Loki Odinson, God of Mischief and Prince of Asgard, was bored. It certainly was not the first time, after all, the mercurial god has been around for millennia. Many a times has the younger Prince found himself with little too do, having exhausted all the books in Asgard and beyond centuries before. It on was days like these, where Loki caused the most mischief. In fact, some of his most inspired work came from days such as these; where peace in Asgard flourished, and war was far from their minds, leaving the gods with little else to do.
Perhaps he would travel the realms again, Loki thought as he crossed his legs in contemplation. Vanaheim was particularly wonderful this time of year. But the Vanir were no friends to the mischief god. Or perhaps he should travel to Nidavellir, the home of the dwarves. Yet he was certain they were still angry over the events of a few years previous. Loki had to fight a smirk at that particular memory.
Or perhaps Midgard? That seemed like the most interesting idea thus far. It was only a few days before when an old student of his had come to him with some very interesting news. Apparently, some time within the few centuries since he had last been to the pathetic realm, the mortal insects had actually developed their own magical society. Maybe it was time to give them a visit.
He was curious to see if the little humans actually learned anything substantial about his chosen field. According to his dear student, the mortals had constructed schools across the realm that teach and instruct young children in the proper wielding of magic. The god of lies withheld a chuckle; as if those insects could even come close to the true power that magic had to offer. He supposed it'll be interesting regardless, at least it would give him something to do.
The urge to throttle his brother was a constant factor in Loki's life. Thor, for all his supposed splendor and 'power', was a bumbling idiot on even the best of days. As the younger prince stalked through the halls of the expansive palace, he avoided interaction with his baboon of a sibling and his band of merry followers with a certain distinguishable grace that could only be explained by centuries of practice. He felt no masochistic need to subject himself to the questions the 'Lady' Sif would undoubtedly have regarding his whereabouts these last few months. He had no intention of divulging such information; despite not doing anything of note, he enjoyed Sif's flustered stammering as she worked herself into a barely surprised rage stemming from her own, obviously fabricated and extravagant, conclusions.
Regardless of the amusement he often derives from Lady Sif's anger and humiliation, today he was not looking forward to it. The other three idiots who followed Thor around were also utterly boring to him, so Loki ducked the moment his magic sensed their presence approaching. He had no doubt his elder brother was looking for him, Thor often sought out his company and council, wanting the master sorcerer present for whatever foolhardy and unquestionably ridiculous adventure he had planned that day. With a smirk, he slipped into the darkness, shielding him from sight.
Loki was quite accustomed to hiding in the shadows. The darkened halls of the palace were his most comfortable haunts, providing a sense of security and refuge for the master magic-wielder. Quietly, he slipped into the library, a room in which he spent most of his entire childhood scanning each and every crevice and crack. He often spent his time alone, he knew. It wasn't as though he were particularly introverted; after all, despite not being as loud and boisterous as his brother, Loki was known as the silver-tongue. He could perform with the best of them, charming even the most stubborn of races into submission. So no, he wasn't a loner by nature. He was a loner by experience.
In his childhood, he mused, he wasn't quite as bitter. He could recall scampering after his elder brother, eager to please his family with a display of his powerful skills and unrivaled shows of magic. He knew, even during his often misguided youth, that his magic was unparalleled by even the greatest of sorcerers found on Asgard; his prowess with the difficult art both beautiful and deadly alike.
Yet with each successful incantation, with each majestic showing of sorcery, his father would just sigh and look askance. "It is a feminine art," Thor would later say, "you cannot blame father for not quite understanding your obsession." But Loki was a quick learner, so after the first few times of running into his father's throne room to show him his newest spell, he learned to stop himself. Instead, once he would master a skill, he would quirk a little smile to himself, before turning away and beginning to practice the next one.
Loki was powerful. He knew this well, despite the people of Asgard claiming the opposite. For centuries he traversed the realm, reading every book, researching every lost art. He learned from the best of instructors, and when there was no one left to teach him, he began to collect his own students, spreading his wisdom and knowledge across the universe. For centuries he collected students, ranging from stray Vanir orphans to Midgardian royalty, Loki played a pivotal role in the expansion of the mystical arts. Yet no one suspected a thing.
Loki reclined on the ostentatious, yet wonderfully comfortable, royal green couch as a large smirk spread across his handsome features. While a part of Loki, a part which held the resentment built from his youth, hated the fact that his family had yet to notice his true prowess, a larger part of him was glad that Asgard underestimates his strength. It's much easier to get away with slightly questionable acts if the victims are not privy to his true power.
Opening a large, leather bound tome one of his students brought him from Midgard, he was intrigued by the contents that were sprawled across the most, the dull and thick book would be almost impossible to read, especially with the intense concentration and interest that Loki was now exhibiting. But Loki was a scholar above all else, and he valued nothing in the universe as he did knowledge. Especially magical knowledge.
So, with an interested smile, he continued to read Hogwarts a History.
Severus Snape smirked proudly as he peered into the black cauldron that lay before him. The potion was a calm silver, with soft pink smoke ringlets slowly climbing upwards. It was brewed to absolute perfection. He rose his head calmly, a look of utter serenity plastered across his face, "Professor Slughorn," he called out, "I have completed the potion."
The elder Potions Master's eyes widened in disbelief, glancing at the clock before resting his gaze on the young prodigy, "Mister Snape, that is not possible! It has only been half the allotted time!"
Severus's lips twitched a bit in pride, "Yes sir, however we have discovered that if you crush the berries instead of slicing them, it creates far more potent juice, allowing it to simmer in a fraction of the time."
Slughorn fumbled momentarily as he peered into his student's cauldron, shock creeping up his features as he realized that these children had found a way to reduce the amount of time needed to brew, "Amazing. Purely genius. Miss Evans, surely this was your idea?"
Lily spared a glance at her best friend and Potions partner, before meeting her professors gaze with determination, "Actually professor, it was-"
"Just marvelous," Slughorn muttered, not hearing a single word the young girl said, "I always knew you were a prodigy Miss Evans, yet surely this exceeds even the highest of expectations!"
Lily's jaw dropped slightly in shock as she fumbled to correct the man, "No, sir, it was-"
"Alright students, all take a look at Miss Evans and Mister Snape's potion! Miss Evans, through wit, imagination, and clever innovation has found a way to reduce the time necessary to brew the potion! You should all follow in her footsteps, and aspire to be as talented as she," Slughorn spoke, his voice carrying pride as he waxed poetry about his favorite student.
As Lily moved to interrupt him, a pale, lithe hand settled on her shoulder, "Don't bother, Lily. He would never believe you anyways, he'd see it as a pathetic excuse you made to help give me favor."
The red-headed fifteen year old turned to look at her closest friend, watching as he determinedly poured the potion into a vial and began clearing away the table. Not once would anyone suspect anything to be amiss from the long-haired, quiet Slytherin. Yet no one knew him as well as Lily.
"It's not fair, Severus," She whispered, a frown marring her beautiful features, "You are the one who came up with the idea. It's your potion. Look, Slughorn is your head of house, of course he'd believe us if we just tell him the truth."
Severus smiled bitterly, "He may be my head of house, however he never had high expectations for me."
"You're a part of his Slug Club," Lily argued.
Snape snorted, "Oh yes, that utterly pretentious club. You know as well as I that the only reason he did so was to save face, for how could he invite one prodigal potions expert and not the other?"
Lily looked away in guilt, "That still means he acknowledges your skill."
"No Lily, it means he acknowledges your skill and only invited me so that you would come without making a fuss," It didn't bother Severus to admit this. Not much at least. He had long since gotten used to being overlooked. At the very least, he was glad Lily was on his side.
"It's not fair," She whispered solemnly, her arms crossed across her chest.
Severus spared his best friend a glance, "Very few things in life are."
Loki scoffed quite loudly as he walked around the ostentatiously built Diagon Alley. Store fronts of all colors, shapes and sizes were loudly displayed, each one drawing your attention and calling your gaze to them. These wizards were interesting, Loki would give them that.
When he read Hogwarts a History, it took almost every fiber of his being to not cry in laughter. For what surprise took a hold of him when he read that one of the founders of this 'great' school were none other than Salazar Slytherin. He recalled young Salazar, having taught the talented young boy magic sometime in the 9th century in Midgardian times. Salazar personified all the God held dear: cunning, mischief, resourcefulness, ambition, pride. Loki found much amusement while instructing the parselmouthed mortal, his students sheer brilliance making it easy for Loki to teach him the more difficult of spells not quite seen in Midgard.
Regardless, Loki was greatly amused that his previous student was the one to create the realms first school of magic, and he looked forward to unlocking all of its secrets. He was hoping to find traces of the Magic of Old, the magic he taught Salazar all those years ago, embedded into the foundations of the school. It would be a pleasant surprise if he found the proof that foolhardy Salazar actually took his lessons seriously.
Soon enough, he found the store he was looking for, a lovely bookshop called Flourish and Blotts.
Severus's hand clenched as he slipped quietly into the hall, practically disappearing into the shadows as the large silhouettes and booming laughter of the Marauders finally walked out of earshot. He allowed himself a small breath of relief.
Correcting his posture, he made his way down to the library, looking forward to a much-needed escape. James and his merry crew were particularly vicious this year, their hatred for him growing simultaneously with Potters own infatuation with one Lily Evans. The Gryffindor's never did approve of her friendship with the slimy Slytherin, often times getting into heated arguments as Lily attempted to defend her friends honor.
Severus sneered at the thought. He never could, even to this day, quite understand their hatred for Slytherin. What was wrong with cunning? Many wars were won through intelligent, strategic means rather than mindless brawn, traits which the Slytherins held in spades. Who needed utter violence when one had resourceful cunning?
Despite his petulant thoughts, he knew that as long as he drew breath, he would never be respected within the walls of Hogwarts. He was ostracized by the other houses, the green and silver tie around his neck casting a shield against anyone who would even consider befriending the quiet boy. His fellow Slytherins were weary of his status of a half blood, yet they welcomed his friendship, recognizing his genius mind and penchant for the Dark Arts. Although Severus himself was weary of getting too close to them, for they certainly did not hold him in high regard. Even his own Head of House held little respect for him. While recognizing his above average talents in Potions, Slughorn tended to attribute his accomplishments to his favored student, Lily Evans, often times overlooking Severus's refreshing brilliance.
His only solace in this miserable castle was his friendship with Lily. She was everything he wasn't: good, beautiful, pure. He loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her, watching her small bouts with accidental magic with wide eyes as his intelligent mind connected all the dots. She was his only escape, her friendship offering a reprieve from his own home life, and later his horrid experiences here at Hogwarts. He knew that as long as she stayed by his side, he would be happy. And she would forever stay besides him, a fact he often used to taunt James Potter with.
Quietly, he entered the library, taking careful note to not be noticed by the ever-watching Madam Pince. He slowly crept his way over to the restricted section, his small frame hidden by the large shadows cast by the book shelves. He slipped beneath the rope before disappearing between the shelves, his footsteps utterly silent as he gazed upon the hidden tomes.
He had a lot of practice sneaking around; first sneaking away from his father, to more recent excursions of sneaking away from the Marauders. He was quite good at it by now. This wasn't the first time he entered the restricted section. In fact, this wasn't even the first time this week. No, Severus quite enjoyed reading the advanced, often times dark books, the words that littered the page serving as inspiration for some of his more innovative spells.
Lily never approved of this, Severus thought as he roamed the shelves. She thought his passion for the Dark Arts to be dangerous, seductive even. She never understood what caught his attention, how the beauty of this mystical, forbidden branch called for him like a mother for her long-lost son. How the very spells taunted him from their place on the withered pages, begging to be whispered softly in the privacy of his own dark chambers. How the power coursed through his veins with each successful incantation, his heart beating to the sound of victory.
No, Lily thought he was being foolish. That by mixing around with his fellow Slytherins, he was being tainted by their ideals and dark forms of magic. How disappointed she would be, he mused, if she found out that he was firmly wrapped in the embrace of the Dark Arts prior to his Hogwarts acceptation. That he had long ago found Dark books hidden deep in his home, relics of the Prince family, waiting for the rightful heir to claim. That his very own Potions book, old and used, was littered with his fine cursive handwriting in the margins, the smeared black ink detailing specific, new dark spells of his very own creation.
He had reached the very end of the section before a book caught his interest. He calmly reached for it, the title enchanting his very curiosity; Secrets of the Darkest Art. As he pulled out the large, leather book, a smaller one toppled out along side it. Severus placed the large volume down for a moment, reaching down to the floor to pick up the previously hidden book. It was coated in dust, perhaps untouched for centuries, and as Severus began wiping away the thick layer of dirt, he noticed the true beauty of it. It was thin and small in stature, the pages worn from time. It was emerald green and leather bound, the Slytherin emblem proudly displayed on the front in silver. Slowly he opened it, fearful that even a small use of force will make the book crumble to ash.
Lifting the cover, he read the small words in the front page:
Here lay the journal, of Salazar Slytherin…
Conjuring a handful of the golden coins these mortal wizards used as currency, Loki paid for the plethora of books he found. With a wave of his hand, he silently sent them all to his pocket dimension; an endless void where he stored all personal items.
The shopkeeper looked at the God with unblinking eyes, shock painted across his countenance, "How did you do that?"
Loki quirked a brow, "Do what, exactly?"
The shopkeeper gestured to where the books lay previously, "How did you make all of those books disappear? I didn't even see you take out a wand!"
"I don't need one," He replied arrogantly as he strolled out of the store.
Loki sneered as he was reminded of those ridiculous tools. He recalled Salazar's own fondness for the wooden sticks, having grown reliant on using a device to channel his own magic. Thankfully, Loki had broken him of the habit soon enough, showing him the importance of wielding magic without a crutch. He never quite understood the popularity of wands. They were nothing more than devices used to channel one's own magic, and often times using one could lead to a sorcerer's downfall. For a wizard was only as powerful as his wand.
Say a wizard had a large quantity of magic, yet from the time his core developed, he only used a wand. Now wands could only channel a specific amount of magic, so if one had more magic than his wand could handle, it was never utilized and remained dormant. If this continued on for years, then the untapped magic would wither away, leaving the wizard far weaker than he could have been. Besides, wands were only meant as mere channels for children to begin learning how to access their magic, not for full grown adults! It was true, that learning magic with a wand was far easier than learning it the proper way, but a wand was a crutch, and if one never moved on from it, their magic will never fully develop to their true potential. Compared to true wizardry, these magic wielders on Midgard were ridiculously weak, and so utterly lazy.
Loki had thought Salazar understood this, yet reading Hogwarts a History, he learnt that soon enough, his student went back to using a wand, limiting his potential greatly. Why anyone would willingly hinder themselves, he did not know. Loki shook his head ruefully; Salazar always was too stubborn for his own good. While one of his favorite pupils, Loki was intimately aware of his faults. His obsession with blood purity grew with each passing year, a trait which continued after Loki's departure if what he read was to be believed. His obsession ultimately led to his downfall, having left his legacy at Hogwarts, and living the life as a solitary nomad. Loki sighed, he always wanted better for him, it was a shame that Salazar rarely listened.
With an annoyed groan, Loki realized that if he were to have any luck in blending in, he would need one of those ridiculous sticks. He contorted and twisted his fingers in ease, his magic pulsating as it spun together. Before long, Loki's pale hand grasped the long wand, the white wood carved beautifully with elegant twist and designs. The wood was from a tree in Asgard, near the palace, the branch he stole it from holding high magical potency. The tree, having been near Loki for over a millennium, practically buzzed with Loki's magic, allowing it to channel it to near perfect records. Inside the wand was the root of an elder Tree, coated in so much magic that is a wonder that passing by wizards couldn't feel the sheer magical radiation the wand was excreting.
With a smirk, Loki made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, a horrible pub and inn in which he unfortunately found himself staying in for the time being…
Albus withheld a deep sigh as he contemplated the mess they found themselves in.
"Are you certain?" He asked gravelly, not wanting to think of the repercussions.
Minerva nodded stoically, "I'm afraid so. His wife claims that he is on deaths door, the Dragon Pox having spread quickly and painfully."
Albus sighed once more. It was only a month into the school year, and already the Defense of the Dark Arts teacher had been forced to hand in his resignation. Perhaps young Riddle's curse on the position was getting stronger.
"Where will we find a replacement this late? We cannot allow this class to go untaught for much longer," Albus spoke.
Minerva frowned, her beady eyes narrowing in contemplation, "I am unsure, Albus. We had enough trouble finding him as is."
Albus nodded. It was true, with each passing year it grew harder and harder to find a teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts. At this rate, the ministry would have enough ammunition to hire their own teacher, placing a ministry official to spy on Hogwarts and report their findings. He grimaced as he thought of the implications. No, he had to find a professor, and fast.
"Where are you going?" Minerva asked as Albus raised from his seat.
"The Leaky Cauldron," he responded, "Tom knows all the comings and goings of wizards and witches alike. Perhaps he has an idea for a candidate."
Loki gulped down another shot of firewhisky, enjoying the burn as it seared down his throat. Oh, it didn't affect him, not in the slightest. His magic immediately vanquished any toxicities that entered his body. Nothing but the strongest mead in Asgard could even begin to get him inebriated.
The pub was a dark and dingy place, home to all sorts of seedy clientele. Loki didn't mind it too much, despite being a Prince, he had travelled the realms, and was quite accustomed to the less than stellar locations. In fact, one of his favorite taverns in Asgard was located so deep into the country side, so far from the splendor of the capital, that no one even recognized his features. It was both he and Thor's favorite haunts when they wanted to escape their adoring fans.
After downing another shot, he heard the barkeep call out, "Albus! What brings you here in the middle of a school week."
Loki turned slightly to examine the newest patron. The gentleman was old, obviously nowhere as near in age as Loki himself, but old for Midgardians he supposed. He had a long white beard, twinkling blue eyes, and wore a ridiculous purple robe embellished with pink stars. Compared to Loki's plain black suit, the gentleman looked quite eccentric.
"Ah Tom, it is good to see you," he greeted the barkeep with familiarity, "Do not fret, I am actually here on Hogwarts business."
Loki's ears perked at the name of his students' school. If he recalled correctly, and with his perfect memory he knew he did, the current headmaster was named Albus Dumbledore. This man that took a seat besides him had to be this headmaster.
"What kind of Hogwarts business bring you here?" Tom questioned curiously, yet not unkindly.
"I am in need of a professor to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Tom's eyes widened, "Already? It's only been a month!"
Albus nodded solemnly, "Our last one contracted Dragon Pox. Now I need to find a replacement before the ministry catches word of this development. I was hoping you knew someone."
Tom shook his head regretfully, "I'm sorry mate, I have no idea. No one I know is qualified to teach that subject."
"I'll do it," an elegant, soothing voice interrupted their conversation. Turning, Albus eyed the speaker. He wore an expensive black suit, his shoulder length black hair swept neatly to the back. He was handsome, and quite young, a playful smirk dancing across his features.
"And how do I know you are qualified?" Albus questioned the stranger.
Loki shrugged, "You could always test my knowledge on the subject, for I assure you, you will find no one more skilled."
"That is quite a wild claim."
"It is merely the truth."
"I suppose it would do no harm in testing you," Albus conceded, raising his hand towards Loki, "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts."
Grasping the man's hand, the God introduced, "Loki Silverson, it's a pleasure."