Loki woke on August 1st with purpose thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat. The blackthorn wood lay on his desk, dark and patient, waiting for him to prove he was worthy of shaping it.
He'd read all fifteen books cover to cover in the past two days—absorbing information the way he'd learned to do over a thousand years, letting knowledge settle into permanent memory through sheer force of will and practice. Voldemort's memories helped; the Dark Lord had been methodical about magical theory, had understood that power without knowledge was just noise.
But this was different. This wasn't learning to destroy. This was learning to *create*.
"Right then," he said aloud, mostly to give Hedwig something to react to. The owl had taken to watching him with the intense focus of a predator observing potentially interesting prey. "First step: shaping the wood."
The books recommended using a combination of cutting charms and manual carving. Precision was essential—every angle, every curve affected how magic would flow through the finished product.
Loki picked up the wood and immediately understood why Gladys had called blackthorn "difficult."
It *resisted*.
Not passively, the way most materials resisted unwanted change. Actively. The wood pushed back against his magic, refusing to be shaped by force alone.
*Interesting.*
He tried a cutting charm—*Diffindo*—carefully controlled, just enough to shave off a thin layer.
The spell skittered off the surface like water off oil.
"Stubborn," he murmured. "Good. I don't trust things that surrender easily."
He set down his wand and picked up a manual carving knife—one of the tools Gladys had included in the kit. If magic wouldn't work, perhaps physical effort would.
The knife bit into the wood with surprising ease. Not because the wood was soft—blackthorn was notoriously hard—but because it seemed to *allow* the blade where it had refused the spell.
*Ah,* Loki thought, beginning to understand. *You don't want to be commanded. You want to be asked.*
He spent the next hour carving slowly, carefully, feeling his way through the wood's resistance. And as he worked, he spoke to it—not aloud, that would be ridiculous, but mentally, projecting intention the way he'd learned to do with Asgardian materials.
*I'm not trying to force you. I'm trying to work with you. We're going to create something together. Something that flies not because I command it but because we both agree that's what it should do.*
The wood warmed under his hands.
Progress was slow. By noon, he'd only managed to refine the handle—smoothing it, tapering it, ensuring it would fit comfortably in his grip. The rest of the wood remained untouched, waiting.
"This is going to take longer than I thought," he told Hedwig.
*Good,* the owl projected back. *Quick work is sloppy work. Prey that takes time to hunt tastes better.*
"I'm not sure that metaphor applies to broom-making."
*All metaphors about patience apply to all things worth doing.*
Hard to argue with that logic.
He worked through the afternoon, pausing only when his hands cramped and his eyes burned from focus. The Dursleys stayed away—they'd learned over the past month that Harry Potter's door closed meant Harry Potter was doing *that freak nonsense*, and it was better not to investigate.
By evening, he had the basic shape roughed out. Four feet of gradually tapering blackthorn, the handle smooth and comfortable, the bristle end prepared for attachment. It looked like a broom. Didn't fly yet, wouldn't fly for weeks, but the foundation was there.
*Progress,* he thought with satisfaction.
Tomorrow he'd begin the runes.
---
The runic work was delicate, demanding, and absolutely unforgiving of mistakes.
Loki had carved runes before—in Asgard, as part of his seidr training, learning the old ways of encoding magic into objects. But this was different. This required combining Asgardian runic principles with wizarding magical notation, creating a hybrid system that drew power from both traditions.
He'd spent three days just planning the layout. The runes couldn't be random—they had to flow, had to connect, had to form a unified pattern that turned the broom from "stick of wood" into "flying entity."
The design he'd settled on was based on Yggdrasil's root patterns—branches spreading, connecting, drawing power from multiple sources and weaving them into coherent whole. In the center, where the rider's hands would grip, he'd place *Hamr* (shape/form), the binding rune that would make the physical object magical entity.
Radiating outward: *Ægir* (wave/flow) for smooth movement. *Vindr* (wind) for speed. *Þruma* (thunder) for power. And connecting them all, the knotwork pattern that would convince reality this was always meant to fly.
He started with *Hamr*, carving it into the handle with a precision that made his hands ache. The knife had to be steady, the depth consistent, the angles exact. One mistake and he'd have to start over—or worse, create a broom that functioned but was unstable, dangerous.
*This is meditation,* he realized after several hours of work. *This is what Thor finds in battle—the focus that blocks out everything else, that makes the world narrow to just this moment, this action.*
*This is peace.*
The first rune took six hours. When he finished, he sat back and examined his work critically.
Perfect. Or as perfect as he could make it with current skill level. The lines were clean, the depth consistent, the proportions correct according to both Asgardian tradition and wizarding measurements.
He activated it experimentally, channeling a tiny amount of magic through the carved pattern.
The rune *flared*—not visibly, but he felt it. The wood warmed, recognized the pattern, accepted the magic as part of itself rather than external imposition.
"Yes," he breathed. "That's exactly right."
Hedwig hooted approval from her perch.
The remaining runes took another week. *Ægir* was particularly challenging—it required curved lines that had to flow naturally, couldn't look forced or artificial. *Vindr* needed sharp angles that conveyed speed, urgency, motion. *Þruma* required depth—literally, carving deeper than the others to create the sense of contained power.
And through it all, the knotwork. Connecting, weaving, turning separate symbols into unified whole.
By the end of week two, the broom's handle was covered in intricate patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles—an optical illusion created by the careful arrangement of lines and curves.
Loki examined his work with critical eye, looking for flaws, finding none he could identify.
*Second step complete,* he thought. *Now comes the really difficult part.*
---
## Week Three: Enchantment
The books all agreed: enchanting a broomstick was more art than science. You couldn't just cast spells at it and hope they stuck. You had to *convince* the object to accept the magic, to integrate it so thoroughly that flight became inherent property rather than imposed behavior.
Loki had an advantage here. He'd spent a thousand years convincing reality to accept things that weren't true. Had mastered the art of *being* something so completely that existence had no choice but to agree.
He approached the enchantment the way Frigga had taught him—not as commander but as collaborator. Not forcing but *inviting*.
The first attempt failed spectacularly.
He'd tried to layer standard wizarding flight charms onto the runes, thinking the combination would create something better than either alone. Instead, the magic clashed, the runes rejected the charms, and the bristle end of the broom *exploded* in a shower of phoenix feathers and splinters.
Loki stared at the wreckage. "Well. That didn't work."
Hedwig made a sound that might have been laughter. *Told you. Quick work is sloppy work.*
"I wasn't being quick. I was being methodical."
*You were being impatient. Trying to skip steps. The wood doesn't respond to shortcuts.*
Damn bird was right.
He spent a day repairing the damage—carefully reattaching bristles, reinforcing the structure, apologizing mentally to the blackthorn for trying to force it.
The second attempt was slower. More careful. Instead of layering charms, he *wove* magic directly into the runes, using the carved patterns as pathways for power to flow. Not imposing structure from outside but channeling magic through existing structure from within.
The bristles began to hum.
Not audibly—this was magic, not physics. But he could *feel* it, the way you feel tension in a drawn bowstring or potential energy in a coiled spring.
The broom wanted to fly.
Didn't know how yet. Hadn't been given direction. But it wanted to, the way birds want to fly or fish want to swim. The desire was there, encoded in wood and runes and carefully woven magic.
"Good," Loki murmured, running his fingers along the handle. "We're getting somewhere."
The process took another week. Each enchantment had to be integrated carefully, tested, adjusted. Too much power and the magic destabilized. Too little and it wouldn't activate properly.
He worked in layers: basic levitation first (convincing the broom it was lighter than air). Then propulsion (convincing it that forward motion was natural response to intent). Then control (convincing it that rider and broom were unified system, that steering was conversation rather than command).
By the end of week three, he had something that looked like a finished broom. Blackthorn handle covered in intricate runes. Phoenix feather bristles bound with dragon whisker, arranged in aerodynamic patterns. Magic humming through every inch of it, ready to respond.
He held it carefully, feeling its weight, its balance, its *potential*.
*Almost there,* he thought. *Just one more step. The binding.*
---
The books had mentioned blood bonds casually, as optional enhancement for custom brooms. "Some makers prefer to attune their creations to specific riders through minor blood magic. This ensures optimal responsiveness but may limit others' ability to use the broom effectively."
Loki had read that passage and immediately understood what it actually meant: most makers *didn't* create blood bonds because they wanted to sell their brooms. Wanted them usable by anyone who bought them.
But he wasn't making this broom to sell. He was making it for himself. And if blood magic would create true partnership between rider and tool...
*Then that's exactly what I need.*
The ritual was simple. Voldemort's memories contained dozens of variations, most far darker than what Loki intended. But the basic principle was universal: blood contained identity, contained magic, contained the essence of what made a person *themselves*. Binding that to an object created connection at fundamental level.
He waited until midnight—not because the magic required it, but because the symbolism mattered. Because this was important enough to deserve proper ceremony.
The broom lay on his desk, complete, ready. Hedwig watched from the windowsill with interest.
Loki picked up the silver knife Gladys had provided—meant for preparing potion ingredients, but suitable for this purpose. Drew it carefully across his palm, letting blood well up in a thin red line.
*This is my magic,* he projected toward the broom. *My power, my identity, my will. I offer it freely, as partnership rather than possession. We'll fly together, work together, be more effective together than either of us could be alone.*
He pressed his bleeding palm against the handle, right over the *Hamr* rune.
The magic activated *explosively*.
Red light—not from his blood but from the Reality Stone in his wand, responding to the ritual—flooded through the runes. They blazed, carved lines filling with crimson that spread like wildfire through the knotwork pattern, down the length of the handle, into the bristles.
The broom *screamed*.
Not sound—sensation. Pure magic, raw and uncontrolled, surging through the binding pattern as it accepted his blood, his identity, his essence.
Loki held on, gritting his teeth against the feedback. This was part of the process. The magic had to recognize him, had to integrate his identity into the broom's structure, had to—
*There.*
The screaming stopped. The red light faded. The runes settled into soft glow, barely visible unless you knew where to look.
And the broom felt *right* in his hands. Not like holding a tool but like holding an extension of himself. Like the way Mjolnir must have felt to Thor—natural, balanced, belonging.
*Hello,* Loki projected cautiously.
The broom didn't respond in words—it wasn't sentient, not really. But he felt acknowledgment. Recognition. The sense that they were now connected at fundamental level, that flying wouldn't be command but cooperation.
*Perfect.*
He set it down carefully, wrapped his hand—the cut was already healing, Asgardian resilience working even in this mortal body—and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
Four weeks. Four weeks of work, of learning, of careful craftsmanship. And now he had something extraordinary. Something no one else in the wizarding world possessed.
*The Veðrfölva.*
His storm-cloak. His wings. His proof that he could create instead of destroy.
"Tomorrow," he told Hedwig, "we test it."
The owl clicked her beak. *Be careful, two-legs. First flights are dangerous. Like first hunts—exciting but potentially fatal.*
"I'll be careful," Loki promised.
*You won't be,* Hedwig corrected. *But you'll survive. You're too stubborn to die from something as simple as falling.*
Probably true.
Loki cleaned up his workspace, stored his tools, and climbed into bed. But sleep didn't come easily. His mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow, to the first flight, to testing everything he'd built.
*Please work,* he thought toward the broom resting against his desk. *Please be everything I tried to make you. Please let me be capable of creating something beautiful instead of just destroying things.*
The runes pulsed once, warmly, as if in answer.
Loki smiled and let himself drift toward sleep.
Tomorrow would be interesting.
---
Loki woke before dawn, too excited to sleep longer. The broom leaned against his desk, patient and ready, magic humming through it in gentle waves that he could feel even from across the room.
*Today,* he thought, somewhere between anticipation and terror. *Today I find out if four weeks of work produced something functional or just expensive firewood.*
He dressed quickly—comfortable clothes, nothing that would restrict movement—and grabbed the broom. Hedwig stirred on her perch.
*You're really doing this?*
*I have to know if it works.*
*You could test it somewhere safe. With padding. With witnesses who know healing magic.*
*Where's the fun in that?*
Hedwig made a sound of exasperated affection. *Stubborn two-legs. Fine. I'll follow. Someone needs to collect the pieces when you crash.*
"Such confidence," Loki muttered, but he was smiling.
He transformed into his adult form—safer to test fly as someone with longer legs and better reach—and slipped out the window using a levitation charm. The pre-dawn air was cool, Surrey still sleeping, perfect for clandestine broom testing.
He walked to the nearby park—Magnolia Crescent Park, according to Harry's memories. Abandoned at this hour, surrounded by trees, plenty of open space for catastrophic failure.
*Right,* Loki thought, standing in the middle of the empty field, broom in hand. *How hard can this be?*
Voldemort's memories supplied information: mounting a broom was simple—swing your leg over like mounting a horse, grip the handle, push off gently, let the magic do the work.
Simple. Easy. He'd seen Thor fly countless times, had watched Asgardian soldiers on their various flying contraptions. Had even flown himself occasionally, when seidr permitted such indulgences.
*This will be fine.*
He mounted the Veðrfölva, gripping the handle carefully. The magic responded immediately—warming under his hands, recognizing him, ready to cooperate.
*Up,* he projected. *Not fast. Just... up. Slowly.*
The broom *launched*.
Not slowly. Not gently. Straight up like a rocket, so fast Loki barely had time to register movement before the ground was twenty feet below him and dropping fast.
"STOP!" he shouted.
The broom stopped. Instantly. Completely. Physics disagreed with this decision—Loki's momentum continued upward for another three feet before gravity reasserted itself and yanked him back down.
He hit the broom hard, barely maintaining his grip, the impact driving air from his lungs.
*Too responsive,* he realized, dangling twenty feet up, heart pounding. *Way too responsive. I think "up" and it translates that to "MAXIMUM UP IMMEDIATELY."*
He needed to recalibrate. To teach the broom that commands didn't mean "execute at full power" but "execute proportionally."
*Down,* he projected cautiously. *Slowly down. Gentle descent. Like... like falling leaves. Gradual.*
The broom descended. Still too fast, but at least not catastrophically so. He managed to land without breaking anything, though the impact was harder than he'd intended.
Hedwig landed nearby, radiating smugness. *Graceful.*
"Shut up. That was a learning experience."
*Learning that you don't know how to fly yet.*
"Learning that the broom needs calibration. It's too eager. Responding to intent at full strength instead of proportionally."
He spent the next hour just learning basic control. Up, down, forward, backward, turn left, turn right. Each command executed with slightly less violence than the last as he learned to communicate more precisely, as the blood bond adapted to his style.
By the time the sun was fully risen, he could hover steadily at five feet, move in controlled directions, even execute gentle turns without spinning out.
*Progress,* he thought with satisfaction.
"Again tomorrow," he told Hedwig, dismounting carefully. "A little more practice each day. By the time school starts, I should be competent enough not to kill myself in front of witnesses."
*Such high standards.*
"I'm ambitious that way."
He returned to Privet Drive, exhilarated despite the rough start. The broom worked. Actually worked. Yes, it needed practice, needed calibration, needed dozens of refinements. But the core functionality was there.
He'd built something. Created something. Proved that he could use his knowledge for construction rather than destruction.
*Mother would be proud,* he thought, and felt that familiar warmth in his chest—her presence, her faith, still anchoring him.
*I'm learning, Mother. Learning to build instead of break. To create instead of destroy.*
*Watch me become worthy of your lessons.*
The second flight went better. And the third. By the end of the week, he could execute basic maneuvers without terror or injury. The broom was adapting to him, learning his style, becoming more responsive to nuanced commands rather than just raw intent.
By the end of the second week, he could fly. Actually fly—not just hover or move cautiously, but *fly*. Fast, controlled, responsive. The Veðrfölva lived up to its name—storm-cloak, carrying him through the air with speed that made production racing brooms look pedestrian.
"You're getting better," Hedwig observed one morning, watching him execute a series of tight turns. "Still not as graceful as proper flying, but acceptable for two-legs."
"High praise from an owl."
*Facts, not praise. But yes—you're learning. Soon you'll be able to hunt from the air properly.*
"Soon," Loki agreed, landing smoothly. "Very soon."
Because the broom wasn't just recreation. It was tactical advantage. Mobility. Freedom. The ability to reach places others couldn't, to escape pursuit, to approach targets from unexpected vectors.
It was *power*. Personal power that didn't depend on anyone else. That couldn't be taken away or forbidden or regulated.
And he was going to use it.
---
With the broom complete and flight skills adequate, Loki turned his attention to the other preparations for Hogwarts.
His trunk was a problem. The standard student trunk had one large compartment and a smaller one for personal items. Adequate for most students. Completely insufficient for someone who needed to hide a custom broom, advanced potion ingredients, books on dark magic, and several illegal research materials.
The solution was obvious: expansion charms. Create hidden compartments that were dimensionally larger than they appeared. Standard spell, commonly used, perfectly legal as long as you didn't get ridiculous about it.
Loki got ridiculous about it.
By the time he finished, his trunk had seven distinct compartments:
**Layer 1 (Visible)**: Standard school supplies. Textbooks, robes, quills, parchment. The things anyone would expect to see if they searched an eleven-year-old's luggage.
**Layer 2 (Locked - Standard Key)**: Personal items. Extra clothes, toiletries, Hedwig's supplies. Still innocent but slightly more private.
**Layer 3 (Locked - Blood Ward)**: Advanced books. The purchases from Diagon Alley that would raise questions. Texts on Horcruxes, dark magic, experimental enchantment. Hidden but accessible when needed.
**Layer 4 (Locked - Runic Seal)**: Potion supplies. Not the standard first-year ingredients but the advanced, questionable, possibly-illegal materials he'd accumulated. For experiments that needed to happen in secret.
**Layer 5 (Locked - Reality Stone Recognition)**: The Veðrfölva. His broom, carefully wrapped, protected, hidden from casual detection. First-years weren't allowed brooms. His would stay concealed until needed.
**Layer 6 (Locked - Asgardian Cipher)**: His planning journals. The letters to his mother. The Horcrux research. The evidence he was gathering on Peter Pettigrew. Everything that would reveal what he truly was if discovered.
**Layer 7 (Locked - Parseltongue Password)**: Emergency supplies. Money—both wizarding and muggle. False identification materials. Maps of Hogwarts. Escape routes. The things you prepared but hoped never to need.
It took a week to construct properly. The expansion charms were delicate, requiring precision to prevent dimensional instability. The locking mechanisms had to be layered, each responding to different keys, creating multiple barriers against unauthorized access.
But when finished, he had a trunk that appeared completely ordinary while containing enough contraband to get him expelled seventeen times over.
*Perfect.*
Next: his identity magic.
The Metamorphmagus ability was stable now—he could shift between forms with barely a thought, hold adult shapes for hours without strain, even maintain partial transformations if needed. But that was only half the problem.
Magical signature masking was proving more difficult.
Every wizard's magic carried a unique signature—like a fingerprint, but woven into the spells themselves. Anyone with sufficient skill could read that signature and identify the caster. Which meant if he cast spells as an adult, someone might notice that "John Smith" had the exact same magical signature as "Harry Potter."
He needed to obscure it. Not eliminate—that would set off different alarms—but *mask* it. Create a false surface signature that read as someone else while hiding his true identity beneath.
The solution came from Occlumency principles. If you could shield your mind from invasion, why not shield your magic from identification?
He spent a week building the framework: layered wards around his magical core, similar to Occlumency shields but external rather than internal. The outer layer would read as "adult wizard, generic signature, nothing memorable." Beneath that, his true signature, hidden, inaccessible to casual detection.
Testing was tricky. He didn't have anyone to test *on*—couldn't exactly walk up to a wizard and ask them to analyze his magical signature. But he could test against detection spells, could verify that his magic read as something other than itself.
By late August, he had something that worked. Not perfectly—a master Legilimens might still detect discrepancies—but well enough for casual encounters. Well enough to walk through magical London as an adult without anyone immediately connecting him to Harry Potter.
*Good enough,* he decided. *Will improve with practice, but good enough for now.*
---
The night before he was due to leave for Hogwarts, Loki sat at his window and stared at the stars.
Tomorrow everything changed. Tomorrow he became Harry Potter publicly, officially, before hundreds of witnesses. Would walk into that school and be *seen*, really seen, by people who'd been expecting him for a decade.
No more hiding. No more anonymous existence in the Dursleys' cupboard. Just... exposure. Constant, unrelenting attention from people who thought they knew who he was and what he represented.
It was terrifying.
*What if I fail?* he thought into the darkness. *What if I can't maintain the act? What if someone sees through me? What if I'm not good enough at being Harry Potter to fool people who've been imagining him for years?*
The doubts piled up, heavy and cold, the same doubts that had plagued him in Asgard. That he wasn't enough. That he'd disappoint everyone. That eventually they'd see through whatever mask he wore and realize he was just... wrong, somehow. Broken. Not what they wanted.
*What if Mother's wrong?* The thought was poison but he couldn't stop it. *What if I can't be better? What if I'm just fooling myself, playing another game, still the same broken person underneath all the pretty plans?*
And then—
A star fell.
Streaked across the sky in a pattern that seemed impossibly deliberate. That drew, if you looked closely, if you knew how to read it...
The rune for *victory*.
Loki's breath caught.
*Mother?*
Another star fell. This one drew *courage*.
Then another. *Wisdom*.
And another. *Love*.
He sat transfixed as the sky performed an impossible display—meteors falling in patterns that couldn't be natural, that spelled out messages in light and motion and ancient runic script.
Someone was watching. Someone was sending him signs. Someone believed in him enough to literally move the heavens to remind him he wasn't alone.
*Frigga,* he knew with absolute certainty. *Mother, you're still watching. Still believing.*
The final star fell slowly, deliberately, drawing a pattern he recognized immediately:
*Have faith in yourself. I already do.*
Tears blurred his vision. He pressed his hand against the window, as if he could reach across the impossible distance and touch whoever had sent this gift.
*Thank you,* he projected toward Asgard, toward barriers that couldn't be crossed. *Thank you for not giving up on me. For believing even when I can't believe in myself.*
*I'll try, Mother. I promise I'll try.*
*Tomorrow I walk into Hogwarts and pretend to be someone I'm not. But underneath that pretense, I'll be working to become someone you'd be proud of. Someone who uses his cleverness to help rather than hurt. Someone who builds rather than destroys.*
*Someone worthy of your faith.*
The stars settled back into their normal patterns, the message delivered, the reassurance given.
But the warmth remained. The certainty that he wasn't alone, wasn't forgotten, wasn't abandoned to figure this out by himself.
*Tomorrow,* he thought, wiping his eyes and turning from the window. *Tomorrow I begin the next phase. Tomorrow Harry Potter goes to Hogwarts.*
*And Loki of Asgard... Loki becomes something new.*
*Something better.*
*Watch me, Mother. Watch me earn redemption one careful choice at a time.*
He climbed into bed, surrounded by his packed trunk, his prepared lies, his carefully constructed identity.
Ready for tomorrow's game.
Ready to win it.
Ready to prove that second chances, when taken seriously, could reshape destiny itself.
*Goodnight, Mother,* he thought one last time. *Thank you for believing in me.*
*I won't let you down.*
*Not this time.*
*Never again.*
The warmth in his chest pulsed once—acknowledgment, blessing, love.
And Loki slept peacefully for the first time since dying, secure in the knowledge that whatever happened tomorrow, whatever challenges Hogwarts presented, he wouldn't face them alone.
His mother believed in him.
And that made all the difference.
---
## September 1st - Morning
Vernon Dursley stood in the driveway, car keys in hand, looking like a man condemned to execution.
"Right then," he said, not meeting Loki's eyes. "You've got everything? All your... your *things*?"
Loki—wearing Harry Potter's face, Harry Potter's overlarge hand-me-down clothes, Harry Potter's expression of barely-contained excitement—nodded. "Everything. My trunk, Hedwig, my school supplies."
"And you're sure we can't just... drop you at a train station and be done with it?"
"Vernon," Petunia said sharply from the doorway. She'd been unusually quiet this morning, almost pensive. "We discussed this. We're taking him to King's Cross properly. It's what—" she paused, swallowed, "—it's what Lily would have wanted."
The name hung in the air like incense in a temple. Lily. The sister Petunia had loved and resented in equal measure. Who'd been magical and special and had died protecting her son.
Vernon's face purpled but he nodded. "Fine. Into the car then. All of you."
Dudley was already in the back seat, pressed against the far door, trying to maximize distance between himself and his cousin. He'd been even more subdued than usual this morning, occasionally shooting Loki nervous glances as if worried about what might happen at the last minute.
Smart boy. Learning that fear was sometimes wiser than aggression.
Loki loaded his trunk into the boot—it was heavy despite the expansion charms, packed with everything he'd need for a year away—and climbed into the back seat with Hedwig's cage on his lap.
The owl hooted once, deliberately, making Dudley flinch.
*Going to the nest?*
*Going to Hogwarts,* Loki confirmed mentally. *The school.*
*Will there be proper hunting there?*
*I certainly hope so.*
The drive to London was silent except for Vernon's occasional muttered complaints about traffic. Petunia stared out the window, lost in thoughts she didn't share. Dudley maintained his careful distance, occasionally peeking at the owl cage with fascinated terror.
And Loki... Loki reviewed his plans one final time.
Be Harry Potter. Innocent, eager, slightly overwhelmed. Grateful to be entering the magical world. Hungry to learn. Polite to authority. Friendly to fellow students. Just different enough to be interesting, just conventional enough to avoid suspicion.
Underneath: gather intelligence. Observe. Learn the real power structures, the hidden hierarchies, the people who actually mattered. Begin positioning himself for the work ahead—hunting Horcruxes, preparing to free Sirius Black, learning what he needed to dismantle Voldemort's legacy.
Two identities. Two games running simultaneously. Both had to succeed or everything collapsed.
*No pressure,* he thought wryly.
King's Cross Station loomed ahead—all Victorian architecture and modern crowds, commuters and travelers and general chaos. Vernon pulled into the drop-off zone with clear relief that this ordeal was nearly finished.
"Right then," Vernon said again, climbing out. "Platform nine and three-quarters, you said? That's—where exactly?"
"Between platforms nine and ten," Loki said, extracting his trunk. "There's a barrier. I'm supposed to walk through it."
Petunia had gone very pale. "Walk through a wall. Like she used to do." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Lily. She'd just... disappear through that barrier. Laughing like it was the most natural thing in the world."
For a moment—just a moment—Loki saw genuine grief in her face. Not resentment. Not jealousy. Just loss.
She'd loved her sister. Had lost her to magic, to a world Petunia couldn't follow. And now her nephew was disappearing into that same world, leaving her behind the same way.
"I'll write," Loki heard himself say. Not because the Dursleys deserved kindness, but because Petunia in this moment looked like someone who needed to hear it. "Every month. Let you know I'm alive and not causing international incidents."
Petunia's lips twitched. Might have been a smile. Might have been pain. "See that you do. And—" she paused, struggling with words, "—try not to die. Lily would be... she'd be disappointed if you died."
It was probably the closest thing to affection she'd ever manage.
"I'll do my best not to die," Loki promised solemnly.
Vernon cleared his throat roughly. "Yes, well. Off you go then. Don't want to miss your train. Or... however you people travel."
Dudley actually spoke: "Bye, Harry." It came out strangled, awkward, but genuine. "Don't... don't get eaten by anything magic."
"I'll try to avoid that," Loki said, and found himself meaning it. The Dursleys were terrible people who'd done terrible things. But they were also damaged, frightened people who'd been handed a magical child and had no idea how to cope.
Not forgiven. But... understood, perhaps.
He grabbed his trolley—trunk, owl cage, everything he needed—and headed into King's Cross Station.
Behind him, Vernon's car pulled away quickly, as if worried that staying too long might infect them with magic.
*And now,* Loki thought, scanning the crowd for the barrier, *the real game begins.*
---
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