LOKISSON ; chapter IV
Over the last few years, with lessons by his father starting at a young age, Hardun Jerrik Lokison had grown into an intelligent, strong, eleven-year-old, albeit smaller than other humans his age [Jotuns and Aesir grew much slower than mortal Midgardians]. He had the smoothness of his father, and even with comparably short height [though in time he'd be taller than any normal human; unnaturally tall, as they normally grew into their height and nigh-immortality at sixteen or seventeen. However, even at eleven years of age, Harry was imposing enough to command attention when he so wished, with his shining eyes and velvet voice.
He had magic, and much more of it than any of the mortals, and he knew like his mother he'd likely be accepted to the British school of witchcraft, and while Loki could teach him everything he could possibly learn there, and much more, much quicker, his father had duties and schemes and other things to occupy his time, it was rather a miracle he'd been able to teach his son at all, and kept him hidden all the while. He was not known as the god of lies, mischief, and trickery for no reason, though, and while Harry had a way with words, his father could wheedle anything out of anyone, mildly threaten people while having nothing, and was much too good at acting and deception, having practiced it a lot over the centuries. And he thought going to Hogwarts would be a decent idea, Harry'd be far ahead, but could probably have a semi-safe place to study his advanced runes and magics. And while the mortals and the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress, teachers, most of Britain, while they liked to boast it was impossible to break into, and so much safer than anywhere, Harry resolved to put heavy warding enchantments on his bed, trunk, bags and books, and be equipped with runes and magics for anything that might occur. Just in case, though to be honest he slept lighter than any mortal, and needed but a few hours at most, so was not as vulnerable.
So, unsurprised when he received the envelope in the mail, he quickly scanned the list, shrugged, and decided for a trip to Diagon Alley the week after next.
The next time Loki came, he nodded, calmly, advised him to get the best robes he could as befit his station, and, drawing an embossed card of mahogany, gave it to him, smiling a bit mischievously and told him of what it was, and how it had been used before. And that goblins were much more liable to treat you with respect if you flaunted what you have, gave them a taste of fear, reasserted your superiority. When he left, after an hour or so, [so they didn't get suspicious of where he went, but also to get some work done], his son began practicing the way his father walked, the way he smiled, everything that made Loki so smooth and refined.
Unbeknownst to the boy, his father watched, calmly, looking at his son with a sweet caring hardly seen on his strong features much anymore. Shrugging slightly at the childish behavior - and yet the boy was so young, so young, and had hardly lived long- he smiled, with genuine love on his face, then disappeared, going back through Yggdrasil to the realm where he normally dwelt.
Harry took a deep breath and stopped in front of the bank. The unnaturally calm boy with inhumanly emerald eyes stepped onto the scuffed marble steps and loosely, lackadaisically, fluid and royal, with elegant stride, walked into the bank. As he entered he flared out his aura, a cold powerful wash that turned every goblin's head.
As he strode to the counter he drew out a heavily jeweled piece of carved wood from the multidimensions with a flick of colored magic and an old spell he'd been taught by the God of witchcraft and magics himself. Smiling mischievously, he placed it down on the desk with his long fingers.
" I'd like to access the vault promised by this bank for the royal family of Asgard and those that they choose..." He spoke fluently in the goblin-tongue of old, using a few words that had not been commonly used for centuries. [He'd been taught by his father, and Loki's knowledge of it was still millennia out of date despite his best attempts to modernize his languages with the rolling years]
When Gringotts had started out, as an ambitious venture made by a Norse dwarven chieftain, recycling an old mine, it had been a little-known moneylender and safe gold storage, competing with the local Jewish moneylenders. As was customary for the opening of new businesses and shops, they had burned an embossed version of their wares [in this case, an early vault credit] with a promise of unlimited use of their services if the whim arose, for the gods of Asgard, the supreme ruler Odin, and his heirs.
It has been relegated to the huge masses of the royal vaults of Asgard, and was little-used, though several of Thor's young misadventures or Loki's mischief had occurred on Midgard and they had ended up having need of the promise, though they had nigh unlimited gold and much rarer metals in their possession.
Tales of Lady Sif striding in holding it and shouting at the dwarves stayed in their memories, however, and when the ailing race turned over the now hugely successful monopoly over to the goblins, strands of stories and culture came with them.
Bony fingers trembling, the Junior Assistant teller hurried in and began to nod, shivering, and frightenedly called for a vault car, the nicest one that could be found-
Chuckling softly, Harry withdrew as much as he dared -he didn't want to deprive the bank too badly, after all- and strolled leisurely out of Gringotts, asking a nearby shop-owner for the best private tailor and/or the nicest and most expensive robe-maker.
A few hours later, the strikingly handsome and elegant boy was wearing a long dash cut of inky black silk robes with green edging, and holding an expensive embossed leather trunk he'd already warded strongly, filled with literature, some freshly bought- others his father had smuggled out of the royal library for him. He'd edged all his school robes with silver and his crest, and had bought dress robes, and heavy travelling cloaks as well.
Finally having everything, he smiled, turning on his heel and apparating without the slightest noise to the house on Privet Drive [He'd read about apparition early on and had all but perfected it, and was trying currently to get in past wards. He had a feeling he'd be put in Slytherin, he was ambitious and manipulative, the son of the god most known for both harmless, but also malevolent trickery, lies. Quite alike to his father.
And although he was shorter than mortal boys his age, he still cut an impressive figure - piercing green eyes that could see farther than most, and black waves of hair down to the shoulder, bible-black, darker than charcoal. Complete with his sly voice and handsome features, he was the very epitome of a Slytherin - cunning, royal, ambitious.
