What is this, I hear you cry? A new chapter, barely a week after the last? Yes, you lucky people, that is exactly what you're getting. I had a lot of this written up, and filled in the gaps… all five thousand odd words of them. Who knew that a heatwave could be so surprisingly productive? It's c. 40 Celsius/104 Fahrenheit here in London, breaking temperature records, and feeling so much worse because this is a country whose buildings are designed to retain heat. Oh, and sometimes the air is so humid you can practically chew it. It's disgusting.
But hey, it's been 6 years since I started publishing this book! And… good grief. In about a month, it'll be 10 years to the day from when I first opened up a Word Document on holiday in the deep South of France (during a siesta, if memory serves. Nice bit of symmetry) and started writing this story. Which was originally called 'Thunder's Child', as it happens. That got ditched early, though it's still the title of the Word Doc.
Anyhow, we've got a lot of stuff here, much of which is from Hermione's point of view, a lot of important world-building and foreshadowing stuff from Loki, which informs and adds questions (so much more fun that way), and Harry is, for once, off-stage. Yet his shadow looms large…
And now, since some of you complained a little about a cliffhanger… I'll lead with that.
Before she had been so unexpectedly interrupted, Hermione been wondering.
She had been wondering a lot of things, to be truthful, some more rational than others. It depended on what kind of mood she was in. Sometimes, she asked Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore about them, depending on which was supervising her. Sometimes, she darkly wondered about how long they would supervise her for.
Sometimes, as she had been right now, she wondered when she had become scared of her former-and-possibly-once-again best friend.
She was. She wouldn't deny it, the way she suspected that Ron had tried to. But the brutal fact was that when they had entered the Fallen Fortress and faced the monster within, it had drawn out their worst fears with uncanny precision.
There was no use denying that. After all, it had even got under Harry's skin, which was no mean feat these days. Even when she'd been inside his defences, in his very head, she had absolutely no doubt that she'd only seen as much as he trusted her to see - and that had been when he'd been distracted by a frankly brutal battle with the monster in question.
No, it had found their fears and it had used them to great effect. And a significant part of both of their fears, the part that had been about to deliver the final blow - that in her case, actually had delivered it - had worn Harry's face.
She didn't want to be afraid of Harry. Angry, she was fine with. Betrayed... well, she didn't want to feel that way, but frankly, she more than had reason to. Even he acknowledged that, in a regretful and resolved sort of way that annoyed her more than any pose of self-righteousness ever could have done.
Self-righteousness, after all, involved genuinely believing you had done what was right. It might be unfounded, but it would be genuine. Harry, however, had been entirely aware that it wasn't right, he'd just chosen to put Wanda ahead of her anyway, which rankled - worse, it hurt.
Oh, logically she understood why, probably better than Ron, who was endearingly outraged on her behalf (though his distaste for Harry's increasing secretiveness probably had something to do with it).
Harry and family had a complicated relationship. On the one hand, his aunt and uncle had been categorically awful, his first cousin had turned out worse (and into a vampire, who Harry had physically and verbally dismembered in a cold rage), and while he loved and respected his grandfather... well, as far as she knew, that was a somewhat complicated relationship. With that in mind, he'd have enough reason to chuck the very concept of family.
Yet, he loved his father and his uncle dearly, ditto his grandmother, and adored his two second cousins. The latter had left very different impressions, for all that they were identical twins: there was Jean, who was refreshingly normal and who Hermione could see herself getting along very nicely with. She loved Harry fiercely, and their relationship was both fairly normal and very functional.
And then there was Maddie. Maddie was absolutely not normal, and almost uncannily like Harry, if you stripped away his charm. There was more of the more eerie side of him in her, and as well as the shy, abused child. That wasn't all she was, of course – but the resemblance was sometimes unnerving.
She had also nearly killed Harry at least once, and been partly responsible for the horrors that had befallen him in Russia. All because Harry, showing the very best and least sensible part of himself, had looked at a living weapon groomed from birth and unhesitatingly opened his heart to her, staking his everything on the chance that she'd listen.
Harry, Hermione thought, could be ruthless and calculating and manipulative. He'd shown that recently enough. He could also be the most impulsive idiot imaginable.
However, as so often happened with Harry, though it had initially backfired horribly, it had succeeded in the end. Now, Maddie protected his mental wellbeing like there was nothing more precious in the universe. It was both very sweet and deeply disturbing. This was, Hermione thought, a trend with Harry these days.
As for the rest of his family, that strange bundle of adoptive relationships - like godfather, honorary uncle, goddaughter, and almost-certainly-future-stepmother - and informal ones that constituted a good chunk of the world's superheroes, well. They were certainly a family, as devoted to each other as if they were blood, and more than most. Like some families she had known, they also closed ranks, fast, and that was one trait (of many) that Harry had absorbed from them.
She was unsure how long it had taken him to notice that when he did close ranks, he increasingly often shut the door on her and Ron too. She was certain that he had. She had never doubted that Harry was intelligent, but she had always judged on academics. That, she had come to realise, was a big mistake.
Yes, Harry was smart enough at schoolwork, but his real intellect worked differently. Thanks to the tutelage he'd had, the people he'd been growing up around… even without his telepathic abilities, he was exceptionally good at reading people. If his mother was anything to go by, he'd come by that honestly, too. It also made him frighteningly good at pushing their buttons when he wanted something. She hadn't seen that often (even considering all the ways he'd changed, Harry simply wasn't that cold), but even once was enough.
But yes, he'd noticed. He had definitely noticed. He'd as good as said as much, when he'd implored them to be his 'normal' friends. In the process, he'd been neatly pushing their buttons to stop them pushing to be more involved, to get exactly the reaction he'd wanted, and it had worked like a charm. She wasn't sure which prospect was more disturbing: that he'd meant to do it, or that he hadn't. Right now, she bitterly reckoned that he had.
All of which led to Wanda. His godmother. Hermione had intellectually known that Wanda was the nearest substitute for his actual mother, but she hadn't really understood what that meant. While she could attest that though Lily Potter was technically dead (and arguably not even that), she was most certainly not gone, it was undeniable that she was unavailable to her son for reasons both obvious and not. Wanda had filled a hole in Harry's heart that had been empty for a lifetime.
It had taken some absorbing, but she'd got there. If she'd had any lingering doubts, they had evaporated when she'd started laying into Wanda in earnest and her best friend had whirled into the fray, snarling, protective... and not of her. That, more than the choice to keep the truth from her, had made it achingly clear that he had chosen his side.
Again, intellectually, she understood this. If she was forced to choose between her mother (her actual mother, the one who had raised her) and one of her friends... well, she hoped it would never come to that. It's why she hadn't answered when Harry had put the question, quite bluntly, to her. She hadn't needed to, though – she'd seen the faint nod, the hint of grim satisfaction. He knew. She knew. And they both knew that the other knew.
It made sense, really. In terms of brutal numbers, she only had one mother (well, technically, she had two, but even Professor Dumbledore had avoided putting it like that), and a number of friends. Friendship was sacred. But so was family. And... well, if it came down to it, she'd discard the one where she had numbers to spare. She hated thinking like that, that kind of cold pragmatism, and she knew that Ron would never even countenance it. Harry was in some respects the same – as in, he'd usually try some mad scheme or put himself on the line instead. But if there was one advantage to the changes in her best friend, it was that Harry as-he-was-now at least understood the logic.
Emotionally, it was a very different story. The bitterness of knowing that she had been given up, no matter how good the reasons had supposedly been, rankled. Worse, Wanda had given up her godson too, but when she had been able to, she'd found him, given him what could and should have been hers. (This was ludicrous and petty, of course she knew that, and worse, cruel, but it didn't change the fact that she felt it).
Her actual blood daughter? Set aside, not acknowledged until it was actually forced upon her. Bitterness, anger, betrayal, and resentment... all curdled together into something remarkably close to hatred, only separated from it by a sad underscoring of why-didn't-you-want-me? Why, even when you came back, did you not come for me? Wasn't I good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why-why-why?!
Again, she knew the reasons. They'd been explained well enough: a desire to keep her safe, extended to Harry - Wanda had only reappeared when it became very clear that Harry was going to be unsafe no matter what. And a desire to give her a normal life. A life away from her burdens, her legacy, her enemies, and her utterly dysfunctional background. Hermione... well, a small part of her actually grudgingly appreciated that, and if it hadn't been for the chaos magic (unwanted) and the x-gene (unexpected, at best), would have appreciated it a whole lot more.
But again, her emotions didn't care, and they had reason enough for that. Wanda, oddly enough, had been one of the firmest to insist on that, enough that Harry had actually listened - whether it was due to guilt, self-loathing, or something in her own past, Hermione didn't know. Hermione didn't know a lot of things about Harry these days.
Yes, Harry had picked a side. She wasn't deluded, she didn't think that he'd suddenly become her enemy, or even that he cared for her any less. But it had nevertheless been made very clear that there were others he cared for more – those that he would pick over her, in the definite rather than the abstract. It had also been made clear that, even if it was just with words, he'd lash out at her given reason.
But she'd already known that. She'd known that for a little while now, and she knew it would go beyond words if he decided it was necessary, if she was doing something wrong, if she constituted a threat.
The Feather Incident.
A dramatic name for something that was, really, very minor. A small, if relatively serious spat, over her attempts to fix Warren's permanently transmuted wings, which, in hindsight, had been poorly thought out. The gentle but stern lecture from Bucky Barnes, and the much more stern and disappointed one from Professor McGonagall, had been uncomfortable enough.
But Harry's first response had not been to talk her down, or anything like that - it had been to lash out, on reflex, to hold her hand in place and make her stop. The harsh words that had followed had been unpleasant, but it wasn't the words, it was the actions, how he'd redoubled his grip once she'd broken it, holding on until she had stopped, the way he had looked at her like she was a threat.
That had been the seed, in retrospect. That had been what her fear had grown from, what the Fortress had used: the clear and certain knowledge that if Harry thought she was misusing her powers, if she lost control, worse, if she turned it on him... then he would come for her. And when he did, it wouldn't be to help.
Now, though, she didn't have time for those musings. Instead, she was now sitting face to face with someone who had interrupted her rather melancholy train of thought. She couldn't exactly complain about that, for both personal reasons and practical ones. He could answer so many of her questions, but whose very existence (let alone presence) raised so many more.
For one thing, he was Magneto.
For another thing, he was – biologically speaking – her grandfather.
For yet another, her grandfather was Magneto.
That was going to take a lot of processing.
OoOoO
These were not the only revelations that were being processed. Namely, in Asgard, there was the very clear reality that for the first time in eons, all of Surtur's Captains were well and truly on the move. It was, Sif thought, exhilarating as a warrior, fascinating as a commander, and distinctly unnerving as a person.
She had grown up seeing these beings as little more than myth, ancient nightmares, and now she was hearing about them in detail in Allfather's Council. Of course, she mused, as the veidrdraugar had proven, such nightmares did not necessarily stay dead, no matter the efforts taken to eradicate them. And these were far, far worse than even the most terrible of the draugar.
"Surtur's forces in Midgard's reality are limited, following the purge at the time of the Sealing," Loki said. "Times of weakening of the Seal in the past have been a danger to us all, but they have also provided opportunities to further whittle away those resources that Surtur has access to beyond Muspelheim itself. Even some of the Great Captains have been eliminated by prior Allfathers and Allmothers, and sometimes by other great heroes or cleverly executed campaigns, in battles that have gone down in legend. Each, though, has been a great risk and often, come at a greater cost."
He paused for a moment of solemnity as sober nods passed around the Council.
"Fortunately, we have managed to cleanse the majority of the Nine Realms of Surtur's beasts," Loki continued. "Aside from Muspelheim, of course, and perhaps the border it shares with Niflheim. However, as recent events have demonstrated, Midgard itself is not immune, with one of Surtur's Elder Wyrms emerging. Thankfully, it was swiftly slain by my nephew, with the aid of his father and mortal forces."
This time, the pause was for approbation, a rumble of approval and aside comments. Most were admiring. Most.
"We have long known that some of Surtur's Wyrms in particular took to residing on Midgard, particularly those that turned against him – in this I primarily refer to Shou-Lao the Undying, who resides in the splinter-realm of K'un L'un, and his fellows, as well as those who interbred with other spirits to become the Great Dragons of Avalon," Loki said. "This was, and should have been, a reminder to be vigilant. In whittling away at Surtur's forces this last million years, we have winnowed out the fools. The ones that remain are the ones that learned to hide, to bide their time."
He smiled grimly.
"This, and the chaos of the Sealing, has made it difficult to discern which of Surtur's greatest servants, his Great Captains, were slain and which remain. However, after much research – and personal investigation – I think that we now know which are alive. Or at least, alive enough to remain a threat."
He flicked up a map of Midgard's universe, comprising a dozen galaxies. Some of them, Sif noted, were further afield than others – not obvious ones to travel to. Wormholes, most likely.
"This is a rough area we have had to work with," he said. "A range that they could have reached, and based on the trails that I, Lady Sif, Lord Ullr, Lord Heimdall have managed to pick up after they were reconstructed from the records, where they have either been active or come to rest." He gestured at the galaxies, which expanded, and black flames appeared in nested corners and spreading webs. "The main difference is that they have sought to exploit the damage that Chthon did to reality, and my nephew's repairs."
Once again, he gestured, and crimson lines flew through the maps, marking cracks in the universe, barely sealed. They matched the dark webs almost perfectly.
"In essence, for beings such as they, it is free access to large amounts of raw power," he said. "Some of which is directly compatible with their own, interwoven as it is with Phoenix fire. They can refuel far faster than they otherwise would, and expend power in awaking lesser forces, and creating new servants of their own. Which is more or less all they have been doing. They are driven by their master's compulsion to focus on the Nine Realms, to break Yggdrasil and set him free. Any activities elsewhere are to that end – gathering armies, replenishing their strength, or finding somewhere to hide as they entered dormancy. They remain subordinate to his will, and his commands, which did not include empire building in their own right. If they were able to do so… we would not be facing just one Surtur."
"Have any returned to the Burning Galaxy?" Odin asked suddenly.
"If they have, they are not there now," Loki said simply. "That region of space is thoroughly picked over. It has power, yes, but that power is unpredictable, warped and dangerous, even to the likes of them. With the chaos cascade that Chthon unleashed, it has become only more so. If the Seal were fully open and they were at the height of their powers, they could perhaps re-master it. Indeed, I expect it will be the first place on the mortal plane that Surtur seeks to reclaim, if he gets the opportunity. Right now, however, there is nothing there that is worth their trouble, and much that could do them harm."
Odin nodded, giving his assent to continue.
"As for the Great Captains, they seem to have been following their old patterns of activity," Loki said. "The only difference is that now, many of them feel strong enough to move relatively openly – or Surtur is strong enough that he is able to compel them to do so. Those Captains, specifically…"
He flicked away the star map, copies of which appeared on the desk in front of each participant. Sif gave it a cursory look. It was, like all of Loki's briefings, detailed, informative, and with copious notes attached. Sometimes you needed to sift through the extraneous material to get to the core of it, but it was not lacking.
"Jormungand is perhaps least surprising," Loki continued, conjuring yet another image.
This time, it was of a dragon the size of a small moon, body thick and serpentine, with wings that could put worlds in shadow, encased in scales of the rippling shades of the ever-changing flame, and a gleam of ancient, ageless malice.
"Long healed from his encounter with my brother, he is sweeping through the Shi'ar galaxy, waking his children and calling them to him, setting them to create a stellar cluster – a nesting ground, based on past records. I recommend we destroy that immediately, by the way. While it tips our hand, it would remove at least twenty percent of Jormungand's forces, and prevent the generation of more. In any case, ignoring the trail of destruction is both immoral and impractical. Most of his spawn reside on inhabited worlds, and the resultant toll has been heavy: sixty three worlds have been destroyed so far, and the tally rises by the day. If we pretend we do not see it, he will know that we have."
Odin shared a glance with Frigga and nodded. "I concur," he said, before resting his gaze briefly on Sif.
"It shall be done," she said, without hesitation.
"Aside from that," Loki said, nodding his acknowledgement. "There is little else to be done immediately. We have quietly warned both Imperial factions, and even the more stubborn of Majestor D'Ken's Imperials have realised that this is not merely coincidence or Galactus feeling particularly hungry. However, they have only deployed the Subguardians; the Superguardians, the true Imperial Guard, have not been seen in months. While they have slain two of Jormungand's brood, they did so mid-emergence – the worlds were already doomed. There is little they can really do other than evacuate worlds and moons along the flight path, but D'Ken insists on fighting hopeless battles for the sake of prestige, prestige he loses with each fallen world."
"Will he challenge Jormungand?" Sif asked.
"Yes," Loki said bluntly. "And without the full might of the Imperial Guard, he doesn't have a chance. Truthfully, even with that might, his chances would be slim indeed. Gladiator might be Thor's match for might, but that might is especially vulnerable to an Elder Wyrm, let alone Jormungand himself. My full assessment is in the report, but the gist is that they will fight and they will be slaughtered."
Jormungand's image vanished, to be replaced by something decidedly more… alien. Alien, yet uncannily familiar. Sif had never fought a Captain, but she had met a relative of this one. Her wrist still bore the scars.
Swirling above them all was the image of a living shadow, so dark that even in image, it seemed to swallow the light around it, swirling, shifting and mutating. One moment it was a vast, tentacled mass with a pendulous body, ripping teeth on each tendril and a rotating beak-like maw. The next, it was like a colossal multi-segmented spider, scuttle-flowing restless back and forth, extruding a thousand legs to spin a thousand-thousand webs. Then, the last. The form it seemed to choose as a default; a huge, bulky creature with many legs, a whipping tail designed to bind and crush, and a long, fang-filled muzzle, ready to rip and tear the helpless prey. It flowed from shape to shape with ease, mixing and matching all of these traits and more in new and more bizarre forms.
"Skoll," Loki said quietly. "The Devouring Dark. The shadow that melts the flesh. One of the most bestial captains, but not unintelligent. Far from it. It is an ambush predator, and unfortunately, it is very good at hiding, even though we have reports that match up to its behaviour, culled primarily from believed Galactus sightings. My current belief is that it has found a splinter realm to master, or something particularly juicy to chew on. Previous records indicate that it is a lone predator, primarily, and a tactical threat rather than a strategic one in its own right."
This fell away too, replaced by an image of a spatial view of an inhabited, industrialised world, being slowly enveloped by a pale purple light. The enveloping grew faster and faster, completing, before the light condensed at a several points – space ports, Sif realised – and vanished. What was left seemed somehow… empty.
"The Soul-Eater. This one, I believe, was once a Wraith, what the Shi'ar call a Mummudrai," Loki said. "A predator of the astral plane, remnants of things that never quite managed to live, yet still refused to die. Distantly related to Dementors, as a matter of fact. Whereas Mummudrai hollow out their prey, devouring their mind and claiming their soul to give themselves form, whether that of their prey or one entirely of their own, this one is different. It propagates like a mental virus, almost like a religion, spreading across a world, consuming everything with a mind and leaving only an empty shell behind. Some manage to resist, even develop an immunity, and try to warn others, though usually in vain. While it can travel through the Astral Plane to new worlds, it seems to find it easier to designate a few hosts, which it takes to spread itself to new worlds. The process conserves energy. The remaining shells are either programmed to serve Surtur with fanatical loyalty, used as hosts for other Wraiths or spiritual beings, or transformed into Fire Giants. Which happens depends primarily what is considered tactically appropriate. It has been quarantined, both physically and spiritually."
He paused.
"Only eight hundred and ninety seven worlds were infected beyond repair," he said. "Another three thousand and forty nine will, given an average of three centuries, recover."
That caused more than a little stir.
"This is, by the standards of past outbreaks, relatively minor," Loki said, tone and expression disciplined and clinical. Only a select few, such as Sif herself, could see how this was both true, and in Loki's eyes, an unforgivable failure. "However, it is also considerably faster than most past outbreaks. It knew it would be spotted, if the Seal weakens further and it becomes more powerful, keeping it contained will become more difficult. If Surtur breaks free… it may well be impossible."
"Why not destroy the quarantined worlds?" one Lady asked. "Burn out the infection."
Loki paused, very deliberately, as Sif hid a wince. Such a question, given Loki's past, what he had nearly done to Jotunheim, would touch a nerve. It would touch many nerves.
"That has been tried, by us and by others who realised the kind of threat they were dealing with," he said deliberately. "It failed. Either it has hijacked the minds of those getting close enough to destroy it, it has escaped and evaded notice on the mortal plane, or it has retreated into the Astral Plane. While the latter would come at a cost to it, it would also come at a cost to us – we simply would not know where it would emerge next. Given how voracious it has been, it would wreak devastation once more, and we would likely be in the same position in a couple of months' time, with nothing to show for it but hundreds, even thousands, of dead worlds."
He flicked away the image, making clear without any further comment that that line of discussion was over. For the time being, anyway, Sif thought. Cauterising the wound made a certain sense. Trapping the creature was possible by the very nature of the quarantine, and if it could be prevented from escaping to the Astral Plane… then perhaps it would be worth it.
The next was less eldritch, but possibly more unnerving. Namely, it was a dwarf. A dwarf made of silvery metal, reaching out to a planet that deformed and bent, shifting into a series of rings around a newborn star. A cosmic forge was being born. The star rapidly began to age as Sif watched, with Fire Giants and war machines of all kinds emerging from the Ringworld Forge.
"The Shaper," Loki said. "This one is quite clearly a Dwarf – once one of their greatest artisans, if the records are true. As you can see, she no longer shares their height, and she lives up to her name. After Surtur, she is the greatest smith among Muspelheim's forces, an alchemist and technologist with few peers – she is one of the few who can easily mass produce Fire Giants in her own right. A full list of the armaments she develops is in my briefing, but of interest and concern is her ability to transform organic life into aspects of herself – a similar problem to the Soul-Eater, but arguably greater, in that it creates not merely more raw material for Surtur's war-machine, but more weapons from that material too. Perhaps most dangerous are what some, who also deduced Surtur's origins, termed 'Phoenix Eggs'. They are a mimicry of the Celestials, the so-called 'Living Planets', with a fully sentient biosphere and immense cosmic power. They were all believed to be destroyed, but the possibility of their recreation, by construction or infection, is a matter of serious concern."
Another flick, and another image. Or rather, three images.
"These three are unusual in that they tend to work together," Loki said. "It makes them relatively easy to find, once they are active, and very, very dangerous." He indicated each in turn. "The Fallen One." A semi-humanoid being with the shape and proportions of an avian predator, a deep turquoise blue flecked with dying starlight. "The Frozen Shadow." An obsidian coloured humanoid, with pale threads and lines – a being made of frozen night. "And the Lightbringer." Something strange and beautiful, it shimmered with a pale, ethereal glow and perpetually on the edge of vision – if in captured image, Sif could hardly look at it, let alone focus on it.
"Their abilities complement each other," Frigga guessed. It wasn't really a question, but Loki nodded as if it had been.
"The Fallen One is their herald – they find suitable worlds, or clusters of worlds, gathering intelligence and targeting any likely resistance," he said. "Then, the Frozen Shadow and the Lightbringer descend. If one does so alone, then the other is occupied elsewhere, and soon follows to complete the job. The Frozen Shadow is, or was, a Frost Giant. It embodies cosmic cold, removing molecular movement and transmuting them. All turn to statues that are, and are not, stone, their souls trapped within. They exist in what a lay mortal might call a state of quantum uncertainty – in essence, even reality is not sure what they are." He smiled wryly. "My nephew, if he saw them, would likely choose to call them Weeping Angels. If you knew what he meant, the comparison would be apt, though not perfect. For one thing, animate though they may be, they move through shadows."
The smile faded.
"The Lightbringer, meanwhile, is one of the Alfar," he said. "They strip away the imperfect physical form, and release what in theory is an idealised soul, a body of light, then try to reshape that in the image of them and of Surtur – who is, after all, supposed to be creating the perfect universe. They were, unsurprisingly, warped. Attempts have been made to rebond the souls with the 'angels' or 'statues' that they were taken from. The results were… unsettling."
He paused for a long moment.
"It is in the briefing," he said eventually, before flicking to a final image.
It was an unassuming humanoid – perhaps even human – figure, of average height, and perhaps leaner than average build. They could have been male, female, neither, or both. Given that they were clad in what looked like woven shadow, with only glowing white eyes to say otherwise, it was essentially impossible to tell.
"The Black Captain," Loki said. "Surtur's Black Hand, his Second, so far as there is one, and the only one for which we have a true name: Zagreus. Once the greatest of Earth's Eternals. Now? Stripped of his form by his fellow Eternals after the Sealing, he is little more than a shadow and a whisper. The records all agree that he is the least assuming, the least obvious, and when the Seal is strong, the least able to act. They also agree on something else: he is by far the most dangerous."
That grim declaration had the attention of the entire room.
"How so?" Sif asked quietly. She suspected she knew the answer, but she wanted it confirmed.
"Surtur is brilliant," Loki explained. "His knowledge of the ancient sciences and the great magics is near unparalleled. In purely technical terms, he is a genius with few equals. But he is not a General. Neither are his Captains, who sided with him out of a desire for survival, power, and a chance to feed their own obsessions. All are mighty warriors, in their own way, and all have many servants. But none are natural to command. None ever sought to understand others. Except for this one." He nodded at the image. "He is no less driven by his master's compulsions, no less prone to falling into the same patterns, trying the same thing over and over again. However, those methods tend to involve much less in the way of blunt force. They are the sort that prey on sentient nature."
He pointed above him.
"I know that many of you are thinking that that thing up there does not look like much," he said. "That you would not be fooled by such a thing. However, that 'thing' is the principle architect of the Aesir-Vanir Wars."
That caused a stir, a distinctly uneasy one. While the Aesir-Vanir wars were generations settled, even by Asgardian standards, and a Vanir Queen ruled beside an Aesir King, those conflicts had run long and their scars still ran deep.
"I will not go into details," Loki continued grimly. "Beyond saying that he did not create the tensions, but he inflamed them masterfully, with twisting of words and promises of power. A shadow and a whisper might have been all he was, but that was all he needed to be. Where the others seek power in distant galaxies and realms, before trying to batter down Yggdrasil with raw might, the Black Captain acts within Yggdrasil, to turn our strength against each other, seeking to weaken and eventually break the bonds between realms or one of the realms themselves. In essence, his pattern is to divide and conquer. And reading through our history… at times, he has come frighteningly close to succeeding."
He gestured one last time at the image, and it was replaced with two worlds, ones that Sif recognised instantly: Svartalfheim and Midgard.
"I do not know where Zagreus is," Loki said. "I contacted the remaining Eternals, Lady Sersi and Lord Ikaris, but they have also been unable to find him. My best theory, however, is that he has not strayed far." He indicated both worlds. "Both Midgard and Svartalfheim are in a state of profound flux. Midgard in particular offers many opportunities for someone who wished to undermine Yggdrasil, if only by blowing up the planet." His tone turned dry. "Believe me, these days, humans are more than capable of that."
That got a round of wry chuckles.
"However, Svartalfheim cannot be ruled out either," Loki continued. "Following his pattern, he is probably using a host – like the Soul-Eater, he can hollow out minds and devour souls. Unlike the Soul-Eater, he is a more cunning parasite, retaining enough to act as a veil to hide the truth. All that we can be certain of is that he is on the move, and that, inevitably, he is up to something."
The images vanished, and he turned to Odin and Frigga.
"For the others, I have laid out preliminary plans that can be fleshed out or discarded based on what is militarily practical," he said. "For this one? The only strategy I can offer is to tread carefully. Very, very carefully."
OoOoO
The briefing broke up, with much to read, more to discuss, and many thoughts to collect. Sif watched as the Allfather's Council split up into groups, doubtless going to do exactly that – and in more than a few cases, get very, very drunk. Even now, in the calm before the storm, the scale of the threat was… daunting. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Loki staying behind to answer questions, assuring some, accepting praise for his discoveries from others, and to a practised eye, quite clearly wishing to be elsewhere.
As a result, she did not have to wait long for him to exit as gracefully as he could, and tailed him. There was a subject she had not brought up at the Council, one that was best discussed in private, and while Loki had more than earned his rest… this was best done sooner than later.
"Loki," Sif greeted him.
"Sif," he acknowledged.
"Your briefing was informative," she said. "Especially considering how long some of these creatures have been dormant for."
"I aim to please," Loki said wryly. "Speak your mind, Sif, please. Something is bothering you."
Sif sighed. "There have been rumours, even before this meeting," she said. "When people speak of the return of Surtur, of his Captains, there are… questions."
"When are there not?" Loki said tiredly, and he did look tired, very much so. Loki was one of those people with the kind of charisma that, when they put it on, could make them look lively and energetic even when they were no more than two steps from the grave. Now… he was tired. Very tired. He waved a hand. "I know which questions you mean. The ones that would be directed at the Goddess of War." He smiled thinly. "'Where is the Sword of Frey?' 'Where is the Blade that Brought the Dawn?' 'Where is Hope?'"
Sif nodded. That was the crux of the matter. There were other questions, too, but oh so very many circled back to stories and ancient histories, to the tale of the First King. With good reason, of course, but still.
"It is well enough known that the sword of Frey was special," she said. "Extraordinary beyond any craft we have today, and believe me, I have checked. It cannot be recreated, or its properties replicated, not even with an understanding of what Surtur is and a vastly powerful container full of Phoenix fire to study – if very, very carefully. Why that is, no one knows. Except, perhaps, Strange."
"There is something very odd about that sword," Loki agreed. "And while Strange almost certainly knows 'what', he does not know 'why'. He was there, Sif, he took part in its making, and he is as puzzled as any of us by what it did."
"That same oddness is what allowed it, what allowed Frey, to match Surtur in combat," Sif said. "Many see it as a symbol –"
"Which it is."
" – and a source of a salvation for being a weapon of legend, the weapon of this legend," Sif went on as if Loki had not interrupted, only a sharp look betraying her displeasure. "While their understanding of war, of tactics, of strategy, especially at this level, is incomplete, at best… there is a grain of truth in their thinking. I have studied the War for the Dawn, the Aesir-Vanir Wars, and every other conflict Surtur and his servants have had a hand in."
"And I suspect you found much the same as what I did," Loki said gloomily.
Sif nodded. "They are not a conventional enemy, nor even an unconventional one," she said plainly. "They are a corruption, Loki, a disease, one that we can stymie and slow and repel. We can even turn it back. Our numbers are not what they were, but we are more than we were, as are our allies, and we have learned since then, lessons old and new. But the true enemy is Surtur himself. We can weaken him, harry him, and thwart him. But we cannot stop him. His corruption will spread from its source no matter how often we cut it back, and it will overwhelm us. Unless we can strike him down. And there is only one weapon that has ever been able to do that."
"I know," Loki sighed. "Believe me, I know. We have been combing everything from archives to folklore to barely there place-memories of the oldest places in the Nine Realms. None show any sign of the sword." He rubbed his brow. "There are prophecies, of course, if you can call them that – fragments, whispers, nonsensical for the most part, woven in and out of legends. All of them, and what little I have been able to worm out of Strange, seem to confirm the prevailing theory: that Ván fell with its master, in Muspelheim."
"The stories say that it waits for another hand to claim it," Sif said quietly.
Loki let out a bitter laugh. "Another hand, yes," he said. "Another hand that would have to fight their way into Muspelheim, through Surtur's armies, through his Captains, and likely through Surtur himself, to get to it. Surtur may not be imaginative, but he has a long memory. He will not have forgotten what that sword did to him, no he most certainly will not, and he will not tolerate anyone reclaiming it." He shook his head sharply. "I would send my worst enemy to try that."
Sif looked at him for a long moment. "Loki," she said again.
"Yes?"
"You know who it is waiting for."
Loki did not react. That, Sif reflected with sad fondness, was a reaction in itself.
"You know," she said quietly.
"I know who everyone will whisper that it is waiting for, unless we are cautious," he said, dangerously soft, a warning in every syllable. Sif was not fazed.
"Loki, according to all that you have told me, and all that the Allfather and Queen Frigga have said, Strange was quite explicit. He is pointing your nephew at Surtur. By all accounts, the two have already clashed, mind contesting with mind. Such clashes have destroyed armies, burned the mightiest of gods to ash, and gravely wounded even Allfathers and Allmothers. Harry came away not only intact save for a few swiftly healed burns, but having landed a true psychological blow on Surtur."
Loki let out a helpless laugh. "He treated it like a scrap on the training grounds, perhaps a minor skirmish at worst," he said. "He mostly just seemed annoyed." He waved a hand. "I am not a fool, Sif, I know what you are driving at – and what Strange said. Harry is being prepared to face Surtur, and worse. He does have the ability to resist Surtur's powers. And the sword… oh, the sword calls to him. 'A sword of fire waits for his hand'; a powerful seer spoke a prophecy of him, and while her skill is in doubt, her raw ability is not. Much of that prophecy, and the one she gave before, has come true. That same seer drew the Cards of Marseille for him, ones which took different shapes based on their subject – and again, almost all of their predictions have come true. One showed a sword buried in gleaming black stone; obsidian, volcanic rock. The signs are there, they are practically screaming to be heard."
"You fear for him," Sif said.
"For good reason," Loki said. "For many good reasons. Yes, Harry can resist Phoenix Fire. But 'resistant' is not 'indestructible', or even 'immutable'. Surtur has mastered that flame, discovered uses for it we could never imagine. He stole his part of it from the Phoenix herself. Harry may be favoured, he may have a gift, and ways with it that Surtur does not, but he still has only a fragment, and equally fragmented experience. If he gets within Surtur's reach, the things that creature could do to him, could make him... Strange hinted as much when he enlisted my nephew's counterpart to train the Grey twins."
He shook his head.
"That aside, prophecies are tricky things. Sometimes, they do not come true. Even Strange is not infallible, and he is a seer with all the means possible to ensure that his predictions come to pass. Sometimes, they are misinterpreted, most often when they seem most obvious. Is Ván his 'sword of fire'? Or is it the sword he has named Curtana, reforged with lightning's fire, imbued with the Phoenix flames in his own blood? Or is it something else entirely? Some of the legends speak of 'hope renewed', sometimes 'reforged'."
"You think that the sword will be made anew," Sif said, frowning. "Suggesting that it was broken or destroyed entirely."
"Legend has it that Twilight was broken, and with the way some things have turned out, I can believe it," Loki said. "I can also believe that Surtur would devote his considerable power and intellect to destroying the one weapon that truly hurt him, if it was within his reach." He shrugged. "Ván's fate is uncertain. Truthfully, so is Frey's. The sword was forged of Uru and Vibranium, on that all are agreed. Now, Wakanda emerges from seclusion, led by a King willing to step outside the lines set by his ancestors, and forced by necessity to trade secrets of working Vibranium. Now, a deposit equal to Wakanda's own sits right outside my nephew's school, at the connivance of Stephen Strange. Harry already has a blade forged by his fire and blood. Perhaps it is a mere precursor, an echo of what is to come?"
"Which would mean that a quest to seek out Ván would not merely be dangerous, but pointless," Sif concluded.
"Precisely," Loki said.
"You spoke of a card, a sword in volcanic rock – is it Ván in Muspelheim?" Sif asked. "If that is so, then perhaps such a quest would not be so pointless."
"Perhaps. Or, perhaps, like the card itself, it is symbolic of something else," Loki said. "Perhaps Harry himself, carrying battle into Muspelheim. Perhaps simply the war to come – it would have been a more profound prediction when it was made, after all, months before the cracking of the Seal."
"Then what do the fragments say?" Sif asked. "Often a coherent report can be drawn from a thousand scraps, even if it says little."
Loki grimaced. "Little enough of use," he said. "We are not the first to wonder what happened to the Sword of Frey, after all. Desire to replicate it, desire for glory, desire to affirm legitimacy when the throne travelled from one part of the bloodline to another… a thousand reasons and more. Clues have been poured over time and time again, seers, prophets, and soothsayers consulted. The Norns have been asked, of course. Even when it is not confirmed to be them, the tone of their prophecies becomes familiar after a while."
"And Strange?" Sif asked.
"Not as often as you would think, since he flits in and out of our history as he pleases, often vanishing for eons at a time," Loki sighed. "His recent behaviour is unusual to the point of being unique – though we have his interest in Harry and his apparently impending death to thank for that. But when he has been around, and when he has been understood for what he is, more or less… yes. People have asked. The answers have been predictably vague, unhelpful, and muddled by arguments and interpretation. But, again, even when it isn't confirmed to be him, his voice is clear enough. I honestly think that Strange does not yet want us to know – which means that if there ever was anything useful, he probably destroyed it long ago."
"How you put up with that sorcerer, I do not know," Sif said. "Why, yes. I am under no illusions about what he is capable of, both as an ally and, potentially, as an enemy. But how…" She shook her head. "That, I cannot fathom."
"I often wonder that myself," Loki said wryly, before his amusement faded. "You are right, by the way. About the pieces forming a coherent whole. There are many prophecies, foretellings, and omens. However, one recurs. All through our history, it appears over and over again." He rolled his wrist and plucked a meticulously kept notebook, flipped through it, then handed it to Sif.
The sword shall come again.
The circle shall close.
What was begun shall end.
And the last light shall shine on hope.
Wings of fire shall spread over the tree of life.
The line of kings shall fall into the void.
The Dark One's shadow shall fall over the stars.
"'And the sword shall come again,'" Sif finished slowly. "Loki…"
"From a hundred-hundred fragmented manuscripts," Loki said, answering the unasked question. "Each with different versions, different sections, and different interpretations. However, it is one of the few to have been kept and one of the few to have been repeated, in multiple forms, by multiple seers. In turn, I have boiled it down to this."
He tapped the last line.
"That line," he said. "Always changes, whenever it is included. No matter the version, it is never the same. 'And'. 'If'. 'When'. 'Now'. 'Then'. 'So'. Many variations, but always conveying a sense of warning and inevitability. The message is clear enough."
"The sword shall come in Asgard's direst hour, yes," Sif said, concerned. "As it did before, which would make a certain sense. That would be why Strange… no." She paused, and looked at him. "That is not it, is it?" She looked back at the prophecy, scanning it more slowly. "All those variations, the sense of them. You think that finding the sword will cause Ragnarok?"
"I think that it is a possibility," Loki said quietly. "If it is intact and out of Surtur's reach, then it will have drunk deep of his strength and Frey's. Wherever it is, it will surely contain more power than any weapon we possess, barring only the Tesseract itself. If that power is aroused from dormancy, then Surtur's seal will not merely crack, it will shatter like frozen cobwebs under my brother's hammer. And if it is forged anew…"
He exhaled.
"If it is forged anew, then it will require power of a kind that is not easily mustered," he said. "And given those requirements, and who is most likely to do it, the flames of its forging will be of a very particular kind."
Sif grimaced. She had to admit, it made a certain sort of sense, practically speaking. And while she did not understand the deep magics, she had heard enough stories and comments from sorcerers – including Loki himself – to know that there was often a symmetry to them. What had once sealed Surtur's doom could now be the key to his salvation.
"He might destroy us all," she said quietly.
"If he seeks out the sword," Loki said. "Then, unwittingly… yes. Yes, he may do exactly that."
"Or he might not. As you say, prophecy is not absolute, especially one so pieced together," Sif said. "It could as easily mean that the sword shall come forth in Asgard's darkest hour, if it applies at all."
"It could," Loki agreed. "But the one thing that I can guarantee is that if the sword is either found or reforged, if Harry claims it – if he is even meant for it, in the supremely unlikely event that he is not – then even if the Seal holds and is not eroded even the slightest bit further, then we will have war. Surtur has his Captains and other agents of power, with far greater scope to both command them and empower them, and to act himself, than perhaps since the Sealing itself. He will not allow that sword to rest in anyone's hands."
"That is a war we are not yet ready for," Sif said grimly.
"And it is a war that would be demanded, with Harry at the lead," Loki said. "Wielding a weapon he has no idea how to use, wielding a power he is only beginning to truly understand, against, ultimately, Surtur himself."
"Or thoughts might turn elsewhere," Sif said. "To fear of the destruction his very existence might bring." She shook her head. "Many will think that he will save us, and just as many will think that he will destroy us. That is why you demand whispers alone." She looked Loki in the eye, dark eyes burning. "You shall have whispers, Loki, should you need counsel. Otherwise, you shall have my silence."
Loki smiled a sad, but genuine smile. "My dear Lady Sif," he said. "I am grateful beyond words."
OoOoO
"Erik," Hermione said carefully, as if testing the waters.
Erik – Magneto – her grandfather – merely smiled.
"I… I'm sorry, but I not sure where to begin," she said weakly.
"Perhaps at the beginning?" he suggested.
Hermione paused, then nodded. That seemed logical enough. "You said you'd wanted to see me for a while," she said. "You knew about me."
"It took me a few years, and I discovered it quite by accident when I was trying to piece together my relationship with your mother, but yes," he said, and Hermione couldn't suppress a slight twitch at that description. "I did. You would have been… let me see. About eight. Or possibly nine. Whatever age you were, Wanda threatened to skin me alive if I went near you. From most people, this would be both hubris and hyperbole. However, when it comes to her loved ones, Wanda does not do hyperbole. It is something that we have in common, loath though she would be to admit it."
Hermione blinked, both stunned and not particularly surprised. She had been kept isolated with the warped intention of protecting her, after all. And as she had come to realise, while the circles Harry moved in now were amiable, they were also completely and utterly ruthless.
"So why come now?" she asked. "Not that I… um." She paused, unsure of what to say. Politeness dictated that she should at least say that she didn't not want to see him, or evade the subject entirely, and truthfully, she was rather curious. Also, a small, childish part of her rather wanted to get to know someone that Wanda had been so very firmly against her meeting.
"Your X-Gene has manifested, and it would be almost more suspicious if I did not take note," Erik explained. "Especially since, as Wanda well knows, Charles – Charles Xavier – would have informed me the moment he detected it. The secret of your heritage is out there, if only now gathering pace. The cat is out of the bag." He paused. "Also, Wanda and I have been coming to something of an understanding. Certainly, we understand each other better these days. As a result, while I don't think that she will be especially happy that I have made contact with you, she is hardly likely to skin me for it."
"Oh. That's good to hear," Hermione managed, then paused, a sudden, unlikely thought crossing her mind, one that became more and more plausible as she thought about it. "Mr… Erik. Do you know what my powers are?" she asked carefully.
Her grandfather developed a rather pensive expression. "In the very broadest sense, yes, I do," he said. "However, if my experiences have taught me anything, it is that with mutation as with magic, being able to put a name to something does not mean you necessarily understand it." He sat back. "Your power was recognised as spatial manipulation. What that truly means, however, is another matter entirely."
"What do you mean?" Ron asked suddenly, confused, before paling at having interrupted Magneto. Yet, when the man turned to regard him, he straightened up, spots of colour high in his cheeks. This seemed to meet Erik's approval, a faint smile flickering across his face, before it was replaced with a thoughtful expression.
"How shall I put this," he murmured. "You both knew, before you came to Hogwarts, that you had magic, yes? With you, Ronald, it was a matter of normality and expectation. With you, Hermione, it was a matter of – perhaps – suspicion and curiosity, eventually confirmed by the letter from Hogwarts."
Both shared a look and nodded.
"Now, Ronald might have known a fair degree of what magic could be used for, through his upbringing," Erik went on. "While you, Hermione, knew nothing at all. Yet would you not both agree that since you have come to Hogwarts, you have learned that, with magic, you could things you never even imagined were possible? That you had barely even begun to explore your powers?"
"I suppose," Ron said dubiously.
"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "Yes, I do."
Erik nodded. "The same applies to mutation," he said. "Both less, and more. Less, because very few mutations are anywhere near as broad in their applications as magic. More, because with very few exceptions, mutant powers and their applications are not even close to being as well studied as magic. Mutations themselves are often unique; even the well-studied field of psionics, which in parts of the world is a discipline going back millennia, can vary in form from user to user. The process of self-discovery can be endless. I gained my powers nearly seventy years ago, and thanks to a mixture of experience and the march of scientific progress, even now I am still discovering new uses for them."
"Oh," Hermione said quietly, the last flickering hopes that she would be able to quickly master these new and mysterious powers before dismissing them and anything else associated with Wanda (except Chaos Magic, a small part of her whispered. It was ignored), vanishing.
On the other hand, she had to admit that academically, she was fascinated. This was a whole new field of study, one perhaps completely untouched. Based only on what she'd seen the Spirit of the Fortress do when it had possessed her, there was so much to investigate. The mechanics alone…
Erik waited in silence, seemingly content to watch the conflict play out – and she suspected that was exactly what he was doing. Unlike Harry, she was not an expert at masking her feelings. And, like Harry, and far, far too many other people she had encountered over the last year or so, Erik gave the impression of being far too good at reading them. Truthfully, she felt a little grumpy about it.
"Of course, there is mastery, and then there is mastery," he said eventually, as if the pause had not been. "The two of you, for instance, would have had incidents with accidental magic when you were younger. Now, you have your abilities sufficiently under control that barring truly extenuating circumstances, they are under your conscious control."
Hermione's mouth twisted in a grimace, because right now, she was right back to square one. Minus one, really. Then, part of that comment filtered through to her.
"So, I can get control of my powers?" she asked suddenly. "My mutant powers and –" She cut herself off abruptly, but not before Erik's eyebrow rose.
"Your chaos magic?" he asked mildly.
Hermione hesitated for a long time. Then, she nodded.
"Yes, you can," Erik said. "Though, I suspect that the subtext of that particular question was 'quickly'."
Hermione flushed, because yes, it was. "Can I?" she asked.
Erik seemed to consider this for a long moment, as if calculating something. "Your mutant powers, yes," he said. "While their potential is vast, their basic usage should be relatively simple to master, especially for an accomplished young witch. My understanding is that there is significant overlap; everything from teleportation to flight, even to expansion and shrinking of objects and spaces, has its roots in spatial manipulation. I think you would be well advised to discuss the matter with your Charms teacher – Professor Flitwick, I believe?" At two nods, he nodded in turn. "He would be well placed to guide your understanding. Albus, of course, goes without saying. Loki, even more so, though he has not been seen on Earth much in recent months – and I have my suspicions as to why."
He smiled kindly.
"And, if you would be willing, I would be more than happy to help you understand your powers," he said.
Hermione's eyes widened. "You can? Of course you can, you've been teaching Harry," she said, belatedly remembering the cause of Harry's more structured disappearances.
"Indeed I am," Erik said, eyes twinkling. "While Charles, Professor Xavier, was always more natural at it, I think I have become reasonably competent over the years. Harry is just one of many students that I have trained over the years." He fixed her with a mock-stern look. "Though when I do teach, I expect nothing less than the best, and I make no exceptions, whether for children or grandchildren."
Given Harry's descriptions of some of his lessons, Hermione wasn't surprised, and nor was Ron by the looks of things. Erik, her grandfather, had a reputation as a stern and thoroughly creative taskmaster. Given his other reputation, it made a certain degree of sense. After all, she mused, if you were going to lead your people to war, you would want them to be at their best.
"Children?" she said absently, before blinking. "Grandchildren? You mean –"
"You are my only grandchild," Erik said, gently cutting her off. "Of my blood, at least. There is a young lady, Ruth, who I have taken into my care, and… well. Harry is my eldest daughter's godson, which, I have to admit, leaves me with a few grandfatherly feelings towards him."
"Of course," Hermione said, squashing a brief surge of jealousy. "Does that mean that I have aunts? And uncles?"
"One aunt, Lorna, and one uncle, Pietro," Erik said. "Wanda's half-siblings." He hesitated, looking a little uncomfortable for the first time. "They are… rather younger than she is."
Hermione's insides twisted, imagining two small children, complicating both her life and her family tree even more than it was already.
"How old are they?" Ron asked curiously, either missing the awkwardness or soldiering on anyway.
"Pietro is in his late teens, Mr Weasley," Erik said. "Lorna, my youngest, is about your age." His expression shadowed, as Hermione tried in vain to remember where she'd heard the name 'Lorna' before. "Much like her older sister, I did not know about her until she was in grave danger. In this case, her mother and I separated well before either of us knew she was pregnant." He looked up, and his face was like granite, a hint of electric blue crackling in his eyes. This, this was a glimpse at the man who had terrorised a world that had barely known of his existence, that had once wrapped his hand around its throat and squeezed. "She was taken by the Red Room."
Hermione's blood turned to ice as Ron gasped.
"Thankfully," Erik said, voice hard, but softening, the tension fading. "They were initially more concerned with training her than breaking her. She was one of those broken out by Harry during his initial escape. All things considered, she got off lightly. But…"
He trailed off, then shook his head.
"Lorna lives with her mother, in Australia," he said. "Like Wanda and Pietro, she inherited the X-Gene; Pietro is a speedster, like Mr Beaubier, and Lorna shares my powers. She attends the Xavier Institute during the week, via a teleporter in my employ. Sometimes, she comes to visit me, though she prefers the reverse. My home has a certain… superficial similarity to the Red Room, in its décor."
"Is she all right?" Hermione asked. "I, well, we, we saw the effect it had on Harry."
"The effect it's still having on him, you mean," Ron muttered, which was both unkind and very perceptive.
"She is well, thank you," Erik said. "Recovering, still. There are nightmares, of course. But yes, she is recovering." He smiled slightly. "We are getting to know each other." His smile broadened. "Wanda is also very fond of her – she delivered some rather grisly threats about what she would do if I did not 'do right' by her little sister."
"Really," Hermione said, spirits instantly dampening at this latest reminder that she had only become Wanda's priority when circumstances had forced her hand. "That sounds… nice."
Erik did not miss the tone, and levelled a look that was both sympathetic and severe. "Wanda only discovered her sister after she was broken out of the Red Room, thanks to Ms Danvers' correctly supposing that the similarity in our powers was not coincidental," he said. "Lorna was a traumatised young girl taken to be experimented upon and weaponised, whose mother's very memory of her had been blocked by the Red Room to cover their tracks. She needed help, which Wanda gave her, and which you should not begrudge. Had you been in the same situation, she would have done the same for you and a great deal more – this, I know for absolute fact. As it was, she believed that the most help she could give you was to leave you alone, safe, secret, and out of her shadow."
Hermione looked away, bitter, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of this, much less the same litany that had been repeated to her over and over again (less so recently, she had to admit). She got it, she really did. She didn't have to like it.
"She was wrong."
"What?" Hermione burst out, in concert with Ron, who had looked like he was desperately wishing he could learn to spontaneously apparate.
"Wanda was wrong," Erik said bluntly. "She was right at first, and presented with few options, but she let it drag out far too long and you paid the price. She knows it, you know it, I know it, and so does everyone else."
"Not everyone," Hermione retorted, knowing as she did that it was childish and spiteful, and she really didn't care.
"Oh, I suspect that Harry knows," Erik said calmly. "Even if he may not want to admit it yet." He looked at Ron. "His loyalty follows a very particular pattern, after all."
When Hermione cast a confused look at Ron, he grimaced. "Harry protects the people he's loyal to," he translated. "Even…"
"Even when they have made mistakes, however small or great," Erik said. "Even unto the end of the world, he will protect them. It is his nature, his instinct. Which means that, in moments of high emotional tension, it tends to get ahead of his perfectly serviceable brain." He glanced at both of them. "I think that that is a discussion that the three of you – yes, the three of you – will need to have yourselves."
He shook his head.
"Enough talk of Harry, and of Wanda. If you want to hear more, then I will happily oblige you, but I suspect you have heard more than your fill about both of them, Wanda and her reasons especially," he said, and Hermione sighed, because yes, that guess was a shrewd one.
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," she agreed. "It just makes me so angry, and I get upset, and –" She stopped abruptly. "I'd rather not. It's tiring."
"Rage often is," observed the person who vied with the Hulk for the position of world expert on the subject. "Energising and exhausting at the same time. It hollows you out, in the end." He tilted his head. "What would you like to talk about, then?"
Hermione frowned, considering this. Up until now, she'd been letting the conversation flow. After all, she hadn't exactly had time to prepare questions – and she had a lot.
"Am I Jewish?" she asked suddenly, surprising herself. "I'm sorry, it just popped out."
Erik just let out a rolling laugh. It was warm, pleasant, and entirely at odds with his fearsome reputation. "No apologies are necessary," he said. "I am a Jew, though I am not the most devout. If you know anything of my history, I suspect you know why I have had trouble keeping the faith."
The bottom dropped out of Hermione's stomach, because of course, the Holocaust, but before she could apologise, she was fixed with a steely look that told her to do nothing of the kind.
"As for whether you are Jewish, well, that is a complicated question. Leaving faith and conversion aside, Jews are divided. The Orthodox interpretation, under Halakhic law, states that Jewish identity is inherited through the mother. Under that criteria, you would not qualify, as Wanda's mother was not Jewish. Reform Judaism, however, accepts patrilineal descent as well, meaning that Wanda was born Jewish and, if I have the interpretation correctly, you are too," he said, before shrugging. "Certainly, you would be eligible for Israeli citizenship, should you ever wish to pursue it."
"I see," Hermione said. "Thank you." She eyed him. "My parents…" She trailed off, unsure of how to put it. While Magneto had never been depicted as a strict blood supremacist, when he had been believed to be a magical Dark Lord, he had been considered akin to Grindelwald ideologically, apparently believing that magical – or superhuman – ability raised one above muggles. Some things that Harry had said, and she had read, had tacitly confirmed this.
"… have raised a wonderfully engaging young lady, who is a credit to both them and most importantly, to herself," Erik said gently. "As I will be sure to tell them when I meet them."
"… can you please at least give them more warning than you did me? A couple of days, perhaps?"
That rolling laugh bounced around the Hospital Wing again. "I promise," he said warmly.
Hermione relaxed a little, essaying a small smile in return.
"Can you give me any advice about my powers?" she asked. "How long it'll take to wield them properly, to control them? And… my chaos magic?"
"I am afraid there is very little I can say about chaos magic," Erik said. "While Wanda spent the best part of fifteen years learning directly from Strange, a very great deal of that was to prepare her to succeed him. Additionally, your magic seems to have stabilised far more quickly than hers did, with minimal outside intervention. Perhaps your pre-existing training helped – though from what I do understand, you may have to unlearn a number of pre-existing beliefs partly derived from that training. Magic can, to a great extent, be treated as esoteric science. Chaos magic is quite another matter. However, I doubt that you will need a decade in seclusion."
"Thank you," Hermione said flatly, and got an amused look for her pains.
"As for your mutation, I am sure you will take to it quickly," he went on. "It has a number of parallels with magic that you have already studied, after all, and you will have plenty of willing teachers – myself included. However, perhaps your best port of call would be Doctor Jane Foster."
Hermione blinked. "Doctor Foster?" she echoed, surprised.
"Jane Foster is, with her mentor, Doctor Erik Selvig, the world expert on the Tesseract," Erik said. "She understands its properties and abilities better than any living person – with the inevitable exception of Doctor Strange. I believe that your powers essentially function as a Tesseract in miniature." He tilted his head. "The work of Doctors Pym and Richards might also be helpful, but Doctor Foster has the advantage of some shared acquaintances."
Hermione frowned. All of this, she had to admit, made sense, and she said so. Any further questions in that regard, however, were cut off quite abruptly.
"Erik."
Professor McGonagall was standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing, wearing a cool look, her eyes gleaming with just a hint of warning, as the name came out as neatly clipped as a pruned branch. If this bothered Erik, he didn't show it in the slightest, rising to greet her with every evidence of pleasure and goodwill.
"Minerva," he said warmly, striding over to her, taking her hand and bowing gracefully over it. "You get more lovely every time I see you."
McGonagall raised an unimpressed eyebrow, removing the hand.
"And you, Erik Lensherr, remain as disingenuously charming as ever," she said dryly. She turned to Hermione, then Ron. "I see that you have met your grandfather, Miss Granger."
"I, yes," Hermione said.
McGonagall regarded her for a moment, as if assessing her state, before aiming a narrow-eyed gaze at the powerful mutant.
"I trust that you have not been disturbing my students?" she asked pointedly. The subtext of, 'you had better not if you know what is good for you', was clear enough that it was practically text.
"He hasn't been any trouble, Professor," Hermione said.
"The tidal wave of gossip would suggest otherwise," McGonagall said. "Now, half the school is wondering why Magneto himself is here, Miss Granger, while the other half has already worked it out. A roughly even cross-section of both is busy trying to hide in the dungeons."
"That is hardly my fault," Erik protested mildly.
"Given the efforts you went to establish that reputation of yours, I would argue otherwise," came the chilly reply.
"Well, the only trouble I intend to be is to suggest that Hermione be allowed to stretch her legs," Erik said evenly. "Outside of this room."
Hermione's eyes widened. "But my magic –"
"Will not fare well from being squashed and contained," Erik said. "Chaos magic, as we both know," he continued, levelling a pointed look at McGonagall. "Was not designed to be suppressed or bound. It finds its way out eventually, and you need to learn how to guide it."
"I've already had a few lessons," Hermione said reproachfully, ignoring the fact that twenty minutes ago, she'd never have imagined rebuking Magneto himself. Then again, twenty minutes ago, she hadn't been confronted with the stark reality that the legendary Magneto really was her grandfather, and a fairly amiable one at that.
"Then you should be allowed to put them into practise," he said, before turning back to McGonagall. "Minerva, the current situation is not tenable in the long term. Even with all of your and Albus' skills, there is no guarantee these bindings will hold forever, and all it will achieve is to make Hermione afraid of them when she does step out."
"I am aware," McGonagall replied heatedly, squaring up to Magneto, careless of who he was and what he was capable of. Then again, it wasn't like she had any shortage of capability in her own right – especially where the safety of her students was concerned. "I am also aware that being told to simply go outside and 'have at it' with chaos magic is a potentially terrible idea!"
"Professor," Hermione began.
"Miss Granger?"
"I think that he's right," she said, and swallowed. "Chaos magic is about emotions. I'm calmer now. A lot calmer than I was. And I think I should be able to let the rest out."
McGonagall held her gaze for a long moment, caught between severity and worry.
"Are you sure, Miss Granger?" she asked quietly.
Hermione nodded.
"You can stay in control?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Could you do so with Wanda looking over your shoulder?"
"What? Why?" Hermione burst out, before shrinking at the stern look in McGonagall's eyes. "Professor," she added hastily.
"Miss Granger, to the best of my knowledge, there are exactly two people in the world who are qualified to teach you how to use chaos magic," McGonagall said. "Who can guide you through opening up to such a dangerous form of magic after all that has happened to you. One of them is Doctor Strange, and not only is he busy with a student of his own, and his own apparently impending death, he has made quite clear who he intends to teach you. Whether you accept her as your mother is your affair, as is whether or not you forgive her for what has gone between you. It is your prerogative and yours alone. However, it is very clear that Wanda Maximoff is going to be your teacher, whether you like it or not."
She levelled a hard look at Hermione, who had flushed, biting back a thousand protests with great difficulty. There was sympathy in her gaze, but no yield, either.
"If you are going to control this power, you are going to need to accept that," she said. "You must be able to accept and control your emotions in her presence above all. If you can do that, Miss Granger, then I think that no one reasonable could claim that you were in anything but complete control of yourself. Can you do that?"
Hermione was silent for a long time, face red, hands clenched into fists, inwardly raging about how unfair this was. Then, she took a deep, cleansing, and somewhat bitter breath. Life was not fair. She'd learned that one a long time ago, and now she was getting a very pointed reminder.
"I think that I'm going to need to talk to her first, Professor," she said steadily. "To lay out some ground rules." She looked up, eyes and clenched fists crackling with power, the room glowing a darker shade of scarlet. "And get some answers."
Yep, teeny-tiny bit ominous. It's putting Hermione in a position she really doesn't want to be in, but it's a tough love approach from McGonagall. Just as Magneto has an entirely valid point about how letting Hermione's chaos magic build up is a terrible idea, so is letting her anger and upset and resentment, as both he and she tacitly acknowledged. Hermione's vented before, but she really needs to cleanse this wound, no matter how painful it might be, or it'll eat her alive. And considering how intertwined emotions and impulses are tied to chaos magic, and how closely tied her chaos magic is to these particular issues, it's especially problematic.
This doesn't mean there's going to be an everybody's-happy-it's-all-solved-after-the-emotional-catharsis thing. There's a lot of issues to unpack there, and as Magneto has previously observed, there's serious generational trauma at work (Wanda arguably needs a therapist even more than Harry does). It's not going to be one and done – what do you think I'm writing, an after school special? (Steve in spangles: "So. You found out that you're adopted."). But yeah, this will fester unless it's dealt with. After? We shall see.