Once the Ministry officials had finished their initial statements and departed with promises to return for more detailed interviews once they'd located Peter Pettigrew, the Potter cottage fell into the kind of quiet that only came after surviving what should have been a world-ending crisis. You know, the kind of silence that happens after your husband casually mentions he defeated the most feared Dark wizard of the century by channeling the power of death itself, and everyone just has to sit with that information for a while.
James Potter sat heavily in what remained of his favorite armchair—one arm had been completely obliterated by a stray curse, and the cushions looked like they'd been used for target practice by particularly vindictive pixies. His hair, somehow even messier than usual despite having saved the wizarding world before breakfast, stuck up in directions that seemed to defy both gravity and common sense. He had the satisfied expression of someone who'd just accomplished something monumentally important and was trying very hard not to look too pleased with himself about it.
Lily Potter had settled on the sofa with Harry, who seemed remarkably unimpressed by the morning's revelations and was more interested in trying to grab his mother's hair than processing the fact that his father had just redefined the fundamental nature of life and death. Her brilliant green eyes sparkled with the kind of intelligence that had once convinced professors she could probably argue her way out of detention with Merlin himself, and right now they held a mixture of pride, amusement, and the slight bewilderment of someone whose life had just taken a sharp left turn into Greek mythology.
Sirius Black, meanwhile, was pacing back and forth across their ruined living room like a caged wolf who'd just discovered that his cage was actually much larger and more complicated than he'd previously understood. At six-foot-three with the kind of lean muscle that came from years of magical dueling and an unfortunate tendency to transform into a large dog, he cut an impressive figure even when he was having what appeared to be a minor existential crisis. His gray eyes were bright with the kind of manic energy that came from having your entire worldview reorganized before you'd even had proper coffee.
"Right," he said suddenly, spinning to face James with the expression of someone who'd been thinking very hard about uncomfortable questions and had finally worked up the courage to ask them. His voice carried the slight rasp that came from years of expensive cigarettes and cheaper whiskey, though recently it had been tempered by the responsibility of being Harry's godfather. "I think we need to have a serious conversation about your mysterious 'consultant' and his remarkably convenient investigative abilities."
James looked up from where he'd been studying his hands—which, Sirius noted, still occasionally flickered with that unsettling silver light when he wasn't paying attention. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sirius replied with the kind of sarcasm that had once earned him a week's detention for questioning Professor McGonagall's teaching methods. "Maybe the fact that he managed to track down every single Death Eater in Britain in under twelve hours? Or perhaps the way he casually offered to hunt down Peter as if locating invisible rats was just part of his normal Tuesday routine?"
"Rex Pluto does seem unusually well-informed about magical law enforcement techniques," Lily agreed diplomatically, though her green eyes sparkled with barely contained amusement. She had the look of someone who was enjoying a private joke that was about to become significantly less private. "Almost as if he has extensive experience with tracking down people who make poor decisions about death and souls."
"Rex Pluto," Sirius repeated flatly, stopping his pacing to stare at his best friend with the expression of someone who'd just realized they'd been missing something obvious. "That's what we're calling him? Because I have to say, Prongs, if you're going to make up an alias for someone, you might want to choose something slightly less obviously fake than 'King of the Underworld' translated into Latin."
James ran his hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, making it stick up in even more impossible directions. The gesture was so familiar, so perfectly James Potter, that it was almost comforting. Almost. Except for the part where his hair now seemed to move with a life of its own, responding to emotional states in ways that definitely weren't normal. "How do you even know Latin?"
"Black family education," Sirius replied with the casual tone of someone mentioning an unfortunate childhood disease they'd fortunately recovered from. "Lots of ancient languages when you're raised by people who think speaking to the servants in English is beneath them. Anyway, don't try to change the subject with your charming ignorance of classical languages. Who exactly is your mysteriously attractive, supernaturally competent consultant, and why does he talk like he personally knows Death?"
The silence that followed was the kind that usually preceded either spectacular revelations or spectacular disasters. Often both. James and Lily exchanged a look—the kind of wordless communication that happened between people who'd been married long enough to have entire conversations with just their eyebrows.
"Well," James said finally, glancing at Lily with the expression of someone about to either make his best friend's day or give him a nervous breakdown, "remember that book you gave us? The one from the Black family library? The one with the summoning ritual that you said we should use if we got really desperate about the whole heir situation?"
Sirius went very still. When Sirius Black went still, it was like watching a predator focus on prey—all that restless energy suddenly concentrated into something much more dangerous. "The one that was supposed to summon helpful spirits or minor demons who might be willing to make bargains? That book? The one I specifically said was probably just theoretical magical nonsense that your ancestors collected because they had too much money and not enough sense?"
"That's the one," James confirmed cheerfully, with the kind of bright enthusiasm that had once convinced their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor that setting the classroom on fire was a legitimate teaching demonstration. "Turns out it wasn't quite as minor as we thought. Or as theoretical. Really, it was surprisingly practical, all things considered."
"Define 'not quite as minor,'" Sirius said carefully, though his expression suggested he was beginning to suspect the answer was going to require significant mental reorganization and possibly a strong drink.
"We summoned the Greek god of death," Lily said matter-of-factly, as if she was discussing the weather or perhaps commenting on the quality of their morning tea. Her tone carried the same practical directness she'd once used to explain to James why hexing Severus Snape in the corridors was both morally questionable and tactically stupid. "Hades. Lord of the Underworld. Rex Pluto, if you prefer his Roman designation. Lovely man, really. Quite charming once you get past the whole 'ruler of the dead' thing."
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold to monasteries as "Absolute Contemplative Quiet for Serious Theological Discussions." Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped cheerfully, completely unaware that the conversation happening in the Potter cottage had just ventured into territory that would make most religious scholars break out in nervous sweats.
Sirius blinked once. Then twice. Then opened his mouth, closed it again, and stared at his best friend with the expression of someone whose brain had just tried to process information that didn't fit into any existing category of "things that happen in real life, even really weird real life."
"You," he said slowly, his voice carrying the careful precision of someone testing each word to make sure it meant what he thought it meant, "summoned. An actual god. To help with your fertility problems."
"It seemed like a reasonable solution at the time," James replied defensively, though his tone carried the slight embarrassment of someone who'd realized that their brilliant plan sounded completely insane when explained to other people. "The Healers had basically told us to give up and consider adopting a house-plant. We were desperate. And technically, we didn't know he was an actual god when we started. We thought he was just going to be some powerful spirit who might have useful advice."
"So naturally you decided to make a deal with the ruler of the dead," Sirius continued, his tone suggesting he was working very hard to process this information without having a complete mental breakdown.
"He's actually very reasonable," Lily added helpfully, with the fond tone she usually reserved for discussing particularly clever students or unusually well-behaved magical creatures. "Quite charming, really. Excellent conversational skills. Very respectful of boundaries. And he clearly cares about family—he gave James some of his divine essence and helped conceive Harry, which honestly explains so much about why Harry seems completely unbothered by chaos and danger."
"Conceived," Sirius repeated faintly. He sank into the nearest chair—which happened to be one that had lost most of its stuffing to curse damage but was still structurally sound. "James. James Potter. My best friend since we were eleven years old. Are you telling me that Harry is technically a demigod? That I've spent the morning watching my godson gurgle happily while Hades—his literal divine father—casually offered to hunt down traitors as a family favor?"
"Yes," James said with the kind of pedantic precision that had once driven their Transfiguration professor to distraction. "And it's more of a divine adoption than a biological relationship, though I suspect divine law operates on different principles than Ministry regulations. The important thing is that Hades considers Harry family, which means Harry has protection from forces that most wizards can't even conceptualize, let alone defend against."
"Right," Sirius said weakly. "Of course. Divine adoption. Why didn't I think of that? Perfectly normal solution to fertility problems. I'm sure St. Mungo's has a whole pamphlet: 'When Healing Magic Fails, Try Summoning Ancient Gods.'"
As if summoned by their conversation—which, given his nature, he probably had been—shadows began pooling in the corner of the room. The temperature dropped just enough to be noticeable, and the air itself seemed to thicken with the kind of presence that made mortals instinctively aware they were in the company of something much older and more powerful than themselves. Then, with the casual ease of someone stepping through a perfectly ordinary doorway, Rex Pluto materialized like smoke deciding to become solid.
He looked exactly like someone who could convince three desperate young parents to make divine bargains and then follow through on his promises with terrifying efficiency. Tall, lean, with the kind of dark hair that somehow managed to look perfectly styled despite the fact that he'd presumably just traveled through whatever interdimensional space gods used for transportation. His suit was impeccable—the kind of expensive, understated elegance that whispered rather than shouted about wealth and power. But it was his eyes that really sold the whole "ancient divine entity" thing: dark, knowing, and carrying the weight of someone who'd seen literally everything and found most of it either amusing or mildly disappointing.
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Hades said politely, his voice carrying the kind of cultured accent that suggested extensive education in multiple centuries and possibly multiple languages. Though his tone was perfectly courteous, his dark eyes held the kind of amusement that suggested he'd been listening to their conversation with considerable entertainment. "But I have some rather important updates to share."
"Please tell me you found Peter," James said immediately, silver light beginning to dance in his eyes as his divine heritage responded to his emotional state. When James Potter got angry these days, reality itself seemed to pay attention.
"Oh, I found him," Hades replied with the satisfaction of someone who'd just completed a particularly enjoyable piece of work. There was something almost cat-like in his expression—the pleased look of a predator who'd successfully cornered particularly annoying prey. "He's currently secured in a location where he cannot escape, cannot transform, and cannot do anything except contemplate the spectacular series of poor decisions that led him to betray people under my protection."
"Is he...?" Lily began, her practical mind immediately jumping to the important questions.
"Alive and unharmed," Hades assured her quickly, with the kind of gentle courtesy he seemed to reserve for addressing mortal concerns. "Though significantly less comfortable than he's accustomed to being. I thought you might prefer to handle his punishment through proper legal channels rather than having him simply disappear into the depths of the Underworld. Though I should mention, the offer remains open if the Ministry's justice system proves inadequate."
"Legal channels are fine," James said firmly, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely opposed to more creative solutions if the situation called for them. "As satisfying as divine justice might be, we should probably maintain some connection to the mortal world's law enforcement systems. At least until Harry's old enough to make his own choices about which legal frameworks he prefers to operate within."
"Quite sensible," Hades agreed, inclining his head with the kind of approval usually reserved for students who'd given particularly thoughtful answers to complex questions. "I've already contacted the Ministry with Mr. Pettigrew's location. They should have him in custody within the hour, along with enough evidence of his treasonous activities to satisfy even the most skeptical prosecutor."
Sirius, who had been processing this entire exchange with the expression of someone whose reality had just been thoroughly reorganized without his consent, finally found his voice.
"Right," he said weakly, his usual confident baritone reduced to something approaching a squeak. "So. You're actually him. The Rex Pluto thing wasn't just an alias. You're genuinely, literally, the Greek god of the underworld." He paused, seeming to test the words in his mouth to see if they made any more sense when he said them out loud. They didn't. "The actual mythological figure. Standing in my best friend's living room. Discussing legal procedures."
"I am indeed," Hades confirmed, inclining his head with the kind of dignity that made even casual acknowledgment seem like a formal introduction to royalty. "And you, Sirius Black, are James's closest friend and Harry's godfather. Your family's library provided the means for our initial meeting, which makes you indirectly responsible for what has turned out to be a very satisfactory family arrangement."
"My family's library," Sirius said slowly, his voice carrying the dawning horror of someone who'd just realized they'd accidentally set in motion events of cosmic significance, "contained a book that could actually summon legitimate gods. Not just dark spirits or demons or theoretical magical entities, but actual, honest-to-Merlin divine beings with the power to reshape reality."
"The Black family collected some remarkably comprehensive magical resources over the centuries," Hades observed with the tone of someone offering professional appreciation for quality work. "Most wizarding families wouldn't have recognized that particular text as genuine, let alone understood how to use it effectively. Your relatives had excellent taste in dangerous magical literature, even if their personal ethics left something to be desired."
"This is..." Sirius ran his hands through his dark hair in a gesture that was pure Potter influence, learned through years of friendship with someone who treated his hair as a stress-relief device. "This is completely mental. My best friend is part god. My godson is a demigod. I've been making jokes about cosmic intervention, and it turns out there was actual cosmic intervention happening. Literal gods have been involved in our lives, and I've been treating the whole thing like some kind of elaborate prank."
"If it helps," James offered cheerfully, with the kind of determined optimism that had once convinced Lily Evans that dating him might not be a complete disaster, "I'm still the same person who used to set off Dungbombs in the Slytherin common room and once tried to impress your cousin Bellatrix by setting his own hair on fire during a family gathering."
"That doesn't help at all," Sirius replied with feeling. "That makes it worse. That makes it so much worse. The universe is apparently run by beings who think you're qualified for divine responsibility. James Potter—the same James Potter who once got his head stuck in the knight's armor on the third floor because he wanted to see if it would make his voice sound more impressive—has been chosen by actual gods as their mortal representative. We're all doomed. The entire wizarding world is doomed."
"Hey now," James protested with mock offense, though his grin suggested he wasn't entirely disagreeing with Sirius's assessment of his qualifications for cosmic responsibility. "I've been very responsible with my newfound divine significance. I ended a war, defeated the Dark Lord permanently, and only caused moderate property damage in the process. That's practically a miracle of restraint by Potter family standards."
"Moderate property damage," Lily repeated dryly, gesturing at their demolished living room. "James, dear, our house looks like it was hit by a particularly vindictive tornado."
"Exactly!" James said brightly. "Moderate damage. I could have accidentally destroyed half of Godric's Hollow, but I didn't. That shows remarkable growth in my magical control and property management skills."
"Your property management skills," Sirius said flatly, "consisted of channeling divine power through your body without adequate preparation and then being surprised when the local architecture couldn't handle the overflow."
Before James could defend his approach to divine power management, Hades cleared his throat with the air of someone who had more important revelations to share and would prefer to get through them before the mortals completely devolved into comedic banter.
"Actually," he said, his tone carrying the subtle weight that suggested the conversation was about to venture into even more complicated territory, "there are a few other matters we should discuss. James, you mentioned that you intended to retrieve your family's Invisibility Cloak from Professor Dumbledore."
"Right," James nodded, his expression becoming more serious as he shifted into what Lily privately thought of as his "responsible adult" mode. It was still somewhat new, but he was getting better at it. "Family heirloom, supposed to be kept safe during the war, that sort of thing. I figured now that Voldemort's dealt with, it was time to reclaim our property. Why? Is there a problem with getting it back?"
"Because Professor Dumbledore no longer has your cloak," Hades said with the careful tone of someone delivering information that was going to require extensive explanation and possibly some light restructuring of fundamental assumptions about reality. "I do."
The silence that followed was the kind that usually accompanied moments when everyone realizes that the situation is significantly more complicated than they'd previously understood, and also that they probably should have asked more questions earlier in the process.
"You have our Invisibility Cloak?" Lily asked, her sharp mind immediately beginning to work through the implications. Her expression shifted into what James had learned to recognize as her "solving complex problems" face, which usually meant someone was about to get a very thorough explanation of exactly how and why they'd made poor decisions.
"I have your Invisibility Cloak, along with what everyone believed was Professor Dumbledore's personal wand," Hades confirmed with the kind of casual tone usually reserved for discussing the weather rather than the acquisition of legendary magical artifacts. "Both items are currently being... enhanced... by my nephew Hephaestus in his divine forge."
"Enhanced how?" James asked, though his tone suggested he suspected the answer was going to be either wonderful or terrifying, with very little middle ground between the two possibilities.
"To bring them up to the standards appropriate for my grandson's eventual use," Hades replied simply, as if upgrading legendary magical artifacts was just the kind of thing grandfathers did when they wanted to spoil their grandchildren. "The Cloak and the wand—along with a certain stone that was recently destroyed along with Voldemort's ring—are what mortals call the Deathly Hallows."
"The Deathly Hallows," Sirius repeated slowly, his voice carrying the kind of reverent whisper usually reserved for discussing religious artifacts or particularly impressive Quidditch statistics. "As in the legend? The three objects that supposedly make their wielder master of death? Those Deathly Hallows?"
"Not a legend," Hades corrected gently, with the patient tone of someone who'd spent centuries watching mortals get their facts wrong about divine affairs. "Ancient history. The three artifacts were created by my employee Thanatos during the early days of recorded magic, when gods still regularly interacted with mortal wizards. They were never intended to make anyone 'master of death'—that's a fundamental misunderstanding of their purpose that's caused considerable confusion over the centuries. They were designed to help worthy mortals understand the true nature of life, death, and the balance between them."
"Employee?" James asked, latching onto the casual way Hades had described the creator of legendary magical artifacts. "Thanatos is your employee?"
"Thanatos is the personification of death in Greek mythology," Lily explained, her Hogwarts education in ancient studies finally proving useful for something more practical than passing exams. "If he's Hades' employee, then..." She trailed off as the implications hit her.
"Then the Deathly Hallows were created by an actual manifestation of death itself, working under the supervision of the god who rules the underworld," Sirius concluded, sinking deeper into the damaged chair. "This morning just keeps getting better. First my best friend is revealed to be part god, then my godson turns out to be a demigod, and now legendary artifacts created by the personification of death are apparently family heirlooms. What's next? Are we going to discover that Hogwarts was built on a sacred site and McGonagall is secretly a minor goddess?"
"Actually," Hades said thoughtfully, "Professor McGonagall does have some interesting ancestry, though I believe she's unaware of it. But that's a conversation for another time."
"Please don't," Sirius said weakly. "I can only handle so many reality-reshaping revelations in one day. My brain wasn't designed for this kind of theological complexity."
"The point is," Hades continued, apparently deciding to show mercy to Sirius's overwhelmed mental state, "these artifacts belong to Harry by right of inheritance, divine decree, and the simple fact that he's going to need protection that operates on multiple levels of reality. Hephaestus is upgrading them to meet the challenges he'll face as he grows into his abilities."
"What kind of challenges?" James asked, though something in his voice suggested he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. His parental instincts, newly sharpened by divine awareness, were clearly picking up on implications he didn't like.
"The kind that come with being the son of a partially divine wizard who ended a war by channeling death itself," Hades replied honestly, with the kind of straightforward directness that suggested he believed parents deserved to know exactly what they were dealing with. "Political pressure from mortals who want to use him for their own purposes. Magical threats from creatures and entities who can sense divine heritage from considerable distances. Divine politics from gods who view half-mortal children as either threats or opportunities to advance their own agendas. Plus the usual hazards of existing at the intersection of multiple worlds while attending a school that treats life-threatening situations as educational opportunities."
"Right," James said slowly, his protective instincts clearly warring with his natural optimism. "So, enhanced magical artifacts that can grow with him and protect him from things that normal wizards can't even perceive, let alone defend against."
"Exactly," Hades confirmed, seeming pleased that James was grasping the situation so quickly. "Though he won't receive them immediately. The preliminary versions will be ready within a few years, with full capabilities available as he develops his own abilities and faces increasingly complex challenges. Think of it as... graduated protection that scales with his needs and capabilities."
"Increasingly complex challenges," Lily repeated with the tone of a mother who was beginning to realize that her son's life was going to be considerably more adventurous than the average wizard's, and the average wizard's life already included things like flying on broomsticks and dodging hexes from classmates. "Should we be worried about that? Because it sounds like the kind of thing parents should worry about."
"You should be prepared," Hades said diplomatically, his tone carrying the kind of gentle authority that came from extensive experience with parental concerns. "Harry Potter is going to be remarkable in ways that will attract both positive and negative attention from powers across multiple realms. But he'll also have parents who understand the nature of power, responsibility, and the importance of making good choices even when the stakes are cosmic. That's considerably more than most children receive, even children with unusually complicated destinies."
"Plus," he added with a smile that carried genuine warmth and transformed his entire face from imposing divine authority to fond grandfather, "he'll have family support from both the mortal and divine realms. That's considerably more backup than most children receive, even children who accidentally end up at the center of prophecies or interdimensional conflicts."
Sirius, who had been listening to this exchange with growing amazement and what appeared to be the early stages of resigned acceptance, finally spoke up.
"So let me make sure I understand this correctly," he said, his voice carrying the careful precision of someone working through information that challenged every assumption they'd ever made about reality, magic, and the fundamental nature of existence. "Harry is going to inherit legendary artifacts that were created by death personified, upgraded by the god of smithing, and personally delivered by the lord of the underworld. His father can channel divine power and apparently glow silver when he's emotional, his mother is brilliant enough to argue with gods and win, and his godfather has access to a family library that apparently contains genuine divine summoning rituals that actually work."
"That's an accurate summary," Hades agreed, seeming pleased with Sirius's ability to synthesize complex information.
"Right," Sirius said, then grinned with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that had made him famous throughout Gryffindor House for accepting any dare, no matter how dangerous or stupid. "Well, at least Harry's life isn't going to be boring."
"No," James agreed, looking down at his son with a mixture of profound love, protective determination, and only slight terror at what the future might hold. Harry was currently attempting to grab a dust mote dancing in the morning sunlight, his green eyes—so much like his mother's—bright with curiosity and completely untroubled by the cosmic significance of his existence. "Boring is definitely not going to be a problem."
"Actually," Lily said thoughtfully, her practical mind already working through the logistics of raising a demigod in the wizarding world, "we should probably discuss some ground rules. About divine visitations, artifact inheritance, and exactly how much supernatural intervention Harry's going to experience during his childhood."
Hades raised an eyebrow with the expression of someone who was beginning to realize that Lily Potter might be the most formidable mortal he'd encountered in several centuries. "Ground rules?"
"Well, yes," Lily said with the kind of determined cheerfulness that had once convinced Professor Slughorn to completely restructure his Potions curriculum based on her suggestions. "Harry's going to need some semblance of normal childhood experiences, divine heritage notwithstanding. We can't have him growing up thinking that having gods drop by for tea is typical for most families."
"Though it would certainly make parent-teacher conferences more interesting," James added with a grin that suggested he was already imagining Professor McGonagall's reaction to meeting an actual deity.
"James," Lily said warningly, though her tone carried more affection than genuine reproof.
"What? I'm just saying, it might be nice to have some backup when we inevitably have to explain why Harry accidentally turned a classroom full of toads back into students during Transfiguration practice."
"That was an isolated incident," Lily protested, "and it was hardly Harry's fault that Professor McGonagall's demonstration went wrong."
"It wasn't supposed to go wrong when I did it," James pointed out reasonably. "It only went wrong when Harry got excited and apparently channeled enough divine energy to reverse the entire spell for thirty students simultaneously."
Harry, as if responding to his name, gurgled happily and reached for his father's face with chubby fingers that seemed to sparkle slightly in the sunlight.
Hades watched this domestic scene with the kind of warm amusement that suggested he found mortal family dynamics endlessly entertaining. "I believe we can establish reasonable parameters for divine intervention. After all, the goal is to provide Harry with the support he needs while still allowing him to develop his own identity and capabilities."
"See?" James said brightly to Sirius. "Reasonable. I told you he was reasonable."
"James," Sirius replied with the long-suffering tone of someone who'd been having this conversation in various forms for over a decade, "you once described a plan to sneak into the Slytherin dormitories using Polyjuice Potion and McGonagall's favorite tea service as 'perfectly reasonable.' Your definition of reasonable has always been somewhat flexible."
"That plan worked," James protested.
"That plan got us detention for three weeks and a lifetime ban from the third-floor corridor."
"But it worked. We got into their dormitories, we discovered their plans for the Quidditch match, and we prevented them from cheating. The detention was just... an administrative formality."
"An administrative formality," Lily repeated with the kind of fond exasperation that suggested this was a very old argument. "James Potter, you convinced Sirius to dress up as Professor McGonagall and serve tea to Slytherin seventh-years while you hid in a teapot."
"Temporarily," James corrected. "I was temporarily transformed into a teapot. And it was a very nice teapot. Good china, excellent handle design."
"You were a teapot," Sirius said flatly. "For six hours. I had to carry you around Hogwarts pretending to be McGonagall, serving tea to suspicious Slytherins who kept asking why I was suddenly so interested in their Quidditch strategies."
"And you were brilliant at it," James said loyally. "Very convincing Scottish accent. Though you could have worked on the posture a bit—McGonagall doesn't slouch."
"I don't slouch," Sirius protested. "I have excellent posture. It's called 'casual elegance.'"
"It's called 'I spent too many years trying to look intimidating to pure-blood supremacists,'" Lily corrected gently. "Though it does work well for the whole godfather image."
Hades cleared his throat softly, though his expression suggested he was thoroughly enjoying this glimpse into mortal friendship dynamics. "Perhaps we should return to the matter of establishing appropriate boundaries for divine intervention in Harry's upbringing?"
"Right," James said, immediately focusing back on the important discussion. "So what exactly constitutes appropriate intervention? Because I have to say, the whole 'hunting down traitors across Britain in under twelve hours' thing was incredibly helpful, but it might set some unrealistic expectations for future problem-solving."
"I think," Hades said thoughtfully, "that we can establish a general principle: direct intervention for genuine threats to Harry's safety or well-being, consultation and advice for matters that might benefit from divine perspective, and respectful non-interference in normal childhood experiences and developmental challenges."
"What about school?" Lily asked practically. "Because Hogwarts has a... unique approach to education that often involves students facing potentially lethal situations as part of their regular curriculum."
"Hogwarts," Sirius said with feeling, "has a philosophy of education that could charitably be described as 'sink or swim, preferably while being chased by something with too many teeth.'"
"The school does have an interesting approach to character development," Hades agreed diplomatically. "I believe we can classify genuine life-threatening situations as appropriate for intervention, while allowing Harry to handle normal academic challenges—even unusually dangerous ones—on his own."
"Define 'genuine life-threatening,'" James said, his paternal instincts clearly already working through worst-case scenarios.
"Situations where death or permanent harm is a likely outcome without intervention," Hades replied. "Not situations where death or permanent harm is a remote possibility that can be avoided through intelligence, skill, or normal magical ability."
"So, possessed Defense Against the Dark Arts professors trying to kill him: intervention," Lily said, working through the parameters.
"Detention with Professor McGonagall involving dangerous magical creatures: no intervention," James added.
"What about Quidditch?" Sirius asked, clearly thinking about the sport's notorious casualty rates.
"Normal Quidditch injuries and risks: no intervention," Hades said firmly. "Magically sabotaged equipment or attempts to cause serious harm during matches: intervention."
"That seems reasonable," Lily agreed, though her tone suggested she was already mentally preparing a much longer list of specific scenarios to clarify. "What about social situations? Bullying, teenage drama, that sort of thing?"
"Harry will need to learn to handle normal social challenges on his own," Hades said gently. "Though if bullying escalates to genuine threats or magical assault, that might warrant consultation."
Harry chose that moment to demonstrate his opinion of this conversation by producing a remarkably loud burp that seemed to echo with unusual resonance through the room.
"Well," James said cheerfully, "at least we know where Harry stands on divine intervention policies."
"I think," Lily said, settling Harry more comfortably in her arms, "that we're going to need to have regular family meetings as Harry gets older. To reassess these policies and make sure they're still working."
"Family meetings," Sirius repeated with amusement. "Featuring the Lord of the Underworld. I never thought I'd see the day when James Potter voluntarily scheduled regular meetings, let alone meetings with divine entities."
"I'm very good at meetings now," James protested. "I've developed excellent organizational skills since Harry was born. I have a calendar and everything."
"You have a calendar," Sirius said slowly, "because Lily made you a calendar. And color-coded it. And puts reminder charms on it so it shouts at you when you're supposed to be somewhere."
"The important thing is that it works," James replied with dignity. "I haven't missed a single appointment or forgotten any important dates since Harry was born."
"That's true," Lily confirmed with fond pride. "He's actually become quite responsible. It's terrifying and wonderful at the same time."
"Parenthood," Hades observed with ancient wisdom, "has a remarkable ability to inspire personal growth, even in the most... spontaneous... individuals."
"Spontaneous," James repeated with a grin. "I like that. Much better than 'recklessly impulsive' or 'dangerously unpredictable.'"
"Those work too," Sirius said helpfully.
"You're supposed to be supporting me," James protested. "Best friend loyalty."
"Best friend loyalty includes honest assessment of character flaws," Sirius replied. "It's part of the service. Besides, you've grown into your spontaneity. Now it's 'charmingly impulsive' and 'creatively unpredictable.'"
"Much better," James agreed happily.
---
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