HEY GUYS! HOW'S IT GOING?
SPOILERS FOR THOR 2! ALERT ALERT: SPOILERY SPOILERS AHEAD
*coughs* ahem.
Other than that, hi, here's your update :) A HUGE THANKYOU TO EVERYONE WHO LEFT A REVIEW! ESPECIALLY THOSE WHO LEFT SOME UBER FANTASTIC LONG AND THOUGHTFUL REVIEWS
YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I LOVE YOU MOST OF ALL!
*Coughs* Thank-you over-zealous capslock button. But really, I love you guys; you make crying over my empty notebooks at two-am in the morning totally worth it :P
I'm pretty sure an interlinear translation of the Poetic or Prose Edda's doesn't exist- and if they do, I couldn't find one on the internet. Kind of wish they did. For those who don't know what they are- google 'interlinear bible'; they typically have direct translations from Greek and Hebrew and are pretty cool academic resources.
Pathetic Fallacy: The attribution of human emotions or characteristics to inanimate objects or to nature
(You see that play on words I did there? Do you see it?!)
Anyways; READ ON BRAVE WARRIORS!
(Shut-up capslock)
Part Two: Gifts Not For Giving
Chapter Twenty-Five: (A)Pathetic Fallacies
In hindsight, it should probably have been quite obvious that the door only worked that way for Loki.
A fact that his pride is now quite forcefully reminding him of as he sits on his ass, glaring childishly at the walnut door that had refused to turn immaterial for him when he'd tried to walk through it. Harry gets the distinct impression that his room is now laughing at him.
The windows, upon inspection, are equally as inaccessible. No matter how forcefully he tugs at the brass latches they refuse to open, and throwing his remarkably heavy chair at them only succeeds in injuring himself as the wooden monstrosity inexplicably bounces straight back at him, unharmed.
The ceiling creaks in amusement. Harry restrains the urge to flip it the bird. Personification of inanimate structures serve no purpose but to confirm his petulance to the Asgardian who is undoubtedly watching him from somewhere in this godforsaken room; Harry had had a little giggle (that was not hysterical) at the play on words. The walls prove impervious too; in the vain hope that Loki had neglected to ward them, he'd tried digging his way out through the plaster. The end result is more bouncing chairs and more than one rebounded hit to the head. The headache that follows is enough to deter him from escaping for now.
For a time, he lies on the settee Loki had vacated the half-hour before; content to moan piteously about the throbbing between his temples to the apathetic ceiling. Sooner or later though, he inevitably grows bored and turns to the book-filled shelves that line two of the walls. Many of them are in languages he can't read, but there is still a large enough selection of English books for him to know that Hermione would sell her first-born child to get her hands on even a couple of the volumes. They're all- for the most part- old and antique-y, with the kinds of gilded and leather bound covers and rich golden paper that automatically makes him hesitant to even touch them; let alone read them.
He does anyway. He figures- if Loki didn't want them touched- they wouldn't have been stuck up on the wall with the rest of the presumably priceless tomes. Certainly not in a room with a bored wizard with Merlin knows how much time on his hands.
He runs a hand along the spines of the books and picks one at random with his eyes closed. The cover- when he peeks- is blank, but for the filigree work in the corners. The text inside is in… well, he's not quite sure what it's in, but the language is most certainly not English. He returns it to the shelf and tries again; not much luck this time either, though at least this one he's pretty sure is in German. The third is in Russian- probably- with a significantly more modern bindings, and has a long series of very interesting engravings inside. He can tell his face is blushing when he puts it away, and he most certainly did not stare for longer than was truly necessary at the diagram on page 57. The fourth book is finally in a language he can understand- that being, English- and is satisfyingly weighty. The cover is a simple, fabric bound thing that leaves him feeling far less anxious about touching than any of the leather bound tomes. It reads in gold; The Poetic Edda: an Interlinear Translation from Old Icelandic to English.
Harry's vaguely aware that the Edda's are some kind of anthology of the old Norse Gods, but he has no idea what an 'interlinear translation' is. He opens the book up a random in curiosity. The pages are split in half; one half is in what he'd suppose is Icelandic-given the book's title- with a literal English translation below each line; most of it doesn't make any grammatical sense. The other half of the pages are in complete English, altered so that they're readable. The pages are littered with footnotes in reference to the translations and their relevance to other works that Harry knows nothing about. It's a cool use of the original manuscript, but admittedly rather useless to someone who can't read Icelandic- in his opinion at least. Even so, something tells him that this was still a book Hermione would kill to get her hands on.
Content in his find (even if it's mostly because he can laud it over Hermione when he gets back to her), he settles down on the settee Loki had vacated. He's pleased to find that it's far more comfortable that it had looked.
He starts at the beginning; partly because it's a challenge and partly because he figures he should at least know something about his captor. Besides his megalomaniacal tendencies and obvious flair for the dramatics, Loki hadn't really been a character any of his new friends had ever really discussed. Harry suspects he might have been a bit of a taboo subject- certainly, the one time Thor had mentioned him, he'd been referred to in the past tense and there'd been a deep sadness reflected in his eyes that made him reluctant to press the subject further. In all honestly, Harry had suspected he was dead.
The pages are thin and luxuriously smooth, and the spine is in good condition. He spends a good hour and a half reading the text- more or less ignoring the Icelandic text.
He gets a good giggle out of 'The Lay of Thyrm'. The image of the mighty Thor dressed in a white wedding dress and delicate veil, tearing through a table of food with his 'heart appetite' has him laughing hysterically. The idea of Thor and Loki dressed as innocent maidens is simultaneously horrendous (and Harry almost wishes for a good obliviate to wipe from his mind the likeness of Thor, with a smattering of chest hair peeking out from the neck of his dress) and utterly hilarious.
"They're not true, you know." Harry jumps violently at the voice that materialises behind him, "Or at least, not completely." Loki moves around to claim the armchair, "There are a few elements that hold their basis in truth, but they're few and far between."
He frowns at the man and chooses not to say anything about his abrupt disappearance from before, "Then why do you have them?"
He shrugs, green eyes sparkling unnaturally, "Amusement, mostly. And that's a collectable; first publication." As the best friend of Hermione, he doesn't find that sentiment as puzzling as he thinks he probably should.
"Okay…" he pauses, hoping he's not about to overstep the bounds of whatever the hell this situation is, "Why did you leave before?"
Loki levels him with a cool look, "I had things to tend to."
The image of the trickster god tending to a vegetable garden rises unbidden to the front of his mind and he coughs to hide his amusement. Loki's eyes narrow- his half-hearted ruse clearly failing, "Something funny, boy?"
Harry coughs again and sets the book aside, "Uh… no."
The other man sits back, large hands resting unthreateningly on his knees, "I see you failed to get through the door." He remarks in what could almost be called a conversational tone.
He scowls as the imagined pain returns to his tailbone, "No."
"You could have easily broken through it. The spellwork was simple."
Harry flushes. He can't stop the sudden guilt as he realises he hadn't even tried to get through them.
Loki smiles at him as though reading his mind, "I wonder… were you always this complacent, Harry Potter?"
He bites his lip to hold back a retort that likely wasn't anywhere near scathing as he'd like to think. The smirk grows wider, "You're doing it even now."
"What?" he asks tersely.
"Holding your tongue." He leans forward; a graceful shift of limbs as he hunkers forward in the chair, hands clasped together loosely, "Something tells me Harry Potter didn't always like to play the straight and narrow. One doesn't acquire objects like the Hallows without holding some degree of truculence and recklessness."
He stares at the Asgardian, refusing to say anything. It was true though; his childhood had been filled with careless decisions and various levels of minor and major rebellions, but he'd tried for normalcy in adulthood for so long that he's almost forgotten what it was like to risk his life. Tried too hard, if he was honest with himself, and he'd condemned one best friend to death and the other to a life of exile as a result. He'd been striving to reach that unattainable ideal held in his mind for long enough to be blinded by the realities of his situation.
He couldn't even be normal on the most mundane of levels; after all, he was a fucking wizard. He could perform feats on a regular basis that gave the general 'fuck you' to the entire laws of physics. He'd been out of the muggle world for long enough that he struggled to keep up with the constant march of technology and social norms. And it was no better as a wizard; Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived and the saviour of the British Wizarding world, Order of Merlin First Class. It wasn't a position he could just brush away as if it were the remnants of an embarrassing high school experience. People had expected him to remain a public figure, involved in the world he'd spent the remnants of his ruined childhood to protect. Instead he'd withdrawn more and more, refusing to step up to the mark when the Neo-Death Eaters had begun emerging.
Worse; he'd hidden from them entirely as the Neo's grew in power and viciousness. Shit, but he hadn't even stepped foot outside the hidden house he'd shared with Hermione for a month when they'd been taken, and it had been even longer since he'd walked through the wizarding world. No wonder the public resented him.
Had anyone even looked for them?
Did anyone even know he and Hermione were gone?
He lets out a shaky breath and stars up at the ceiling to fight the sudden urge to cry. He'd been a complete fucking coward for far too long and in doing so it had cost him and Hermione far too much.
It was a wonder the woman could even stand to look at him. And yet she never even blamed him.
"You're right." He breathes, at length, "I've challenged nothing but my inability to live a normal life for a long time."
And look where it's gotten you; trapped in a universe that's not your own and currently being held hostage by an egomaniac who tried to take over the world not too long ago.
What a fucking joke.
Loki huffs, amused, "I'm surprised your friend never tried to talk to you about it. She seems fairly intelligent that one- especially for a Seiðr."
Harry stiffens and straightens his neck to watch the trickster god carefully, "What about Hermione?"
Loki's eyes roll. "I have no intent of trifling with your friend. She at least seems to hold no qualms about ensuring her survival. Nor does she hold any reservations about the idea of normalcy."
"I swear to God; if you touch her-"
"-You'll what? Frown and glare at me some more? Potter, the greatest threat you pose to me right not is as a door stop in the case of a fire."
Harry scowls. He could surely be more of a threat than that.
"That girl of yours could do me more damage than you, Master of Death." He leans back, crossing a long leg over the other, contempt saturating his every line, "Tell me, what's the point of holding a title like yours, when you refuse to take responsibility of it?"
What responsibility? "I never asked for them!"
"Does a mother cast away her unexpected child?"
"Er…" Some do.
"They do not. Not willingly. The Hallows won't leave… You could be so much more, Potter."
Harry frowns again, "How do you even know about the Hallows?"
The corner of Loki's lips twitch, "Their existence falls under the jurisdiction of a… colleague of mine."
"You have colleagues?" The thought alone is terrifying; Loki with colleagues, working towards a common goal really would be the end of the world.
"… More like allies, I suppose."
"Who?"
Loki just tilts his head and smiles. Harry huffs.
"Fine."
Loki stands, motioning for him to do the same, "Come; there is something I want to show you."
Harry would be lying if he said his heart rate didn't pick up nervously at the order. The words are spoken without malice or menace, but he's heard enough about the fallen Asgardian to know that not much of what Loki has to offer is ever good. The bloke had kidnapped him under the pretence of shooting him for Merlin's sake. Actions like that spoke of either an unhinged personality, or a person with a questionable moral compass… or more frighteningly- both. Not the most comforting of thoughts.
"How are you going to show me?" he motions at the door to hide his nervousness, "You've trapped me in here."
Loki sneers at him, "Get up."
Harry complies mostly because he has nothing better to do with himself, and misbehaving isn't exactly the most intelligent of options right now.
And fuck it; but maybe he's also a little curious too.
"You arm."
He sticks out his left. The other man grips his wrist, and in the blink of an eye they're surrounded by dense and unevenly floored forest instead of green painted walls and books.
Harry blinks in shock. That was unlike any apparition he'd ever experienced. There was no sound; no sensation of being squeezed through something impossibly small. Just, one moment they were in his room/cell and the next they weren't.
"How did you do that?"
Loki quirks an eyebrow, "Do what?"
He glares at him for playing coy, "The teleportation."
The other man shrugs, eyes knowing, "Your people always lacked finesse. Wands make you lazy. I was always surprised by low little imagination the Seiðr had, for a people who could do almost anything they wanted."
"Well I can't imagine you had an unbiased sample."
"Perhaps not, but in all the centuries I encountered those of your race- rabid murderers or not- I found that your kind had remained largely stagnant, whilst your non-magical counterparts advanced in leaps and bounds."
He can't exactly argue with him there; it was something he'd worked out for himself years ago, and a fact that Hermione regularly despaired on. Innovation just wasn't a thing wizards were particularly talented at; mostly because life was already so damn convenient. What was the point of finding a more comfortably way to move from place to place when they'd already mastered instantaneous travel? Even if apparition was incredibly uncomfortably and ran the constant threat of splinching. He wondered if anyone had even bothered to find a better for of instant travel. Probably not.
Loki must sense his agreeance, as he smirks.
"I'm guessing the Seiðr are your term for magic-folk, right?" He'd heard Thor use the terms once or twice in association with he and Hermione, but hadn't ever been bothered to ask him what it meant.
The Trickster nods slowly and moves forwards, weaving through the trees gracefully, "In a way. Seiðr is more an overarching term… I suppose the better descriptor would be Midgardian Seiðr, but that would imply that your are from this realm. Which your are very much not."
Harry latches onto Loki's phrasing desperately as he follows, "So we're still on Earth?"
The Asgardian turns his head to regard him with his sharp eyes, "Well I wasn't going to take you to Asgard."
Harry decides not to point out that if that was the case, Hermione would easily be able to find him.
"We are hidden here." Loki carries on, a smug glittering in his eyes as if to say they read his mind (which Harry wouldn't put past him, honestly), "No eyes can find us. There is old magic in these forests, and they mask our presence like nobody's business."
Harry blinks at the casually spoken colloquial expression, "Does that go for the house as well?"
He sends him a look that screams of course.
There goes that other plan then.
"So… why are we here?" He motions to the trees out of reflex, even though Loki is facing forwards as they navigate the forest. He stops and Harry almost stumbles into him. The Tricker raises his eyebrows- unimpressed- but doesn't mention it. He casually leans against the gnarled trunk of a mossy tree and watches him for a long moment.
"It's a test."
"I failed the other one."
"No. You didn't even try the other one."
Fair cop.
"Then what kind of test is this one?"
Loki smirks and raises a hand. Green flames burst from his palm, its eerie light catching on the sharp panels of his face and turning his slight smirk disconcertingly sinister. A twitch of his fingers and the flames grow and surround his arm from fingertip to elbow. He straightens and steps away from the tree. The smirk grows as he rests his palm against the roughened bark. The smell of burning wood surrounds them almost immediately and Harry can hear the sound of crackling- the fizz and hiss of boiling sap- from where he stands. The white smoke burns his eyes and nose.
When the Trickster God pulls away- the flames cancelled when he closes his hand- he leaves behind a smouldering mark of a five fingered hand, burnt deep into the green wood. Harry swallows nervously. There's a feeling growing in the pit of his stomach that he's about to be given the secret that's either going by very good, or very, very bad.
Loki tilts his head, his face serene and his eyes anything but.
"Tell me Potter; what's your wandless magic like?"
"Again."
Harry huffs in frustration. He'd been trying for a good hour and a half to mimic Loki's demonstration, whilst the man in question idled about on the forest floor as if it were far more comfortable than it actually was. Harry at this point was convinced Loki had the act of lounging down to an art form.
So far, all he'd accomplished was the faintest flicker of blue flames (he'd chosen a different colour from Loki's in a fit of minor rebellion) that had burnt hot enough to leave an angry blister along the fleshy part of his palm; he'd forgotten to visualise the impermeable layer or steel between his skin and the flames- like Loki had instructed him to- and it had been harder than he'd thought to douse the pathetic flames. They burnt like fiendfyre- thankfully, without the taint of dark magic; wilful and somewhat uncooperative.
The pain was slowly fading thanks to his accelerated healing, but had proved to be enough of a distraction that he was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the task at hand. Not to mention he was bloody starving; he probably hadn't eaten for at least twenty-four hours- depending on how long Loki had kept him unconscious for- and the Asgardian had refused to feed him until he'd mastered 'this laughably simple task'.
Easy for him to say; the bastard probably had a few millennia experience on him.
His assignment was hard on multiple accounts. For one, Loki had demanded he create the same flames as he had, but had chosen to forego any actual instruction on the matter besides a basic description of the properties of the flames he'd created. For another, the magic Loki was asking for was radically different from anything he was used to conjuring; even with his better than most wandless casting abilities. And that was more thanks to his higher-than-average power levels than anything else, and still needed a focus word to channel and shape his intent.
Loki wanted something completely different- he didn't want a focus word (had even claimed he'd know if he used one); didn't want a spell. The Trickster God was asking him to tap straight into his power and shape it with only his intent and willpower, instead of just relying on the focus word to do the work for him. It was a complete overhaul of everything he knew, and everything that was instinctive to him.
And Harry had only the slightest idea of where to start.
A loose piece of bark bounces off the side of his head and he flinches, twisting to glare at the reclined god, "Hey!"
"Again." Loki reiterates, twirling three more bits of bark in the air above is right hand. He looks bored out of his mind. Harry scowls at him.
'I'm trying, but it's fucking hard when you keep throwing things at me!" As if to prove his point, Loki sends another projectile at him. It pings off his chest before he can move out of the way.
"Fucking cut it out!" He snarls, and throws the wood back at him.
The other man dismisses the small missile with a careless twitch of his fingers, not even bothering to look at Harry, "You're not even trying."
"I bloody well am!"
He sighs and kicks a leg up into the air, resting his calf against his bent knee, "Your kind never learnt how to manipulate the energies properly. A focus may simplify our efforts- and amplify them, to an extent- but it cripples you in the long run. I mean; did they ever even teach you how to tap into your power source in that lauded school of yours?"
"Er…"
Loki groans and turns his head to regard him balefully (like it was Harry's fault they were out here in the first place), "Foci trap you in a box; they give you the spells without first showing you a way to shape your magic on your own. Wands just impound the problem; if you use a wand before ever learning to manipulate the energies, it ends up being that much harder to learn how to do it later on." He flicks the second piece of bark high into the air- it lights on fire on the way back down.
"It's like being taught to only ever walk on your hands, when your feet are far more adept at doing so. If you never think to walk on your feet, then you can never run, or hold things as you walk- and it will never even occur to you that you could do so. But if you learn to walk on your feet…" he grins wickedly at Harry, and sends the last of his toys at him, "Then there are no limits to what you can do, if you set your mind to it."
Harry stays silent for a long moment, thinking on Loki's words. They make sense, for sure, "But I don't even know where to start."
Loki huffs and sits up, swivelling his body to face him, "Meditation, boy. Stop trying to get it right without bothering to look for the resources first."
He scowls (mostly because it hadn't even occurred to him), "And you couldn't have said this an hour and a half ago?"
The Trickster smirks, "Oh yes of course; but it was infinitely more amusing to watch you struggle along as though you could manage it all on your own."
Harry directs him with his most scathing of glares. Loki's smirk only grows wider, "Was your teacher this obliging when you were learning as you're being?"
The goodwill (so far as you could call it goodwill) disappears almost immediately, and he remains silent for long enough that Harry thinks he won't actually say anything. He settles down nervously in the typical lotus position to try his hand at meditation like the Asgardian had suggested. There's something in the other man's closed off expression that leaves him spooked, and he half expects Loki to attack him as soon as he closes his eyes.
"My mother taught me."
Harry starts at the lowly spoken words- sharp and jagged with some unnamed emotion. He opens his eyes to look at him- Loki's eyes bore straight through him, daring him to say something pitying. His hands are clenched so tightly the tendons stand out clearly against his pale skin and his knuckles are an eerie bone white. He'd heard from Steve that Thor was mourning the recent loss of his mother, killed in the recent uprising on Asgard. He'd imagine Loki would be doing the same; recent severance of familial ties or not.
"Mine died to save me. I never even knew her."
Loki nods slowly and Harry lets out a mental sigh of relief, feeling as though he'd just past some sort of test. He'd been tentatively pushing at the boundaries of whatever the hell this things was (because seriously- was he a prisoner, or some kind of oddly indentured student) for a while now in the hopes of working out why Loki had kidnapped him in the first place. But let it never be said that the God of Lies and Trickery didn't know how to play his cards extremely close to his chest.
He frowns to himself in thought, "If you're saying a wand is irrelevant to my power… why would one of the Hallows be a want?" And more to the point, why try and convince him to use it?
Loki shrugs nonchalantly, but his mouth quirks minutely, "Your universe's problem, not mine."
Harry gets the impression he's lying about that, but he lets it lie. It's probably better that way- for now. He closes his eyes again and tries to concentrate on searching for his magic instead.
Finding his magical core wasn't that hard- his magic was an integral part of him, after all- and it was tied to his body; like an extra limb he knew was there but could never quite see or get a proper hold of. He could sense it better when he was feeling particularly drained- its absence heightening his awareness of its usual presence. It certainly made the job of finding it easier- though not by much given that he needed to find himself in a state of absolute serenity- something that had grown increasingly difficult over the years as the threats of the Neo-Death Eaters grew stronger and it became harder to go out in public.
His task isn't aided by the fact that the forest is eerily devoid of wildlife- there's not even a bird to focus on, or the sound of the breeze rustling through branches. The unnatural stillness means there is nothing to distracting from the constant deluge of his own thoughts- naturally unorganised and chaotic.
He sighs and rests his head against the roughened bark of the (probably) oak tree Loki had burnt, stretching his legs out in front of him as nest he can on the uneven ground. He finds the pulse of blood in his wrist with his other hand and zeroes in on it, cutting out everything from his thoughts but the pulse of life through his veins; the thrum of blood pushing through his limbs. He can sense the slow fall through his consciousness, until all he is exists in the deafening beat of his heart. He revels in the sensation of tranquillity for a long time- the complete blankness of everything a blissful feeling after their travels through the metaphorical looking-glass.
And slowly, like oil rising to the top of still water, he senses something else- wispy tendrils of something that in waking he would probably be able to name, but down here all he knows at that there is he, and then there is something that is simultaneously a part him and more than himself. He follows the tendrils downwards; they grow thicker, joining together into a great swirling maelstrom of energy. A vortex of colour and life that expands and contracts with the steady, flowing rhythm of his heartbeat.
Tha-Thum. Tha-Thum. Tha-Thum.
He basks in its radiance for what could be hours or minutes. It feels largely indifferent to his presence, and he can feel its similarity to the flames he'd managed to produce before- wild and wilful and naturally chaotic.
Curious, he casts a spectral hand into the vortex.
Power rushes through him and he's thrown from his meditative trance abruptly. He gasps for breath as the forest comes into focus around him. His skin is burning, like there's something beneath it and he feels like sparks will erupt if he even so much as brushes against him.
Loki crouches in front of him- his eyes hold all the triumph of a man who has won something very important. He makes no move to touch him, "Breath, Potter. Let it settle."
He breathes in deeply through his nose and tries to hold onto the shreds of that tranquil state he'd found and lets the power just flow through him. The surge of magic slowly recedes, but there's enough of it flowing through his veins to make him feel more than giddy.
Loki smiles in approval, "Good. Now, do your homework."
Harry giggles; it's the first time Loki has come across as anything other than acerbic. He raises his right hand. His vision feels hyper-saturated with colour, and the old scars on the back of his hand stand out starkly.
Through the dizzy haze of endorphins and adrenaline he imagines Loki's task- structuring the impermeable layer carefully- and he can feel the magic obey his orders, forming a solid barrier just millimetres above his skin. He flexes his fingers experimentally and the barrier cracks and crumbles away. He frowns, but the endorphins ensure he doesn't feel disheartened. He tries again- this time picturing it as a heat and flame resistant, tar-like substance that won't be compromised by the natural movement of his fingers. This time, when he moves his hand, the layer does nothing but stretch and contract- though his skin feels slightly greasy when he rubs his thumb and forefinger together.
Content with his handiwork, he picture small blue flames erupting from his fingertips. As soon as he claims his intent, his magic complies and gentle flames come to life. He marvels at the complete lack of heat reaching his skin, and has to prove to himself that the heat is there by passing his other hand across the fire.
Feeling slightly smug, he commands the flames to spread and coat his hand, coaxing the magic to join it.
He looks up at Loki, the buzz of success thrumming through his veins as strong as the magic he'd summoned. Loki smiles in encouragement- it feels wrong on the Trickster's face and wordlessly hands him a thick piece of wood. He takes it with his burning hand and the wood immediately starts to smoke and smoulder as new flames- a natural orange- join those one his hand.
"Now cancel the flames, without letting go of the stick."
He focusses on the fire, calling for it to end. It's a struggle to get them to obey this time, the flames just as wilful as those he'd summoned the last time, and he has to concentrate hard on negating them without destroying the heat resistant layer on his skin. He manages it eventually and the fire dies out with a disgruntled fwop. The wood still burns, he notices, and the yellow flames aren't cancelled out by his intent, but he can't feel the intense heat beyond a slight warming on his skin.
He grins at Loki, self-satisfied at his achievement. It's probably the most precise bit of wandless magic he's ever done; certainly for an attempt without a specific spell in mind. Harry drops the still burning piece of wood, before thinking better of it and trying to put it out with a summoning of water; which fails. He can feel the magic withdrawing; the receding energy drawing tight on his skin like a bad sunburn. He stamps on it awkwardly with his foot instead as he tries to hide his growing embarrassment.
(When he thinks again of the heat-resistant layer on his hand, he notices that it feels like it's still there; a greasy and slightly tacky sensation that sticks to his skin for several hours)
"Can we eat now?"
The Asgardian rolls his eyes and stands up, "Yes, we can go now." Harry stands as well, wincing slightly at the numbness that's spread through his arse. He wonders how long they'd been there for. It's hard to tell in his meditative state, but the forest feels considerably dimmer, as if it were late afternoon.
Loki offers him his arm and Harry clasps it in the way he'd noticed Thor preferred to greet people by. A shadow of something indescribable passes across Loki's face, but by then he's distracted by the fact that the forest has been replaced by his room/inordinately luxuriant prison cell. He sighs inwardly as his takes it in- the same as before- though he can see that it's now dark outside, which puts them in at least a different time-zone from the eerily empty forest. Mercy of mercies, there is food waiting for him on the table. He tries hard not to think of how it got there and makes a point not to ask- he's half afraid further questioning will destroy the hospitable mood Loki's apparently now in.
He lets go of the other man's arm and moves over to the food eagerly. His stomach- now that it's been presented with the possibility of a meal, is threatening to eat its way out of his torso if he doesn't do something about it right bloody now.
Loki remains where he is, Harry notices when he sits before the spread of stew, bread, butter and some kind of sliced meat (it smells glorious). He's watching him, eyes assessing and Harry's not entirely sure if he wants to know what he finds; he'd not exactly been subtle about his contempt for him so far, after all. Then the moment breaks and Loki sends him another one of those unsettling smiles, 'Good job today."
He nods slowly, feeling mildly terrified at the encouragement. The smile turns into a smirk, which oddly enough makes him feel far more comfortably than the 'friendly' smile, "Enjoy your meal."
He turns and leaves; the door just as immaterial to his presence as it had been the last time. Harry scowls as it, feeling petty- but only for a moment. Inevitably his eyes stray back to his food and his mouth resumes its watering.
"Arse." He comments to no one in particular. The ceiling creaks in amusement.
It could be worse, he supposes.
So, I've taken a hell of a lot of liberties here with Loki's and Harry's magic. It's one of those tricky things to handle- I'm following the MCU here, so there's not really that much to go on in terms of Loki's powers, though I know they are extensive in the comics. As for wandless magic in the HP verse... well its coverage is pretty sparse too, so I've twisted what I do know to fit in with this universe and vice-versa. Hopefully it hasn't come across as too jarring or unbelievable... :)
OH, and btw, not sure if I've mentioned this or now, but I've recently expanded myself into AO3 (under the name CinnaAtHeart), which I am totally loving. Tags are so much fun. Over there, I've actually split Part one and part two of Great Expectations into two stories.
Thanks to those who reviewed! You should totally do it again!
I'll be back in a fortnight :)