Diagon Alley was much quieter in the morning, the Christmas-covered storefronts mostly locked up. Loki fluidly changed his form, stalking out onto the icy cobbles. He pulled out an empty flask of polyjuice and put it on his belt, a sort of double bluff.
The place he sought stood at the corner of Knockturn and Diagon alleys, pushed between the Daily Prophet and a dingy bookstore. He knocked loudly, and hearing no reply, checked his watch.
It only was half past five. He turned the corner and stood against the grimy wall, resolving to wait. His morning schedule was clear.
The alleys stirred slowly, shaking off slumber in a way that made Loki miss the military promptness of Asgard, whose stores ran sunrise to sunset, without exception. He leaned against the wall watching the alley with his eyes half-open, half-closed, lazily watching the street.
After a while he became aware that he was not alone. A blond man was pacing in front of the tatty bookstore, unloading a cart of yellow paperbacks. He drew out a piece of parchment, wrote something in looping script, frowned, crossed something out and then wrote it again.
When he saw Loki watching he crumpled the parchment and immediately pocketed it, flashing a blinding smile.
"Welcome, welcome- don't be shy! You're an hour early, but you're in luck-" he leaned in conspiratorially. "Never let it be said that Gilderoy Lockhart disappointed a fan!"
"That's a lofty proposition," Loki said dryly, uncrossing his arms and strolling out from the wall.
Gilderoy Lockhart was still smiling enormously, like a child in a candy shop. "So what will it be?" He asked. "Autograph? Photograph? Or is it a signed copy you're after?"
"I'll have them all," Loki said, vaguely amused to see Lockhart dissolve momentarily into paroxysms of delight. He recovered quickly, flashing his cheesy smile.
"Of course, of course." He fumbled with the papers for a moment before working it out so the autograph sat atop the photo, which he leaned against the book, proceeding to sign with an impressive flourish indeed.
"I have to say, I was expecting something of a… different clientele," Lockhart said, winking. "But don't let that dissuade you. I value each and every fan-"
"This?" Loki asked, gesturing in a vague way toward the body he was currently wearing. "It's a loaner, I'm afraid."
Lockhart's eyes widened.
"You don't mean to say you're…"
"I'm…" Loki prompted.
"The fairer sex?"
Loki leaned in, tuning his voice to a feminine lilt. "That's for me to know, isn't it?"
Lockhart remained rooted to the spot, blinking.
"Are you here for me?" he asked, a note of dismay in his voice.
"No," Loki said. "I have no idea who you are, actually."
Lockhart's face fell even further.
"You don't?"
"Afraid not," Loki said, plucking the book from Lockhart's unprotesting grasp. "Just needed a doorstop. You wouldn't happen to know what time they open?"
"Seven," Lockhart said, a bit dazed.
"Excellent," Loki said. He stunned Lockhart and walked over to the storefront, whistling a Christmas tune.
When he returned to his temporary office, Amelia Bones was waiting for him, together with an impatient-looking Lucius Malfoy.
"I hope it's good news," Loki said lightly. He glanced at Lucius, but the man's face was expressionless, which meant he didn't know.
"A little of each," Bones said perfunctorily, stepping inside. "One of my aurors thinks he knows where the stone is."
"And where is that?" Loki said, since Bones had paused expectantly.
"The USSR," she responded.
"And what would it be doing over there?" Lucius drawled.
"Take a look," Bones said, handing them a file.
It took Loki a moment to recognize- it was an auror report.
"We've had people on Flamel since the start of the war," Bones said. "Watching the house. You should have told me it was stolen weeks ago."
Perhaps he would have, if he'd cared a whit for its real location. He didn't bother apologizing, focusing instead on the document before him. It appeared that in June an auror named "Moody" had seen a man and a woman enter the premises who Flamel had, despite his warnings, conversed with. They had left via portkey, and Moody, whose description of the pair was impressively detailed, counted among their possessions five pages of instructions in jumbled Russian characters as well as clothes tags, labels, and a receipt in the same language.
"You're basing this off the word of Mad-Eye Moody?" Lucius sneered. "And I suppose Flamel just sat there and let them take it, rather than calling for help?"
"They could have quieted him," Bones said. "Or he could have been too proud to say anything; Merlin knows he was a strange man."
"And he didn't put up a fight," Lucius said. "Or do anything to alert Mad-Eye to come in? For that matter, why did he not?"
"Flamel forbade him," Bones said. "It's not the most compelling story, but the fact remains, the stone is stolen and they're by far our most likely suspects, unless you're pointing fingers at Dumbledore, or Flamel's favorite nephew Alexander-"
Loki raised an inquiring finger and she cut him off. "-who died months ago of a heart attack." She continued. "I talked to someone in the Department of Mysteries to ask how long Flamel could have not had the stone and still lived, and they thought it would have been at most six months."
"What do you think of this?" Lucius asked, turning toward him, and Loki, who in his mind's eye could still see the list of fighting wizards, for which Russia took the very top spot, said, "I think it's an excellent idea."
"In fact," he added, "we should mount an investigation. Take four, no perhaps five, including yourself, of the most elite wizards, and see what there is to see."
"Tread quietly," Bones cautioned. "Our intelligence in that place is almost nonexistent, ever since they withdrew from the ICW."
"Then it is long overdue," Loki said. "Who knows but we may need that information one day?"
"And is Dumbledore so above suspicion?" Lucius asked. "As I recall, he and Flamel were quite close, and he was the one who 'ended' the war with France."
"Yes well, that is the other thing I wanted to say," Bones said. "I wouldn't start counting them out. Even with the stone out of the picture, the war-hawks are calling for lost territories, magical items appropriated over the years- they have it so Salazar Slytherin was French, believe it or not, and they want his locket back-"
"Really?" Loki said.
"And some of them are refusing to listen about the stone at all," Bones added, and Loki's mouth curved into a smile.
He left the meeting in a very good mood that day.
Loki walked up to his old office on the first sublevel, passing by his guards unseen. He stood across from the door, examining the wards there. His tracking charm on Dumbledore was faint- something the old man did tended to burn them away faster than usual. Still, it was enough to see that he had traveled clear of the Ministry, probably all the way back to the castle.
He walked up to the wards and laced his fingers, stretching lazily. The protections blazed golden- two layers of wards; Dumbledore's and his. His was a weave, threads upon thread elegantly laid. Beneath it, Dumbledore's ward shone like a diamond cut into facets, pressing neatly against the weave, leaving no gaps. It wasn't powerful; not like Loki's protections or the wards of Hogwarts— Loki could destroy it with ease. But that would alert the caster.
The usual methods of ward-disassembling- attempting to break through chinks and crevices- wouldn't work on something like this- not without shattering the structure completely.
At least, in theory.
Loki reached out, drawing on his magic, and pulled, dragging the threads closer together. The magic in the ward beneath it, designed to be so bounded, condensed until it was the size of a child's toy ball.
"And that's why you always leave a back door," he murmured, twisting the handle with a satisfying click.
He stepped lightly over the piles, bending to the floor. He read quickly, pacing back and forth in the small clearing, eyes widening as he took in the words. He read it again, more slowly. He snapped and a green fire came to his fingers, its flickering tongues coming perilously close to the parchment.
Then, abruptly, he put the notes back down.
He smiled.
Dumbledore did not appear the next day, or the following, but by Monday he was back. Loki dissolved his ward, restored to full size, and let him in with a grand gesture.
Dumbledore stepped inside, scrutinizing him.
"I wanted to offer my apologies for the events of the other day," he said thoughtfully. "I trust that there were no hard feelings?"
"No hard feelings," Loki said, briskly arranging the notes and glancing out the windows. The sun had set.
Dumbledore's gaze stayed, focused on Loki's face.
"Know, Loki, that if something is bothering you, or if you need help, or advice, my door is open."
"Noted," Loki said, with a touch of asperity.
Dumbledore took his seat at the table. Loki had moved the chairs around, so they were at an angle from each other; neither opposing nor side by side.
"How's Harry?" he asked.
"He does well," Loki said, taking his seat back-to-front, so he looked over the chairback at Dumbledore. "He's learning to speak."
"A worthy endeavor," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.
"Yes," Loki said. "He's quiet, but quite precocious when he does speak up, or so I've been told."
"Yes," Dumbledore said, his eyes alighting on some recollection. "Yes, he would resemble his parents in that respect."
"Perhaps," Loki said, swallowing.
"Ah, but we are getting off track," Dumbledore said. "If there is to be any hope of locating the stone. Have you had any progress on the Ministry front?"
"None at all," Loki lied. "Perhaps if we focused instead on the more recent pages, we would discover what Nicholas knew of the theft."
"Ah yes," Dumbledore said with a rueful smile. "How easy it is to get caught up in the details of the philosopher's magnum opus; to lose the forest in the leaves."
Loki spread his arms wide.
"Your choice."
Dumbledore selected the previous year's January, and they fell back into their old rhythm, perhaps with fewer diversions. Loki, anxious to push ahead, let scholarly analysis fall to the wayside.
The new notes began in December. Dumbledore picked up the leaf, frowning.
"They're not Flamel's," Loki said. Or at least, not Nicholas Flamel's. They were in a different hand, thicker and more scrabbled, missing loops in the p's.
"Not originally, or indeed, anymore," said Dumbledore. "But I think we can assume they passed into his possession."
He indicated a thin scrawl in the margin, annotating the date.
"Shall we?"
Loki picked up the first page and began to read aloud.
Fourth day using the Listening Machine. It really is an amazing device— perhaps one day we will not need seers at all; just have researchers scanning the dimensions for echoes. Today I've adjusted the frequency, throwing my net further out. There's something interesting, at the range of 7dd to 9dd— almost the outer range. Through the translator potion, I can make out strange words— words like Bifrost, Odin, Thor.
In another hand— Nicholas Flamel's hand— was the word "gods." Loki stilled his hands, trembling with excitement, fear. One way or another, this was it. End of the charade.
It is not unusual to encounter a different language, especially this far out, but this is something new— something amazing. I checked the library— these very words appear in no fewer than three books of legends— Norse myths, mostly. There is some evidence ancient seers used certain drugs to enhance their range— perhaps that is the origin of those stories. Or perhaps it is something stranger; perhaps they were here and are now gone. The worlds with the myths show no sign of wizards. This is somewhat worrying. This language has many words for war, armor, and battles. A sophisticated race, but a violent one.
More notes from Flamel— stories, references.
One of the books I found has, I believe, a scrap of their language, at least according to the translator spells. I have copied it below and believe it to be directions relating to a Berserker staff, which is fabled to empower the warrior— and fill him with rage. What use would they have for such a weapon?
Loki scanned the floor, looking for the next few pages, picking them up. The notes continued in the same format, all on the topic of his 'Listening Machine.' Flamel seemed to have picked up all sorts of useful information, some relating to the war against Voldemort. Then, the tone of the writing changed, the hand shaky:
Something is different. The range of the machine has dropped— some of the further settings are no longer relaying. I mentioned the echo effect— the Machine relies on the Listening of the machines in the dimensions beside it, and so on, until the dimension where I do not exist to calibrate it.
Then, further down.
The range has dropped again. Getting closer. Disquieting.
He kept reading, conscious of Dumbledore's watchful gaze across the table.
I am resolved. I can't sit here and wait for the fate that befell the other Alexanders. Uncle has lent me his stone— perhaps it is foolish, but if anything can halt the advance of reality, it is that. I am working on a plan.
There were diagrams after that, schematics, dealing with the 'current,' trying to calculate an exact jump. It was magnificently complicated, even by Asgardian standards. Even Nicholas Flamel was bemused- above one diagram there stood just a thin question mark.
Dumbledore exhaled softly.
At the very bottom of the page, in thin writing: Alexander, what did you do?
Loki turned away, his hands shaking. "I feared something like this would happen."
Dumbledore looked up, the wonder still retreating from his twinkling blue eyes.
"Asgard," Loki said, his hardening his voice. He gripped the notes tightly in his left hand, grasping the table in the right. "It all comes back to them."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Dumbledore said.
Loki sighed.
"You'd have no cause believe it, anyways," he said. "It's hardly credible."
Dumbledore's gaze, fixed on his face, didn't waver, though he made no assurances. Loki continued, supposing this to be the best he would get from the man.
"You know of other races. Dragons," he said, strolling through the clearing of notes. "Mermen." He toyed with the impression of the room, a subtle blurring at the corners. "Goblins." The debris faded into distraction until there seemed just two figures, one pacing anxiously, the other sitting still, eyes measuring, resting long fingers against his silver beard.
"What if I told you that that's not the extent of it?"
He handed Dumbledore the notes, and the old man accepted them, as Loki spoke.
"What if I were to tell you," he said, speaking softly, "That there are others out there; beings of immense power and violence. Mighty. Long-lived." The room dimmed further, shadows lengthening around them. "They'd have a kind of magic, like wizards, and yet unlike. For… they are not creatures of peace." He looked down, the rough wood of the table flickering in the poor light. "Quite the opposite, in fact." In his mind he saw glinting metal and stilled laughter, Thor's face and dark ice, that night in the golden hall. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Monsters."
Dumbledore frowned, looking thoughtful.
"I would tell you of Asgard," Loki said, looking out towards the window. "How they destroyed the dark elves; massacred the Valkyrie; coveted the nine realms and all the lands beyond; oppressed the- the Jotun race." He shivered. Almost slipped up there. "Legends speak of their pride, their violence, their lust for power." He let hints of memories flash against the darkness of the study; soldiers, marching to war; a shining warrior slaying the linnorm, droplets of blood raining down upon him; the bodies on the ground after the battles on Svartalfheim, on earth. "All that they see, they desire, and everything they can reach, they conquer."
He sat down hard, running his fingers through his hair.
"I did not think that they could reach us here."
The images faded out.
"How do you know about this?" Dumbledore asked slowly, letting the notes slide from his grasp. He was sitting at the table, hand still extended. By the pale light of the false window in the nighttime, his face looked grave and more lined than ever.
Loki looked up at him, then back down, a blur of notes above the fine-grained wood. For a wild moment, he imagined letting the tower of lies continue to cascade around him down to the last card, to lay himself bare to Dumbledore, mercy on the evil and savior of the lost. But of course, not to him. Such things did not extend to him.
"How do I know?" he said instead, dully. "Have you not put it together, Albus Dumbledore?" He gathered his magic back, hanging his head and letting his voice crack with a projected shame. "I am one."
He heard Dumbledore exhale, a tiny sigh of understanding, and for a fleeting moment the trickster in Loki marvelled at the scope of his deceit and saw complete satisfaction.
Of course, he thought, watching Dumbledore's face sidelong through dark strands of hair, I'm an entirely different kind of monster, in the end.
Dumbledore was quiet, staring out the window as if trying to piece a puzzle together in his mind, as if a whole galaxy was unfurled before him, as if he could make sense of it if only he had the skill.
Loki twisted a strand of magic in his fingers, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore.
You will be my partner to conquer every piece of this gods-forsaken realm, he thought to himself. And then, I will destroy you.
Frank Longbottom checked his watch. Half-past one. He and the team- Lucius Malfoy, Emmeline Vance, Octavio Zabini and Abigail Greengrass- were gathered in a conference room inside the training hall, getting ready to go.
They were good men and women- well, except perhaps Malfoy, but Frank respected him and the spywork he had done to help in the war. Loki's aide was a good fighter, though he usually took a more bureaucratic role these days. He watched the man, who was sitting in a way that put Frank in the mind of a coiled viper, drumming his fingers on his silver walking stick. It still felt strange, sometimes, that they were all on the same side.
Vance was sitting behind the table, reading over their instructions for what he knew was not the first or second time. Her, he knew well- they'd fought together in the Order, and she had a keen mind for ciphers and hidden clues. He had chosen her for that, and because with Alice laid up, he could think of no one he'd want better to have at his back.
Zabini was laughing gently, playing with a small brown animal with a long snout and somewhat canine-looking ears. He had affixed a galleon to a string and was letting his pet bat at it. Zabini was not much of a fighter, but this specialty alone had been enough to recommend him for this mission. Knifflers- the niffler-canine hybrid most-skilled in tracking wizards, were incredibly rare, and to know a good handler was even rarer. The kniffler caught the coin and Zabini patted it on the head, speaking praises in Italian.
Frank smiled, resting an elbow on the table. Alice would be jealous about seeing the kniffler. She loved animals, of all sorts.
"What do you think?" A rough voice said from the corner, breaking into his thoughts. "We good enough for you, Commander?"
He glanced back to the edge of the table, where Greengrass was packing and repacking her purse. She was an older woman with close-cropped gray hair. Like Zabini, she wasn't much of a fighter, though she'd improved a lot since she'd joined up four months previously. In the age box on her recruitment form, she'd simply written older than I look. Longbottom didn't doubt that; she was a metamorphmagus.
He turned back to her, considering the question.
"You're the best we have," he said firmly, invoking all his conviction. "All of you. And I couldn't think of anyone better for the task." He glanced at Malfoy. On second thought, perhaps he should have deferred to the man, who was technically his superior, but the Lord Undersecretary gave a lazy wave, apparently uninsulted.
"Did everyone remember their potions?" he asked, as the door opened. He was, as far as he could tell, the only one in their party who actually spoke Russian, but that shouldn't matter so long as everyone took their linguistic potions every 24 hours.
A murmur of assent ran across the room, along with a "yes, sir!" from Greengrass.
"Excellent," came a murmur from the door, and Frank jumped up, saluting as the minister entered. The other four followed suit, except for Malfoy, who merely bowed.
Loki's eyes swept over the room assessing, and Frank felt a momentary panic; had he neglected anything?
But after a moment, the minister nodded affirmation and they sat, Zabini scooping the kniffler back into its dog-carrier.
"You're undertaking a dangerous journey," the minister said gravely. "I will not deny that our information in that area is scant, and what intelligence we do have is untrustworthy and strange. Believe me when I say that I would not risk sending you did I not believe the importance of the mission more than commensurate." His gaze fell upon each of them in turn and Frank met his eyes bravely, remembering his words the day of his victory- Forge a legacy of life- Minister Loki had said, and Frank would gladly plunge into danger to be part of building that future.
"You will be going into the depths of Russia, and even I know not what you may encounter in pursuit of the stone," the minister continued. "Know that even if you do not find the object of your quest, it is your knowledge, your intelligence, and your attention to detail that will make this mission succeed or fail. Watch everything, forget nothing."
He clasped Frank's hand, then the rest of them in turn. When he got to Malfoy, he said simply, "Good luck."
Frank swallowed. It was time to go.
Suddenly he had the urge to run back, say goodbye to Alice and the children. Instead he pulled a creased and faded photograph out of his pocket at the picture of his son, floppy hair falling in all directions, cheeks slightly red from the allergies, eyes crinkled as he smiled with his whole face.
He folded the photograph up, and stepped over to Loki.
"I think," he said, his voice unwavering, even as his sense of foreboding increased, "you had better take this for now, Minister. And tell my family, if I don't come back…"
For a moment, his hand remained there, outstretched, as Loki stood, stock-still, before him. Then, he nodded, taking the photo in his fingertips as if afraid it would burn in his grasp.
"Thank you, Minister," Frank said, and it was this last gesture that gave him the courage to turn, once more to his team.
"If that's all," he said, his throat strangely dry, "Let's head out."
A/N: Lookit, an update in time for once! And now we're on three Thors! Wasn't the movie great? Not much'll be changing in this fic, since it's AU and before the first movie, but I'll definitely use what we've learned about Asgard to inform my story. Except the tiny population-size. I'mma put that down to casting constraints and in-movie massacres. No way someplace with such long lifespans has so few people, unless they're legitimately fighting for survival.
Special thanks to Prevaricator's Penchant, who kindly spent some of her Thanksgiving debugging this chapter. Let me know your thoughts! It only takes a review to brighten my day... :)