The journey from the Underworld's administrative palace to Hephaestus's forge required navigating through dimensional spaces that existed in the margins between properly defined realms. It wasn't difficult for someone of Hades' power—he could slip between dimensions as easily as mortals walked through doorways—but it did require a certain amount of mental preparation for the sensory assault that always accompanied visits to his nephew's workshop.
Hephaestus had chosen to establish his forge in a pocket dimension that existed simultaneously in multiple pantheons' territories, which meant the space operated under a creative interpretation of physics that would have given mortal scientists collective nervous breakdowns. Temperature was more of a suggestion than a constant. Gravity worked when it felt like it. And time moved at whatever pace the master smith deemed appropriate for his current project, which meant you could spend what felt like an hour in conversation and emerge to find either five minutes or five days had passed in the outside world.
The entrance manifested as a doorway carved from living flame—not metaphorical flame, but actual fire that had achieved architectural stability through sheer divine will and possibly some very aggressive welding. Hades stepped through without hesitation, his divine nature rendering him immune to the kind of temperatures that would have vaporized most beings instantly.
The forge itself was exactly as overwhelming as he remembered from his last visit approximately two centuries ago. The main workshop stretched into impossible distances, taking advantage of the pocket dimension's flexible spatial properties to be simultaneously vast and intimate. The walls—when they existed at all—appeared to be made of crystallized starlight and compressed cosmic forces, decorated with tools that ranged from conventional hammers to artifacts that probably shouldn't exist outside of theoretical physics discussions.
The sound was omnipresent and indescribable—not just the ring of hammer on anvil, but the resonance of creation itself. Every strike of Hephaestus's tools sent vibrations through multiple dimensions simultaneously, and Hades could feel each impact reverberating through his divine essence like the universe was conducting a very aggressive percussion performance.
At the center of this controlled chaos stood Hephaestus himself, exactly where Hades had expected to find him—bent over an anvil made from compressed neutron star material (or something equally improbable), wielding a hammer that appeared to be forged from solidified gravity, working on something that glowed with the kind of inner light that suggested it was still deciding whether it wanted to be matter or energy.
The god of the forge was, as always, completely absorbed in his work. He had the kind of powerful build that came from millennia of working with forces that required both physical strength and divine authority to manipulate—broad shoulders, muscular arms, and hands that moved with the precise confidence of someone who'd been creating impossible things since before most mortals' ancestors had figured out the whole "opposable thumbs" situation.
His face was weathered in the way that only divine beings who'd spent eons working with cosmic forces could achieve—not aged, exactly, but marked by experiences that transcended normal concepts of time and wear. His dark hair was pulled back practically, and his beard was trimmed short in a style that was entirely utilitarian rather than decorative.
Currently, he was dressed in what could generously be called work clothes—leather apron that appeared to be made from the hide of something that had never existed in normal reality, gloves that shimmered with protective enchantments, and boots that left small scorch marks on the dimensional floor because apparently even pocket dimensions had limits to their fire resistance.
"Uncle," Hephaestus said without looking up from his work, apparently having sensed Hades' arrival through whatever divine awareness allowed master craftsmen to track visitors while maintaining focus on delicate creation processes. "I wasn't expecting you for another week. Has something happened with the Potter children?"
"Nothing catastrophic," Hades assured him, moving closer to observe his nephew's work while carefully avoiding the various piles of divine materials, half-finished projects, and what appeared to be a small sun that was being used as a heat source for a particularly stubborn piece of metal. "Though I did just spend a delightful afternoon at Olympus being interrogated about my relationship with mortal wizards and their magically-enhanced offspring."
Hephaestus's hammer paused mid-strike—which, given that he was working with materials that required constant divine attention to maintain their current state, was actually impressive. He finally looked up, his dark eyes sharp with concern and guilt.
"Hera visited me two days ago," he said quietly, setting down his hammer with the careful precision of someone handling a tool that could accidentally reshape reality if placed incorrectly. "She was making her usual rounds, checking on various projects, offering unsolicited advice about my social life. I was working on preliminary sketches for the Hallows upgrades, and she noticed the blueprints."
He gestured toward a workbench where several large sheets of divine parchment were spread out, covered in technical drawings that combined ancient Greek geometric precision with modern engineering schematics and what appeared to be purely theoretical mathematics that probably violated several fundamental laws of physics.
"She asked about them," Hephaestus continued, his voice carrying the guilt of someone who'd accidentally revealed information they'd intended to keep private. "I tried to deflect, but you know how she is when she thinks she's uncovered a secret. She kept pressing until I confirmed they were for the Potter children, and then she immediately left with that particular expression she gets when she's about to cause problems for Zeus."
Hades moved to examine the blueprints, studying the intricate designs with appreciation for the skill and creativity they represented. "It's not your fault," he said firmly. "Hera has been collecting information to use against Zeus for approximately three thousand years. If she hadn't found out through you, she would have discovered it through some other means. The woman has a talent for ferreting out secrets that would make professional spies weep with envy."
"Still," Hephaestus said with obvious discomfort, "I should have been more careful. Should have hidden the blueprints, or at least not left them out where she could see them."
"Zeus and Poseidon would have found out eventually anyway," Hades said with the calm pragmatism of someone who'd learned long ago that keeping secrets from other gods was ultimately futile. "We all have children who could fulfill the prophecy. Better that we acknowledged it and came to an understanding than having it discovered during some future crisis when emotions were running even higher."
"How did Zeus take it?" Hephaestus asked, apparently reassured enough by Hades' lack of anger to return to his work. He picked up the hammer again and resumed his careful strikes, each impact sending controlled ripples of creation energy through the material he was shaping.
"About as well as you'd expect," Hades replied dryly. "Lots of shouting, dramatic gestures, vague threats about cosmic law and sacred pacts. But once I pointed out that he and Poseidon had also violated said pact by fathering their own children, he settled down and we reached a reasonable compromise."
"Which is?"
"We all acknowledge that we have children who might fulfill the prophecy, we stop having more children to avoid further complications, and we coordinate training efforts while accepting that different children require different approaches." Hades studied the blueprints more carefully, his divine perception picking up details that mortal eyes wouldn't be able to process. "Speaking of training and preparation, these designs are remarkable. You've done extraordinary work."
Hephaestus's expression brightened with the kind of professional pride that transcended divine politics and family drama. "Thank you. Though I should mention, I've made some significant modifications to the original Hallows based on what you've told me about the Potter children's unique situation."
He moved to the workbench, setting aside his current project to focus on explaining the blueprints. His hands moved over the designs with the reverence of someone who'd poured considerable thought and skill into creating something genuinely unprecedented.
"The Invisibility Cloak presented the most interesting challenge," Hephaestus began, pointing to a series of drawings that showed what appeared to be armor rather than a simple cloak. "The original was designed to hide its wearer from Death's notice—excellent for avoiding divine attention, but not particularly useful for active protection or combat situations."
The blueprints showed armor that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood both form and function on levels that transcended mortal craftsmanship. The chest piece was styled with phoenix motifs—not the bright red and gold of traditional phoenixes, but the shadowy, star-touched aesthetic of the cosmic bird that Melinoe had created for Harry.
"Black and silver," Hades observed, studying the color scheme and design elements. "Shadow Phoenix aesthetics."
"Exactly," Hephaestus confirmed with satisfaction. "I heard about Melinoe's gift to Harry—remarkable work, by the way, your daughter has genuine talent for necromantic creation—and I thought it would be appropriate for the armor to complement his companion. The phoenix motif serves both aesthetic and functional purposes."
He pointed to intricate patterns etched across the chest piece. "These aren't just decorative. They're functional enchantments that channel the same kind of shadow-manipulation magic that Melinoe used in creating the phoenix. The armor can phase between dimensions like Shadow does, allowing the wearer to avoid attacks by temporarily existing in multiple realities simultaneously."
"Impressive," Hades said, genuinely admiring the technical complexity. "And the helmet?"
"Also phoenix-themed, with a face guard that can retract when not needed." Hephaestus indicated another set of detailed drawings showing the helmet from multiple angles. "But here's the really interesting part—the armor isn't separate pieces. It's a unified system that can be summoned and dismissed through will alone. The wearer thinks about being protected, and the armor manifests. Thinks about moving unencumbered, and it phases into a pocket dimension until needed again."
"No awkward carrying around pieces of divine armor," Hades observed with approval.
"Precisely. And because it's based on the Invisibility Cloak's original enchantments, it maintains the property of hiding its wearer from Death's notice—or in this case, from divine detection in general. Harry could walk into Olympus wearing this armor and most gods wouldn't register his presence unless they were specifically looking for him."
Hades considered the implications of giving a young wizard armor that could hide him from divine attention while providing protection that operated across multiple dimensions. It was either brilliant or absolutely terrifying, depending on your perspective.
"What about growth?" he asked practically. "Harry's currently three years old. This armor would need to accommodate approximately two decades of physical development."
"Already addressed," Hephaestus assured him, pointing to additional notations on the blueprints. "The armor is designed to grow with its wearer, adjusting size and fit automatically as they mature. And because it exists partially in a pocket dimension when manifested, it weighs essentially nothing despite being constructed from materials that would normally be too heavy for mortal use."
He moved to another set of blueprints, these ones showing what appeared to be a knife—elegant, deadly, and definitely not something you'd use for spreading butter at breakfast.
"The Resurrection Stone presented different challenges," Hephaestus explained. "The original was designed to call forth shades of the dead—echoes of people rather than actual resurrection. Useful for conversation or closure, but not particularly practical for someone who already has divine connections to the underworld."
The knife in the blueprints was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often were—black obsidian blade with silver inlay forming patterns that might have been decorative or might have been ancient Greek text depending on how you looked at them. The handle appeared to be wrapped in leather that had definitely never belonged to any animal that existed in normal reality.
"Obsidian from the Underworld," Hades observed, recognizing the material specifications. "Interesting choice."
"Not just any obsidian," Hephaestus corrected with the enthusiasm of someone discussing their specialty. "Volcanic glass formed during the Titan War, carrying residual energy from battles between primordial forces. I'm going to forge it with waters from the River Styx, which will give the blade properties that transcend normal physical weapons."
"Properties like?" Hades prompted.
"The ability to cut through magical defenses as if they don't exist," Hephaestus explained. "The capacity to sever curses, break enchantments, and dispel magical constructs with a single strike. And most importantly—" his voice took on a note of particular satisfaction, "—it retains the Resurrection Stone's original function, but enhanced."
"Enhanced how?"
"Instead of calling forth shades from the underworld, the knife allows its wielder to temporarily anchor souls to the mortal plane," Hephaestus said. "Not resurrection in the traditional sense, but the ability to give departed spirits temporary physical form for communication, assistance, or protection. Think of it as... controlled haunting."
Hades considered this carefully. "That could be extraordinarily useful or catastrophically dangerous, depending on which souls Harry decides to anchor and for what purposes."
"Which is why the knife is designed with built-in limitations," Hephaestus assured him. "It can only anchor souls who consent to being anchored—no forcing dead people back against their will. The manifestation is temporary, lasting at most a few hours before the soul returns to the underworld. And it requires significant magical energy to use, which means Harry won't be able to casually summon armies of the dead without exhausting himself."
"Reasonable restrictions," Hades acknowledged. "What about the third Hallow?"
Hephaestus's expression became particularly animated as he moved to the final set of blueprints—these ones showing what appeared to be a sword, though calling it a "sword" seemed inadequate given the complexity of the design.
"The Elder Wand was the most challenging," he said with the tone of someone who'd genuinely enjoyed solving a difficult problem. "It's already the most powerful wand in existence, designed to channel magic with unprecedented precision and force. Simply upgrading it would have been redundant."
The blueprints showed a blade that looked like it had been forged from starlight and shadow simultaneously—dark metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, with an edge that appeared sharp enough to cut through concepts rather than just physical matter.
"Stygian Iron," Hades said, recognizing the material even though he'd rarely seen it used for weapon-crafting. "Where did you source enough for a full blade?"
"I've been collecting it for centuries," Hephaestus admitted. "Trading with various underworld entities, commissioning mining expeditions to the deepest parts of the Styx, generally being a nuisance to your administrative staff about material requisitions. This project gave me an excuse to finally use my stockpile for something genuinely important."
Stygian Iron was rare even by divine standards—metal that existed at the intersection of the mortal world and the underworld, capable of harming both physical beings and spiritual entities. It was traditionally used for weapons meant to fight monsters that existed partially in multiple dimensions, and forging it required techniques that most gods had never mastered.
"The blade will be able to transform back into wand form," Hephaestus explained, indicating technical details that showed the transformation mechanism. "It's not two separate items—it's one item that exists in two states depending on what the wielder needs. Wand form for precision spellcasting, blade form for combat situations where physical cutting power is more useful than magical manipulation."
"How is that possible?" Hades asked with genuine curiosity. "Wands and swords have completely different magical properties, different ways of channeling power."
"Which is why this took me three years of theoretical work before I even started on physical prototypes," Hephaestus replied with satisfaction. "The transformation isn't changing the item itself—it's changing how the same fundamental magical construct manifests in physical space. Think of it like... water and ice. Same substance, different states, each useful in different circumstances."
He pointed to intricate notations covering the margins of the blueprints. "The Stygian Iron provides the foundational structure—metal that exists in multiple dimensions simultaneously. The Elder Wand's original enchantments are preserved but distributed throughout the entire blade rather than concentrated in a single point. When Harry needs a wand, the blade's physical form condenses into traditional wand dimensions while maintaining all its magical properties. When he needs a sword, it expands back into full blade form while retaining the ability to channel spells."
"So he could theoretically cast a spell through the sword while using it in combat?" Hades asked, working through the tactical implications.
"Exactly. Fight with the blade, cast spells through the blade, transition between wand and sword form instantly as circumstances require. It's the kind of versatility that traditional magical weapons can't provide because they're designed with single-purpose functionality."
Hades studied all three sets of blueprints, his mind already working through how these enhanced Hallows would serve Harry and Rose as they grew into their abilities and responsibilities. Armor that could hide them from divine detection while providing multi-dimensional protection. A knife that could sever curses and anchor spirits. A blade that could function as both wand and sword, channeling magic with unprecedented precision while also being capable of physical combat.
"These are remarkable," he said sincerely. "You've taken artifacts that were already legendary and transformed them into something that transcends their original design. Harry and Rose will have protection and tools that even most gods don't possess."
"That's the idea," Hephaestus confirmed with satisfaction. "Though I should mention—these won't be ready for immediate use. The armor and knife I can complete within a few months, assuming you can provide the materials I requested. But the sword will take considerably longer. Forging Stygian Iron into a blade while preserving the Elder Wand's enchantments and creating a stable transformation mechanism... that's going to require at least two years of careful work."
"I have the materials you requested," Hades said, gesturing and causing three items to materialize from the dimensional space where he'd been storing them. "Iron ore from the deepest mines of the Underworld, obsidian formed during the Titan War, and water from the River Styx collected under specific astronomical conditions."
The materials appeared on Hephaestus's workbench with the kind of care that suggested Hades understood exactly how precious and dangerous they were. The iron ore glowed with a faint inner light that spoke of centuries spent absorbing underworld energy. The obsidian was so dark it seemed to create a void in normal space, light bending around it rather than reflecting off its surface. And the Styx water was contained in a vessel made of crystallized time—because apparently normal containers weren't adequate for water that could grant invulnerability or drive you insane depending on how it was used.
Hephaestus's eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm that master craftsmen reserved for receiving perfect materials for important projects. He moved to examine each item carefully, his divine senses analyzing their properties with the thoroughness of someone who understood that working with these substances required absolute precision.
"These are perfect," he said with genuine appreciation. "The iron ore has exactly the right resonance for bonding with Stygian properties. The obsidian is pure, uncorrupted by modern volcanic activity. And this Styx water—" he studied the container carefully, "—was collected during a lunar eclipse, wasn't it? I can feel the additional lunar resonance in the temporal crystals."
"Persephone insisted we wait for optimal astronomical conditions," Hades confirmed. "Something about how lunar eclipse water has enhanced binding properties that would make the forging more stable."
"Your wife is correct," Hephaestus said with approval. "The lunar influence will help stabilize the transformation enchantments, reduce the risk of the blade and wand forms becoming unstable during transition. It's the kind of detail that most people wouldn't think to consider, but it makes the difference between a weapon that works reliably and one that occasionally fails at catastrophic moments."
He began carefully transferring the materials to specialized storage areas around his workshop—places where they could be kept at optimal conditions until he was ready to begin the actual forging process.
"I'll start work on the armor first," he said as he worked. "It's the most straightforward of the three, and Harry will benefit from having protection sooner rather than later. The knife will follow once the armor is complete. And the sword..." he paused, his expression becoming distant as he mentally worked through the forging sequence, "the sword will be my masterpiece. The kind of work that I'll be remembered for even among other divine craftsmen."
"No pressure," Hades observed dryly.
"Pressure is what makes great work possible," Hephaestus replied with the confidence of someone who'd been creating legendary artifacts since before most civilizations learned to work metal. "Without challenges that push us beyond our current capabilities, we stagnate. This project is exactly the kind of challenge I need."
As Hephaestus continued organizing the materials and making notes about his forging sequence, Hades found himself reflecting on the strange turns his existence had taken. A few years ago, his biggest concern had been managing underworld bureaucracy and occasionally mediating disputes between his wife and his brothers. Now he was coordinating the creation of divine artifacts for his mortal-wizard grandchildren while managing the political fallout of having accidentally created a new category of demigod that could potentially achieve godhood through force of will.
"Can I ask you something?" Hephaestus said, apparently having finished his material organization and returned his attention to conversation.
"Of course."
"Do you really think Harry and Rose could ascend to full divinity?" Hephaestus asked with genuine curiosity rather than concern. "You mentioned it to Zeus as a possibility, but you didn't elaborate on the specifics."
Hades considered how to answer this honestly while not revealing information that would cause additional complications if it spread through Olympus.
"The potential exists," he said carefully. "Magical demigods have access to something that traditional demigods don't—the ability to manipulate fundamental forces through their own will rather than requiring divine permission or intervention. Magic at its highest levels is essentially applied divinity, reshaping reality through focused intention. Combine that with divine essence and the right circumstances, and yes, achieving godhood becomes possible."
"What kind of circumstances?" Hephaestus pressed.
"Usually profound trauma, impossible challenges, or situations where the only way to survive is transcending mortal limitations," Hades replied honestly. "It's not something that happens through comfortable growth and gradual development. It requires being pushed beyond every boundary, forced to choose between death and transformation, and having both the will and the power to choose transformation."
"That sounds horrifying."
"It is," Hades agreed. "Which is why I'm hoping it never happens to Harry or Rose. I'd much rather they live long, happy, mortal lives than become gods through experiencing the kind of trauma that forces that transformation. But the potential exists, and preparing them for that possibility is part of my responsibility as their divine grandfather."
Hephaestus nodded slowly, clearly working through the implications. "These artifacts I'm creating—armor, knife, sword. They'll help prepare them for either possibility. Useful for a remarkably powerful mortal wizard, but also appropriate for someone who might eventually achieve divinity."
"Exactly," Hades confirmed. "Though I'm hoping the 'remarkably powerful mortal wizard' option is the one that manifests. Considerably less complicated for everyone involved."
"And considerably less likely to trigger Zeus's paranoia about potential rivals," Hephaestus added with dry humor.
"That too."
As Hades prepared to depart—because even divine forges had limits to how long visitors should stay without interfering with actual work—Hephaestus called out one more question.
"When should I deliver the completed artifacts? I assume you want them presented formally rather than just appearing in the Potter household with a note saying 'divine weapons, handle carefully'?"
"Formal presentation would be appropriate," Hades agreed. "Though probably not until Harry's at least seven or eight years old—old enough to understand the significance and responsibility without being overwhelmed by the sheer cosmic weight of receiving legendary artifacts from a god. We can reassess timing as the forging progresses."
"Seven or eight years for the sword anyway," Hephaestus noted. "The armor and knife will be ready considerably sooner. Perhaps I could present those separately, then deliver the sword when Harry's ready for the full set?"
"That seems reasonable," Hades said. "Gradual introduction to divine-level equipment rather than overwhelming him with everything at once."
As he dissolved back into shadow for the return journey to the Underworld, Hades found himself feeling oddly optimistic about the whole situation. Yes, Zeus knew about the Potter children. Yes, there were potential complications with prophecies and divine politics. Yes, Harry and Rose would face challenges that most children never had to imagine.
But they would also have protection from gods who cared about them, training from family members who understood their unique nature, and artifacts forged by the greatest craftsman in divine history specifically designed to help them survive whatever impossible situations they encountered.
It was, by Olympian standards, about the best outcome he could have hoped for.
Even if it had required threatening his brother with political consequences and pointing out uncomfortable truths about family hypocrisy.
Some grandchildren were worth any amount of divine drama.
And the Potter siblings were definitely in that category.
After all, not every three-year-old could open portals to the afterlife before breakfast.
And not every grandfather could commission legendary weapons from divine forges to help protect them.
It was, Hades reflected as he materialized back in his palace study, exactly the kind of family dynamic you'd expect when Greek gods decided to take an active interest in mortal wizard children.
Complicated, certainly.
But also filled with genuine love, fierce protection, and the kind of support that transcended the boundaries between mortal and divine realms.
Even when that support involved commissioning armor based on cosmic phoenix aesthetics and swords that could transform into wands while channeling enough power to make even other gods nervous.
Some families were just built differently.
And the Potter-Hades family was definitely at the far end of that spectrum.
---
The Lotus Hotel and Casino existed in that peculiar space where mortal entertainment met divine manipulation—a pocket of frozen time wrapped in neon lights and the promise of eternal distraction. To the mortal eye, it was just another Las Vegas establishment, albeit one with surprisingly good customer retention and a complete absence of clocks.
To those with divine perception, it was something considerably more sinister and sad.
Hades materialized in the alley behind the casino, his divine presence carefully muted to avoid triggering the various detection wards that the Lotus Eaters had installed over the decades. Not because he couldn't bypass them—he was, after all, Lord of the Dead and these were merely minor spirits playing at cosmic significance—but because drawing attention to his visits would defeat the purpose of checking on the children discreetly.
The children. His children. The ones that Zeus and Poseidon didn't know existed, hidden in temporal stasis for their own protection and his own complicated reasons.
Bianca and Nico di Angelo had been placed in the Lotus Casino in 1942, when the world was at war and being a child of Hades had become exponentially more dangerous than usual. What was supposed to be temporary protection had become something approaching imprisonment, though the children themselves had no idea they'd been frozen in time for over six decades.
The casino's entrance was exactly as garish as he remembered—all flashing lights and promises of excitement that felt hollow to anyone who understood what the place really was. Hades adjusted his appearance to something that would blend with the mortal clientele: expensive suit that suggested wealth but not ostentation, dark sunglasses despite the hour, the general air of someone who belonged in high-stakes gambling establishments.
The Lotus Eaters manning the entrance recognized him immediately despite his disguise—you couldn't hide divine essence from beings specifically designed to detect and manipulate it—but they knew better than to acknowledge his presence. Hades had made it very clear during his initial arrangement with them that his visits were to remain undocumented, unannounced, and absolutely unmentioned to anyone.
The threat of what would happen if they violated that agreement had been implicit but extremely effective.
Inside, the casino was a assault on the senses designed to overwhelm and distract. Slot machines chimed with hypnotic regularity, creating a auditory backdrop that made thinking clearly nearly impossible. The lighting was carefully calibrated to obscure the passage of time—no windows, no clocks, just eternal artificial daylight that made every moment feel simultaneously like noon and midnight.
And everywhere, people who'd entered the casino hours, days, or decades ago played games that never quite satisfied but always promised satisfaction was just one more round away.
Hades's enhanced perception could see what mortal eyes couldn't—the faint golden mist that hung in the air, the lotus essence that made time meaningless and kept everyone trapped in an eternal present where responsibilities, memories, and the outside world simply ceased to exist.
He'd chosen this place specifically because of that temporal suspension. His children wouldn't age, wouldn't remember enough of the outside world to ask questions, wouldn't draw attention from gods or monsters or prophecies. It was protection through isolation, safety through stagnation.
It was also, he acknowledged with the kind of guilty discomfort he rarely allowed himself to feel, profoundly unfair to children who'd done nothing to deserve being frozen in time.
He found them in the arcade section—because of course they were in the arcade section. Bianca was twelve years old and had been twelve years old for sixty-two years, though she had no idea about that second part. Nico was ten and would remain ten until Hades decided otherwise, which was both a blessing and a curse depending on how you looked at it.
Bianca had their mother's Italian beauty—dark hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, olive skin, and sharp intelligent eyes that suggested she'd been the kind of student who questioned everything before the casino had dulled that natural curiosity. She was currently focused on a racing game with the kind of competitive intensity that reminded Hades uncomfortably of himself at that age.
Nico was smaller, darker, more intense in ways that spoke of the underworld heritage flowing through his veins even if he didn't understand what it meant. His hair was perpetually messy (apparently a di Angelo family trait), his eyes were so dark they appeared black in certain lights, and he moved with the kind of restless energy that suggested sitting still had never been his strong suit.
Currently, he was watching his sister play with the patient attention of someone who'd learned that Bianca would let him have a turn once she'd satisfied her own competitive urges.
Hades stood at a distance, maintaining his mortal disguise while observing his children with the complicated mixture of love, guilt, and protective instinct that had characterized his relationship with them since birth.
They looked healthy. Happy, even, in the shallow way that the Lotus Casino provided—content with immediate pleasures, unbothered by deeper questions, existing in an eternal present where nothing really mattered beyond the next game.
It should have been reassuring.
Instead, it made something in Hades' divine essence twist with discomfort that he didn't want to examine too closely.
"Your turn, Nico," Bianca said, stepping back from the machine with the kind of gracious victory that suggested she'd beaten her previous high score. "Try to do better than last time."
"I will!" Nico proclaimed with the confidence of a ten-year-old who believed that determination could overcome any obstacle, including his sister's superior hand-eye coordination.
He threw himself into the game with the kind of focused intensity that made Hades think of prophecies and destinies and all the reasons he'd chosen to hide these children from the world that would have demanded so much from them.
They were safe here. Protected from wars both mortal and divine, shielded from monsters that would have hunted them, isolated from prophecies that would have used them as cosmic pawns.
They were also trapped, frozen, denied the normal growth and experiences that children deserved.
Hades watched them play for another few minutes, memorizing details that wouldn't change between visits—Bianca's patient encouragement when Nico struggled with difficult sections, Nico's delighted laughter when he successfully navigated a challenging turn, the comfortable sibling dynamic that had survived decades of temporal suspension.
Then he turned and left without announcing his presence, without interacting, without doing anything that might trigger memories of the father who'd abandoned them to eternal childhood in a casino designed to steal time itself.
Because what would he say if he revealed himself? "Hello, children I left here six decades ago while you experienced what felt like perhaps a few weeks. I'm your father, the Lord of the Dead, and I've been visiting regularly to watch you play arcade games while deciding whether keeping you safe through imprisonment is actually parenting or just cosmic-level neglect with good intentions."
The walk back through the casino felt longer than the entrance. Hades passed dozens of people caught in the same temporal trap, some who'd been there for years without realizing it, others who'd arrived just hours ago and would remain until they'd forgotten why they'd come in the first place.
He emerged into the Las Vegas night feeling exactly as conflicted as he'd felt during every previous visit.
Back in the alley, he allowed his mortal disguise to dissolve and prepared to return to the Underworld where Persephone was probably waiting with questions about his afternoon disappearance.
"Soon," he promised himself, the word tasting hollow even in his own mind. "Soon I'll bring them home, let them age properly, give them the life they deserve."
But not yet. Not while prophecies still threatened. Not while Zeus was asking uncomfortable questions about children of the Big Three. Not while the world remained dangerous for demigods with powerful bloodlines and no training.
Soon, but not yet.
The same justification he'd been using for sixty-two years.
As Hades dissolved into shadow for the return journey, his last thought was of Nico's delighted laughter at beating a difficult level, and Bianca's patient smile as she congratulated her brother.
Safe, happy, frozen in time.
Protected through isolation.
Loved through absence.
It would have to be enough.
For now.
---
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