As with the Death Eater Edition of The Dead Plunnie Files, the purpose of this collection is as a storehouse of my unfinished Crossover fics. Unlike the DE Edition, however, the fics stored here are more likely to be revived and completed at some future date. It's simply that it is going to be much longer that I'd initially thought before I have updates for any of these, and some of these plunnie may, in fact, die out on me as they wait for said updates, as we can consider these stories' plots 'slumbering' right now. I wanted to keep them in a place where readers can still view them, without giving false hope about whether or not they may be completed. Consider all fics contained here in as abandoned, this way, if I do continue them in the future, you're pleasantly surprised, not disappointed in the case that the fic you're hoping for stays right here.
BLOOD OF DRAGONS
Summary: Parallel realities lead to interesting cases of mistaken identity. Crossing universes to obtain dragon's blood, Loki finds himself in the middle of a most unique situation after chasing a man who looks like his brother, Thor, while being chased by a witch who mistakes Loki for an old friend returned from the dead.
FANCAST NOTE: This story's premise is heavily reliant on my use of Chris Hemsworth as my Thorfinn Rowle fancast, and Tom Hiddleston as my Remus Lupin fancast in any of my other fics which contain Remus.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or Marvel Cinematic Universe, or any affiliated characters & make no profit from this story.
Stuff of Legend
Stepping from the portal, Loki found himself standing on a cobblestone side street. He could hear the hustle and bustle of Midgardians not far from him . . . . Well, Midgardians of this version of reality, anyway, but, to be fair, he was rather certain Midgardians in any reality all sounded quite alike.
Glancing about the shops between which he stood, he puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled and shook his head. Not that he wasn't glad to be out of his own reality, he simply hadn't entirely plotted out how he was going to go about finding the dragons he'd come for—he didn't imagine people of this realm kept them on leashes in a courtyard.
He needed to remember, he considered with a nod, this was a world where he could roam freely; the version of Asgard, and Midgard, where he was a wanted criminal were far behind him. Edging toward the end of the alleyway, he peered out into the street. He would need to take note of how these Midgardians dressed, were he to not draw attention to himself, however.
Standing out because, well, to be perfectly frank, Loki was completely aware of what he looked like, was one thing. Drawing attention to himself because he was oddly attired when his intent here was to find this world's dragons to steal some of their blood, was probably an unwise notion, at best.
He understood some of the Midgardians here wielded magic, and though he was hardly defenseless, himself, he knew it was best to simply secure what he'd come for and return to his Asgard. The dragon blood, once he consumed it, would grant him the power to do the rest. The rest being whatever he desired, of course.
Yet, as he observed the people in the main street, with its strange little shops, their windows slanted, or full of items he could never have imagined in Midgard, he realized . . . . He would not draw attention to himself in his typical attire, at all. The robes worn by the people going about their simple, humble Midgardian shopping ranged from completely odd, to leather, to fine silk and velvet, to woefully mundane.
Indeed, there were a few clad in what he'd come to consider common Midgardian attire, and even they did not draw undue attention from passersby. He stepped out into the main street, inhaling deep and letting the breath out slow. Perhaps it would be nice to simply stroll about, in the open, not needing to quietly expend small surges of power to keep himself under an illusion of looking like everyone else.
But, where to start in his search for this world's dragons?
With another deep breath, Loki pursed his lips in thought as he looked about. His gaze trailed over the different shopfront signs around him. Ice cream shop? What in ten hells was ice cream? A tailor, a shop for acquiring animals? This place was odd. A wand shop? Wands in a world of magic and dragons.
A smile curved his lips. Oh, yes. This world was the stuff of legend, after all.
Then he noticed it. Simple, unassuming . . . . But certainly the place where one could acquire knowledge without making a spectacle of themselves.
Yet, as he took a step in said shop's direction, he noticed a hulking blond figure disappear down a darkened alleyway. Wide-eyed, Loki had to will himself not to shrink back against the nearest wall at the sight.
Certainly the hair was shorter, the gold locks only long enough to curl at the base of the other man's neck, and he'd shaved his beard, but Loki knew that face too well. He knew that stature and movement nearly as well as his own.
Was this a sad attempt to blend in, so his own brother would not notice he was being followed?
Setting his jaw, Loki started after the other man. He'd seen Thor, but Thor had not yet seen him—probably explained why the other Asgardian was skulking about in such a fashion and trying so very obviously not to be noticed. Probably trying to avoid making an undue nuisance of himself as he searched for Loki.
After all, it was hardly as though Thor was known for drawing attention to himself in everything he did. Holding in a chuckle, Loki shook his head as he walked.
He had no idea how Thor had discovered his plan, or managed to follow him here, but he was going to use the element of surprise to his advantage.
God, there was nothing Thorfinn hated more than hiding. Well, almost nothing. He hated being idle and useless more, but following the War, there was little else for him to do, unless he wanted to be pinched by an Auror and sent to Azkaban. Word was the newly-re-staffed Ministry had somehow managed to make the place even more dank and depressing to accommodate for the outlawing of Dementors.
Thorfinn was hardly of a mind to learn the truth of that rumor for himself, so he stayed hidden. Luckily, Thorfinn Rowle was well-remembered to be long-haired and bearded, as depicted by his wanted posters, so no one paid much attention to the tall, blond, comparatively short-haired wizard with a clean shave. Ridiculous form of disguise, but, when he had his head down, kept to himself, and acted as one with every right to be wherever he was, it worked as well as polyjuice potion.
He'd thought no one even remembered what he actually looked like beneath all that hair.
Until just now . . . . Until he slipped down into the now-abandoned Knockturn Alley. For the last few months since the War's end, he'd been holed up rather inconspicuously in the flat above Borgin and Burkes. No one but he had set foot here after the Dark Lord's defeat, for simple fear they'd be seen as one of Voldemort's supporters. He slipped out, did his shopping, and slipped back, none the wiser.
But at this moment, as he carried some bare necessities from the heart of Diagon Alley to his inconspicuous living space, he heard it. The light, measured footfalls of someone following him.
Someone had recognized him.
Scowling hard, Thorfinn took an unnecessary turn, then, ducking into the nearest open doorway.
Hermione stepped from Flourish and Blotts, a bit disappointed. As seemed to happen more often than not as of late, she was leaving the bookshop empty-handed. Odd. Something had told her to come here, today. She'd been hoping that they had some new volume of information on, well, anything, really, waiting.
Yet, the proprietor's list of recently acquired stock proved to hold nothing which Hermione'd not already read, or only had books which repeated things she already knew.
As the Ministry re-staffed, and acclimated itself to the new order of a Wizarding world still trembling in the aftermath of Voldemort—and his unsavory plans—nearly succeeding in his bid to rule, Hermione, and War Heroes like her, waited. She tried to return to Hogwarts to finish out her education, properly, but the lessons were unfulfilling. There was nothing the school had left to teach her after all she'd been through.
And so, she waited as the Ministry properly instituted a position that would allow her to utilize her vast and varied knowledges, and her formidable magical skill, equally.
With a sigh, she glanced back at the shop door. What a waste of time, and Hermione hated to think along those lines, because time around books should never be considered a waste.
But still, her intuition rarely steered her wrong, and something had given her the irresistible urge to come here today.
Then, she saw him. Standing there, plain as day near a side-street between two of the smaller shops. His hair was far darker, and rather long, as though he was trying to mask himself, and failing, but she recognized that face, all the same.
He looked toward the bookshop, and smiled. Though, he didn't seem to notice her standing there.
"Remus?" she whispered, unaware the name had even left her lips.
But, as he moved in her direction, something else caught his attention. She could see the fear in those familiar green eyes from where she stood.
Hermione could only watch as he gave himself a determined shake and then started off, again. Only this time, he disappeared into one of the turns that branched into Knockturn Alley.
Something was deeply wrong, she thought. There was no way for Remus to be here, hiding, or otherwise . . . . But there was no unseeing that face. And he was headed into that horrible, twisted street?
This was why she had known to come here, today. She was positive of it.
Nearly before she realized she was moving, Hermione took off after him.
Loki frowned, slowing his steps. He was positive he'd seen Thor come this way! Baring his teeth in a menacing expression, he took a turn that branched right. He made visual note of his surroundings, in case he needed to double back.
He ignored the sound of footfalls behind him, as they were far too light to be Thor's.
Thorfinn drew his wand while he waited. He would need to find a place to hide the body of whoever this was without alerting anyone to his hideout, but one poorly-chosen step at a time.
Hermione frowned as she came to a halt. She hated this place—she'd hated it when it was in full-use and populated, and she hated it more now that it was desolate, the shopfronts and signs appearing in such an advanced state of disrepair one would think the place had been abandoned for years, rather than only a handful of months.
What the hell was he doing here? What was he up to? She'd been to his funeral for pity's sake! The sooner she could track him down and figure out what was going on, the sooner she could be away from this horrible place.
She didn't think her heart could take learning her friend had deceived them all. But, if this were someone masking themselves as Remus, she was going to make them pay.
Hermione frowned, resisting the urge to draw her wand. It was this dreadful little street—it could make the iron-willed Professor McGonagall jumpy, she was certain. And if thatwas Remus by some miraculous, but warped, twist of fate, she didn't want to allow that jumpiness to make her do something she'd regret.
She knew she'd seen him come this way, and now . . . . Frowning, she heard the infinitely wise words of one of her computer-game-loving cousins in the Muggle world, When in doubt, go left.
Shoulders slumping, she did just that. She started down the narrow path before her, her nerves forcing her fingers to inch toward her wand.
A massive blond man came out of nowhere—faster than someone his size ought to be able to move—and sooner than she could blink, Hermione found herself pinned to a wall. A hand around her throat, firm, but not tight, and the tip of a wand pressed beneath her jaw, it took her a heart-pounding moment to get her bearings.
As she focused, she found herself staring up into a pair of blue eyes she . . . actually recognized. True, the last time she'd seen them, they'd been glaring angrily at her across a tacky Muggle café as they flung spells at one another, but she's not seen his face like this in seven years.
Tipping his head to one side, those familiar eyes narrowing in confusion, he said, "Sunshine?" She'd not drawn her wand, even when she'd realized it was him.
Hermione winced at the nickname, but noted he lowered the weapon. She'd hated that title when he'd first unofficially assigned it to her. She could still remember the day he'd started calling her that. Alone in the library, her at one table doing her work—or, rather, secretly pouring over material she wasn't going to be assigned for at least another three years—and he was at another table, furiously chewing the tip of his quill as he tried to wrap his head around a particularly tricky arithmancy equation. She recognized him as one of the visiting Durmstrang students in his final year of study.
He'd tried, several times, to comprehend where he was miscalculating. Indeed, Hermione could understand the issue he was having when, in his frustration, he started going over his calculations aloud. He was only off by so very little that she was certain he'd get it, given a little more time.
But he was distracting her from her studies.
Finally, she'd piped up, correcting him.
Lifting his head from his assignment, he gave her a quick once-over. "Stow it."
"Fine, g'head and fail."
He snickered and dismissively shook his head. "Right bundle of sunshine, you are."
Meeting his gaze for a second, she'd flicked her attention over the imposing, too-tall blond wizard crammed into one of the library seats that was designed with average-sized children in mind. "Have it your way, Viking."
Snickering, he shook his head—as though that was an insult—and dropped his attention back to his work.
After a few moments of silence, she heard him utter in an awed whisper, "I'll be damned."
The incident led to a year of grudging, almost-friendship between the pair. Of course, Hermione had never told her friends, as she was positive they'd never understand if she'd tried to explain that she had what amounted to study dates with a seventh year from Durmstrang aside from the relationship she already had with Viktor—of course, that wasn't what they were, at all, they just happened to find themselves studying alone in the quiet library at the same times. He'd puzzle over things aloud, and she'd provide the answer, if she could. She'd mull in loud whispers over which book contained what she was looking for, and he'd supply the title, if he knew it. Occasionally, they'd carry on simple, light discussions about the Tri-wizard Tournament, or other school matters, so long as it didn't distract from their individual studies.
At the end of that year, when she'd thought he would simply leave without a word of recognition, he'd surprised her. The day before the last day of school—when the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were supposed to be preparing to return to their home schools before being properly dismissed at the end of term—he'd found her studying in the library, as usual. Odd, since there was nothing more to study. Not so odd, since this was Hermione Granger. If the voracious way she devoured information was any clue, she was probably bidding the library farewell for the summer break.
He'd swooped down, planting a kiss on her cheek. When the petite, bookworm of a witch jumped and looked up, he'd winked and granted her a smirk. "Thank you, Sunshine."
And, like that, he turned and walked away. Also, like that, as she watched him stroll out of the library, certain she'd never see him again, she felt relief that he wasn't a Hogwarts student, after all, or he might've well been her first crush.
Then, in the jarring crunch of time between, with all the drama of Ron, and Cormac, and being discovered to be privately keeping in touch with Viktor, of returned-from-the-dead Dark wizards, and crazy chases through dark and forgotten corners of the Ministry, and terrors like Dolores Umbridge, she'd forgotten him. Until Harry mentioned a lumbering blond who'd set fire to Hagrid's hut.
She'd tried to imagine it could be anyone else. She hadn't wanted the pretty, too-tall boy she remembered to be a Death Eater.
Then, there he was, working side-by-side with that awful Antonin Dolohov to take them down in that café. She was sure the goal had been subdue and capture, but she'd never been sure he wouldn't have hesitated to kill her that day, if he'd felt he had to.
And, for the second time in her life, she'd been certain she'd never see him again.
It seemed like she and Thorfinn Rowle somehow kept finding their way back to each other. Hermione got a rein on her focus before she could start tossing around idiotic words like fate.
And, of course, she ignored that she was only here today because of that inexplicable feeling that had all but forced her to come to Diagon Alley.
Loki rounded back in time to see the blond man creep out of hiding and run at a wild-haired young woman who seemed otherwise unaware of his presence. His hand out, and a wand drawn, he clamped his fingers around her throat and pushed her back. It all happened so fast, Loki was certain the man hadn't even seen who he held.
This was not Thor! Thor could not wield magic, nor would he ever accost an unarmed Midgardian female in such a manner.
Then, confirming the mix-up, the girl said the name, "Rowle?"
With a sigh and a shake of his head, Loki made his way back toward the pair. At least one of them was in hiding, he could tell that much from their demeanor—why else act secretive in a place that was so bereft of life?
And, if they were no more supposed to be there than he was, perhaps they could be persuaded to point him in the right direction.
"Would you mind letting go?" he heard the young woman say as he neared them.
"Promise you're not going to draw your wand on me?"
She offered him a most impressive scowl at that. "I haven't yet, have I?"
His expression softening, he relinquished his hold on her. "If you didn't follow me, than what were you—?"
"Pardon?" Loki said, his hands up as they both spun to face him.
The man who looked so very startlingly like Thor, aimed his wand as he moved. The young woman reached for something inside her coat.
Yet, as she met Loki's eyes, visible relief washed over her features.
"Remus?" Hermione's heart pounded in her ears, and before she could stop herself, she'd crossed to the dark-haired man. Yet, as she bounced up on her toes to throw her arms around his neck, his lanky frame stiffened.
After what seemed a reluctant moment, he slid his arms around her waist, chuckling in a way she'd never heard from her old friend.
"A much warmer greeting than I expected, to be sure."
The cadence of his words, how he held himself, even—and especially—the possessive way his hands clamped her sides . . . . There was no way this man could be who she thought he was.
She pulled back, unreasonably grateful when this stranger made no attempt to hold her against her will. Drawing her wand on him, she stepped back, inadvertently moving to stand beside Thorfinn, who'd yet to lower his own weapon.
"You're not Remus Lupin," she said, her voice unsteady.
So, she was one of this world's magic wielders, as well. The Asgardian smirked. "I am Loki, of Asgard, and I require your assistance."
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again, just as quickly. She had no idea what to say. Whoever this man was, he was absolutely barking!
But then, she exchanged a look with Thorfinn. Thorfinn Rowle, proud of, and versed in, his Norse heritage, lowered his wand as he swallowed hard.
Reaching across to her, Thorfinn wrapped his hand gently around hers and pushed down her wand.
"Thorfinn, what're you doing?!" She ignored the unexpected little jolt that went through her at the warmth of his touch—certainly she'd felt nothing of the sort when he'd gripped her throat moments ago.
Loki bit his lip to contain a surprised chuckle at the coincidence of the wizard's name.
"Trust me, Sunshine," Thorfinn said in a low voice, his gaze pinning Loki, though he had yet to release Hermione's hand. "We'd probably do well not to cross him."
Hermione blinked rapidly a few times as she looked from one man to the other, and back. She wasn't certain what was worse, that this stranger who looked so much like her departed friend had just claimed to be the Loki . . . .
Or that Thorfinn Rowle believed him.