The first light of dawn painted Qarth's towers in shades of rose and gold, but Luna Lovegood—who had worn the mask of Quaithe of the Shadow Lands for a century—paid no attention to the beauty of sunrise over the greatest city of Slaver's Bay. She materialized in her chambers with the soft *crack* of displaced air that marked perfectly executed Apparition, her arms laden with silk pouches that hummed with barely contained wealth.
*Twenty-three separate locations,* she catalogued mentally as she began arranging her evening's acquisitions across the polished obsidian table that dominated her sanctum. *The Thirteen's private vaults, the Tourmaline Brotherhood's counting houses, the Ancient Guild of Spicers' treasure rooms. All emptied with methodical precision while their owners slept soundly, dreaming of profits built on the suffering of the powerless.*
Each pouch disgorged its contents with magical efficiency—streams of gold that caught the lamplight like captured sunbeams, gems that blazed with inner fire, artifacts whose provenance spoke of exploitation and systematic cruelty transformed into portable wealth. The redistribution had taken her most of the night, moving from one target to the next with the sort of systematic thoroughness that would have made her Ravenclaw professors proud.
"Justice with excellent organizational principles," she murmured to herself, her voice carrying that familiar dreamy quality that had once made her housemates simultaneously fond and exasperated. "Really, they should thank me for providing such educational experiences about the impermanence of wealth acquired through morally questionable methods. Though I suspect they'll lack the philosophical sophistication to appreciate the lesson properly."
The accumulated treasure represented more than mere gold—it was freedom made manifest, independence crystallized into portable form. Enough wealth to travel in whatever style circumstances required, to purchase information and cooperation and safe passage across hostile territories. Enough to fund revolution or support refugees or build something beautiful from the ashes of what corruption had made ugly.
*But the real prizes,* she thought with growing satisfaction as she reached the bottom of the final pouch, *the treasures that justify all this midnight redistribution work, are these.*
Two perfect ovals emerged from their silk wrapping like captured stars, each one humming with power that made the very air around them shimmer with possibility. Dragon eggs—not the fossilized remnants that decorated merchant halls, but actual, viable, gloriously alive eggs that pulsed with magic older than recorded history.
The first was deep amber streaked with veins of silver that seemed to move and flow like quicksilver beneath the shell's surface. The second was pale as moonlight touched with gold, its surface inscribed with patterns that might have been runes, might have been scales, might have been maps to places that existed only in dreams of fire and flight.
*The Warlocks' most precious treasures,* she thought with the sort of satisfaction that belonged to someone who had just liberated artifacts from people whose understanding of their true significance remained laughably inadequate. *Hidden in vaults warded against conventional thieves but utterly unprepared for someone who understood that magical locks exist primarily to make their owners feel clever while providing no real security against genuinely sophisticated intrusion.*
She cradled the eggs with reverent hands, feeling the warmth that pulsed beneath ancient shells like captured heartbeats. They recognized her—or rather, they recognized something in her blood that spoke of Targaryen heritage and the ancient pacts between dragonlords and their magnificent partners. Even wearing Quaithe's borrowed flesh, even having lived a century in Shadow Lands mystery, the dragons knew her for what she was.
*Though I suspect Harry will be rather surprised when I arrive bearing gifts that breath fire and conquer kingdoms,* she mused with growing amusement at the mental image of his expression when faced with the practical implications of dragon ownership. *Some problems really do require the sort of comprehensive solution that only flying weapons platforms can provide. Fortunately, I've always been rather good at thinking outside conventional parameters.*
The knock at her window came so softly she almost dismissed it as wind against glass. But then it repeated—three precise taps that carried intelligence rather than chance.
Her enhanced senses detected the magical signature immediately, and for a moment that stretched toward eternity, Luna Lovegood forgot how to breathe.
*Fawkes.*
The phoenix perched on her narrow window ledge with the sort of regal dignity that made mortal creatures feel honored by his presence, his scarlet and gold plumage catching the early morning light and transforming it into something that belonged in illuminated manuscripts rather than the practical world of espionage and wealth redistribution. In his beak, he carried a leather message case that hummed with familiar magic.
"Oh," she whispered, and the single word carried a century of accumulated hope, loneliness, and the sort of desperate joy that belonged to someone who had never quite stopped believing in miracles despite extensive evidence that the universe preferred irony to happy endings. "Oh, you magnificent creature. I'd forgotten how beautiful you are when you're not just a memory preserved in amber."
She opened the window with trembling hands, and Fawkes stepped delicately onto her extended arm with movements that spoke of recognition despite the borrowed flesh she wore. His ancient eyes held depths of wisdom and loyalty that transcended dimensional boundaries, and when he trilled his greeting, the sound somehow managed to convey affection, recognition, and what sounded suspiciously like approval of her current circumstances.
*He knows me,* she thought with wonder that threatened to crack the carefully maintained composure she'd built through decades of living as someone else. *Somehow, despite everything—the changed body, the accumulated years, the magic I've woven around myself like armor—he still knows exactly who I am beneath all the careful pretense.*
The message case opened to reveal not one letter but three, each bearing a name written in handwriting that made her vision blur with tears she refused to let fall. Her own name, inscribed in script she would have recognized across worlds and through death itself.
*Luna Lovegood,* written in Harry's precise hand, still carrying that particular combination of controlled energy and barely leashed intensity that had once made their professors comment on his focus during examinations.
She broke the seal with fingers that shook from excitement rather than fear, unfolding parchment that smelled faintly of northern pine and something indefinably *him*—the magical signature that had sustained her through a century of believing herself alone in a world that operated according to rules she'd never quite learned to accept.
*Luna,*
*If Fawkes has found you—and knowing his particular talents for navigation across impossible barriers, I'm confident he has—then you're reading proof that some bonds really are stronger than death, dimensional separation, and whatever cosmic forces scattered us across this strange new world like seeds on an indifferent wind.*
*Hermione reached us tonight. Susan arrived only hours earlier. Both alive, both whole, both carrying the sort of determined optimism that makes me believe we might actually accomplish something worthwhile in this world rather than merely surviving whatever challenges it throws at us. We are together again, after believing such reunion belonged only to fairy tales and wishful thinking disguised as hope.*
*I don't know what identity you've been forced to assume, what challenges you've faced, or what resources you've managed to accumulate through that particular blend of intuitive wisdom and creative problem-solving that always made our professors simultaneously proud and deeply concerned about your methods. But I know you've not only survived—you've positioned yourself advantageously for whatever comes next.*
*We're in the North—Winterfell, specifically, though our situation involves considerably more political complexity than simple geography can convey. Fleur is with me. We're planning to build something together that transcends the limitations most people accept about love, loss, and the persistence of bonds that some cosmic forces apparently consider unbreakable.*
*But there's room for everyone who matters, Luna. There always was. Love doesn't operate according to zero-sum mathematics—it grows stronger through support from people who understand its value and want to help it flourish rather than diminish through competition.*
*Don't try to reach us immediately. The political situation is delicate, circumstances are complicated, and sudden arrivals might trigger exactly the sort of attention we can't afford while establishing ourselves in a world that doesn't know we exist. But know that we're here, we're safe, we remember everything that matters, and we're planning something ambitious enough to require all the help we can get.*
*Tell me where you are, what resources you have access to, what obstacles you're facing. Let me help, even across impossible distances. We've learned that love guided by intelligence and supported by adequate preparation can accomplish things that individual efforts could never achieve.*
*Until we meet again—and we will meet again—*
*Harry*
*P.S. - I hope this world has provided opportunities worthy of your particular talents for finding significance in things that other people dismiss as impossible. Knowing your gift for turning cosmic impossibilities into manageable projects, I suspect you've made quite an impression on whatever corner of reality you've claimed as your own.*
Luna set the letter down with reverent care and allowed herself the luxury of simply feeling everything she had suppressed through a century of careful survival and strategic patience. Joy blazed through her ancient bones like phoenix fire, pure and bright and utterly consuming. Relief followed, so profound it made her borrowed flesh feel suddenly, wonderfully young again. Then anticipation, sharp as winter wind and twice as invigorating.
*He's alive,* she thought, and the certainty sang in her magic like harpsong played by angels. *They're all alive, scattered but whole, building something together that transcends individual limitations. We found each other again, against odds that would make mathematicians weep with despair and philosophers question the fundamental nature of reality itself.*
But beneath the overwhelming emotion, her tactical mind—sharpened by a century of careful planning and strategic patience—was already working through implications and opportunities with the sort of focused intensity that had once made her professors recognize her as Ravenclaw's most creatively brilliant student.
*Harry is in the North with Fleur, which means they're positioning for exactly the sort of systematic change this world desperately needs. Hermione and Susan have joined them, which provides intellectual resources and organizational capabilities that individual efforts could never match. And I'm positioned in Qarth with enough liberated wealth to fund continental conquest and two dragon eggs that represent power beyond anything this world has imagined since Valyria burned.*
Her smile, as she moved to her writing desk and began composing her reply, carried the sort of serene confidence that had once made her enemies underestimate her right up until the moment she demonstrated exactly what Luna Lovegood was capable of when properly motivated.
*My dearest Harry,*
*Your letter arrived at precisely the moment I most needed evidence that the universe possesses a sense of humor about cosmic justice that occasionally works in favor of people who refuse to accept defeat as a permanent condition. I am well, strategically positioned, and in possession of resources that will prove rather more significant than conventional wealth or political influence—though I have accumulated both in quantities sufficient to reshape civilizations.*
*I've been living in Qarth for the past century, wearing the identity of Quaithe of the Shadow Lands and using my accumulated reputation for mysterious wisdom to position myself advantageously for whatever reunion fate might eventually arrange. The aging magic I've employed is tied to this continent's power sources, which means crossing to Westeros will cost me whatever borrowed time I've managed to accumulate. I consider this an acceptable price for joining you in whatever revolution you're planning.*
*Tonight I completed a comprehensive redistribution of wealth from Qarth's most morally questionable citizens to someone with better intentions and superior planning capabilities. More importantly, I've acquired certain assets of the Valyrian variety that haven't been seen in this world for centuries. When we reunite—and we will reunite, darling, sooner than your careful timeline suggests—I intend to arrive with gifts that will make our previous adventures seem like academic exercises by comparison.*
*Two dragon eggs now rest in my chambers, singing ancient songs of fire and flight. They recognize something in my blood despite the borrowed flesh I wear, which suggests that our reincarnation involved more precise magical targeting than random dimensional scattering. We are where we need to be, Harry, positioned as we need to be positioned, for purposes that extend far beyond individual reunion.*
*Do not concern yourself with delicate management of romantic complications. I understand that Fleur holds your heart in ways that transcend conventional relationship categories, and I respect bonds forged through trials I cannot fully comprehend. But I also understand that love shared among people who genuinely care for each other's welfare creates something stronger than what individual partnerships can achieve alone. We are all mature enough to navigate emotional complexity that would challenge lesser people.*
*Expect me within the fortnight. I have dragons to wake and wealth to consolidate, but once those preparations are complete, nothing in this world or any other will prevent me from reaching your side. Together, we will demonstrate what's possible when brilliant people refuse to accept limitations that lesser minds insist are insurmountable.*
*With all my love and absolute confidence that some stories really do have happy endings,*
*Luna*
*P.S. - Tell Hermione that her diplomatic approach to managing interdimensional romantic triangles represents scholarly excellence applied to practical problem-solving. Tell Susan that loyalty like hers is precisely why some bonds prove stronger than death itself. And tell Fleur that I look forward to meeting the woman whose love guided Harry across impossible distances with such remarkable success.*
*P.P.S. - When I arrive, I'll be bringing enough portable wealth to fund whatever systematic changes you're planning and enough firepower to ensure their success. Some problems require dragons, Harry. Fortunately for all of us, I'm about to become a Dragon Lady with access to flying artillery platforms and a century's worth of accumulated patience finally ready for application.*
She sealed the letter with wax touched by wandfire, imprinting it with magic that would ensure authenticity while preventing tampering by anyone other than the intended recipient. When she offered it to Fawkes, the phoenix regarded her with those ancient eyes that seemed to hold approval for plans whose scope extended beyond immediate reunion to encompass the systematic transformation of everything that needed changing.
"Tell him the dragons are waking," she whispered as Fawkes prepared for departure, his magnificent wings spread wide enough to embrace the dawn itself. "Tell him that some reunions come with the promise of revolution, and this one will be absolutely magnificent in its scope and thoroughness."
The phoenix trilled once more—a sound like victory bells touched with starlight—and launched himself into the growing daylight in a controlled explosion of golden fire that filled her chamber with warmth and the sort of hope that belonged to messages carried by creatures whose loyalty transcended dimensional boundaries.
As the light faded and ordinary morning reclaimed the room, Luna returned to her dragon eggs with movements that carried new purpose, new anticipation. Two weeks to wake ancient fires, consolidate her various acquisitions, and prepare for travel across hostile territory toward reunion with the people who had made existence meaningful rather than merely bearable.
*Soon,* she thought as she began the careful preparations that would transform sleeping dragons into living weapons of systematic justice. *Soon we'll be together again, and this time nothing—not death, not dimensional barriers, not the combined forces of every corrupt institution in this world—will be able to separate us from building something worthy of the love that brought us across impossible distances.*
The eggs pulsed in response to her determination, their ancient song harmonizing with the rhythm of her heart as magic older than recorded history prepared to wake from its long sleep and teach the world what happened when Luna Lovegood decided to stop being patient and start being actively helpful instead.
Some problems, after all, really did require dragons.
—
The morning sun painted the Water Gardens in shades of amber and rose, its light filtering through latticed arches to dance across pools where children would soon splash and play. But in the private courtyard reserved for family contemplation, the mood was far more serious than the cheerful fountains suggested. Padma—though she still moved with Arianne's practiced sensuality—paced before the reflecting pool with the restless energy of someone whose tactical mind was working through problems that seemed to multiply with each potential solution.
"The fundamental issue," she said, her voice carrying that particular blend of academic precision and Dornish honey that marked her unique fusion of identities, "is that Prince Doran is not a man who releases valuable assets without comprehensive justification. And I, unfortunately, represent his most valuable political asset—the key to securing royal marriage alliances that could elevate House Martell's position for generations."
Oberyn—Sirius wearing the Red Viper's beautiful face—lounged against a carved pillar with practiced elegance, though his restless fingers drummed against stone in patterns that belonged entirely to his true identity. The morning light caught the silver threads in his dark hair, and his liquid brown eyes held depths of mischief that promised creative solutions to seemingly impossible problems.
"The beauty of my reputation for wanderlust," he observed with that velvet-over-steel voice that had charmed and terrified in equal measure for decades, "is that no one questions when I decide to indulge it. 'Oh, Oberyn's grown bored with Sunspear again, off to sample the wines of Tyrosh or the fighting pits of Meereen.' They expect such behavior. They'd be more suspicious if I stayed in one place too long."
He gestured languidly at the water gardens around them, silk sleeves catching the breeze. "But you, sweet niece, are expected to remain precisely where duty demands—available for whatever matrimonial chess moves our dear brother deems strategically advantageous. Rather inconvenient when one's heart pulls toward northern kingdoms and impossibly stubborn boys with green eyes and hero complexes."
Padma's laugh carried bitter edges sharp enough to cut silk. "Duty. Always duty. As though love were merely a luxury to be indulged after more important considerations have been satisfied." Her dark eyes flashed with something that was pure Padma Patil—intellectual rebellion against limitations imposed by people who lacked the imagination to see beyond conventional parameters. "Tell me, uncle, what would convince a careful man like Doran to release his most valuable political piece?"
"Crisis," Sirius replied immediately, his grin taking on that reckless quality that had once made James Potter simultaneously admire and despair of his best friend's judgment. "Something significant enough to require immediate attention, dramatic enough to justify extraordinary measures, and personal enough that my involvement seems natural rather than suspicious."
"What sort of crisis?" Padma asked, though something in her tone suggested she already suspected the direction of his thoughts.
"The sort that requires Princess Arianne to travel under heavy guard to secure locations where her safety can be guaranteed while investigations proceed," Sirius said with growing satisfaction as his plan took shape. "Assassination attempts, perhaps. Or credible intelligence about kidnapping plots orchestrated by enemies who view matrimonial capture as a viable strategy for forcing political concessions."
Padma stopped pacing, her analytical mind immediately grasping the elegant simplicity of what he was proposing. "And naturally, her devoted uncle—known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his protective instincts regarding family—would insist on personally ensuring her security during such dangerous times."
"Precisely. Oberyn Martell accompanying his endangered niece to secure northern locations while threats are investigated and neutralized? Perfectly reasonable. Expected, even." His smile widened. "The fact that these secure locations happen to align with certain personal interests is merely fortunate coincidence."
"The logistics would be complex," Padma mused, her scholar's mind already working through operational requirements. "Credible threats require credible evidence. Investigations demand witnesses, documentation, enough circumstantial support to convince someone as naturally suspicious as Doran that the danger is real rather than fabricated."
"Leave the creative evidence gathering to me," Sirius said with the sort of confidence that belonged to someone who had spent decades perfecting various forms of elaborate mischief. "Oberyn has contacts throughout Essos—sellswords, spies, merchants whose loyalty can be purchased for appropriate consideration. Manufacturing threats that appear genuine to external observers while remaining entirely controllable by the people orchestrating them... that's precisely the sort of challenge I've always found most entertaining."
"And if Doran investigates too thoroughly? If he discovers inconsistencies in your manufactured crisis?"
"Then we fall back on the secondary approach—mysterious illness requiring specialized treatment available only in northern climates." Sirius's expression grew more serious, though mischief still danced in his dark eyes. "Maesters can be remarkably accommodating when properly motivated, and exotic maladies that defy conventional treatment provide excellent justification for seeking remedies in distant locations."
Before Padma could respond to this backup plan, the morning air filled with golden fire—not destructive flame, but the warm, welcoming radiance that belonged to magic older and more benevolent than anything recorded in Westerosi texts. From that cascade of light and warmth emerged a phoenix in all his magnificent glory, scarlet and gold plumage catching sunlight and transforming it into something that belonged in illuminated manuscripts rather than the practical world of political maneuvering.
"Fawkes," Padma breathed, seventeen years of carefully controlled emotion cracking like ice under spring pressure. "Oh, you beautiful, impossible, wonderful creature."
The phoenix settled on the pool's marble edge with the sort of regal dignity that made mortal creatures feel honored by proximity, his ancient eyes bright with intelligence that encompassed multiple lifetimes and wisdom that transcended dimensional boundaries. In his beak, he carried a leather message case that fairly hummed with familiar magical signatures.
Sirius straightened from his casual pose, every line of his borrowed body suddenly alert with the sort of focused attention that marked someone whose deepest hopes were about to be either confirmed or shattered. "Is that...?"
"Harry's phoenix," Padma confirmed, her hands trembling as she approached the magnificent creature with reverent care. "Which means..."
The message case opened to reveal not one letter but three, each bearing a name written in handwriting that made her vision blur with tears she refused to let fall. Her own name, inscribed in script she would have recognized across worlds and through death itself.
*Padma Patil,* written in Harry's precise hand, still carrying that particular combination of controlled energy and barely leashed intensity that had once made their professors comment on his focus during examinations.
She broke the seal with fingers that shook from excitement rather than fear, unfolding parchment that smelled faintly of northern pine and something indefinably *him*—the magical signature that had sustained her through seventeen years of believing herself alone in an increasingly complex world.
*Padma,*
*If you're reading this, then Fawkes has accomplished navigation that would make the finest pilots weep with envy and proven once again that some bonds transcend dimensional barriers, temporal displacement, and whatever cosmic forces scattered us across this strange new world like seeds on an uncaring wind.*
*Hermione reached us tonight—alive, whole, and still possessed of that insufferable confidence that adequate research can solve any problem the universe might devise. Susan arrived hours earlier, equally impossible and infinitely welcome. We are together again, after believing such reunion belonged only to fairy tales and the sort of wishful thinking that masquerades as hope when reality becomes unbearable.*
*I don't know what circumstances brought you to this world, what identity you've been forced to assume, or what challenges you've faced in the years since we last spoke. But I know you're strong enough to have survived whatever fate threw at you, clever enough to have turned disadvantage into opportunity, and stubborn enough to have maintained exactly the sort of determined optimism that made Ravenclaw House simultaneously proud of your achievements and concerned about your methods.*
*We're in the North—Winterfell, specifically, though our situation involves considerably more political complexity than simple geography suggests. Fleur is with me. We're planning to build something together that death couldn't destroy and dimensional barriers couldn't weaken. But there's room for everyone who matters, Padma. Love doesn't operate according to scarcity economics—it grows stronger through support from people who understand its value.*
*Don't attempt immediate travel to our location. The political situation is delicate, circumstances are complex, and sudden arrivals might trigger attention we can't afford while establishing ourselves in a world that doesn't know we exist. But know that we're here, we're safe, we remember everything that matters, and we're planning something ambitious enough to require all the help we can gather.*
*Tell me where you are, what resources you have access to, what obstacles you're facing. Let me help, even across impossible distances. We've learned that love guided by intelligence and supported by adequate preparation can accomplish things that individual efforts could never achieve.*
*Until we meet again—and we will meet again—*
*Harry*
*P.S. - I hope this world has provided opportunities worthy of your particular talents for finding elegant solutions to problems that seem insoluble to minds less systematically creative than yours. Knowing your gift for turning complex challenges into manageable projects, I suspect you've made quite an impression on whatever corner of reality you've claimed as your own.*
Padma read the letter twice, memorizing every word while her tactical mind processed implications that extended far beyond simple reunion. When she finished, she looked up to find Sirius watching her with an expression of desperate hope barely contained by decades of practice at emotional control.
"He's alive," she said simply, and the words carried seventeen years of accumulated grief, joy, and determination. "They're all alive—Hermione, Susan, Harry himself. Found each other again in the North, building something together that transcends individual limitations."
"The North," Sirius repeated, his voice rough with emotions he'd thought buried beyond recovery. "My boy is in the North, alive and whole and..." He stopped, swallowing hard against tears that threatened to undermine the careful composure he'd maintained for so long. "Does he mention...?"
"He doesn't know you're here," Padma said gently, understanding immediately what he was asking. "How could he? He believes you fell through the Veil and died fighting Bellatrix. The idea that you might have been reborn in this world, wearing another man's face... it wouldn't occur to him to even consider such possibilities."
Sirius nodded, accepting disappointment with the sort of graceful resignation that spoke to years of practice at managing hope that might prove unfounded. "Then we'll surprise him when we arrive. Assuming, of course, that we can solve the small matter of convincing my dear brother to release his most valuable political asset for an extended journey toward destinations he can't verify through conventional channels."
"Actually," Padma said with growing excitement as inspiration struck like lightning illuminating a darkened landscape, "I think I have a solution that's both elegant and entirely truthful. What if we don't manufacture a crisis at all? What if we simply present Doran with an opportunity too valuable to refuse?"
She moved to the writing desk with characteristic efficiency, her mind already composing arguments that would appeal to Prince Doran's legendary caution while serving their immediate needs. "Harry's letter mentions political complexity, which suggests they're positioning themselves as more than mere refugees. They're building something—alliances, influence, the sort of northern connections that could prove invaluable to Dornish interests."
"Go on," Sirius encouraged, recognizing the spark of genuine inspiration in her dark eyes.
"What if Princess Arianne were to undertake a diplomatic mission to assess potential alliances with northern houses? Accompanied, naturally, by her uncle whose extensive experience with foreign negotiations makes him the ideal escort for such delicate preliminary discussions?"
Sirius's grin was pure predatory delight. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Doran gets reconnaissance about northern political opportunities, we get legitimate reasons for extended travel in exactly the direction we need to go, and Harry gets advance warning that we're coming through official channels rather than mysterious disappearances that might complicate his own careful plans."
"More importantly," Padma added with scholarly precision, "it positions our eventual reunion as beneficial to Dornish interests rather than romantic indulgence. When we return—and we will return, eventually—we'll bring intelligence about northern resources, political opportunities, potential marriage alliances that could serve House Martell's long-term strategic objectives."
"Marriage alliances," Sirius repeated with obvious amusement. "How wonderfully ironic that your romantic reunion will be framed as reconnaissance for other people's romantic arrangements."
Padma began composing her reply with the sort of methodical care that complex negotiations required, her handwriting flowing across parchment in the elegant script that had once made her professors nod approvingly at her attention to detail.
*My dearest Harry,*
*Your letter reached me at precisely the moment I most needed evidence that miracles occur in a world that seems determined to convince us otherwise through systematic application of cruel irony and cosmic indifference. I am well, advantageously positioned, and in possession of resources that will prove more significant than conventional wealth or political influence—though I have access to both in quantities sufficient to reshape regional power structures.*
*I've been reborn as Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne and heir to Sunspear, currently managing the complex challenge of maintaining political value while pursuing personal objectives that extend far beyond matrimonial arrangements designed to serve other people's strategic interests. This world has provided opportunities worthy of my talents, though navigating them requires more patience and diplomatic subtlety than our previous adventures demanded.*
*More importantly, I'm not alone in this strange new existence. Through cosmic coincidence that would make probability theorists question the fundamental nature of random distribution, I've discovered another familiar soul wearing borrowed flesh and managing borrowed responsibilities while maintaining essential identity beneath necessary disguise.*
*Sirius is here, Harry. Alive, whole, wearing Prince Oberyn Martell's face and carrying Oberyn's memories, but fundamentally, impossibly, wonderfully still himself. He's spent seventeen years searching this world for traces of the people who mattered most to him, never quite abandoning hope that love might prove stronger than dimensional barriers and the apparent finality of death.*
*We're planning to reach you within the month, traveling under diplomatic cover that will position our reunion as beneficial to regional political interests rather than mere romantic indulgence. Prince Doran values intelligence about northern opportunities, and Princess Arianne accompanied by her experienced uncle represents exactly the sort of reconnaissance mission that serves multiple objectives simultaneously.*
*Do not concern yourself with managing romantic complications involving my arrival. I understand that Fleur holds your heart in ways that transcend conventional relationship categories, and I respect bonds forged through trials I cannot fully comprehend. But I also understand that love shared among people who genuinely care for each other's welfare creates something stronger than individual partnerships could achieve alone.*
*Expect us before the moon turns. We have preparations to complete and diplomatic justifications to establish, but once those requirements are satisfied, nothing in this world or any other will prevent us from reaching your side. Together—all of us together—we'll demonstrate what's possible when brilliant people refuse to accept limitations that lesser minds insist are insurmountable.*
*With all my love and Sirius's desperate eagerness to see his godson again after believing him lost forever,*
*Padma*
*P.S. - Tell Hermione that her systematic approach to interdimensional reunion management represents academic excellence applied to practical problem-solving. Tell Susan that loyalty like hers is precisely why some bonds prove stronger than death itself. And tell Fleur that we both look forward to meeting the woman whose love guided you across impossible distances with such remarkable success.*
*P.P.S. - When we arrive, we'll be bringing more than diplomatic intelligence. Dorne commands considerable military resources, extensive trade networks, and political connections that could prove invaluable for whatever systematic changes you're planning. Some problems require comprehensive solutions that individual efforts could never achieve.*
She sealed the letter with wax touched by wandfire, imprinting it with magic that would ensure authenticity while preventing tampering by anyone other than the intended recipient. When she offered it to Fawkes, the phoenix regarded her with those ancient eyes that seemed to hold approval for plans whose scope extended beyond immediate reunion to encompass the sort of systematic transformation that made individual happiness part of larger positive change.
"Tell him we're coming," she whispered as Fawkes prepared for departure, his magnificent wings spread wide enough to embrace the morning itself. "Tell him that some reunions come with the promise of revolution, and this one will include his godfather's absolutely shameless delight at seeing him again."
The phoenix trilled once more—a sound like victory bells touched with sunfire—and launched himself into the growing daylight in a controlled explosion of golden flame that filled the courtyard with warmth and hope.
As the light faded and ordinary morning reclaimed the water gardens, Padma turned to find Sirius watching her with an expression that combined gratitude, anticipation, and something that might have been wonder.
"A month," he said, his voice carrying seventeen years of accumulated hope finally given direction and purpose.
"A month," she agreed, already beginning the mental calculations required for diplomatic justification, travel arrangements, and the sort of careful preparation that would ensure their reunion strengthened rather than complicated Harry's careful plans. "Long enough to establish perfect diplomatic cover, short enough that we won't lose our minds with anticipation."
"And then?" he asked, though his grin suggested he already knew the answer.
"Then we remind the world what happens when people who love Harry Potter decide to stop being patient and start being actively helpful instead," she replied with the sort of confident anticipation that had once made her professors simultaneously proud and deeply concerned about what she might accomplish when properly motivated.
Some problems, after all, really did require the combined resources of multiple kingdoms and the sort of comprehensive approach that only family could provide.
---
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