpfully.
"Rose," Lily called from the observation area, "don't insult the combat instructors."
"I wasn't insulting! I was offering constructive feedback!"
"That's still insulting," James said. "Just politely."
"Polite insulting is advanced social skills," Rose protested.
"That's not the defense you think it is," Harry added.
"Harry, you stay out of this."
"Never. Sibling mockery is sacred."
"I'm telling Shadow you're being mean!"
"Shadow knows I'm being mean. Shadow approves. Shadow understands sibling dynamics."
"Shadow is a BIRD."
"Shadow is a COSMIC bird. There's a difference."
"Children," Lily said in her Warning Voice, and both immediately stopped bickering.
Parental authority worked even in the Underworld, apparently.
---
As Harry approached his tenth birthday and Rose turned eight, their training had evolved into something resembling actual competence, which everyone agreed was both impressive and slightly terrifying.
Harry could now hold his own in sparring matches against spirits who'd been professional soldiers, as long as he was allowed to use his full abilities. He'd developed a hybrid fighting style that combined traditional sword techniques with creative metallurgy and shadow manipulation that made his opponents constantly adjust their tactics.
Rose had mastered combat multiplicity to the point where she could maintain four independent constructs fighting simultaneously while she directed their movements from a safe distance. Achilles called it "remarkably advanced tactical thinking for an eight-year-old." Everyone else called it "deeply unfair and possibly cheating."
"It's not cheating if it's my actual ability," Rose protested when Marcus (who'd become her regular sparring partner) complained for the seventeen millionth time.
"It's spiritually cheating," Marcus grumbled. "Fighting you is like fighting a very small, very polite army."
"Thank you!" Rose said, taking this as the compliment it definitely wasn't.
"Can you at least make your constructs LESS uncanny?" Marcus asked plaintively. "The translucent faces are disturbing."
"What's wrong with their faces?"
"They look like ghosts."
"You're literally a ghost."
"I'm a SPIRIT. There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
"Yes! Spirits have dignity! Ghosts are just... lingering."
"You're lingering in the Underworld training other people's children," Rose pointed out with devastating logic. "That sounds like ghost behavior."
"I'm VOLUNTEERING."
"Voluntarily lingering."
"Rose," Achilles interrupted before Marcus could have an existential crisis, "stop philosophically dismantling your sparring partners. It's rude."
"Sorry," Rose said, not sounding particularly sorry. "I'll just physically dismantle them instead."
"That's not better."
"It's MORE BETTER though."
"That's not—you know what, never mind. Spar. Try not to give Marcus more existential dread."
"No promises!" Rose called cheerfully.
Harry's training that day involved working with a new partner—a Viking warrior named Bjorn who'd died in some gloriously violent battle involving axes, boats, and what Bjorn described as "a tactical miscalculation regarding dragon behavior."
"There were DRAGONS?" Harry asked, immediately fascinated.
"One dragon," Bjorn corrected. "Very territorial. Did not appreciate our longboat entering its fjord."
"What happened?"
"The dragon won. Very convincingly. I don't want to talk about it."
"But—"
"We're here to spar, not discuss my unfortunate maritime decisions," Bjorn interrupted firmly. "Ready your blade."
Harry adjusted his grip on the practice sword (which was still bronze but at least fit his hands now) and faced Bjorn with the kind of focus that came from two years of getting repeatedly beaten by dead professional warriors.
"Begin," Achilles called.
Bjorn moved with the sudden violence of someone who'd spent his living years raiding coastal villages and arguing with territorial dragons. His practice axe (also bronze, because apparently the Underworld had safety standards) came down in an overhead strike that Harry barely managed to deflect.
"Good!" Achilles shouted. "Weight shift before the deflection! Textbook technique!"
Harry didn't have breath to respond because Bjorn was already following up with a horizontal swing that required ducking and repositioning.
This was the part where old Harry—Harry from two years ago—would have panicked and made mistakes. But current Harry had spent two years getting hit by dead people who knew exactly how to exploit panic, so instead he breathed, adjusted, and countered with a low strike at Bjorn's knee.
Bjorn blocked easily but looked impressed. "You learn fast, small one."
"I have very motivated teachers," Harry managed, deflecting another strike.
"Fear of death is excellent motivation," Bjorn agreed.
"I'm not—" Harry dodged, "—actually afraid—" parried, "—of death—" countered, "—I'm afraid of disappointing Achilles!"
"That's reasonable," Bjorn said, attempting a feint that Harry fell for completely and nearly losing his balance as a result. "Achilles is terrifying when disappointed."
"RIGHT?" Harry said, recovering and trying a combination sequence that Achilles had drilled into him approximately seven million times.
Bjorn deflected the first two strikes but Harry's third—a low thrust that transitioned into an upward slash—actually connected with Bjorn's practice armor.
"HA!" Harry exclaimed. "I hit you!"
"You did," Bjorn agreed, sounding pleased. "Clean hit. Well executed. You're learning to set up combinations instead of using isolated strikes."
"Thank you!" Harry said, genuinely delighted by the praise.
"Don't celebrate yet," Bjorn warned. "Now I'm going to hit you back. A lot. Repeatedly."
"Oh."
"Combat lesson: never celebrate mid-fight."
"That seems like wisdom that would have been useful BEFORE I celebrated."
"Wisdom always comes after the mistake," Bjorn said philosophically. "That's why it's called wisdom and not 'timely advice.'"
"That's a terrible system."
"Welcome to combat training."
They sparred for another twenty minutes, during which Harry learned several valuable lessons:
1. Celebrating mid-fight was indeed premature
2. Bjorn hit HARD despite being translucent
3. Viking combat tactics involved a lot more grappling than Harry had expected
4. Practice armor did not prevent bruises
5. The Underworld had surprisingly good first aid supplies
By the time Achilles called time, Harry was exhausted, bruised, and significantly humbler than he'd been at the start of the session.
"You did well," Achilles said, which was high praise coming from someone who considered "adequate" to be glowing approval. "Your defensive technique is improving. You're reading attacks better. The premature celebration was stupid, but you learned from it immediately. Good progress."
"Thanks," Harry said, trying not to sound too pleased while being obviously pleased.
"Next week we'll work on grappling defense," Achilles continued. "Bjorn, you're free to demonstrate your preferred Viking techniques."
"Excellent," Bjorn said with worrying enthusiasm. "I have many techniques. Very educational techniques. Small one will learn much about the importance of maintaining balance."
"I'm going to get thrown around like a sack of potatoes, aren't I?" Harry asked.
"Repeatedly and educational," Bjorn confirmed. "Best way to learn."
"Why does everyone say that?" Harry muttered.
"Because it's true," Achilles, Bjorn, and Marcus (who was currently being menaced by Rose's construct army) said in unison.
"I hate everyone," Harry announced to the Underworld at large.
"That's the spirit," Bjorn said encouragingly. "Healthy frustration builds character."
"I have enough character!"
"Nobody ever has enough character," Achilles said with certainty that came from three thousand years of opinion formation. "Character is infinite. Like wisdom. And bruises from training."
"That's not inspirational."
"Wasn't trying to be inspirational. Was trying to be accurate."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"They should be," Achilles said. "Accurate information is MORE valuable than inspirational platitudes."
"Papa Hades says the same thing," Harry admitted.
"Your grandfather is a smart god," Bjorn observed. "Well organized. Good filing systems. Respect."
"Everyone respects Papa Hades' filing systems," Harry agreed. "It's his defining characteristic."
"I thought his defining characteristic was ruling the Underworld," Achilles said.
"That's his job. Filing systems are his PASSION."
"Fair distinction."
As they wrapped up for the day and prepared to return to the mortal world, Harry reflected on how much had changed in two years of training. He'd gone from "seven-year-old who could barely hold a practice sword" to "ten-year-old who could occasionally land hits on professional warriors," which was definitely progress even if it came with bonus bruises.
Rose had transformed from "five-year-old learning basic footwork" to "eight-year-old tactical nightmare who fought like a small, polite army," which everyone agreed was impressive and also concerning.
And both of them had learned that combat training, while painful and frustrating, was actually kind of valuable when you were demigod children with complicated futures and occasional prophetic dreams about purple fire.
"You know," Harry said to Rose as they walked through the Underworld toward the exit, "I'm glad we're doing this. The training. Even though it's hard."
"Me too," Rose agreed. "Practice Jeff says it's making us stronger."
"Practice Jeff doesn't actually say anything. He's an illusion you made."
"Practice Jeff has OPINIONS."
"Rose."
"What? Just because he's translucent doesn't mean he's not sentient!"
"He's not sentient. You made him. You're projecting."
"Maybe YOU'RE projecting."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"YOU don't make sense."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, Harry."
They emerged from the Underworld into the Potter family cottage, where Lily was waiting with snacks and the expression mothers get when their children return from training with the dead and she needs to assess them for injuries.
"Everyone in one piece?" she asked, even as her eyes catalogued Harry's new bruises and Rose's slightly disheveled appearance.
"Mostly one piece," Harry confirmed. "Some pieces are more bruised than others, but all attached."
"Viking grappling?" Lily guessed, already pulling out her healing supplies.
"How did you know?"
"You have carpet burn on your elbow that looks like you were dragged across stone."
"Bjorn is very thorough about grappling demonstrations."
"I'm sure he is," Lily said dryly, applying healing salve with practiced efficiency. "Any injuries that won't respond to normal healing?"
"Nope," Harry said. "Just regular training bruises. The kind that remind you that celebrating mid-fight is premature."
"Life lesson learned through pain," James called from the kitchen, where he was presumably making dinner and hopefully not setting anything on fire. "That's quality education right there!"
"James, if you set the kitchen on fire again, I'm making you eat the burnt food," Lily called back.
"That's cruel and unusual punishment!"
"That's natural consequences!"
"Those are NOT the same thing!"
"They absolutely are!"
Harry and Rose exchanged a look—the sibling telepathy look that communicated "parents are being weird again."
"We should probably go supervise," Harry said.
"Definitely," Rose agreed. "Remember last time Dad made dinner unsupervised?"
"The toaster incident?"
"The toaster incident."
"We're NEVER letting him forget about that."
"Never ever," Rose confirmed.
They headed toward the kitchen to ensure their father didn't accidentally create sentient appliances or spontaneous combustion, because that was apparently their job now.
Such was life in the Potter household—combat training with legendary warriors, mistweaving practice with cosmic phoenixes, and constant vigilance to prevent Dad from destroying kitchen equipment through aggressive optimism and questionable technique.
But honestly? Harry wouldn't trade it for anything.
Even if it did mean getting thrown around by Viking ghosts who thought educational violence was the best kind of violence.
That was just Tuesdays now.
---
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