Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Marvel (I wish I did.) I do, however, own the plot and any OCs I may introduce.
Rewrite now in progress: Comments made in reviews have drawn my attention to the poor quality of my early chapters. Therefore, before posting any of the new chapters I have been writing, I have gone back and redone the first three (now two, by the way) chapters. Hopefully this addresses the concerns that were raised.
Loki was bored. Asgard was a place of tradition, honour and etiquette, and it was stifling. His pranks, while amusing, were not long-term distractions. His studies in magic were always progressing, but they were too much work to qualify as fun. Lately, he had taken to watching Midgard, extracting his entertainment from the silly little lives of the mortals.
That particular day, he'd stumbled across some odd magical protections in Britain. There was a magical community there, it appeared, and despite the crudity of their defences, he was impressed that humans could wield magic at all. Perhaps he'd underestimated them.
To his consternation, Loki observed a frantic woman trying to quiet a screaming baby. She held some sort of carved stick – a wand? – in her hand, and when the door opened behind her, she immediately started to wave it around, yelling strange words that, in combination with the gestures, sent pulses of coloured light flying at the intruder. Definitely a wand, then, but not one wielded well, since the man – sickly-pale, red-eyed and hairless – deflected them with little more than contemptuous twitches of his own magical focus. He smirked, thin-lipped, as he raised his wand and a nauseating aura of darkness flowed from him. "Stand aside, foolish woman."
"No! Not my Harry! Not my son! Take me, but not –"
A flash of green, and she fell dead to the ground. Stepping up to the cot, the man seemed to take a moment to savour the anticipation. Resting his wand lightly against the child's forehead, as the boy stared up at him with eyes as green as the curse that would momentarily take his life, the man whispered two words.
Loki was furious. To kill a child was the lowest of crimes. Calling on his powers, he intervened, and the dark spell rebounded from the god's shield, shattering the vile man into almost nothing. A little of the spell got through, forcing its way through a rune that Loki had rushed in his haste to save the child, burning a rune – sowilo, the sun – into the boy's forehead even as the disembodied, splintered soul of the dark lord flailed for purchase, a small fragment latching onto the scar, still sizzling with energy from the spell. Loki was too angry to notice.
As he paced his bedchamber, and a giant of a man came to take the boy away, he considered what to do. The child could not be left an orphan, that was certain, but how could he prevent it? The boy had magic, he knew. He had felt it. And he had a certain kinship with the boy – both had lost their parents young.
Returning his attention to Midgard, he found that the child had been moved, and was now being placed on a doorstep by an old man in the most ridiculous robes he'd ever seen. Next to him, a stern-looking woman was sounding quite upset. "Albus, you cannot leave him with them! They are the worst kind of Muggles!"
"Ah, but Minerva, he cannot grow up in our world. It would go to his head – imagine it! Famous before he could walk or talk, famous for something he couldn't even remember. No, far better he grow up here, a normal, happy child, away from both those who would idolise him and those who would wish him harm."
The woman sighed, but didn't press. Loki frowned. To leave a magical child with ordinary folk, for years on end, unaware of his gift? No, that would not do.
Stepping through the dark places, those crannies of the multiverse beyond even Heimdall's sight, he emerged onto the doorstep and scooped the boy up into his arms. They were uncannily similar – both had black hair, green eyes and pale skin. The boy looked up, seeing something of himself in Loki, and gurgled happily. The God of Fire, Mischief and Trickery smiled.
#~Eleven Years Later~#
Harald Lokison, known to those close to him as Harry, stared at the red-and-gold phoenix sitting on his windowsill. An envelope was attached to its leg, and it was looking at him expectantly. Untying the letter, he read the address: Harry Potter, 2nd bedroom, Loki's Suite, The Palace, Asgard.
He frowned. His father had explained a few years ago that his birth name was Potter, that he had been adopted from Midgard after someone called Voldemort – a budding Dark Lord – had murdered his parents, and that he was somehow famous for defeating him. However, he had never felt a connection to the name Potter. He considered himself his father's son, and as such had kept his name despite his father offering to change it.
What annoyed him was that they seemed to have no manners. As a formal letter, it should have been addressed to Harald, not Harry – a familiar term was not for use on official correspondence. Sighing, he called for his father, who promptly stuck his head around the door. "What is it, Harry?"
"Father, this phoenix just turned up with a letter addressed to me, except they got my name wrong."
Frowning, Loki took the letter, hit it with several high-powered detection charms, and then opened it. As he read, his frown deepened. "Harry, you're going to have to stay with your Uncle Thor for a few days. There's something I have to look into."
Harry groaned. "But he can't teach me magic! You said you'd show me pyrokinesis this week!"
Despite his protest, Harry didn't really mind. He'd been learning magic for the past several years – his father had procured some Midgardian books, since that was his native ability, although the use of wands confused him. He wasn't sure if he should get one for his son, but since he seemed to be managing fine without, he dismissed it. Harry had found his favourite subjects to be the Mind Arts and combat magic. He was gifted in both – his already formidable intellect was only enhanced by his construction of a mindscape – a replica of the Palace, riddled with traps, wards and creatures, as well as false walls, secret passages, dead ends and all manner of mazelike passageways. His proudest achievement was a version of the Palace Shield, created with a myriad of runes, spells and simply sheer willpower all strung together. He'd had his father test it, and not even his strongest attack could penetrate. However, it was designed to repel brute force, and would be vulnerable to subtlety, hence the other defences. In terms of combat magic, he was up to what the mortals called "NEWT level" (honestly) despite only having been allowed to study it for a couple of years.
He'd also been, for the past few years, learning Asgardian magic. It was a rawer power, drawing straight from the roots of the Nine Realms, and lacked the subtlety and versatility of the Midgardian powers. Despite this, it was far stronger, and what it could do, it did far better than human magic ever could. Provided, that was, you could control the power and not be consumed by it, something that took both mental fortitude and personal power. Harry had got quite good at it, but still wasn't allowed to do anything more than low-level spells.
Staying with Uncle Thor was just as fun as magic, if in a different way. He was loud and always happy, not to mention a lot of fun to be around. He gave Harry regular lessons in unarmed and, recently, armed combat, but whenever Loki was away these sessions became practically nonstop. The Blonde Bear, as Harry affectionately called him, loved showing off to his brother what he'd taught his nephew during his time away. Despite his human origin, Harry was as strong and tough as any Asgardian would have been at his age, having picked up their physical attributes through what was, as near as Loki could tell, some sort of magical osmosis. Given that this came largely from Thor, he was already stronger than children twice or thrice his age – adulthood coming at a century old in Asgard – and could even overpower some of the weaker adults. This strength, when combined with his small size and agility, gave him a surprising advantage in combat. When he combined it with his slowly-improving efforts to see like Heimdall, he was near-impossible to hit, given that he missed nothing that happened within a few meters of him, and sometimes further.
Albus Dumbledore was relieved beyond measure. The Potter boy's letter had gone out, despite his having to get Fawkes to take it to… wherever this 'Asgard' place was. He'd never heard of it. Perhaps something those filthy… ahem… astoundingly industrious Muggles had built recently? Despite the conundrum of a Hogwarts owl not being able to find a student (something unheard of), his elation could not be greater. Since he hadn't heard of it, he knew it must be Muggle, and that meant that once he, Albus Dumbledore, showed him the wonders of the magical world, and all that his fame entailed, he'd be amenable to a little… influence. And he could build from there.
He had, he would admit, though everything lost eleven years ago when the boy vanished along with the Dark Lord, but now things were back on track. He would have to tread carefully, as the abuse of the Dursleys had never come to pass – a setback, but he'd just have to be a little gentler at first, and take more time to ingrain the obedience needed to get the boy to follow him like the rest of the sheep – er – wonderful members of the magical community.
Then he could tell the boy the prophecy and send him off to fight Voldemort, before stepping in to avenge the tragic martyr and once again be hailed as the defeater of a Dark Lord. The star of Albus Dumbledore would rise ever higher. Sitting back in his throne – ahem – chair, he closed his eyes and tapped into the wards for his daily information dump. The original protections had been all but completely removed, with only a scant few remaining, the vaunted protections replaced by an information-gathering network the like of which had never been seen. Every movement, every conversation, and every illicit rendezvous in the castle were under his eye, and often provided opportunities both to help people (in exchange for favour s of his own, of course) or to blackmail them. In addition, he'd tied similar wards into other important buildings – the Ministry, for example – under the guise of using his formidable knowledge to better protect the seat of magic in Britain. Nothing went on in politics that Albus Dumbledore did not know, and knowledge was power.
Although, his age was catching up to him… perhaps Tom had been on the right track with those Horcruxes…
#~Two Days Later~#
Loki, having scouted around Magical Britain and found that the phoenix belonged to Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of this 'Hogwarts' school, and had the ability to travel anywhere, decided that, since his son was registered as a student anyway, the firebird's appearance wasn't too incongruous.
However, his son's fame would undoubtedly see a repeat visit, quite possibly with the owner of the phoenix, asking why the 'Boy-Who-Lived' wouldn't be attending Hogwarts. Loki and Harry both broke down into laughter when they found out about that title. When they managed to get their hands on the dramatisations of his life, it took them more than half an hour to calm down.
Putting all mirth aside, they decided it would be best for him to act the part required of him, at least for now. After all, Loki had quite clearly seen the man's soul escaping, and someone evil enough to go on mass killing sprees had to be stopped. Harry would provide someone for the sheep to look up to, and with any luck, he'd be able to cajole them into acting for themselves. That, and they didn't want his Asgardian heritage uncovered by a phoenix-powered visit.
With that decision, it was time to go shopping.
'Diagon Alley – diagonally. Knockturn Alley – nocturnally. Are these people for real?!'
Harry shook his head in disbelief as he followed his father down the street. The pair were turning more than a few heads, dressed as they were in their finest Asgardian robes – tailoring of a quality not seen on Midgard. Loki's black hair hung loose, but Harry's was kept back in a long ponytail by a bejewelled serpent in emerald with a diamond eye.
The equipment list was produced, and sneered at when Loki got to "plain work robes (black)". As if his son would wear anything not of the finest quality. He would ensure that he sent Harry to Hogwarts with only the best Asgardian tailoring. Most of the rest of the list was acceptable, though the books were far below the level Harry was working at. When he reached the part about familiars, he sneered again. As if they had any right to tell his son to leave Silessa behind.
He'd found the young serpent injured and dying in the forest, and, true to his style, had carefully and methodically healed her before bringing her back home to recover. When she had regained her strength, she chose to stay, and in short order a familiar bond formed between the raven-haired Asgardian and the silver-scaled snake. Since then, she'd grown significantly, fed on Harry's magic, and was now long enough to wrap around his middle all the way from belly to right under his arms and still poke her head out the neck of his robes. Loki vowed that she would be accompanying Harry to Hogwarts even if he had to resort to mind control.
A third sneer was summarily directed at the part about broomsticks – he'd taught his son to fly unaided several years ago. Midgardian magic was so crude sometimes. Shaking his head, he directed their path to collect the needed supplies. They had decided that they would buy a wand, if only to throw people off the track of his real skills. A holly and phoenix-feather wand decided it liked him, and apparently was brother to Voldemort's. Loki rolled his eyes, and decided that if he ever met Fate, he'd give him an earful.
For their final equipment stop, the pair swept into the Potioneer's Paradise, Diagon's premier potions shop, and proceeded to make not the recommended purchases, but a full set of equipment and ingredients of the highest quality. Loki carelessly tossed a bag of gold onto the counter as they left. After all, Asgard had more than an abundance of the stuff, and it wasn't hard to copy the minting of the wizard coins. The thought of coins brought him onto his next errand of the day – his son's bank account.
Entering the bank, he smirked at the verse on the inner doors – as if a dragon could scare him or his son after meeting Fenrir or Jörmungandr. A house-sized wolf and a serpent so long you couldn't see the end were significantly more frightening than an overgrown iguana with halitosis issues. A conversation with a goblin teller soon resulted in a visit to Vault 687, revealing a huge pile of coins. The goblin further explained that this was simply Harry's trust vault, and the real Potter Vault (62) would become available to him upon reaching his majority. With their business concluded, it was time to return to Asgard and prepare.
'Platform 9 ¾. Once again… are these people for real?'
He'd heard about it from the background information his father had acquired, but that didn't make it seem any less stupid when he was staring it in the face. Looking around at the distasteful swarm on the platform, he bid his father farewell and threaded his way through the crowd onto the train. He saw a red-headed boy looking around nervously, and remembered what he'd overheard earlier.
"Now, Ron, remember what the Headmaster said. You should find Harry Potter and befriend him, make sure he goes into Gryffindor and stays away from those nasty Slytherins. It's important that he be kept on the right path. He'll have the scar, obviously, and black hair, and green eyes. Make sure you find him quickly, you'll need as much time as possible to get the right ideas into his head!"
Scowling, he silently vowed that he would die before allowing himself to be manipulated so. Apparently, the Headmaster – the same Albus as had tried to leave him with non-magicals eleven years ago, apparently – was already starting to meddle in his affairs. He'd have to be on his guard.
Finding a compartment, he settled in, only for the red-haired boy to come in with the feeble excuse of 'all the other compartments are full' – which they obviously weren't, since so many people were still on the platform. Harry suppressed a sigh and motioned to the opposite seat. He could at least use this opportunity to discourage any further pursuit. The boy – Ron – sat down and stared at him avidly. After a few moments, he seemed to pluck up his courage, and opened his mouth to speak. "Are… are you really Harry Potter? Do you have… you know… the scar?"
Icy-cold, Killing-Curse green eyes snapped up, and Ron flinched involuntarily. The arctic tone of the reply made him shiver. "You mean the brand given me by the man who murdered my parents and made me an orphan? The scar, that perhaps, if you engaged your brain, you might find I don't particularly care to think about? Yes, I do, and frankly it's none of your business. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll go and find some intelligent conversation instead of being gawped at."
Standing, he swept out of the compartment only to find three more boys watching him, jaws practically on the floor. The one in the middle was pale, with white-blond hair and delicate features, flanked by two hulking individuals who looked to have troll blood in them. The pale boy shook himself, closed his mouth, and offered his hand. "Good afternoon, Potter. I'm Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. Glad to see you know who's not worth associating with… perhaps you'd care to come back to our compartment?"
Harry smiled thinly and shook the hand. Here was what he'd been looking for – the children of the elite, and his way to move from simple fame to true influence. "Thank you for the invitation, Malfoy. Please, lead the way."
On entering the compartment, he received frowns, then a few seconds later, when eyes flicked to his forehead, raised eyebrows. The shock was still there, but at least they could hide it well enough. He took a seat by the window and examined his cabin-mates. One of them, a girl who looked as if she had a pug in her near ancestry, sneered at him. "Draco, why is he here? He might be the Boy-Who-Lived, but he's also a Potter. He'll obviously go in Gryffi-"
Harry cut across her. "I highly doubt I'll be a Gryffindor. I do not simply rush blindly into situations, unlike that idiot Weasley who sat there gawping at me. I prefer to think first, something you should do before opening your mouth and insulting the most powerful wizard in this compartment. Speaking of which, it's a little cramped in here…"
Drawing his wand, he vanished the wall between them and the empty compartment next door, before a second flick shifted the benches to run around all four walls of the newly enlarged space. A third flick locked the doors with a squelching sound – a simple locking charm he'd come across in one of this year's books. Impressive, to cast it so early, but didn't give away too much. Satisfied, he turned his gaze back to the other first-years, who were now openly gaping at him. He sneered slightly. "Dear me, didn't I just tell Weasley off for gaping? Surely you should have a little more dignity?"
It amused him to no end how jaws immediately snapped shut, eyes were downcast and robes were straightened in a sea of embarrassed shuffling. They might be the scions of nobility, but they still had a long way to go.
He hoped they would be worth the effort.