I've wanted to write this for a long long time. I very recently watched Loki and just fell in love with the character all over again. What a wonderful story arch. This story will be about similar themes: self hatred, self love, adventure, etc. etc. I'm looking forward to going on this journey with you guys! Thanks for trusting my summary enough to click on the story!
Summary: After Ragnarok (the destruction of Asgard) Loki slips away from the fight to hide himself and the Tesseract away from Thanos. In his mind, it's easier to hide as a wizard amongst wizards, in the life of Harry Potter. But as Christmas during his sixth year comes along, his protective spells begin to fail, revealing long-forgotten memories... and attracting Thanos' attention.
Harry gulped in a breath of fresh air as though sleep had been depriving him of it. He sat up in bed so suddenly that he woke up Neville, who blinked at him blearily, then rolled around, mumbled something and fell right back to sleep. Harry snickered quietly to himself.
The room was relatively quiet, save for Neville's gentle snoring and Ron's mumbling about spiders. Seamus and Dean were as still as logs. Harry silently rolled out of bed. It was moist with sweat, as was his shirt. His hair was sticking to the back of his neck. Frowning, he headed to the bathroom, all the while wondering what he had dreamt. Even as he regained consciousness, the narrative of his dream crept further and further out of reach.
There had been a rainbow and a bridge and… a hammer? Shaking his head, Harry made his way down to breakfast. It was a Sunday morning and the sun was just beginning to rise. Although the castle was still in sleep's embrace, the first early risers were up and about, getting ready for quidditch practice or a morning jog.
"Good morning - another nightmare?" Harry barely turned to look at Hermione as she appeared at his elbow, carrying as per usual, a book. He frowned slightly as he glanced at his watch.
"A bit early for even you?" He countered, ignoring the question. Hermione sighed and dropped her line of questioning.
"I wanted to get ahead on Potions," she said, although there was an edge to her voice. She wanted first spot again. "We can't all have a textbook helping us cheat."
Harry desperately wanted to roll his eyes; they'd had this conversation multiple times. He wasn't about to latch on to the bait yet another time. Harry instead, swerved to the right, away from Hermione, deciding to take a shortcut. She followed him down the hallway.
"Harry we have to talk about him!"
"Who? The Half-Blood Prince or Voldemort? Because we talk about both fairly often already," he commented over his shoulder and then ducked into an alcove. If one stepped through the massive stone wall, the castle would sometimes allow the odd student to pass through several floors in one step. Harry's foot struck stone.
"What in the world-" Hermione exclaimed as she crashed against Harry. He spun and steadied her, before rushing off down the staircase.
Noticing Hermione had stopped following him, Harry's pace slowed as he made his way to the kitchens. He was just about to tickle the pear in the painting leading to the kitchens when he felt a sharp pain just under his ribs on his left side.
Crumbling to the ground, Harry clutched his side as a wail passed his lips. He curled his body inwards to stop from crying out and as the pain subsided, he slowly raised his head and tears slipped onto his cheeks. He brushed them away angrily. Looking down, he stilled for a second.
There was a gash right across the front of his robes and white t-shirt. Both were stained with fresh blood. And peeking from between the ripped fibres was a gash about fifteen centimetres in size. As he watched, the bleeding halted and an invisible hand stitched the wound together. Still watching with widening eyes, the wound seemed to 'heal' and grow together until it became a thin white scar.
Blinking at the surreal moment, Harry swallowed nervously and prodded his fingers at the quasi-wound. There was some remaining ghost pain, but for all intents and purposes the wound was healed. He glanced around; the hallway was deserted. It was slightly hidden anyway so he took off his cloak and raised his t-shirt to reveal a chest littered with other little gashes and scars that had all healed over. He looked battle-scarred, Harry realised. Much like Moody.
Raising a hand to his face, Harry gently ran his fingers along his familiar features. The scar on his forehead felt the same, as did the one on the side of his head where Petunia had once thrown a pan at him.
He stood up, using the wall as a support. He felt weak, as though he'd just suffered a rather severe quidditch accident. He made a short inventory of his body: his limbs, although weak, were moving and uninjured, except for the odd new scar or two. Taking hold of his wand, he attempted to repair his shirt, which was of no use, but tried the same with his robes. It took a try or two more, but it eventually stitched together. A little wonkily, mind. It didn't make sense to go to the infirmary now, as the wounds had healed. Dumbledore? Harry deliberated for a second or two, then decided against it. He had enough on his plate.
Eventually, he settled on a cup of tea and a run to the library later.
The elves greeted him happily and cheered when he mentioned being a little hungry.
"Harry Potter, sir!" Came the very recognisable voice of Dobby the house-elf. Harry's lips stretched into a smile as the elf in question pushed through a crowd of them surrounding him.
"Dobby! Hogwarts treating you well?"
The house elf nodded vigorously. A stack of Hermione's S.P.E.W. hats on his head tilted dangerously to the side.
"Very well, Harry Potter! Yes, Dumblydoor is most generous!"
Harry tried not to laugh and let the elf lead him to a kitchen counter. Harry sat at one of the stools, which were dimensioned for elves. As a result, he sat crouched at the counter while house-elves swarmed around him, throwing a meal together for him.
"And how's Kreacher adapting to Hogwarts?" Harry asked Dobby, nodding at the house-elf in question. Dobby frowned and put his hands on his hips.
"Kreacher is most miserable, sir." Dobby began, sighing deeply. Behind the squeaky elf, the sea of house-elves parted to push Kreacher next to Dobby. The Black house-elf glared at everyone with no little amount of hatred. When his gaze found Harry he gave a reluctant bow and a scowl. The former, after all, would not be complete without the latter.
"Master Potter, friend of mudb-"
Dobby slapped him on the back of his head. Kreacher jabbed him in the ribs with a mop he'd been carrying and Dobby reciprocated by whipping him with an old towel.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Harry exclaimed and surged forwards to physically separate them. "Stop it. Please, don't fight!"
The two elves continued to glare at each other. Harry sighed.
"Now, Dobby, that's not very responsible. You're a Hogwarts house-elf now, you must have higher standards for your own behaviour. And Kreacher - well, I command you to stop using those slurs. In fact, also, stop fighting with Dobby."
"Mudblood traitors? Mudblood lovers?" Kreacher asked disbelievingly.
"Yeah, Kreacher. Those too."
"Very well, master blood-traitor-friend," the elf said with a smirk.
Harry sighed.
"Let's put it this way, anything you say about any of my friends in a derogatory manner, you are saying about me too. And as your master you would not speak to me like that, right?"
Kreacher gave another reluctant bow. His eyes seemed suddenly distant as though he were trying to find a loophole. Harry gave a nod and sat back down to enjoy his light breakfast. The pain in his side was disappearing, but he felt inordinately warm. At his request, Dobby brought him a bottle of pumpkin juice.
"Ah, Harry, what a surprise!"
Harry's head shot up mid-swallow resulting in his breathing becoming restricted. Dumbledore waved his wand in an intricate arc and Harry's windpipe instantly cleared. With watering eyes Harry noticed that the painting guarding the kitchens had swung to the side revealing none other than the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
"Good morning, professor," Harry said weakly, coughing once or twice. Dobby pushed the pumpkin juice closer to him. Harry shot him a grateful smile.
"Good morning, Harry, good morning, everyone!"
There was a chorus of good mornings from the elves and another flurry of movement as the headmaster sat down across Harry. His long legs folded under him in an almost comical way. Harry had the distinct impression this was what a parent looked like on a kindergarten 'meet and greet' event.
"I apologise for startling you," Dumbledore said, taking a sip from the tea he'd been given by Dobby. "I am unused to seeing anyone here. I only managed to find the kitchens myself in my first term as headmaster. Pray tell, how did you find them?"
Dumbledore's gaze was piercing as he observed Harry over his spectacles. He swallowed carefully this time.
"Fred and George might've found a way…" Harry answered vaguely. Dumbledore laughed.
"Ah, of course. Messrs. Weasley were always adept at finding ways to celebrate their quidditch wins," the Headmaster said knowingly, the corners of his lip ticking up. Harry shrugged noncommittally.
There was a pause in conversation as Dumbledore observed Harry. He felt very self-conscious all of a sudden.
"You seem quite pale, if you don't mind me saying," the professor said haltingly. "You have been employing your occlumency shields, yes?"
"Some nightmares don't come from Voldemort," Harry replied and regretted being so short almost instantly. But Dumbledore sighed and his shoulders slumped forwards.
"Indeed, indeed. You've had more cause than most to suffer at night. I shan't pry, but know this, Harry. I have had my share of nightmares, both in sleep and in waking. They can be torturous in content and in feeling. My door is always open for you, even if only for a late-night hot chocolate."
"Thank you, professor," Harry replied somewhat awkwardly. The headmaster clasped his hands together and picked up the bowl of porridge the house-elves had prepared for him. Standing up he patted Harry's shoulder with his blackened hand.
"Has our quest with Horace been successful thus far?"
Harry winced. He'd forgotten all about the memory!
"Erm, I was thinking about asking him at the Christmas party. He's invited a lot of people…"
"Hmm." Dumbledore peered at him over his spectacles. "You're becoming increasingly adept at lying, Harry."
And then Dumbledore was gone through the portrait. Harry sat staring at his own bowl of porridge for a while. Suddenly he remembered the gash in his robes, looked down, and was happy to note it had survived their conversation. The threads were beginning to pull away from each other though, now. Casting the same spell, although now with no visible effects, Harry decided to go back to the dorm to change before anyone noticed and asked him about it.
"Master Potter."
Harry glanced down to see Kreacher standing by his side. Harry's robe collar had slipped to reveal a necklace which now swung forwards. Harry caught it and pulled it as far as it would go from his neck to observe it. The necklace was familiar; he somehow remembered wearing it. It was extraordinarily familiar, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where he got it from.
It was shaped like a triangle that had been woven into and within itself. It looked Celtic, in a way. It had a blue tinge to it. As he brushed a thumb against it, the blue glow intensified and he let go.
"The Triquetra," Kreacher almost whispered, reaching out with a finger to touch it, but obviously reconsidered in the last second. He pulled his hand back as though burned.
"Kreacher, tell me, you know what this means, how I got it?"
Kreacher turned his blinking eyes to Harry's and for the first time he didn't see hatred in them, rather bemusement.
"Kreacher knows only what master Regulus studied. The Triquetra is life, death, and rebirth, master Potter."
"Regulus? Who's Regulus?"
Kreacher seemed to jerk out from his haze and scowled again. "Master Potter is not worthy of speaking his name!" With this the elf turned around and stalked into the crowd of house-elves. Harry blinked in surprise as he stared after the unruly elf.
Regulus, Regulus… the name seemed familiar. He'd heard of it before, but wasn't quite able to place it right now.
Eventually, the house-elves interrupted his musings and sent him away from the kitchens. Harry grabbed a handful of fruits and departed, eager to change out of his ruined robe. That brought down his number of wizarding garments to a grand total of four. He'd have to ask to be allowed to go to Diagon Alley during the Christmas holidays. This one last week of lessons would be absolutely torturous.
Sighing, he made his way to the Gryffindor Tower. Students were just beginning to make the descent to the Great Hall and he encountered one or two curious glances at his disheveled appearance.
After changing into newer robes, Harry was again accosted by Hermione, this time accompanied by Ron.
"Have you asked someone to Slughorn's party?" Hermione asked in greeting. Ron let out an irritated sigh.
"I was thinking of going alone," Harry said quietly when he noticed that a few ears in the Gryffindor common room had perked up. The heads belonging to those ears now lowered in disappointment.
"I still can't believe Slughorn picked you," Ron's tone was less than flattering. Hermione's expression turned thunderous.
"Why because I'm not a pureblood - or famous - or great at quidditch? Could it be that someone's appreciating hard work for once?"
"No, no - that's not what I - you're blowing it out of proportion—" Ron broke off as Hermione had stomped away. He turned his incredulous gaze on Harry.
"Can you believe her?"
Harry raised both hands. "I'm not taking sides on this one."
Ron huffed, then gestured at the chess set by the fire. "At least I can beat you in that. How about… if I win, you lend me the Potions textbook?"
Harry laughed. "As if. I'll get the house-elves to bake you a pie. If I win," Harry began. His smirk widened mischievously. "You give me your entire Chocolate Frog Card collection — including the mythological being editions." They shook on it, grinning.
.
Heimdall's eyes opened and there stood Thor above him. He'd fallen asleep, he realised. The ship the Statesman was quiet; although frightened and terrified of their future, Asgardians slept in relative peace, knowing that their King had saved them. Loki was gone, although this time it was not for the better.
Thor held out a hand which Heimdall grasped. With a sharp jerk he was on his feet.
"Are you well, Heimdall?" Thor asked him, his one eye growing concerned. Heimdall gave a few hesitant nods.
"My heart grows heavy with every passing hour, my King. My mind's eye is lost in the nine Realms without the Bifrost to guide it. In my heart, I know Loki is gone, and yet, I am drawn to Midgard. And on the horizon I see Thanos, growing nearer and nearer to us."
Thor's arm hadn't left his forearm. His fingers dug into Heimdall's skin.
"We saw him impaled by Hela. Consumed by the fire of Ragnarok," Thor said quietly.
Heimdall closed his eyes. His mind was a chaotic pile of memories, assumptions, and premonitions. His observant mind was usually in such perfect order, allowing him to hyper-focus on any one event taking place in the nine Realms. His right hand fingered the hilt of his trusty sword, Hofund.
He tried to lend an eye and an ear at Asgard, but all he saw was fire and death. Surtur, united with the eternal flame continued to destroy every last rock of his once home. Hela was indeed gone. However as he gazed at the destruction, an image of a castle swam into view. A boy, no older than sixteen or seventeen with the Eihwaz rune carved into his forehead, flew by on a broom of all things. This particular rune represented the axis or process of spiritual becoming; the upper and lower worlds meeting in Midgard. It spoke of the mysteries of life, death, and rebirth.
As much as he concentrated, Heimdall was unable to gain a clearer image of him as he raced off on the broom, looking as solemn as the Asgardians felt.
"Heimdall — what is it, my friend?" Thor's hand had climbed up to his shoulder and was now shaking him. Heimdall's eyes flashed open, glowing a gold sheen for a second more before it subsided.
"I saw Asgard — destroyed," Heimdall began.
Thor frowned. "We watched it explode."
Heimdall shook his head. "No, no, completely. Surtur had begun to calm as there was little else to destroy. But as I watched, another image interrupted my vision. A boy, just a child…" Heimdall paused, musing over what he had seen. "He wore a necklace of the House of Odin - the Triquetra."
.
So that's it for today. I have a clear idea where this story is headed and every small detail means something. So if you notice something weird, it's probably there for a reason.