Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley was a breathtaking sight, as if it existed in its own little world. It couldn't hold a candle to Asgard, of course, but then, few things could. Nevertheless, Harry spun in endless circles, trying to take in everything at once. Hagrid was unimpressed, and didn't seem to realise that, for Harry, everything was new, and fascinating—even the things that Hagrid himself took for granted.

Sure, Harry could have done without the intense scrutiny he faced upon his arrival at the Leaky Cauldron (was this how it felt to be Thor, constantly watched and judged by his reputation, by people he'd never met? How could he stand it?). Professor Quirrell was annoying, with his stutter, and his squeaks of fright, but he wasn't that much more annoying than the other patrons of the pub known as the Leaky Cauldron, which was a pity.

At the time, however, Harry had still been going over, digesting, his recently acquired information. His parents' names had been James and Lily Potter. They had been killed by an evil wizard known as "Lord Voldemort", although everyone called him "You-Know-Who". Harry knew the power of the name, and decided to see how other people reacted to the name before deciding whether or not to use it, himself. On the one hand, Loki was a god, and there was, perhaps, a residue of pride remaining (why should a god fear any mere mortal?). On the other…well, names had great power, and it was best to use them judiciously.

It was unsurprising to learn that the Dursleys had lied about the nature of his parents' lives and deaths (they'd been part of some sort of group dedicated to fighting Voldemort, or something; Hagrid had been sparing on the details, as if he'd been ordered "not to overwhelm the poor boy with too much information"). Aunt Petunia's rant had been slightly more surprising…she'd sounded…well…jealous, of her sister, and he wondered if that weren't the real reason for her ire and hatred. He remembered Loki's extraordinary bitterness, exacerbated to epic proportions over the span of centuries. He could understand jealousy, he thought, but this… was that what had become of Thor and Loki?

Why did his thoughts keep coming back to that?

Well, what else had he learnt? He'd learnt more of Hogwarts—Hagrid was the Keeper of the Keys—and about Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the time, evidently, and about Diagon Alley, and the Ministry of Magic.

Here he was, in Diagon Alley. He kept telling himself that, to confirm its reality, after the Dursleys had insisted that he wouldn't go to Hogwarts, that they wouldn't pay.

He wondered how they'd react if they knew the small fortune lying under London, with his name attached. Would the thought of its goblin guardians deter them? It was a lot of money.

Hagrid turned aside, and pulled him out of the way of the entrance to a shop. Saying something about not feeling his best after the ride in the Gringotts cart (and who could blame him?), he gently ushered Harry inside, and went off to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint (presumably), leaving Harry alone in this new world, for the first time.

Well, he was always going to be alone, sooner or later.

"Hello, dear. Hogwarts, too?" asked a matronly-looking middle-aged woman. He nodded, and she cheerfully ploughed on. "I've another being fitted up right now. You just sit right there, and we'll have you sorted out in a moment."

Harry sat in the seat requested, and tried not to make eye-contact with the blond boy seated next to him. He wanted to think, damn it.

"Hello," said the boy, with a slow, leisurely drawl. "Are you going to Hogwarts, too?" Harry, swallowing a sigh, nodded. It was the polite thing to do. The boy didn't even look at him, continuing with what almost sounded a rehearsed speech. "My mother's up the street looking at wands, and my father's looking at broomsticks. I don't know why there's that rule saying that first years aren't allowed to have them. It think I'll bully Father into buying me one, and smuggle it in, somehow."

What was the deal with broomsticks? Why would anyone go so far as to smuggle one in? Hogwarts was a castle, evidently; was it that untidy?

Hagrid appeared at the window, holding up two ice creams to show that he couldn't enter.

"Who's that?" asked the boy. Harry could hear the disgust in his voice, and frowned.

"That's Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, shrugging. "Father told me about him. He's a servant, isn't he?"

"He's the groundskeeper, and the Keeper of the Keys," Harry repeated, disliking the boy ever more with each passing second. The boy might not have been listening—he gave that sort of distracted nod.

"Exactly. Father says he's a sort of savage—lives out in a hut by the forest, and now and again he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his hut."

Harry thought of Dudley's new pigtail, and straightened his back, rounding on the boy in his best imperious manner.

"I think he's brilliant," he said.

"Do you?" the boy sneered, "Well, why is he with you? Where are your parents?" he asked, finally glancing at Harry, as if just noticing that Harry was alone. Harry braced himself, gathering the regal demeanour he'd learnt from Loki, who'd learnt from…who knew whom, actually.

"They're dead," he said, flatly.

"Oh, sorry," said the blond boy, airily. He clearly didn't mean it, and was almost jumping to move the conversation further in the direction of his own choosing.

For a moment, Harry was tempted to compare the boy to Thor, but then remembered that, even in Thor's worst moments before his trial by ordeal, he'd still had compassion, and respect for those who had already gone to the other side. No, the boy might have had Thor's erstwhile arrogance, and perhaps other faults—he might have been Thor, stripped of all virtue—but even that comparison didn't seem fair to Thor.

Right now, he didn't seem to be aware of what he was saying, as if the words were automatic feedback, as when you were having a lousy day, and someone asked you how you were, you knew to say, "fine". The words held no meaning. He paid much more heed to the rest of his sentence. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were human, if that's what you mean," said Harry, in his iciest voice. Forgive me, Mother, he couldn't help thinking. He knew almost nothing about his parents, and his beliefs about himself were perched on the balance beam of a scale. He couldn't decide whether he believed that his mother was human, or a bona fide goddess.

But the boy didn't need to know that.

"Oh," he said, his lip curling in unreserved disgust. "You're a mudblood. Do me a favour, and sit there and shut up. Don't talk to me anymore."

Harry thought about what he'd heard, about the fame of the name "Potter", about people who would try to use him if they knew who he was, and smiled, internally.

"Is that a fact? You can speak to me, but I can't talk to you?" He affected not to be as angry about the boy's comments as he was.

"I wouldn't knowingly sully the air I breathe with the fumes emitted from a mudblood. You have no fears of me speaking to you again."

"Is that a promise?" asked Harry, lightly. He wanted to press the boy into giving his word. Then, perhaps, he wouldn't have to deal with this poisonous fellow ever again. If he were lucky.

"If it will silence you, I promise that we shall never trade words again."

Harry, to show his agreement, nodded, and smiled.

"That's you done, my dear," said the middle-aged lady, and the blond boy slipped off his stool, nose already tilted towards the ceiling as he strutted from the store.

Worse than Stark, Harry found himself thinking, and shook his head. You've never met Tony Stark, he reminded himself.

Malkin was competent, deft with a needle, and knew exactly how to pin his robes so that the pins didn't prick him. Magic made short work of the process of sewing up his robes, and they were ready in a trice. He handed over the correct amount of galleons and sickles, and took his leave, to where Hagrid was already waiting outside.

They walked in silence for a brief span of time, before Harry couldn't take it any longer.

"Hagrid, what's 'mudblood' mean?" he asked.

Hagrid fumbled his own ice cream, but caught it before it could slop to the cobblestone below.

"Where—where the ruddy hell did you hear that?" Hagrid demanded, sounding…affronted.

Had he said something wrong? Well, the term didn't sound very nice, but this was a new world; who knew? He gave a helpless little shrug, and Hagrid visibly calmed himself down.

"The boy in the shop—with the blond hair. When he asked me if my parents were 'our kind' as he put it, I said that they were human, and that's when he said I must be a 'mudblood'."

The brief twinkle in Hagrid's eyes at Harry's sarcastic response to the boy's insensitive question (not that Hagrid knew that the boy knew that it was insensitive) quickly darkened. Strawberry ice cream trickled down Hagrid's sleeve, oozing out of the new hole in the waffle cone. Harry didn't point it out.

"Ah, well, Harry, you've got bigots in any world, I reckon," Hagrid said. Harry could, sort of, vouch for this. Asgard, even, had its prejudices, but he kept quiet, sensing that Hagrid would not want to be interrupted, when discussing an evidently sensitive subject. "It's a stupid term—means your blood is 'dirty', see. There's wizarding families can date their family back hundreds of years—they call themselves the purebloods, and then there's the half-bloods, who have a pureblood parent, and a muggleborn one. Muggleborn means that your parents are muggles—no magical background—" he reminded Harry, who nodded his understanding. "But your Mum's a muggleborn, and your Dad's from an old pureblood family—you'd be a half-blood, at the very least. Not that it matters. Stupid ideology. Don't pay him any mind."

Harry nodded his understanding, and cast around for something else to speak on, for a distraction. "Hagrid, what's quidditch?" he asked, his eyes alighting upon the sign that read: Quality Quidditch Supplies, hanging over a window display filled with brooms.

"I forgot how much you don't know…fancy not knowing about quidditch!"

Harry sighed. He felt stupid enough not knowing why brooms were apparently so important in the Wizarding World.

"Well, it's a wizarding sport, played on brooms," Hagrid continued at last. He paused. "Sort of hard to explain the rules—"

"Please try," Harry said, cutting off what he knew would be a request that Harry look elsewhere for information, or a claim of excess ignorance. "You've lived in this world all your life, right—?" This was a guess based solely on Hagrid's towering form. It might have been a rare muggle genetic; more likely, it was some accidental charm, or magical genetics—if there even were such.

"Well, er—" they were stopped in the middle of the street, and Harry tugged on Hagrid's sleeve, leading him toward the shop.

"Just the basics, Hagrid. Just enough so that I can learn more on my own, or know enough not to seem a complete dunce. For instance: is it a team sport, or solo?"

"It's a team sport," Hagrid said, at last. "Played on broomsticks. There's three kinds of balls. There's the golden snitch, a small ball that the seeker has to catch—that earns your team a hundred and fifty points—" Harry's eyebrows shot up, although he remained silent. That sounded a lot. "—And there's two black balls known as bludgers—they try to knock players off their brooms. But the beaters are there for that—there's two beaters on the team. It's their job to hit the bludgers at the opposing team, see. And then there's the red quaffle. The chasers, there's three of them, try and score through the opponents' hoops, but the keeper—that's the last position—guards the hoop to prevent that."

"Then there's…how many players?" Harry asked. He was already finding it difficult to keep track of. It sounded rather violent, too—right up Thor's alley, not his.

"There's seven players. The seekers, whose job it is to catch the snitch. Keepers, who block their team's goalpost. Two beaters, to send the bludgers at the opposing team's players. Three chasers, to score points with the quaffle, if they can get it through the goal. It's not as dangerous as it sounds," he added, as if reading Harry's mind.

"Wow," he said, at last. "It sounds…interesting. You explained it well, Hagrid. I can almost see it."

Hagrid blushed at the praise. Harry had already noticed that, for all his size and intimidating appearance, Hagrid was a big softie, with a gentle heart.

They continued on to Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands Since 312 BC, in amiable silence. Harry left with even more questions than those with which he'd entered.

"If my mother's wand was suited to charms, and my father's to transfiguration," he'd asked Ollivander, "then what is my wand suited to?"

Ollivander paused, from where he was carefully nestling the new-bought wand in its cushion. "Ah, Mr. Potter, each individual is unique, even as his or her wand is. I would not want to lead you—"

"Please, sir. Just tell me the significance."

Ollivander stared at him with those disturbing, milk-white eyes, and snapped the wand into place, pushing the latches over it to secure it, that it not jostle against its cushion, or come loose and rattle about the box(or worse, if the box should open, fall out and be lost).

"I am a master of wand lore, and of wand making," said Ollivander. "I might tell you the usual strengths of any of your wand's component parts, but each wand is an experiment, one that I am sure will somewhere, someday, be suited to a certain witch or wizard—although they might not be born for many years, yet. Often, these combined attributes lend themselves to certain specialties.

"But I'm afraid, concerning your own wand, there is little to say. The holly is a sacred tree—it is right there, the very name of the wood: halig, "holy". It has long-standing traditions in pagan Britain, connections with ancient Celtic gods.

"The phoenix is a symbol of rebirth, and of immortality. The phoenix, the legendary bird, the true phoenix, lives for five hundred years, according to legend, before building itself a nest of its own feathers, and setting itself ablaze, to be reborn from its own ashes, the same bird, but different, too. Beneath the surface, it therefore has connections to transformation, resurrection, and renewal. It is the bird of the second chance, and redemption.

"The length of a wand measures the capacity of its user—how great his or her magical reserves are. Usually, the longer the wand, the greater the magical reserves of its wielder. Your wand shows that you have great capacity in magic. But it is hard to see the conclusion, what happens when these three factors are put together. Even for me. Perhaps this wand chose you only because it knew that its brother had marked you already."

And he handed over the box, before Harry could question him further.

Harry's heart was still pounding, processing what he'd heard. Rebirth and immortality? Connections to old gods? Even in his waking life, his memories of his dreams could not leave him be, could they? Suppose he was a pagan god—would that explain the wood of his wand? Would it be sufficient to explain even the phoenix feather? But…rebirth, immortality, renewal…redemption…?

He thought of Loki, attacking New York. He thought of falling from the Rainbow Bridge, only to emerge, years later, transformed and twisted into something even Harry barely recognised. Surely, if any needed a second chance, it was he….

Redemption? Rebirth? What if…?

He at last shoved the thoughts aside as they entered Flourish and Blotts. Nothing memorable happened within; he found the course books, and a few other volumes, paid for them, and left. Hagrid had disappeared, returning with a snowy owl that he offered to Harry as Harry's first ever birthday present (the gifts of the Dursleys did not count). The owl, who would be named Hedwig, which name Harry had found in his History of Magic textbook, straightaway recognised her new master, greeting him with quiet dignity that Harry appreciated.

Then, back they went through the barrier wall, back into the Leaky Cauldron (this time not causing a scene), back to the train station, where Hagrid let Harry choose what he wanted to eat for lunch, which opportunity he'd never before had.

It was a memorable birthday for many, many different reasons, and it was almost completely Dursley-free. He felt free. It was wonderful.

His birthday was also the last day of the month. He knew that, of course—he couldn't help but know it—but he hadn't thought about it much that day. He'd thought of his mother, now and then, but for the most part, he'd just relished the experience of going where he wanted, and doing as he pleased, with no workload of chores, no Dursleys glaring at him, yelling at him, calling him freak or loser, or mocking his parents.

Not until he stood before the familiar cabin door, with the moon beginning to rise overhead, did he think of his mother, waiting for him, and the secret world she'd promised him he must wait to hear of before she would answer certain questions. He decided that she was right. He probably wouldn't have been able to feign the stricken-by-Mjölnir shock that had flooded him when he'd learnt that he was a wizard.

He knocked on the door, for once. It opened, as if acknowledging his true purpose, and let him in.

Chapter Text

The rest of the summer passed by in a rush. He had very little sleep, and little time besides to dwell on the mundane dreams that now filled his few hours of rest. He set to reading the textbooks with good will, picking out a name for Hedwig, comparing the building blocks of Transfiguration and Charms with what he'd learnt in his dreams, rearranging his mind to better encompass new knowledge. He would never remember this all—but then, it was the courseload of a year. Perhaps he'd feel different, come end of term.

At least the Dursleys, intimidated by Hagrid's magic and presence, left him alone. It was a bit dehumanising, to be utterly ignored (wasn't that a method of punishment that killed people, in certain cultures?), but he and the Dursleys had never been going to get on. He relished in the continued freedom.

At the end of August, his mother gave him a brief review of the coursework, reassured him that he wasn't expected to know everything , and they spent the rest of the time reminiscing (or rather, his mother was reminiscing about how Harry had been as a baby).

Then came September First, and the Dursleys dropping him off, stranding him at the train station, driving away with Dudley giving a victorious smirk.

At least his mother had thought to tell him the location of the platform. This was yet another check as to how much of these dreams were real .

He approached the blank brick wall between platforms nine and ten, pushing his trolley at a sedate pace. No one seemed to notice his stroll towards a blank wall.

No one noticed him stroll through the blank wall. Nor did they notice him pause to gawk at the bright, blood-red train stationed there. All around him, people were too busy, saying their farewells, or catching up with friends they hadn't seen since the last term had ended. No one noticed the scrawny, black-haired boy in his hand-me-downs, blocking the entryway.

He moved aside, to approach the train, uncertain as to what to do. He supposed he might as well board, and find a place to sit.

He decided that the Dursleys had done him a favour, after a fashion, with their endless lists of chores—he could lift a surprising weight for a scrawny eleven-year-old. He carried his trunk filled with his school books and the like onto the train, leaving Hedwig be for the moment, opening up a compartment door, near the back, and setting down his trunk before returning for his owl.

"—and I'd better not hear that you've caused any more trouble—" A woman's voice, a grown woman, reached his ears, used to listening for the smallest noises. She was speaking quite loudly , in the manner usual when you are in a public place, and furthermore in a hurry, and beside that quite exasperated.

"Us? Make trouble?" asked a much younger - sounding, male voice.

"Oh, Mum, can't I go? Please?" demanded the high-pitched whine of a little girl. He couldn't help peering over, to whom was speaking, as, judging by the little girl's assumption that she would go to Hogwarts, this might be a wizarding family .

His eyebrows rose as he counted the number of redheads hastening for the train. There was a plump, red-headed woman, her hair much brighter than his Mum's, and her daughter, who was older than he would have guessed from voice alone. Then, there was a tall, gangling boy, fidgeting off to the side, and two boys who looked older, and stouter, identical, or close enough from this distance. And then, the last, taller even than the gangling boy, with horn-rimmed spectacles, and an air of pompous gravitas.

"Well, Mother, I really must be off," the boy said, and sure enough, he sounded incredibly full of himself. "We prefects have a compartment all to ourselves."

"Oh, are you a prefect , Percy?" asked one of the twins (and they had to be twins, didn't they ? ).

"You should have said something—we had no idea," said the other, nodding.

"Hang on," continued the first. "I think I just remembered him saying something about it. Once—"

"—or twice—" the other continued, nodding.

"—a minute—"

"—all summer—"

Percy the prefect turned a startling crimson, and whirled back around to face the two. Harry tried his best to swallow a grin. Percy seemed rather...arrogant. Insufferable. All that about rules, rules, rules. But the twins might be fun....

"Oh, hush, you two. I'm very proud of your accomplishment, Percy," said the woman, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Harry hurried into his compartment to avoid Percy, and sat down, gazing out the window, scanning the crowd for the red - headed family, a bit disappointed to see that, at some point, the others had wandered off, leaving the little girl (not so little, though), and her mother, standing alone. Where had the other three gone ?

The door to his compartment slid open. One of the very boys he had just been pondering stood there, in the entrance.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry raised an eyebrow, considering. The boy did have a very interesting family, and he was curious about the twins in particular, but....

"Perhaps I would say 'yes' to your request," said Harry, after a moment of the boy standing there, awkward, clutching a heavy-looking, battered trunk that stuck out as a sore thumb amongst the other, brand-new ones that filled the train station. From closer-to, Harry could see that the boy looked rather haggard, ragged, worn down, overall. He knew hand-me-downs, and these were not even high - quality hand-me-downs. It made him slightly ... grateful to the Dursleys. That was pathetic.

"But," Harry continued , before the boy could move, " only if you tell me the real reason you're here, of all places."

He had the sense that he could tell when people were lying. Could sense something even beneath the obvious tells. He was almost positive the boy had been lying about checking the other compartments. And he'd caught the Dursleys in innumerable lies, over the years, and even his mother—

He wasn't sure about half-truths, though, so he silently hoped that the boy would just be direct, so that Harry could tell, yes or no.

"I...well, it's not that I meant to be misleading, exactly —"

False. "It's just...it's hard to explain. It sounds a bit incredible—I thought you might not believe me."

True. True. Wasn't that trunk heavy ? Harry's was—even for him.

"Try me," Harry said, leaning forwards. The boy swallowed, and turned away.

"I—my mother taught me a spell. She said I could use it to...to find someone who was or would be important to me, as long as I kept my focus. I followed it, and...and here you were. It must have meant you."

True. All of it true, although what any of that signified, Harry had no idea.

There was a long moment when neither moved. Then , Harry frowned, and said,

"Well, aren't you going to join me? That trunk looks a bit heavy to be carrying around."

The other boy shrugged. "It is not that bad. I must say, I'm glad you're not a Malfoy. I mean, I would have found a way to make peace with it, if you had been, but...I am still relieved."

What was a " Malfoy " ? Oh, well.

"The Malfoys are an old, rich, pureblood family. Our families are long-standing enemies," he explained, with a smile.

"Your families?" asked Harry, tilting his head. The boy blinked, as if caught off-guard.

"Oh...er, I didn't introduce myself, did I?" asked the boy. He shook his head. "A good way to make a bad first impression. I was just—"

"I distracted you. I understand." Harry gave a nod of encouragement.

"I'm Ron. Ronald Weasley, that is." He switched the trunk to his left hand, to hold out his right.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter," Harry said, with a smile, taking the hand just as the boy (Ron) dropped his trunk onto his own foot, as his jaw also dropped. He winced, but made no further move, except to bend down to pick up his trunk again.

"You are...you're Harry Potter? The Harry Potter?" asked Ron, his interest flaring bright. Harry nodded, and shrugged, with a vague smile that he hoped came across as slightly sheepish rather than aloof and apathetic. "Of course. Of course. Somehow, it seems to fit."

Harry now had no idea what Ron was talking about. He frowned. Shrugged.

"Are you quite alright? Do you need any help with your trunk?" he asked. Ron grimaced, but just folded his arms, glanced up at the overhead rack as if judging something, and then tried to lift the trunk overhead. They discovered that Harry's trunk was blocking the overhead rack, a bit, and he had to move it aside, but together, they managed to situate Ron's trunk next to Harry's.

The train was already moving when they sat back down, Ron seeming as if there were something he desperately needed to say. Every attempt Harry made to prompt him as to what this was, however, failed. Harry gave it up for a lost cause.

Ron at length pulled out a sandwich, which he eyed with such evident disgust that Harry had to try hard not to laugh.

"Mum always forgets I hate corned beef," Ron said, by way of explanation. "She hasn't got much time—you know, with the six of us...."

" Six ?" repeated Harry, incredulous. Percy, the twins, the girl, Ron, and his mother...well, that did seem to add up to six, but he hadn't consciously recognised that fact, before. "She must be really busy, indeed. Still...I wish I had three wizarding brothers—"

"Five," Ron corrected, his expression downcast. "Bill and Charlie already graduated from Hogwarts. Bill was Head Boy, and Charlie was Captain of Quidditch. Now, Percy's a prefect, and everyone agrees that the twins are very funny and smart, for all that they don't care about grades. Everyone expects me to do as well as they, but if I do, it's no big deal, because it's expected.

" But I suppose I got a bit off-topic. Well, it's hard for us to get going anywhere, even when it's scheduled well in advance, thus. It's all a bit...complicated. Everything has to be planned just so , and we ' re always running late. You never get anything new, either . I've Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

He pulled a boring-looking, if a bit beaten-up, old rat from his breast pocket. The most remarkable thing about it was a missing toe. Harry cocked his head at it, and then dismissed it as unimportant. Still...sure Hogwarts had said rats were allowed as pets, but that seemed highly unsanitary. Was that just a muggle thing ?

"This...is Scabbers," said Ron. "He might die, and I'm not sure I'd know for a while. All he seems to do anymore is sleep, which is alright, I guess—not very much fun, though. And it makes it hard to tell if he's still... well , or not. It was nice of Percy to give me his old rat, when he made prefect and Mum bought him an owl as a reward. I mean—I know she'd love to be able to provide us with better things, and I'm not complaining—"

"I get it," said Harry, with a small smile. This would be his first friend...well...ever. Loki hadn't made any friends, or hadn't seemed to, and Dudley had ensured that no one spoke to Harry in a friendly way twice. He had no background to go on, and he wanted this to go well. Still, people tended to get on better if they had things in common, right? So, he steeled himself and continued.

"My situation is a bit like yours, believe it or not. I mean, the Dursleys—that's my aunt, uncle, and cousin—are well - off enough, but they've never liked me, I guess because I had magic, so all I've had are Dudley's cast-offs to wear—that's why my clothes are so big." He pulled at the loose folds of his voluminous shirt for emphasis, as a frown appeared between Ron's eyebrows.

"I mean, they could have got me whatever I wanted, I think; they did for Dudley, but I can appreciate never getting anything new. Before I got my Hogwarts letter, they never even spoke of my mum or dad, and when Aunt Petunia finally broke that silence, it was to rant about how unnatural my mother was, and how she 'always knew she'd meet a sticky end'."

"Harry," Ron interrupted, his voice dropping an octave with sudden solemnity. "That is not the same thing at all. You can no t believe that it's the same. You deserve better, and they could have given you better, but chose not to."

Harry slumped. He'd ruined the thing, after all. Who knew burgeoning friendships were so fragile?

"I'm sorry," he said, because sometimes, just occasionally , the Dursleys went easier on him when he said the words—even back when he'd had no idea what he'd been apologising for . "I didn't mean—I didn't think—I'm sure your family are great people. I just—"

"Harry," said Ron, cutting through Harry's sudden insecure fumbling. "I a m not faulting you . I just wish...there were something I could do about these Dursleys , with whom you live. If my mother knew—"

He paused, and Harry, glancing up with not-quite-hope, could see the metaphorical lightbulb clicking on.

"Mum would have a fit if she knew how you'd been treated. Perhaps I shall speak out of turn, saying this, but—let us be your family, Harry. We might not be allowed to take you in—I don't know how such rules work, or what obstacles might stand in our way of adopting you, and I know better than to make such a promise, and get your hopes up, perhaps, before I have any knowledge of whether or not I could keep it, but—"

"You've just met me," Harry protested.

"Mother's spell guided me to you ," said Ron. "I am a coward if I need further proof of your worth before offering you help."

Harry swallowed, chest tight with some new emotion. No one but his Mum had ever shown him such kindness before, not even the librarians. He had no notion of how he ought to react, how usual this sort of thing was. He had no prior knowledge to fall back on. He thought of Loki, and Thor, the bond that had connected them, before Loki had whittled it down to nothing, and broken it. But even that gave him no guidance.

"I..." he said. He hesitated, for once at a loss for words. That in itself was a strange experience for him. What did you say to such an offer? "...Thank you."

He had the sense that Ron hadn't had a clue what sort of answer would have been acceptable, either. He just nodded his acceptance—or something—and the tension that had permeated the compartment dissipated.

They talked for a while, uninterrupted, about school, and about quidditch (Ron was a fan of a team called the "Chudley Cannons"). The topic of discussion turned to magic, and Harry's insecurity concerning his limited knowledge of the wizarding world. Ron told him about a spell that Fred and George had tried to teach him, to "make Scabbers more interesting". He'd pulled out the (sleeping) rat, and laid him down flat on his pants leg, when the compartment door slid open.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said a bushy-haired girl in an almost businesslike voice. She carried herself with a poise that verged on arrogance, with a superior tilt of the head that made Harry think of the two princes on their worst days. But he tried not to judge her too hastily . "Have either of you seen a toad? Neville's lost one." She jerked her head in the direction of a rather forgettable-looking chubby boy, whom Harry hadn't noticed standing behind her.

"No, sorry," said Harry. Ron shook his head, where he was sitting, calling the girl's attention to him.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see, then," she commanded. Harry felt a flare of irritation at her bossy attitude.

" Actually ," he said, in a calm voice. "He wasn't doing magic, at all. We'd been talking about it, of course, and he'd told me that his wand is a hand-me-down of his brother's. I'm rather curious about wand-making and wand lore. I asked Ollivander about it, but he wouldn't answer my questions well enough. What sort of core is it, Ron ? "

Ron blinked, looking a bit perplexed, but set the rat back in his pocket. "T welve inches. Unicorn hair," he supplied. "I don't know the wood, though—"

"Oh!" the girl cried, taking the bait. Harry inwardly relaxed. He wasn't sure that they were allowed to use magic on the train, and there was enough Percyness about her to make him wonder if she wouldn't have tattled on Ron.

"Mine's vine and dragon heartstring," she said, beaming. "Ollivander said it shows that I'm a quick learner, ready and adaptable for any subject."

"Phoenix feather and holly," said Harry, holding up his own wand. " Twelve inches ."

"I don't know about mine," said the last member of their temporary group. His voice was slow and hesitant. "It was my dad's."

" Really ? Neither of you chose your own wand—er, I mean, neither of you bought your own wand? But Ollivander said—"

"—You'll never get as good of results with another wizard's wand," Harry finished. The girl nodded.

"I suppose it will be a bit of a setback for you...but I've tried lots of magic, and it's all worked fine for me. Maybe I could help—"

"Not much you can do about that fact, is there ? " asked Harry, sighing. He did wish there were something he could do.

"Oh! I almost forgot to introduce myself. I'm Hermione Granger, and this is Neville Longbottom!"

"Ronald Weasley," said Ron, nodding at them. "It's nice to meet you."

Harry shrugged, internally bracing himself. "Harry Potter."

The girl's face lit up, and she clapped her hands.

"Are you really ? I know all about you! I read up on the subject thoroughly , and you're in Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts , and Noteworthy Wizards and Witches of the Twentieth Century — "

"Am I ? " asked Harry. His head was spinning from both the revelation, and Hermione's sudden, breakneck pace.

"And that qualifies as 'knowing all about' him?" Ron quietly interrupted. "What did they have to say of the Dursleys?"

Hermione paused, crossed her arms, and frowned.

"The what now?" she asked.

"The Dursleys," Ron repeated.

"I—" she faltered. "I've never heard of them—"

"My mother's sister and her family," Harry supplied, finally catching on to Ron's point. "I'm sure they must have had much to say about the family I spent the last ten years with."

Hermione hesitated—and then shook her head.

"Then perhaps," Ron said, in an almost soothing voice. "You do not know as much as you believe. Perhaps you would learn more about Harry by spending five minutes with him, than from your books. Experience, I have found, is a great teacher."

Hermione glanced at Neville, glanced back at Ron, and then finally at Harry. She bit her lip, and then nodded. "Yes. Yes, perhaps you're right. I'm sorry, Harry," she said.

Whoa. Well...maybe she wasn't all bad.

"It's fine. I suppose you just got a bit overexcited."

"I—Well, I think we'd better keep looking for your toad, Neville. It was...nice to meet you both," said Hermione, mustering a tiny smile. The arrogance had gone—for now.

They slid the compartment door quietly shut behind them, and Harry turned to Ron.

"That was amazing!" he said. "You knew just what to say to make her think about all of this!"

"Well, know-it-alls are know-it-alls, I suppose. I live with Percy," said Ron. It did not seem a very satisfactory answer, but it seemed churlish and ungrateful to demand a better one, after Ron had just saved him from the long-winded Hermione.

Instead, he nodded, and their conversation resumed.

Several hours, and a visit from a lady pushing a trolley loaded with sweets later, the compartment door again opened.

But it wasn't Neville or Hermione, this time. It was the blond boy from Madame Malkin's, this time flanked by two heavyset, burly eleven-year-olds (to the extent that eleven-year-olds qualified as such ) . They both looked even more like gorillas than Dudley (no mean feat), and as if they somehow managed to also have fewer brains (even more impressive). The boy eyed Harry with far greater interest than he had back in the shop.

"They've been saying all up and down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment." False. More like , he'd opened the door, looked for likely candidates, and was taking a chance, or somehow had some other means of identifying him. " So it's you, is it ? "

He was staring right at Harry. Harry, meanwhile, was thinking of the promise made in Madame Malkin's. He gave a terse nod.

"I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. And these are Crabbe and Goyle." He jerked his head at each of them in turn. "And there's no need for you to introduce yourself ," he added, in a vitriol-laden voice of pure sardonicism. "Father told me how to spot a Weasley—red-hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

A faint, undeniably familiar aroma accosted Harry. It took him a second to identify it. Ron had sprung to his feet the moment he'd caught sight of the boy (Malfoy), which made sense. So this was a Malfoy—the infamous inveterate foes of the Weasley clan. Harry sprang to his feet, now, too, to hiss in Ron's ear.

"Ron—Ron, your pants are on fire!"

Ron started, and blinked, and removed his clenched fists from his smoking pockets, beating the fire out.

Malfoy laughed, and Harry glared at him.

"Yes, you'd better be more careful," Malfoy snickered. "Your family can hardly afford to go replacing even muggle clothes, now can they? Anyway," said Malfoy, the mirth vanishing from his voice as he turned to Harry. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you, there." He held out his hand, and Harry raised an eyebrow, glaring down at it. This had the smack of making a "deal with the devil" to it. Something with which he had the sense that he ought to be more familiar.

I'm not making that mistake twice , he found himself thinking.

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," he said, coolly. "And I have no great faith in the trustworthiness of those who so readily break their promises. Breaking it I might understand, were we, for instance, forced into a group project by our professors, but here—of your own volition? You were content enough to leave me be when I was just a mudblood," He spat the term with the venom it deserved. He could almost feel Ron tense, beside him. "You're only speaking to me because I'm Harry Potter. Well, think me whatever you will, as long as we can return to the silence you swore yourself to."

Malfoy glared at him. "You! You tricked me!" he spat. Harry shrugged, as Ron glanced back and forth between them. He had the sense that Ron wanted to intervene— had wanted to intervene—but recognised that Harry had to make his own choices, or something.

" Hardly ," Harry said. "You promised that we wouldn't exchange words any further. There was no trickery involved in that. The only difference is that now you know my name, as I know yours. Well, be off, will you?"

"You'd better watch it. If you're not careful, you'll meet the same end as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either, blood traitors, making friends with—"

"Say that again," said Harry, sudden anger coursing through him at Malfoy's words. He told himself that Malfoy had no idea whom he was insulting, but he thought of Lily Potter, his mum, thought of Frigga, how, one way or another, it was his mother's kindness that had helped him to endure the Dursleys, had kept him sane in those long nights of turmoil. He thought of Odin, distant but well-meaning. In the moment, it didn't matter which side of the balance of the scales he was standing on. Family was family. How dared Malfoy—?

Ron was incensed, too, but he was swifter than Harry . "I suggest you leave, now , or I will not be responsible for what happens to you," he said, his voice quiet and intense. Malfoy swallowed, took a step back, and choked out a laugh, as if trying to laugh the threat off .

"I don't think so ," said Malfoy. "We've eaten all our sweets, and you still seem to have some."

"Leave. Now." Harry didn't raise his voice, but he did send Malfoy one of Loki's death glares.

Which never had seemed to work. Huh.

Goyle yelped, and withdrew his hand from the pile of candy, with a rat still stubbornly clinging to it. He whipped his hand through the air until the rat went flying, to crash against the wall of the compartment. Ron dove for Scabbers , and lifted him up in his hands.

"You heard him," he said, head whipping around to glare at all three boys. " Out ."

Ron's death glare was much more intimidating. Malfoy backed hastily out, followed by Crabbe and Goyle.

"Is Scabbers alright?" asked Harry, bending down to examine Ron's pet more closely .

"I think he's unconscious—no, he's just gone back to sleep. Incredible."

Scabbers most definitely had.

"You've met Malfoy before?" Ron asked, stowing the rat back in his pocket.

Harry grimaced, and began to recount the meeting with the boy at Madame Malkin's.

"I see," Ron said, grinning. " That was what you meant. Well, you were lucky. The Malfoys—Dad reckons they were right in You-Know-Who's inner circle." Harry noted down in his mental tally board that, thus far, everyone called Voldemort "You-Know-Who" which suggested that there was cause, and that he himself ought to do the same. But most of his attention was directed towards Ron. "At the end, they escaped Azkaban—the wizard prison—by pretending they'd been mind-controlled, and forced to commit the atrocities they committed under You-Know-Who's reign."

Ron's voice seemed oddly distant. Harry shivered at the mention of mind - control, although he didn't know why. Or perhaps, he did. Something else, something other . Something that had twisted Loki into something unrecognisable, perhaps.

He swallowed, hard, and pushed all such thought aside.

"Oh," he said. His voice sounded small, even to him. "Yes. That's ... that's lucky, I suppose."

"A lot of the Slytherins have parents who were Death Eaters," Ron continued, his voice grim. Harry tried to focus on the conversation at hand. "And a lot claimed the same. Slytherin—that's the house of pureblood supremacy. We Weasleys might be purebloods, but we're 'blood traitors'—you heard Malfoy. We've all been in Gryffindor House for generations, now."

Harry decided that he was going to be in Gryffindor House. If not that, then any other house than Slytherin. The last thing he needed was running into Malfoy all the time.

Chapter Text

Standing in the Great Hall, watching the other kids be sorted, Harry thought about the song, and considered the four houses. On the train, he'd remembered Frigga's lesson on the magic of the souls of places. The train was full of laughter and intrigue (probably gossip), but Hogwarts was filled with quiet dignity and strength. The Great Hall reverberated with the power of the long-ago Founders, memories and souls fashioned, moulded, and polished here.

This was a place of power, a natural reserve of magic, which could be used for good, or for ill. He would try to keep that in mind. And to continue to pay attention—the castle was huge, and the palace was huge, and if the palace had a myriad different functions and atmospheres, Hogwarts doubtless would, too.

He decided all of this whilst listening to McGonagall's explanation of the houses. He ignored the arrival of the Hogwarts ghosts—their first appearance, as it were. If magic were real, ghosts were a given—they featured in plenty of muggle stories, and belief in them was much more accepted amongst muggles than magic, perhaps because muggles were possessed of a sixth sense (some of them, at least). A castle was bound to have at least some ghosts, and these seemed innocuous—not like the fake-ghosts known as "poltergeists". He dismissed them as uninteresting and unimportant, for the moment. He had no desire to look at the ceiling, enchanted invisible the better to display the sky overhead.

Then the Hat had started to sing, and he'd leant back, fascinated, to stare, smiling a bit as he heard Ron grumbling next to him. Something about the twins misleading him.

Of the four, he thought that Ravenclaw, with its focus on study and wit, seemed the best fit for Loki, and Thor was a natural Gryffindor. And, as he had resolved to be like Thor, even before the dreams had started using names, he'd have to do his best to convince the Hat to put him in Gryffindor.

Not to mention that that was where Ron Weasley said his whole family ended up. That meant Ron probably would be there, too. Another good reason.

The first recognised name to be called was, of course, Hermione Granger. What was a surprise was that, after several minutes, the Hat called out "Gryffindor". He frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Surely her fixation on books meant that she was best suited to House Ravenclaw?

Hmm.

Neville Longbottom also went into Gryffindor, and the Hat had scarce touched Malfoy's head before it screamed "Slytherin". Different people took more or less time. Presumably that meant that the sorting was a more complicated process than Malfoy made it seem with his short sorting.

Before he knew it, it was his turn. He was unprepared, despite being forewarned, for the way that the entire room turned as one to stare at him.

Well, except for his former fellow unsorteds, that was. He swept his gaze around the room, and his eyes caught on Ron, who nodded, and gave him a small, encouraging smile.

He closed his eyes, opened them after a moment, and walked up to the stool bearing the Sorting Hat. Under McGonagall's watchful gaze, he lifted the Hat off the stool, and sat down on the stool, instead. There were plenty of reasons why everyone thus far had sat—habit, tradition, or just for something to do. But, somehow, he suspected that, while a Hat was rooting around in your mind, it probably made sense that you'd be…slightly less aware of the world outside, yourself.

The stool was there to stop people from collapsing, as puppets with cut strings.

Oh, he wished that hadn't been the simile that occurred to him right before putting on a mind-reading hat.

Perhaps it reminded him of something.

My, well, this is unusual, said the Hat, into Harry's mind. Harry started, as he felt the very familiar tension, the tingling, the urge to run. Fight or flight, they called it, and he had nothing to fight. Perhaps—

I beg your pardon. What's unusual? he asked, because one thing that the Dursleys had truly not botched with him was manners. He'd been raised to be polite and proper. Even, as it seemed, to a talking hat.

I don't think I've ever sorted a god before, the Hat mused, causing Harry to go utterly still. It wasn't talking about—

Now, look here, you. I'm not a god — those are just dreams. How do you know about them, anyway?

"There's nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can't see", the Sorting Hat quoted its own song back at Harry. Right. He remembered it saying that.

Let's see, it was saying now. Plenty of wit and wisdom—I see you already figured that out. Not big on fair play, are you, though? And you do have a slytherin desire to prove yourself, and the desire to prove your worth to your father—to prove you could be a worthy king—

That's not me, Harry said, finally catching on to where the Hat was looking. I'm not Loki. I'm Harry Potter. Didn't you hear my name called?

Could the Hat hear? Well, why not? Might as well assume, and perhaps be proven wrong.

Denying the truth will not help you in facing the inevitable, my lord. All it will do is make you that much more the unprepared, when Thanos comes for you.

Harry shivered, not knowing why, at the name that was familiar, and not, at the same time. He'd never heard it spoken before—he was sure of that—but the mere mention of it heightened the tension through his whole body, and made dread settle deep into his bones.

The being? The one that had twisted—?

Oh, all right. Let's see here. You skived off your lessons rather, looking for information about your dreams, which I don't think a Ravenclaw would be able to stomach doing. Knowledge for its own sake, whether here or there, and libraries are not the sorts of places requiring a strategic mind. As for Hufflepuff—well, you do have a rather warped sense of justice, don't you? Only to be expected, after living with those Dursleys for so long. But you are loyal to those you love, and, while a bit underhanded in your tactics sometimes, you strive to be a man of your word. Still, not Hufflepuff, I think. You would be alone in a crowd, there.

That just leaves Slytherin and Gryffindor. You came to this school seeking for a means to be like your brother, to prove yourself to your family by being the "good guy". Perhaps I was wrong to categorise that as ambition. Love is your guiding force, the guidance of your mother, the authority of your father, the protection of your brother. Slytherin would lead you down a bad path, and, whether you put it that way or not, in those words or not, what you seek for is redemption . Slytherin would lead you away from that road.

He wondered if the Hat was only paying attention to itself, or if it was actually listening to his pleas of not Slytherin, not Slytherin.

You're in luck, then, my lord. I choose the students' houses not only owing to the traits they possess, but also by their values, the traits they wish to possess. I guide them to the houses that will help them to become who they wish to be. And never fear: for better or for worse, at great cost, with no reward possible, I keep the inner worlds of the students I sort a secret. None shall learn your secrets from me , my lord.

Well, too lazy and vengeful for Hufflepuff, too fixated upon the interests of the moment for Ravenclaw, and the slytherins would lead you from your desired course. I suppose, if you wish to become the best you can be, if you seek for the grandeur of legendary heroes—and gods—it had better be "Gryffindor!"

The Hat yelled the last word aloud, and Harry was reaching to pull it off, mind already whirring back into life to process all that had just happened, when the Hat added, in what passed for a low whisper among mental voices, Be careful, Your Grace. Perhaps you sensed it: a corner of your mind is not your own. Tread with caution around it, for that way lies madness.

Harry shivered, but was past correcting a piece of headwear. He pulled off the Hat, unseeing, and set it gently down onto the stool, barely hearing the twins' cries of "We got Potter! We got Potter!" as he processed the last, ominous warning of the Hat.

And who was "Thanos"? He shivered again, at the name. There was far more reaction to that name than there should be. He'd barely reacted at all to the mention of Voldemort, and yet this man, this being, whoever it was, whom he didn't know, whose deeds he couldn't name, filled him with such lethargy, weighed him down so that he could only shuffle towards the red-and-gold table?

Stark's colours, he thought. He was too tired to filter his thoughts, whether there was any justification to them. He'd told the Sorting Hat that he wasn't a god, and the thing had done the sentient headwear equivalent of patting him on the head and saying, "there, there".

He sat there, brooding, until he heard the name "Weasley, Ronald!" be called, and his attention returned to the moment. There was not a doubt in his mind that, if even he had come into Gryffindor, Ron would do the same.

But he remembered the strength Ron had given him, before his own sorting, and locked eyes with Ron. Another smile. Another nod, as if they were personal belongings being handed back after a checkpoint.

Ron would do it, but that didn't mean that Harry couldn't show his support.

And, sure enough, it didn't take half as long to sort Ron as it had to sort Harry. Ron also looked far more relaxed, posture loose and comfortable, as he slid into a seat next to Harry. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, and grinned, and Harry found that he was smiling, just a little, too. Hermione Granger, seated across from them, gave a tentative smile and wave, and then returned to watching the sorting with rapt attention.

There were only a few students left, of course, with "w" being at almost the very end of the alphabet, and then Dumbledore stood to give a speech to Welcome them (back) to Hogwarts.

It was a very odd speech. Harry wasn't sure how seriously to take it.

The moment Dumbledore seated himself, the plates in the centres of the dining table filled with every type of dinner imaginable (and quite a few Harry'd never heard of). The Dursleys had never quite starved him, per se, at least as he reckoned it, but they'd always kept him on shorter commons than even Aunt Petunia's. He had the ordinary caloric intake equivalent of a ham-and-cheese sandwich per day (two, on a good day!). And, while he'd heard that you could cause yourself serious problems, going from eating very little to overindulging, he couldn't resist piling his plate with some of the foods he'd always wanted to try, but had never had the chance to.

Meanwhile, conversations flared up around him. Initially, he was content to listen, as Hermione badgered Percy Weasley about the courses for the year, and he reassured her that they would be starting small (that made sense, but the tension still lingering in his muscles loosened just a little at the pronouncement). Next, he paid attention to Seamus Finnigan, who was explaining that his Dad had married his Mum before she'd revealed that she was a witch. "Bit of a nasty shock for him," Seamus said, with a grin, and most of those within earshot laughed and nodded.

Harry thought of Loki, thought of the secret that had at last torn the dream-family apart, and turned to Seamus.

"How is it funny, exactly?" he asked, in his politest voice. "I mean, I'm guessing from your reaction that your father, after a brief period of adjustment, reacted well to the news. But that could very easily have gone much worse—for your mother, and for you."

He thought of the Dursleys, Aunt Petunia's resentment, the universal hatred of magic that permeated the Dursley household. Ron sent him a sharp look, as if reading his mind.

"Suppose your father mistreated your Mum and you—or filed for divorce and left her to take care of you by herself? There's a lot of tension caused when people are even of different religions than one another. Suppose your father had been an old-school Christian, who believed that witches were all evil, in league with the devil, and it wouldn't be murder to get rid of such a threat to the community?"

"Well, they knew each other well enough that she could guess how he would react—"

"Then why wait until after they were married—when it was too late to fix many of the problems with less extreme measures—to tell him?" Harry cut in, leaning towards Seamus.

Seamus didn't have a ready reply. "I—I dunno. They always seemed okay with it. They laughed about it—"

"I hadn't thought about that," said the boy sitting next to Seamus, taller than Ron, and more solidly built, with short-cut black hair, and dark skin. His head tilted back, as he considered. "Maybe you should write your Mum and ask…?"

Harry tuned them out, again.

"No one thought I was magic at all, until one day, when I was nine. My great-uncle Algie was dangling me out a window, but Aunt Enid asked him if he wanted a slice of pie, and he let go…but I bounced, all the way down the road. He was so pleased that he bought me my pet toad, Trevor."

Neville held up the toad as he mentioned him. Harry facepalmed, and rounded on Neville.

'"Really? Is this the sort of thing that's considered 'acceptable' in wizarding society? Suppose you hadn't bounced? Are you sure your uncle wasn't trying to kill you? And what sort of consolation prize is a toad who keeps running away from you?"

"I like Trevor," Neville protested. "And I know that Uncle Algie didn't want to hurt me. He was just so worried that I didn't have magic at all, see—"

"—that it justified child abuse?"

The tension at the table stretched out, as a taut cord. He could feel the eyes of the entire side of their table on him, but he refused to back down. Asgard was one thing, but there was no way a magical society on Earth was this backwards…was there?

"Harry," said Ron, a simple word, just his name, but said in a tone that he couldn't readily identify. "Please, calm down. It's good that you're worried about the world's injustice, but you can't fix things by alienating your friends. As Seamus said, you don't know all the circumstances, and Neville doesn't seem bothered by it. I know you're just trying to help, but…people do need to fight their own battles."

"Right. I'm sorry, Seamus, Neville. I…I just—"

He would not admit to them that personal experience made him keenly aware of the dangers of which they seemed so indifferent. Neville gave him a timid smile, as if, really, he was just glad that Harry seemed no longer on the warpath. Seamus was less forgiving; he crossed his arms, and scowled, but nodded, as if to say, I'll let it go this time. With them back to their own conversations, Ron rounded on Harry.

"I know you do not know me, and I know too little about you, and perhaps this is presumptuous of me to say, and I hope that you will forgive my saying this, but I think perhaps you are lashing out, thinking about something else. You seem…preoccupied, ever since the Sorting Hat finished sorting you. Distracted. Is there something you wish to speak about?"

Harry shivered again, thinking of the familiar name that the Sorting Hat had used. Once spoken, the name seemed to have burrowed into his mind like—like—he didn't even know what. A mole? He'd probably have an easier time finding a relevant simile if he weren't steering clear of everything involving minds, or human beings. He closed his eyes, as if to clear away the Sorting Hat's words, and warning.

"I don't know, myself," he said, because it was easier to admit, with his eyes closed. "Something the Hat said…a name…." He could feel Ron tense in anticipation. Why could he sense that tension in the air? Or was it that, somehow, he knew Ron's mind too well? But that made no sense either. "I think he said…Thanos."

He whispered the name, as if it were too dangerous to be spoken louder. Perhaps it was. He couldn't place it, after all. It might belong to anyone, or anything.

"…'Thanos'?" Ron repeated, and Harry flinched. He didn't even know why. He just did. And then he thought of what he'd been considering before: a puppet master, manipulating even gods from the shadows. A formless, vague threat, given at last a name. He now understood the wizarding world's reluctance to speak the name "Voldemort". Would it be better to say it, or to not?

"Harry?" asked Ron, bending over him. Harry had no idea when Ron had moved; he'd been too engrossed in his own thoughts. Ideas were starting to churn in his mind, but none of them were good. He wanted to banish them all from reality.

He slaughters the half of every world he conquers, and calls it mercy .

He was fairly sure that that was Loki's voice, or a memory of it, but one he couldn't place. It felt as if the world were unraveling around him, beneath him, and he'd fall into the void….

"Harry!" Ron cried, and whacked him on the head. Harry shook his head violently, but felt oddly grateful that Ron had managed to dislodge his thoughts from wherever they'd been heading. Nowhere good, he knew.

And then he remembered the Sorting Hat's entire warning.

That way lies madness.

"I'm very sorry, Ron. What were you saying?" he asked, dragging himself back to the present with a monumental effort. He wasn't even resentful in the slightest of Ron's sudden act of violence.

"I believe you were lost in your thoughts, there. They did not seem very pleasant."

"They weren't," Harry said, bowing his head. "I think…you'd better make sure I don't get lost in those thoughts again. The Sorting Hat warned me it might happen, but I didn't even see it coming."

He was babbling, looking up at the row of teachers at the staff table. Were any of them capable of protecting him from the greatest threat—which seemed to originate from his own mind?

"I will," said Ron, an oath sworn with immense, and suiting, gravity. He followed Harry's gaze to the staff table. "But you—"

"You can't tell anyone," he protested. "Please, Ron."

Ron bowed his head, and then nodded. "Then, I will be your sole sentinel, if you require it of me. While flattered by the trust you seem to place in me, I wish that you would let others help you, also."

Harry nodded absently, as his gaze alit upon a teacher with pale skin, an aquiline nose, and long, greasy black hair. sitting next to Professor Quirrell, who now wore a purple turban. Why? Who knew?

As he glanced at the former, the man turned to him with a fierce glare, their eyes met, and a sharp pain shot through his scar, and he winced, clutching it in his left hand.

"Harry, are you alright?" Ron demanded. It was probably too many scares in too short of a time.

"I'm fine," Harry muttered. Huh. Maybe he had internalised Asgardian bravado.

"You are not fine," Ron said, frowning. The pain made it difficult to make out Ron's expression, exactly, but he could still recognise a frown when he saw one. "Perhaps you should—"

"It's nothing," Harry repeated. "Just growing pains, I expect," he said, voice deliberately light. He'd fooled plenty of people with his feigned levity.

But, apparently, not Ron Weasley, who seemed to be determined to be his bodyguard, or something.

"From your scar?" he asked. "I saw you clutching your head, just now—"

"Who's that teacher speaking to Professor Quirrell?" he demanded of Percy. Percy, while not exactly pleased to be interrupted, seemed to recognise the urgency in Harry's voice, as did Ron, whose expression said, this is not over, young man. Harry resisted the powerful urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, you already know Professor Quirrell, do you? No wonder he looks so nervous: that's Professor Snape."

"Snape?" Harry repeated, forehead crinkling as he pondered this new information. Had he, perhaps, heard that name before? From Mum?

"The Head of Slytherin House," Percy elaborated. "And everyone knows how much he hates anyone who isn't in Slytherin. And Quirrell has the job Snape's been applying to for years: Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. No matter if the job is jinxed."

"Jinxed?" repeated Harry, eager for any distraction. Percy nodded.

"No teacher has lasted for more than a year in the position for decades. Almost everyone agrees that the job must be cursed, somehow."

Huh. Well, that made a lot to think about.

He was still thinking about everything that had happened a short while later, when the plates cleared themselves, and Dumbledore stood to give a second, more traditional speech, in what seemed to be a usual style for him—a mixture of light-hearted wit, and genuine warmth and concern. Parsing out what was meant to be taken literally, what metaphorically, and what was only a joke was something of a task.

He decided that the warnings concerning prohibited activities and items was sincere, as well as the gravely-delivered threats concerning the Forbidden Forest, and the third-floor Charms corridor. As the latter was inside, he hoped that said corridor was well-labeled. To do otherwise seemed to be inviting trouble.

He almost forgot about Ron's determined fixation with getting him treatment for his unknown ailment. It was a bit like Thor being the overprotective big brother to Loki, and, while it was nice to have someone—even a stranger—care about Harry's well-being, it was also…well, rather trying. He was used to having to take care of himself, by himself. He had no idea how to react towards someone wanting to help him.

"My scar hurt when I glanced over at Professor Snape," he said, as they walked through the corridors, following Percy to the Gryffindor Common Room, as they'd never been, and didn't know the way. Also, there was apparently a password. "That's all I know. But I don't think it has anything to do with…you know…Thanos." He managed to force out the name.

"Anything else I might say would be pure conjecture. For instance, the notion that Snape might hate me, personally, when he could just have easily been glaring at you, or someone else in Gryffindor, or just the gryffindor table in general. Call it a hunch, perhaps based on the bias of experience."

He shrugged, and spread his arms wide. "Now, you know as much as I. Now, will you leave me be?"

"Your scar—"

"Doesn't even hurt anymore. It was just a brief flare of pain, which immediately subsided. Don't you have your own problems to deal with?"

He hadn't meant to snap at Ron, but Ron was being overbearing, and Harry had had a rather…exciting day. He needed time to process it, and Ron seemed almost determined to prevent this. That was a paranoid thought, there.

They arrived at the portrait hole a short time later. Ron had not said a word more.

Chapter Text

It was a good thing that Harry had a visit to Hagrid's to look forward to, because the entire week thus far had been a nightmare—or rather, a series of literal nightmares divided by days filled with staring and whispering behind his back. If that wasn't enough, there was also the Hogwarts resident "poltergeist", Peeves. Whether or not he was a poltergeist, according to standard usage, was a matter for debate. What he was was a nuisance who did not take kindly to the realisation that Harry could tell when he was lying, and therefore would not fall for his false directions. It was rather tempting to see whether a ghost that was more corporeal than the standard ones was also more…vulnerable. Harry was not in the best frame of mind.

A somewhat mitigating factor was the Gryffindor House ghost, whom Harry took to calling "Sir Nick", to respect both his rank and his desire for informality. Perhaps it was a certain familiarity in the way he comported himself that put Harry at ease, reminding him of the palace. Perhaps it was Sir Nick's general good grace and humour, and his willingness to set even Slytherins on the proper course.

And, speaking of, this was before his first Potions lesson, where he learnt that his instinct must most assuredly have been correct: Snape did hate him, for whatever reason.

He couldn't wait for September Thirtieth, when he could ask his Mum if she knew a "Snape", and what his problem with Harry might be.

"Ah, Harry Potter. Our new…celebrity," said Snape, upon reaching Harry's name on the roll. But he'd continued on through the list before redirecting his attention back to Harry.

"Potter! What will I get if I added powdered root of asphodel and infusion of wormwood?" he snapped. Harry, worn out by his vague nightmares, and not having memorised the textbook, as Hermione had, gave a small shrug, trying to seem unintimidated, but respectful.

"I don't know, sir," he said, making sure that he sounded as respectful as he could.

"Tut tut…fame clearly isn't everything. Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming here, eh?"

Snape's eyes glinted, as he seemed to catch the tiny motion of Harry biting his tongue to keep from retorting. Snape was higher on the pecking order. There was nothing Harry could do. It was quite galling; he had done nothing to merit such disdain as he sensed oozing from the man before him.

"Where would you look if I asked you for a bezoar?" Snape continued.

In your potions cabinet, Harry struggled not to respond. "In the stomach of a goat, sir," he said, and Snape's eyes narrowed.

At least he had found no fault with that response. "Tell me, then, Potter, what is the difference between aconite and wolfsbane?"

"One of the names comes from Greek, and the other is Germanic, but they're essentially the same plant," Harry said.

"I don't recall asking you to show off, Mr. Potter," said Snape, eyes narrowed. His nose wrinkled into a sneer. He shot a glare towards Hermione, who had ignored all the warning signs of a bully, and stood with her hand raised to the ceiling. She'd grown progressively more desperate as Snape had continued to grill Harry. Her posture screamed: "Ask me! I know! Ask me!"

"Sit down, Ms. Granger!" Snape snapped at her, and, deflating, Hermione sank onto her chair again. Ron glared at Snape, who, thankfully, was too busy glaring at Harry to notice.

"For your information, wormwood and powdered asphodel make a potion so strong, it is known as the Draught of Living Death. And yes, aconite and wolfsbane are the same plant, which also goes by the name of monkshood. And, much as it pains me to admit it, Potter does at least know where to find the most basic antidote to poison. It is well known for being the much prized and rare universal antidote. Well, what are you all waiting for? Why aren't you writing this down?"

Harry thought he'd probably remember this for the rest of his life, anyway—it had to be up there amongst his top ten worst first impressions ever made, and he'd probably remember the scene as long as he remembered Snape. He'd definitely still remember by the end of the year. Nevertheless, it never did to flout authority; he removed his quill, ink bottle, and some parchment, and began to write.

Yes. For whatever reason, Snape did hate him specifically. He'd managed to take ten points from Harry by the end of the class for trivial infractions, as well as his "cheek". Which made no sense, because Harry'd gone out of his way to be as polite and accommodating as possible.

He was fuming by the time he left class, and he was free to express his true feelings. Ron looked a bit alarmed at how quickly Harry's expression soured.

It was nice, Harry decided, to have someone to rant to, someone who listened. He wasn't sure he'd exactly stayed on the topic of Snape throughout his entire rant—fatigue was making him a bit muddled in his thoughts—but he was still fuming when he knocked on Hagrid's door an hour later.

"Ah, come in, come in. Good to see you again, Harry. And good to see you've made a friend. Sit down, you two. Don't mind Fang—he's a bit energetic, but harmless."

Hagrid fetched three mugs from his cupboards, and set them down, before filling them with water.

"You must be another Weasley," he told Ron. "Don't know how many times I've had to chase your twin brothers away from the forest—"

"He's Ron," Harry interrupted. It was no fun, having older brothers, living in their shadows, constantly being recognised only as comparison to them. He knew that full well, and didn't want Ron to sink into the same trap as he had. As Loki had. Whatever. Life was too confusing, and he was too tired, to stick to any given decision regarding his dreams.

Ah, yes. Dreams. Nightmares. They'd returned, but they bore no happiness for him, now. He wanted to shove them aside, and not think about them, until tonight, when he'd have to. He knew that, if he could just bear through it, the dreams would eventually run their course. The problem was, it was hard to convince his pounding heart and racing mind of this fact, when it came time to sleep. And, while twelve hours a night was probably excessive, twelve hours a week—

Had the water in his mug just darkened and turned red? Probably not, but he set it hastily aside, anyway.

He forced himself to pay attention to the conversation, piecing together that the grubby little package from vault 713 had been something very special, indeed, before stumbling back to the castle. He didn't even have an answer for Snape's profound animosity towards him. Just what was he supposed to have done to this man?

After dinner, despite knowing better, he was finding sleep an incredibly tempting prospect. He'd done all his homework for the previous few days, and the weekend was here, meaning he had some time to work on that assigned today. And to sleep. He could use that.

Which made him a bit quicker to lash out at Ron when the red-headed boy pulled him aside, worry clear in his (amazingly open) face.

"Harry, we need to talk," he said. Harry gave a heavy sigh, and wondered if there were some way that he could convince Ron to wait for later.

"If this is still about my scar on the first night—"

Ron blinked, looking momentarily taken aback, and Harry concluded that that thought had been far from Ron's mind, if not altogether forgotten. Okay, then, what?

"Not about that," he said, pulling Harry aside of the common room. "It's about your nightmares."

Harry tensed. How could Ron possibly know about those? Unless….

He closed his eyes, and bowed his head. He remembered those dreams, as he remembered all his different dreams. And these were all very painful, twisted, unpleasant things. It was possible that he'd….

"You woke up the rest of the dorm, once or twice," Ron continued, voice grim. He didn't look half as haggard as Harry felt; clearly he'd been able to get back to sleep after Harry had dragged himself into wakefulness and gone back down to the abandoned common room to work on his homework.

"Very sorry to have interrupted your beauty sleep," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. His temper, never exactly under control, was much closer to the surface owing to lack of sleep. He was feeling a bit reckless…and petty. He needed to vent, but had no experience in how to.

"Is this about…" Ron hesitated, as if deliberating whether or not to say the name. Botheration. There was already a "You-Know-Who". How could they talk about Thanos without using his name?

Even hearing it from within the confines of his own mind—especially in the confines of his own mind—made him flinch. Thankfully, or perhaps not, that was answer enough for Ron, who sighed, and sagged.

"Harry, I want to ask a favour. Will you do something for me?" Ron asked. Harry discovered that Ron had mastered the puppy-dog eyes.

"That depends. What is it?" he demanded. He wasn't about to commit to anything without knowing what it was he was agreeing to. He'd only known Ron for a week!

"Well…first, do you think it's possible that (…you know) Thanos, is a real person, somewhere? Because, if so, he could be affecting your mind from a distance. And—"

"Why would he be after me?" Harry asked, running his hand through his bangs, revealing the lightning bolt scar that provided one possible answer to his question. Ron attempted to raise a single eyebrow in response. Harry frowned.

"You think he works for You-Know-Who?" asked Harry, feeling ragged and thin. Too many threats, on too many fronts. Too many emergencies eating away at his attention.

"It's possible. But…now. The way you reacted…."

"If he's real, then he's a greater threat than You-Know-Who," said Harry. Loki's words drifted through his mind once more: he slaughters the half of every world he conquers…and calls it mercy.

If Voldemort had such power, the muggle world would know about it. Thanos was a far distant threat; that was the secret to his latency.

"And much further away," he added.

Ron sighed, hanging his head. "All the same… I had no choice but to speak to the other boys in our dorms. Neville and Dean shared my concerns, such as they are, and wish to help you. Harry, you don't have to suffer alone. Trust us. Perhaps we can help you. You are running yourself ragged, trying to endure this alone."

Harry hesitated. "You're asking me—"

"You don't have to. We are not forcing you to do anything. But 'a burden shared is a burden halved'. You need not share more than you think best. But…perhaps…if it might help you…."

"They're waiting for us, are they?" asked Harry, unable to keep a note of bitterness out of his voice.

Ron nodded, and wouldn't meet his eyes. Great. Still, he meant well. That had to count for something.

Harry went over to sit in one of the armchairs of the Gryffindor Common Room. It was a rather cosy room, overall, and the chairs were far too comfortable for the task he was about to undertake. Perhaps he could keep himself more alert if he sat in the least comfortable of them.

"Hullo, Harry," said Neville, in a voice barely above a whisper. Dean looked up from a pad of white paper, holding up a hand in silent greeting.

"How did Ron coerce you lot into doing this, anyway?" asked Harry, deciding to test the waters first. Neville shrugged and squirmed, but Dean said, in a would-be casual voice,

"Well, he said he thought we ought to do something about your nightmares, since it was making it hard for us to sleep. Hard to disagree with that. But, don't worry, he made us agree first that: one, nothing said here leaves here, and two, we won't push you to reveal anything. We can have this be a study session, if you want. But you might find it more productive to talk.

"As for why we're here—Neville's here because you were nice to him, and he wants to help you, if he can. And I'm here because I'm a damn good artist, and I might be able to put things down in images. You know what they say: 'a picture's worth a thousand words'."

He held up his notepad—or rather, sketchpad, as it was entirely blank, and made of what was quite plainly not parchment—and only then did Harry notice the coloured pencils standing to his side, and the ordinary yellow shave-to-sharpen pencil currently being twirled in the hand not holding the sketchpad still on his lap.

He wondered if that made Dean left-handed, or if he were ambidextrous, or if he'd switch hands to draw. Did it matter, or was he just stalling?

"You really think this will help. Well, I wish that I'd been given forewarning, and told I could just opt out."

"You can walk away," Ron said, from the doorway. He walked over and sat on one of the sofas perpendicular to Harry—across from Dean. Harry was acutely aware that Ron was sitting a great distance away from him, and again felt…tainted…unwelcome. Alienated. Alone.

A monster? supplied a horrible part of his mind that he sometimes thought was several steps ahead of him, that knew him better than he knew himself.

Had Loki ever truly trusted anyone with what had happened to him? Had he ever just talked with someone about it all—the big revelation, the envy, the need to prove himself, and then, the torture (because that had to be considered torture; there was no other word for it) and Thanos?

"I suppose I could say a bit," he said, still cautious, still hesitant; ten years with the Dursleys did not inspire trust. "Only, it's all a bit incredible, I suppose. And I have trouble making sense of it. And—it's not pleasant."

No one rolled his eyes. No one said "duh", or "nightmares usually aren't", even though he was well-aware of how stupid he sounded. Perhaps, then, this was what friendship was.

"How bad is it?" asked Neville, in his quiet voice, at last. "If you don't mind my asking."

Harry did not say that of course he minded Neville asking, that this was a very personal matter, as all nightmares are. He wanted to return the favour just dealt him by these three, who were quiet, and listening.

"I…I dream I'm in a metal room, sometimes, and there's a tall, tall man, and he…well, he's got all sorts of different ways of torturing people. He has these lights that shoot through you, and…and I can't even think what they do, but it hurts. You're not supposed to be able to feel pain in your dreams, are you?"

"Old wives' tale," said Dean, without looking up.

"T-torture?" repeated Neville, voice shaking.

"Is there any other word for it? For having someone try to get inside your mind, or take you apart, or pierce you with a million beams of light? I can't think of another name for it."

Neville swallowed, hard, and looked away. "You can leave, if you want," Harry offered, catching sight of the faint, wan, drawn look on Neville's face. Neville shook his head, visibly steeling himself, and Harry caught a glimmer of why shy, timid Neville might have been sorted into Gryffindor. "It's only…I know someone who—"

He cut himself off. No one pursued the topic. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking rather pensive, with his hands clasped under his chin. Then, he crossed his arms, leant forward, and turned to Harry.

"Do you have any idea who—or what—this man was?" he asked.

"I—I think it's—" Harry paused, unable to continue the sentence, which Ron understood to mean that they were talking about Thanos, again. He straightened his posture, staring straight ahead with an expression of cold resolve. It was the look of someone who has just set themselves a vital, yet dangerous, task. Someone needs to do it, and they volunteer. Nothing more to it.

"If he does indeed exist," Ron pronounced, with deadly gravity. "I will kill him."

Harry looked down at the ground. There was silence, again. What could be said to that vow?

"Er…I…won't go into detail, but—"

"He tortured you?" Ron said, as if he were understanding more of this tale than anyone else. Making more of the dream than Harry himself did.

Harry couldn't meet his eyes, because, unlike the others, he had a sense of what the torture led to. It was coming—the knowledge of how to attempt to hold out against the torture, which had turned more psychological this last dream.

Thanos had threatened to destroy Asgard utterly, had threatened to kill his family, and Loki had tried to convince himself that they were all just strangers to him, because if they were strangers, then it didn't matter to him if they lived or died, and Thanos couldn't use them against him. All he had to do was last long enough, until Thanos tired of him, realised he was not as interesting, not as useful, as initially assumed.

The only way not to break—

Harry cut his thoughts off. That was Loki's mantra, the thing that had kept him sane, after a fashion, even under pressure. But it came with a cost, one Harry didn't want to pay, not when he was finally living, now that he had friends, people who cared about him. People who responded to his interrupting their sleep with something other than wrath. Or, rather, when roused to ire, were angry on his behalf. His mother. And now Ron. And perhaps (who knew?) someday Dean, and Neville.

"Dean," he said, because he was currently very much convinced that his dreams were real, and that the threat of Thanos did lurk out there, somewhere. He wanted to put a face to the name. "Do you suppose you could draw him for me?"

Dean gave a slight smile, and readied his pencil. Harry gathered the slightly faded images he had of the cruel man who had, surely, eventually broken a god. He tried to leave out no details, and resisted the urge to peek at Dean's drawing, to see how accurate it was, to see if he was any good, or that had just been idle talk. Boasting.

He peered over, when Dean had set aside his coloured pencils, and stared at the image.

Yep, that was Thanos, alright. The wrinkles well-defined, the skin definitely purple, and the lustreless armour. Somehow, imposing even as an image on paper. He felt faint, weak-kneed. He sat down again, abruptly, and saw Ron cast him a glance, catching his sudden weakness, the unusual frailty. Harry was not used to being weak. He was used to persevering, even in the harshest conditions. The Dursleys had not managed to break him, had not bested him with their punishments and their insults and their neglect. But this—

One way or another, he knew how it had ended. How it must have ended. Loki had always been strong, too. If Harry was Loki…could he expect to be any stronger, when the Sorting Hat had told him flat-out that his mind was compromised?

Did Thanos have a way into Hogwarts? Were their fears justified? Or was it that he only had to avoid the mantra—which he was beginning to suspect was the route to madness?

"Well?" asked Dean, quite unnecessarily. Harry couldn't speak; he just nodded. Few things could rob Loki of the power of speech, but perhaps this was one—the man who sought for slaughter on an unprecedented scale. Not even the infamous Adolf Hitler could rival him.

Ron came over to look at Dean's handiwork, blocking the distressing image from Harry's line of sight. He glanced at Harry, again, and then picked up the impressively well-drawn picture in his hands, and glanced back at Harry, as if seeking for guidance on what to do.

Harry didn't know what he wanted to do, only that he couldn't bear to look at the picture. Perhaps it hadn't made it worse to endure, but seeing the lifelike image hadn't made the nightmares any easier to handle.

He had the feeling that Ron was going to memorise Thanos's appearance so that, if their paths ever crossed, he'd recognise him on sight, and know whom to kill.

…Ron was kind of scary, sometimes, come to it.

Harry slowly breathed out, as if he could exhale all the turmoil the picture and talk had kicked up.

"Thank you, Dean," he said, trying, and failing, to smile. Dean's reply was a quiet, "No problem."

They all agreed that Thanos was a rather ugly-looking, intimidating presence, but none of them knew how it felt to lie, trapped and powerless, under his thumb. None of them knew how it was to build up your defences with a mantra that perhaps instead drove you mad.

He had to tell them about the mantra, didn't he? The problem was, he knew that even thinking the words of it was trouble, but to speak them….

Well, he'd rather not risk it, let's just say. Fine by him. He'd just have to find a way to warn them. Or at least tell Ron.

And to repay Neville. Because he was pretty sure he'd never done anything for Neville, especially not anything warranting such gratitude.

He kept silent about the threats Thanos made to Loki's family, because that would make things too complicated, and would be admitting too much. And he left out Thanos's "children", because they seemed horrified enough as it, all sitting there wide-eyed, Ron with what he suspected were tears in his eyes.

No, he'd wait. And hope there wasn't a penalty for it. That he didn't wait too long.

Chapter Text

Time continued to pass, and Malfoy continued to be insufferable, and meanwhile, flying lessons approached, and when they saw that it was a double lesson, and with the slytherins, of all people, half of the gryffindor first years groaned. They just knew that the slytherins would make the lesson miserable, somehow.

They were right, except in that it went worse than expected. And also…better.

Neville's grandmother had thoughtfully sent him a useless red crystal ball that told you if you were forgetting something. He smiled at the gift when he opened the package at the gryffindor table.

"It's a remembrall!" he whispered. "Gran knows I'm a bit forgetful, and they're supposed to help you remember. If it turns red—" Red smoke filled the marble, as if on cue, "—it means you've forgotten something."

He was so fixated upon trying to remember what he could have forgot that Malfoy was able to saunter right over and abscond with the thing. Did that boy not have a life, or something? Harry was already in a nasty mood on account of his persistent nightmares: Thanos had progressed to tormenting Loki with the accusatory dying visages of his family, blaming him for not saving them. Thanos knew how to get into people's minds—or maybe that was the power of the Mind Stone. Harry couldn't tell, and Loki was too busy being tortured to give the matter much serious thought.

Watching Thor be tortured and then killed for the third night in a row had stretched Harry's temper to its limit. Combine it with the lack of sleep, and any sort of level-headedness he might ordinarily have displayed was out the window.

"Give it back, Malfoy," he said, his voice low and deadly. He was tired of Malfoy's petty nonsense. One of these days, something would force Malfoy to grow up, but it didn't seem right that everyone else had to put up with him until then.

For once, both he and Ron were itching for a fight, which made it almost a disappointment when Professor McGonagall sorted the matter out for them.

And then came the flying lesson.

Malfoy goading them? Fair enough. Typical of him. Predictable. Malfoy taking advantage of Neville's mishap to steal the remembrall and shoot off into the sky to play an aerial game of keep away? Low. Neville wasn't even here; he was in the Hospital Wing. It wasn't about Neville. It was about Harry.

Hadn't Harry decided that he owed Neville a debt for his assistance with the dreams? For his understanding, and patience? Harry, ignoring Hermione's admonitions, swung onto the school broom, and shot into the air after Malfoy. And swiftly discovered that he was—quite inexplicably, because he had no past-life background in it to give him a boost—good at flying.

Ron stayed on the ground, below, conferring with Hermione as to how they could go about rescuing him if worse came to worst. If Ron had taken to the sky, then Malfoy would have found a way to drag his flunkies up here with him, and Harry would have been outnumbered. Instead, he could shove in Malfoy's face the fact that it was Harry's (superior!) skill in flying against Malfoy's admittedly immense skill. No Crabbe and Goyle to fight his battles for him, up here—but, if it came to blows, Harry could do that.

Ron was keeping Crabbe and Goyle on the ground, aided by Seamus and Dean. Hermione was wringing her hands and muttering under her breath. Quite possibly about all the rules that he and Malfoy were breaking; Harry didn't care. It felt as if being in the air had blown away all his troubles. It was the sense he was used to only from his dreams—the before-fall dreams—that this was Harry's terrain, or one of them, at least. Malfoy didn't know what was coming at him.

The sky, he was almost certain, was Thor's domain, and not Loki's, which would make this a borrowed arena, but—

Thor would definitely understand, if he'd heard even half of the vitriol that Malfoy spewed as often as he breathed.

"Give it here, Malfoy," Harry said, for the third time. There was magic in the number three, a special, latent power. Harry would not ask a fourth time. He had asked once, at breakfast, and he had asked when they both first took to the sky, before Malfoy realised that he was outclassed. This was Malfoy's last chance, and although Harry knew that Malfoy wouldn't take it, still, the weariness sunk in deep brought with it a fervent…hope that Malfoy would see sense.

Malfoy valued cunning, nobility, pride, but he wasn't any of those things, not really. His arrogance, even, was entirely dependent upon his family name. Even now, he would bring shame upon his family by being the better man and returning the stolen orb.

"Hmm…" he smiled as Harry tensed at the speculative, considering drawl to his voice. Harry recognised the signs of Malfoy-about-to-do-something-pointlessly-cruel, but didn't yet know what. "If you want that toy of Longbottom's so bad, then catch!" he cried, and threw the ball towards the ground.

Harry gained a greater understanding of Thor's impulsivity. In the heat of the moment, when there wasn't the time to weigh pros and cons, there was neither time to talk yourself into things, nor to see sense, to realise that what you were about to do was stupid, and dangerous. His thoughts, such as they were, were that Neville wasn't here to retrieve the ball, that he quite thoroughly despised Malfoy, and that he owed a debt to Neville.

He dove, outstripped the remembrall, and caught it one-handed, bringing up the broom just in time to avoid a nasty crash into the ground. Hitting at that speed….

Hey, it hadn't happened! Why dwell on it after the fact?

"Harry Potter!" McGonagall shouted at an impressive volume for a woman of her age. Ah. That was why. "Never—in all my years—"

She strode over to their circle, and Harry sought for Ron. Instead, he saw Malfoy's triumphant smirk, and clenched his hands into tight fists before his suddenly reckless body could do something else before he thought through the consequences. Maybe, say, break Malfoy's nose.

"Professor, I—" he began, but stopped, unsure of what he would say. There was no use in lying; she'd clearly seen the last part of what happened, but what else had she seen? Just what was she objecting to his doing? Probably riding one of the school broomsticks without a chaperone, for not waiting, as Hooch had ordered. Combine that with the dive he'd somehow just pulled off, and….

"Professor, it wasn't Harry's fault—" Lavender Brown protested.

"That's enough, Miss Brown," McGonagall said, silencing her with a look.

"But Malfoy—" Ron began, having come over to Harry. "You didn't see what he—"

"That's enough from you, too, Mr. Weasley," she said. "Potter, come with me."

Harry now wondered what manner of punishments Hogwarts had. Well, whatever it was, it couldn't be any worse than the ones he was used to, or than the torture. Could it? Just what sorts of punishment did wizards find acceptable, anyway?

McGonagall strode away from the cleared field in front of the castle, marching inside, leaving Harry almost running to catch up, and cursing his incredibly short legs. He kind of missed being what passed for an average height amongst the people he associated with. He hated being short, although it sometimes came in useful….

He turned over the possibilities for what his punishment could possibly be for breaking a school rule ensuring his safety, and others', and whether or not he could bring Malfoy down with him.

He did not expect for them to stop before an ordinary classroom door, for McGonagall to request that Professor Flitwick "lend her Wood", for Wood to turn out to be the captain of the gryffindor quidditch team, or for him to now be on the roster as the youngest Seeker in a century. McGonagall had ordered him a Nimbus Two Thousand, and everything, and Ron seemed to be torn between concern that he might have injured himself, and pride in his accomplishment. The latter won out, to Hermione's immense disapproval. But Harry had most definitely utterly crushed Malfoy, and it hadn't even come to blows.

That didn't make the dreams any easier, of course. And Malfoy, enraged at Harry's "reward for breaking school rules!" as Hermione called it, before storming off in a huff, knew he had to reassert his power amongst the slytherin hierarchy without delay.

Or, that was the outward justification for the most recent trick he was planning. Was Harry really supposed to believe that Malfoy wanted to duel him, one-on-one, in an old trophy room? Not a chance. Then, what his real objective? Harry's mind whirred along, happily analysing Malfoy's other possible machinations.

Students weren't allowed out after curfew—it was a matter of safety. They didn't know where the trophy room was; for all he knew, it was in or near enough the third floor forbidden corridor to get Harry into trouble if he wandered near. Those were the most obvious traps. It might also be an ambush, but—that depended upon Malfoy having some way to hide himself from prying eyes, lest he be caught out after curfew.

That meant, of course, that Harry would have to find a workaround that suggested that he wasn't merely backing down.

"I see. The old school trophy room," he repeated, in a considering tone. "I'm afraid, being muggle-raised, as I said before, I have no idea where that room is. I'll tell you what: anyone you could possibly ask from gryffindor knows the way to the Tower. Come to the Tower at the appointed time, and you can lead us to the trophy room. I'm not foolish enough to tell you the password to the dorms, but we will check and see if you show up. If you don't show up by one, the deal is off. Show up before then, and we'll go to the battleground of your choosing."

"And I'm his second!" Ron leapt in. He'd clearly been bursting to contribute something. Harry was surprised that Ron hadn't agreed on his behalf. He was practically bouncing with anticipation.

Malfoy's look soured. "I don't know what you're—"

"It's simple. Come to Gryffindor Tower, if you really want to settle this. That's a sign that you're serious. In return, we'll let you choose the battleground, which is the more important advantage—unless you weren't planning to actually follow through?" Harry tried to make it sound as if this thought were only just occurring to him.

Malfoy jerked his head in a stiff nod, and turned away.

"I couldn't help hearing what you and Malfoy were talking about—" Hermione said, storming over to them, her hair seeming somehow bushier than usual. Perhaps it was her heightened emotional state.

"I thought you weren't talking to us," Harry said, in his mildest voice. She had sworn no vows, unlike Malfoy, and he found it difficult to resent her. She was probably a decent person, if she could just stop showing off, and loosen up a little about the rules, rules, rules.

"I see," was all Ron said. "And you plan to do…what?"

"I can't believe you're actually going through with this!" Hermione fumed. "Don't you know that Malfoy's only goading you? You'll lose all the points I got from Professor Flitwick for knowing about switching spells—"

"I don't think there'll be a duel, Hermione. And we won't be breaking any rules, otherwise. We're only wandering the school grounds after curfew if Malfoy shows, which I doubt that he'll do. There's surely no crime in occasionally opening the portrait door to see if Malfoy has shown, after all."

"Then…the duel isn't going to happen? You lied to Malfoy?"

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on loosening his tense muscles. Specifically, unclenching his fists. "Although I fail to see how it is any of your business, I have already made this clear enough, but let me clarify still further: if Malfoy should come to the Gryffindor portrait door—if he makes the actual effort, and takes the risk of being caught out after curfew, then it would be most…unchivalrous and dishonest of me to go back on my word. If he comes to the common room, then we will have our duel. However, I believe that this entire deal is just a trap, and I don't expect him to show up at all."

"But…the rules!" Hermione protested. "I thought you were the sensible one! Surely, you see that going to the duel would break school rules!"

Harry sighed, and rested his chin in a hand, not looking at Hermione.

"There is more to common sense than just avoiding trouble. Sometimes, the best course of action is to follow the rules, and to avoid confrontation. But Malfoy has shown that if he can't vent his ire in one way, he will find another. To get to me, he stole Neville's remembrall. Although neither of us got in trouble for it, that won't be enough for him. He'll keep pulling at whatever threads he can, until, sooner or later, something gives. If we can talk sense into him—or even beat it into him—before he reaches the boiling point, we might be able to avoid troubles further on. For his sake, and more than that, for the sake of those he abuses, I would prefer that he follow my advice. In victory, or in defeat, it would teach him something about picking a fight with me. Perhaps, then, he would show more restraint. Constantly backing down, and fleeing his challenges, will only embolden him. I refuse to take that route. Disapprove if you will, Hermione. I hope, however, that you understand why I am doing what I am."

She blinked, several times, and then turned on her heel. He couldn't tell how she felt about the whole affair.

Neville Longbottom was released from the Hospital Wing that night, as Harry discovered when he opened the portrait door to check for Malfoy at nine-thirty.

"Neville!" he exclaimed. "I didn't expect to see you here. Have you recovered?"

"What?" asked Neville. "Oh—yeah, Madame Pomfrey fixed up my wrist quickly, but then I had to stay a few hours so that she could make sure that it was fully healed. I made my way up here since then, but I don't remember the password, so I've been stuck outside. "

"I see," said Harry, nodding. "Has Malfoy been by?"

Neville frowned. "No. Why would he be up here, anyway?"

Harry hesitated. "Come on in, Neville, and I'll fill you in."

And he pulled Neville through the portrait hole, and filled him in on Malfoy's challenge. "I hadn't expected him to show, yet, but Ron and I have been checking in shifts—"

"I'll help," said Neville, his mouth set in a straight line.

Harry just nodded, and they conferred with Ron to set up a new schedule for their regular portrait-hole visitor checks.

It surprised none of them that Malfoy hadn't shown by one o'clock.

Due to their careful arrangement of checks, they were able to each get pretty much a full night's sleep, and were none the worse for wear the next day.

Harry, meanwhile, determined to find whether there even were such a trophy room. It would be akin to him holding up his side of the duel. He explored the corridors the next night, joined by Ron, who seemed to have a sixth sense for when Harry was doing something potentially dangerous, and who thus tagged along.

Even Ron seemed a bit disconcerted by the giant three-headed dog, but Harry was less phased. The dog seemed to be less upset by his presence than it was by Ron's. Or, at least, all three of its heads, each big enough to fit a whole Harry Potter inside, were trained on Ron, who didn't freeze up, but gave the dog a considering stare.

Harry yanked him back, and slammed the door shut behind them.

"That's the Forbidden Charms Corridor," Harry said, frustrated. "Where the hell is the trophy room?"

Ron gave a vague sort of smile, and followed Harry as they wandered off again. They did, eventually, find the trophy room, but by then, Harry was paying much less attention to the trophies than he was to his memory of the third floor corridor, wondering what lay beneath the trapdoor at the dog's feet.

A pity, because he could have afforded to recognise the name of Tom Riddle when he next saw it.

On the night of September Thirtieth, Harry entered the cabin for the first time since he had started school at Hogwarts. Half of him had expected for something about the nature of Hogwarts to block that connection, somehow, even if his mother had attempted to explain that they were bound together by shared blood, inseparable. As it was, he felt tension he hadn't consciously identified leave his body as the cabin appeared before him; the leaves of the plants beginning to change colour, the flowers all gone, the cabin readied itself for winter. This was not, then, a land of eternal spring and growth. Not that it mattered.

What did matter was the knowledge gleaned from his mother that she had, in fact, been friends with Professor Snape, from when they had been growing up together. Snape even knew Aunt Petunia (then how could he possibly try to make Harry's life any worse, if he knew Harry's evil aunt?). The problem with Harry was that he closely resembled James Potter, who had destroyed Lily and Snape's friendship.

Just how was that Harry's fault? Apparently, Harry was being tormented because he was living proof of that break, and because he closely resembled James, physically. That seemed phenomenally unjust to Harry—was he, then, a victim of circumstance?—but there was nothing he could do. He sighed, and resigned himself to this fact.

Nevertheless, she assured him that Professor Snape would not try to harm him, because, no matter how he hated James Potter, Harry was all that remained of Lily. Her last lingering connection to the world. Only such a fool as Dumbledore would delude himself into thinking that any real bond endured between Aunt Petunia and Harry's mum.

He supposed that this small assurance was worth something. Far more reassuring was the fact that the dreams of torture ground to a halt after her visit. Perhaps she was holding them at bay, or perhaps his mind was soothed enough that it sealed whatever wound had opened him up to such dreams to begin with. Harry didn't care, and the rest of Gryffindor Tower just seemed glad that they didn't have to put up with them anymore.

The next visit with his mother fell on the night of October Thirty-First. The events of that day stood out particularly clearly. Malfoy had made a snide comment to Hermione after she'd one-upped him, or one of his slytherin "friends", at something (what, he didn't know, as he hadn't been paying attention to the event when it happened, too focused on his own work). She'd gone off, crying, to the girls toilets, and still hadn't shown up come time for the Hallowe'en Feast. When Quirrell came in, claiming that a troll had somehow gotten into the school, Ron had stood up, with a look of foreboding resolve, and Harry, sighing, had followed. What was it about Hermione? Ron was quite determined to ensure her safety, for whatever reason. Not that Harry wanted her harmed, but….

Harry turned over a number of theories as to why this could be, as they snuck away from the rest of gryffindor, heading for safety, detouring to the girls toilets in time to see the troll stroll casually in.

Ron flung open the door to enter the fray, and Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and followed.

He discovered that Ron could hold his own alarmingly well against a troll, despite his limited knowledge of magic, and the fact that he was only eleven years old. He also discovered that Hermione tended to freeze up under threat of her life. If it was fight or flight, she appeared to be in the "stay still and wait it out" category with rabbits. He tugged on her sleeve, trying to get her to move, but she remained still as a statue.

Ron hurled the pipes of the sinks at the troll, and then managed to cast a perfect wingardium leviosa on the troll's club, knocking it out. Why he would resort to a spell that he hadn't yet managed to make work, Harry didn't know. Harry's contributions stemmed primarily from what Lily had taught him of magic after they'd discussed Professor Snape—low-level hexes that could trip a troll up, even, or restrict its movements—the magical equivalents of sand in the eyes, and tripwires. Slightly underhanded, but this was not a duel. The goal was to distract the troll well enough that they could all make good their escape. Not that Hermione was much help in this regard.

He was about to try to tap into the other side of magic, the side he had less faith would work for several reasons, when Ron knocked the troll unconscious. It had basically been a fist-versus-club fight up to that point. Ron didn't have enough knowledge of spells to fight using magic, and the troll had a weapon, but no magic at all. It was a very uneven fight, but Harry admitted that, rash and reckless though it was to attack a troll despite being that outclassed, Ron held his own surprisingly well. Alarmingly well, for a human.

He shook his head to dispel those kinds of thoughts, and continued to drag a wobbly Hermione Granger towards the door.

"Is it—Is it dead?" she asked, nearly falling flat on her face as she tripped over something that wasn't there.

"Nah—I don't think so. Just unconscious. Let's get out of here."

She clung to his arm for support as they made their way out.

Except they never made it to the door, because four professors burst into the room, as if drawn by the incredible racket of pipes hitting the walls, clubs breaking sinks, and a ten-foot-tall troll hitting the ground hard. Fortunately, one of those Professors was McGonagall, who listened without judgement to the truth as Harry laid it out—that there had been orders given for a retreat to the dorms, and they had been among the last to leave the common room, and were behind the rest of gryffindor, when Ron had stormed off in search of the girls bathroom, remembering the gossip he'd heard at the beginning of the feast that Hermione was still bawling her eyes out over what Malfoy had said that day.

Harry, watching from the corner of his eyes, wondered if Hermione flushed red from embarrassment that her weakness had been revealed, or something else. She kept her gaze on the floor, answering only clarifying questions; she knew little of what had brought Harry and Ron, after all. McGonagall and Quirrell were all for rewarding the trio of them for their bravery, accepting that this was an extenuating circumstance, especially when Hermione declared that the troll was about to come after her when Harry and Ron had appeared—there'd been no time to go for help, and they'd saved her life.

Unfortunately, one of the professor witnesses was Snape. He argued for harsh punishments, that Harry was flouting school rules, and was leading Weasley into similar delinquency. Harry frowned. Loki might have done such a thing, but Harry liked to think that he was different. This hadn't even been his idea, however, although it was undoubtedly chivalrous, daring, and brave. It made him question his worth as a gryffindor. Ron hadn't hesitated, but Harry had thought through the ramifications of his actions before he followed. This had all been Ron's idea, not his, and he'd just followed Ron's lead. What did that say about him?

Hermione didn't seem to care about these details. The feast was brought up to Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione waited outside the common room door for them. Apparently, saving her life was enough for her to overlook their past transgressions, and to finally accept that their motivations were good enough, and that, if they'd broken school rules intended to ensure their safety in order to save her life, perhaps it was occasionally okay to break the rules.

That night marked the first Hallowe'en ever spent with Lily Potter, who spent the entire night being Lily Potter, most unusual for her, as she spoke of all the mundane hopes and dreams she and James had shared before they had been murdered, on this very night, ten years ago.

And Harry finally learnt the truth of how they'd died, and he'd received his scar.

Chapter Text

It was a bit harder to believe that Snape would never harm him, after his disastrous first quidditch match. Sure, he'd caught the snitch, winning the game for gryffindor, but that was after a harrowing fifteen minutes (surely it only seemed longer) spent hanging onto his erratically jerking broomstick for dear life.

The flashbacks to Loki's fall from the Rainbow Bridge were probably inevitable, and the power of his nightmares equally. Still, they'd surely run their course eventually.

In the meantime, he'd have to deal with the gryffindors watching him warily, soundproofing their own beds for want of a better strategy, and fretting and fussing over him. Even Neville, who was almost awestruck at how far Harry had gone to repay him. It made for an odd mixture of adulation and condescension, keeping Harry on his toes as Neville struggled to decide which ultimately prevailed.

Of course, the worry his friends displayed for him ended up paying off after that first quidditch match. It was a very good thing, everyone agreed, that Hermione had joined Harry's small circle of close friends. But, to hear how she and the others had described it, Harry had very nearly died because of Professor Snape, who had sabotaged his broomstick, somehow, and was the reason that Harry had almost fallen off.

He had no defence to make for the man, who was making his life as miserable as possible even after the match. They (Hermione and Ron) ushered him away from his worshippers, shepherding him to Hagrid's cabin.

It still took a few minutes of such safety for his wariness to die down, and the tension to leave his body. He finally took a drink of his water, and Ron at last looked away from him, recognising his no longer rigid body posture as a sign that Harry was no longer the metaphorical deer-in-the-headlights. Not that Ron knew what headlights were, probably, but it was how the saying went. If he recognised the much more important fact that Harry had thawed and was now capable of functioning, that was good enough.

Right now, Hermione was still passionately attacking Snape as being the clear originator of the curse that had almost sent Harry plummeting at least fifty feet. Harry listened, raised an eyebrow, drank his water, and thought.

Ron said nothing, but glanced back at him occasionally, as if afraid he'd relapse if left to his own devices for too long.

"But Professor Snape is a Hogwarts teacher!" roared Hagrid, probably beginning to lose his patience with Hermione. Harry blinked. Previously, he'd assumed that Hagrid's patience was infinite, unless you happened to hit one of his buttons. Perhaps not. He'd better ready himself to intervene. "No Hogwarts professor would ever—"

"Hermione, look," Harry said, sighing and setting the mug aside. It was time for the sort of simplistic, over-simplified explanation he was used to Loki having to give Thor. Which, okay, that meant that Harry'd never had to do one of these, because the Dursleys required a much less subtle approach. Also, Thor wasn't stupid, was he, so the condescension had never been necessary. Hermione was also not stupid, and therefore it wasn't necessary here, either, even if Harry were the sort of person who talked down to people. Growing up with the Dursleys, however, ensured that he didn't have the sort of arrogance required. So, one lecture minus the condescension. He thought he might be able to manage that.

"Professor Snape hates me. He's made that clear from the first five minutes. The moment he spotted my name on the roll call, actually. He hated me with such fervour that the entire class, Slytherins and Gryffindors both, couldn't help but notice."

Hermione nodded with such vigour that he wondered that she didn't break her neck. "Yes, exactly! He hates you—anyone can vouch for the truth of that, and he was muttering, non-stop, under his breath—"

"—without breaking eye contact—" Ron recited, clearly deciding to side with Hermione here. Harry rested his forehead in his hand, and put his elbow on the table. He didn't much feel the need for eye contact for this conversation, thank you.

"Yes, but I'm sure there are plenty of other things he could have been doing—unless you heard the words, and recognised them as a spell. He might even have just been hoping that I fell to my death and that he would be rid of me," Harry said, hiding a small smile at Ron and Hermione's joint indignation by taking a drink of water. Hagrid looked a bit out of breath, and was busying himself about his kitchen with such focus that he had to be listening to Harry's defence, instead.

"Besides that, there's the most obvious problem with the idea that Snape would try to kill me. This is made up of two premises. The first is that Snape isn't an idiot, even though he sucks at teaching."

There was no argument here. "The second is that murdering someone whom you, and you alone, are well-known for despising is a very stupid idea. Everyone would straightaway suspect you. On the other hand, that leaves any other enemies of your enemy in the clear, with a scapegoat ready and waiting."

"Snape is a scapegoat?" Ron repeated, as if Harry had just told him that the sky were made of Swiss cheese. Harry wondered how much he trusted his dream-mother's knowledge to carry over into real life. His scar had hurt in that first feast because Snape had glanced at him, hadn't it? What did that mean? He shrugged, and then nodded.

"He would be easy to frame for my murder, but I don't think he was making any attempt on my life."

"Someone clearly—" Hermione began her passionate tirade in another place, but Harry held up his other hand, the one not currently supporting his head—for silence.

"I'm not denying that someone tried to kill me," he said, deliberately keeping his tone casual and light. "Was there anyone else you disturbed when you set fire to Professor Snape's robes?"

Ron frowned and folded his arms, clearly biting his tongue to keep from commenting on Harry's lighthearted approach. He didn't think that it was funny that Harry had almost died.

Hermione frowned, considering hard and long. Then, a light seemed to click on in her head. "Just Professor Quirrell," she said, with a little frown. "But he couldn't possibly—"

Harry tilted his head back, lifting it up off its stand for just a second as he turned this thought over in his head. Quirrell? Possibility? Surprisingly enough, yes. Then, maybe….

"But he's afraid of his own shadow," Ron protested, brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Or he pretends to be," Harry finished. He shrugged. "I suppose that could be a coincidence, too, and the would-be assassin lurked elsewhere, and was disturbed by someone else, at the crucial moment."

Hermione deflated. "But—"

Harry shrugged. He spread his hands, as if to say, "I have nothing more to offer." Hermione sulked.

The topic moved to the hellhound named Fluffy lurking in the third floor corridor. This ended their trip to Hagrid's cabin, because he threw them out for asking too many questions. Still, they now had the vaguely familiar name of "Nicholas Flamel" to go on.

Inspired by Hermione, they all three hit the shelves. Then, Neville and Dean got roped in, with nary an explanation. Flamel decided to be perversely scarce, and even Hermione had no success. Meanwhile, the exams for fall semester came and went, and Christmas approached, and with it Harry's realisation that he hadn't yet come to a decision as to what to do about Christmas, Christians, Christianity, and the whole you are a god thing.

He hadn't even decided whether or not he believed that, himself. It was all quite maddening.

He had decided that, whether or not he celebrated Christmas, he should get and give gifts to everyone else. He'd never before had anyone to give such things to, and he found that it was nice, that anticipation, wondering whether or not they would think the gift suited them, whether or not they appreciated it. He sent away for books for Hermione and Ron. Ron would protest the book, he knew, but he made it the sort of gift that, were he to read it, he would understand and find useful. Easier said than done.

Dean and Neville had been easier, because he knew that Neville liked plants, and Professor Sprout was more than overjoyed to help him pick out something that he could arrange to have delivered to Hogwarts (and to arrange that, for that matter). Dean, he knew, was an artist, and he'd used rather a lot of coloured pencils. This was harder, requiring him to ask McGonagall of means of ordering muggle supplies to Hogwarts, which she had said could be done, although few people appreciated it. Really, however, it would be better if he chose something from a wizarding store.

Thankfully, wizards also drew, painted, and coloured things. He hoped that Dean could work with magical coloured pencils.

Christmas Day passed unnaturally well. He suspected that Ron was just being magnanimous, but as long as he didn't throw the book away…was there anything to complain about?

He made sure to lose a few rounds of wizard's chess to Ron to make up for it. No one had found a way to beat Ron at chess yet, and Harry had begged off the responsibility early on, leaving it to Hermione to be thoroughly trounced. Despite having gone more rounds against Ron than Harry had, she didn't seem able to hold her own as well as Harry had even in his first match. Harry found his recent ten matches lost a sufficient reminder to be nice to Hermione as she nursed her bruised ego.

He had a lot to think about, even with school out for winter break, and Hermione off with her parents. He still wondered who Flamel was, of course, and while the origin of most of his gifts were straightforward, there was one he couldn't figure out. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a package of sweets and a superfluous sweater, which he wore anyway. Hagrid was responsible for the flute, Dean for the dream diary (which Harry glared at him for giving him, but accepted), and Neville for a resource on herbal remedies for soothing nightmares. He didn't know how to react to that. And Ron's and Hermione's gifts were labeled, as Neville's and Dean's were. But who had sent him the invisibility cloak?

The first night, he snuck out alone, after curfew, to research Flamel in the Restricted Section of the library. It wasn't a very good choice, he knew, but they hadn't dared to call attention to the subject of their research. He'd heard the name of "Flamel" before, somewhere, but there were far, far too many choices as to where, and he wasn't even sure which lifetime it dated from.

He had the misfortune of pulling the wrong book off the shelf. He replaced it with great haste, and fled. And, by chance, or something else, he ended up in an old, abandoned classroom, a battered-looking room that had probably been forsaken owing to being on the verge of collapse. There was nothing of note there, save for the mirror.

He read the inscription, pondered it for a few seconds, and turned his gaze to the mirror itself. And, to the people in the mirror.

His heart pounded, as he stared, for the first time in his life, at his family. People he'd never known, people he'd never met, and a few familiar faces, as well. It struck home just how little he knew of his background.

The woman from his dreams he recognised straightaway. She caught his attention, by virtue of being the only one there with red hair. A black-haired man, with hazel eyes, and black-framed glasses, stood beside her, arm slung around her shoulder. Something seemed a bit…amiss…with that picture. The Lily Evans he knew hadn't seemed terribly fond of James, as if her death had created a huge gulf between them. Which made sense, in a way. If you were a god, and you married a mortal, and then both you and your mortal partner died, and you remembered that you were in truth a god….

Yes, there'd doubtless be a bit of surreality to it. A disconnect. A metamorphosis. But here, this Lily Evans….

And he hadn't thought that his Dad wore glasses. It hadn't been a part of his imaginings. The messy black hair he could have predicted, but not the rest. And he couldn't have dreamt up the others, Lily's mum and dad, and James's, and various others (who knew who they were?).

Which might mean he hadn't dreamt up the other family, standing off to the left—the blonde woman in her ornate robes, smiling at him, the young man carrying the hammer, looking torn, but reaching out for him, anyway. And behind them, a man with an eyepatch, expression inscrutable, for the moment only watching.

And no matter how many times Harry told himself that he'd look away, he couldn't tear his eyes from both families. He'd look from one to the other, trying to figure out how much reality there was to either of them, how he should react, what he ought to think.

He wished that he could reach through the mirror, join at least one of the families, in their respective worlds. Why couldn't they be real? They weren't real, were they?

He came back to the Tower late that night.

The next night, he made the mistake of taking Ron to the mirror with him. He should have known better; Ron was forever fretting over him, mother hen that Ron was. He should have known that Ron would pronounce the mirror "not good for" him, and tell him that he mustn't come back.

Ron stood before the mirror, and stared for a long time. His expression was, for once, difficult for Harry to read.

"Do you see them?" Harry asked, again.

"No," Ron said, his voice hoarse and harsh, his entire body trembling. He sat down, abruptly, on the floor, as his knees gave out under him. "I didn't see the people you described, Harry."

True.

"But you saw someone?" Harry prompted, trying to figure out what was going on.

"I saw…I saw my family. Complete, as it should have been. And you were with us."

He turned to Harry, who swallowed, and backed away. Ron should be too young for that haunted, grieving look.

"Then… it shows us our families?" Harry asked, frowning, trying to puzzle it out. He pretended he didn't see Ron's expression, which might have been a mistake. Ron regained his footing, and stumbled over to Harry, to clench his hand tight around Harry's arm. There weren't many other things that could support Ron's weight lying about the room, so Harry winced, just once, and tried to ignore how tight Ron's grip was.

"No," he said, emphatic. "You saw people who are dead, in the mirror. My family was, also, completer than it should have been. Harry, I don't think this mirror is good for you…. I think you should stay away from it. It smacks of decay, of men lost to the madness of dying dreams. I have offered you a family, Harry, and that is an oath I mean to keep. Do you not trust me? But this, this mirror—it offers you what no man on Earth can deliver. Will you forsake, will you abandon your friends, your true family, for the fragments fashioned by a spell?"

Harry said nothing.

He walked back with Ron in silence, and the next night, he had to find a way to outlast Ron, despite his fatigue induced by nightmares, and sneak back to the Mirror. As if Thanos weren't bad enough, his dreams of green light had returned, joined by that high, cruel laugh he had heard resound from his memories when Hagrid had told him the truth about that Hallowe'en night, ten years gone. Ron took Harry's nightmares' resurgence as a sign that he was right about the mirror. Harry didn't care. He must return.

It was after midnight before he was able to make his way back. Ron, usually early to bed, early to rise, had stayed up late, keeping a watchful eye on him. The mother hen.

Nothing next to his mother.

Chapter Text

He gave himself no reprieve before he found the classroom again, pushed the door open, and sat before the mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying here all night.

But an image wasn't enough. It was as it had been when the dreams had begun, before they'd soured. He longed for that other life, that other world, that other family, who loved him. The depth of his desire astonished him, how fervently he longed for even those whose names he couldn't even guess at. He reached out to touch the mirror, and the image changed. Lily and James stood near the front of the mirror, crying, laughing, waving, James with his arm around Lily's shoulder. Just as it had been last night, and the night before.

But as Harry's hand touched the glass—which was far too soft and warm to be metal or even stone—something changed. Lily shrugged off James's arm around her shoulder. He stood there, bereft, for a moment, and then gave a tight nod, and an encouraging smile. Frigga glanced their way, and then dissipated into smoke, as Lily Evans walked forwards, to reach up her hand, fingers splayed to touch each fingertip to Harry's own. Harry's heart pounded. The soft warmth against the pads of his fingers felt almost like…flesh.

If only he could reach through the mirror, and actually touch her. Or, if only she could leave the mirror. Lily cocked her head, and the position of her hand changed. She held it out, as she had to raise him from the floor, outstretched and opened.

Harry, without really thinking about it, reached through the mirror, and took that hand; as ice (or frost?) crept down his hand, onto hers, spreading down her arm, he feared that he'd harmed her, even though she was already dead, and past injury. Warmth, an answering fire, melted the ice, flowing down her arm, into her hands, into his, and down his arm. He didn't let go, and pulled her out of the mirror.

And only then did he think about the sheer impossibility of what he'd just done. He'd pulled an illusion, a mimicry, from its power source. Surely, she should have dissipated—smoke on the wind, as the myriad dreams he'd had, only to lose upon awakening.

But here she stood, still in her red-and-gold dress, but now looking much more transparent than she had in her proper world, with an aura of radiance, an image that seemed to flicker, now and then, less than completely there. But she was no longer in the mirror. He forgot about the mirror, almost, with his mother, hazy and transparent, but nonetheless there, in full colour. She felt solid, as she bent down, to pull him into a crushing hug.

"M-Mum?" he asked, hardly daring to lift his eyes, lest she disappear. "Are you real?"

He'd asked Lily the same question in his dream, and her answer had been decidedly noncommittal.

"Well, that depends on how strictly you define that word," Lily answered, laughter in her voice. She sounded the same as his dream-mother, and Harry had a brief moment of madness, when he wondered if this Lily were also Frigga. Neither of them were in the mirror anymore. "I am all that I have ever been. That night, when I died, the protection I gave to you through sacrificing my life had the strange side effect of enabling me to live on in your blood. You are, after all, my son, my flesh-and-blood. But I am a little more even than merely the remnants of your mother's profound love for you. Everything there was that was truly Lily Potter, her soul, you might say, remained protected within yours."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, leant down, bending over him. Harry thought of how often Frigga had done the same, when imparting words of wisdom, to show him things. It was such a motherly thing to do. He swallowed, but focused on the warmth where her hand met his shoulder, as if that were the only reality that mattered in the world.

"Then…did I pull you from the mirror?" asked Harry, trying to figure out what had happened. The pressure on his shoulder increased.

"Turn from that mirror, my son. Seek for it no longer. It is unhealthy for you to dwell upon what cannot be changed. Seek out those dreams that can yet be fulfilled, and do not waste the rest of your life pining for what cannot."

She spun him away from the mirror, to where she still stood, behind him. Her expression was pained, and grave—drawn and haunted, he might say.

"You did not pull me from the mirror. You merely used the mirror as a channel. Do you remember what I once told you of magic—the most basic foundations of magic?"

He knew what she was saying—she was speaking of the first lesson Frigga had given him on magic, in the library, long ago—and, no matter how much he wished to shy from the thought, of all the other that it dredged up, he closed his eyes, thought, remembered.

"Desire," he said, "and focus. Do you mean to say that I dragged you from the cabin in my dreams? That I could have at any time? Why did you not say it before, Mother?"

He couldn't keep the genuine hurt from his voice. In response, Frigga raised a hand, observing it, the way that light passed through it, before returning it to his shoulder.

"Yes," she said. "You pulled me from my cabin in the woods. And I further believe that you could have at any time. Yet, I must say that I am myself surprised. It did not occur to me that you might possess whatever power it is that you have used to drag me, even in this limited capacity, into the physical world. Your precocity has always impressed me, my son."

His mouth dry, he wondered how to take her words. Then, this was really his mother? And that, the woman in his dreams? But, she'd confessed to being Frigga; that was who she was right now.

Surely, it couldn't be true. Or, perhaps, he just needed for it not to be true.

He snuck a peek at the mirror, again, where James, and the unknown Potters and Evanses, and Thor, and Odin, still waited. He turned from them, to face his mother again. His heart was pounding.

"It can't be real," he muttered to himself, as if it were a mantra.

The word, mantra, prodded at him. A fragment of a dream urged him to caution. The only way not to—

Mother was here. She tensed, as if sensing the precarious position he was suddenly in.

"Loki?" she asked, which was both what needed to be said, and the very worst thing she could have said. He flinched.

"I'm not—"

"Why do you deny who you are?" Frigga demanded. "You ought to be proud of your identity. You always were before. You are a Prince of Asgard, a skilled mage, and warrior. None of those titles is cause for shame."

"I'm not Loki," Harry said, considering pushing her away, now. Why the fixation on this one matter? He wanted to set the past aside, real or not. "Loki wasn't a prince of Asgard, anyway," he said. "Just—just a stolen child, from another realm."

Frigga frowned, but stood her ground. She took his hand, an awkward enough thing for a boy accustomed to no one daring to touch him, unless it be whilst committing an act of violence. Only Ron and Hermione had touched him without hurting him (at least in the physical world) and it had taken forever before he could suppress the urge to flee, could stop flinching, and fidgeting. He knew that he still had a long way to go, and was certain that neither of them would give up on him until they'd undone as much as could be undone of the Dursleys' abuse.

Frigga brushed his hair out of his eyes, for once, recreating the younger prince's hairstyle. Harry suddenly wished he hadn't grown it out.

"A family is more than merely those to whom you are related by blood. You know better, as I am aware. Your Aunt Petunia and cousin Dudley are your direct relations, but they are not your family, not as Odin and Thor were, and are."

"Might we not speak of other matters?" Harry begged, torn between trying to make the most of this strange blessing, his mother in the physical world, and trying to deny the rest—what he knew came of accepting her premise.

"This must be addressed now," said Frigga, voice firm. She sat down, and Harry found that the abandoned chairs off to the sides of the room had repaired themselves. She had let go of him to sit, and he, hesitant, nevertheless sat on another of the old wooden chairs. He needed for this to be a cherished memory, one that helped him stave off life's cruelties. The sooner he humoured her, the sooner, perhaps, they could move on to other topics.

"Tell me, my son, why do you deny who you are?"

Silence. Harry gathered his thoughts. This couldn't be avoided, could it?

"My sons were both honourable, skilled, and smart. Thor's impulsive nature was often cause for concern, but I never feared for him as long as you were with him. You were the second son I always had desired. There was no one I trusted more to look after him."

She sighed, her expression distant, as she stared back in time, perhaps to the long-ago era when the family had been happy, and close-knit.

"'Honourable'?" repeated Harry, when he couldn't stand it anymore. "Trustworthy? Mother, he killed a bunch of people, tried to take over the world, and destroyed downtown New York!"

He threw his hands in the air, as if mimicking the explosion that might have happened but for Stark's quick thinking.

Lily leant back into her chair. "Ah. Then, that's it. You seek to deny the later years—the battle in New York, the attack of the Dark Elves, the assault on Jotunheim. And, perhaps, to drive off your memories of suffering at the hands of Thanos?"

Time seemed to stand still. Harry forgot to breathe. He wasn't sure if he'd given any physical indication of his reaction, but he was fairly sure that his face had lost all colour.

"Where—where did you hear—?"

"The Sorting Hat looks through your mind, heart, and soul, when it sorts you. I heard more than was intended, for it never found me there. I heard what it said to you."

She reached out for him, and he eyed her hand warily, as if it had teeth. But…this was his mother.

"As the full embodiment of Lily Evans, and as your mother, it is vital that I am aware of all threats to your safety. What I have learnt afterwards is from what I have found of that corner of your mind. There is little that I am able to do to assist you in your endeavour, for which I must apologise to you, my son. But, from what I have heard, the effects of Thanos are rooted in his mastery over the Infinity Stone of the Mind. Perhaps, then, your actions were not entirely your own."

Harry's heart was now pounding so loudly it felt as if he were drowning, the roar of it filling his ears, making it hard to hear even her words.

"Yet, even though you made mistakes, it is plain that you regret them now. And it is the nature of family to love one another even despite their shortcomings. Odin might have disappointed you, might have failed you, but do not doubt that he loved you, too, even as I do. Even as Thor does. Have you forgotten how valiantly Thor strove to save you from yourself, during those events you mentioned?"

She leant forwards, towards him, and managed to clasp his hands, to intertwine her fingers with his own.

Were her fingers actually that warm, or was it the frost still coating Harry's? How could you continue to deny such a thing, given that evidence?

Harry swallowed. He tried to muster a scoff, thought better of it, recalling his own thoughts about Loki's ingratitude, how little he appreciated his comparatively charmed life.

"Indeed, one of your greatest shortcomings is that you have always underestimated the depths of other people's love for you. You have always underestimated Thor's love for you, as you have underestimated him."

"If Thor loves me so much," Harry said, unable to restrain himself any longer, "then where is he? If he never gave up on me, then why has he forsaken me, now?"

He swore an oath, Harry thought, but he didn't say it aloud. No sense adding fuel to the fire. Something kindled in Lily's eyes, as she looked at him. A strange mirth.

"Perhaps, my son, you have truly underestimated his resourcefulness. Perhaps your brother is not as far distant as you believe."

He could not convince her to elaborate.

Something about her argument settled over him as a balm, as if she had somehow changed the way he viewed Loki. He knew that Thanos had broken Loki, had tortured him both physically and mentally, but somehow, the only thing that had seemed important was that, in the end, Loki had broken, betrayed Asgard, and tried to conquer the world. But Lily-Frigga seemed to feel otherwise. She seemed to feel that everyone else had failed Loki, instead.

He couldn't understand, but…somehow, hearing it from her perspective, the tension, the aversion, the denial began to seep away. In part, it was that he didn't like to think of himself as a coward. In part, it was her carefully laid out explanation of her knowledge of how his continued connection to Thanos must have affected him, then and now. The information of his dreams supported her argument. Was it possible that Harry had been too hard on Loki?

That fog, the fog of shame, lifted, leaving behind it the continued dread of Thanos, which would doubtless remain as long as Thanos still lived, as the only irrational barrier against his old dilemma of identity.

The only rational argument against it was that only his dreams suggested that there were any reality to their connection, and now a woman who claimed to be from those self-same dreams.

But he set aside such thoughts for later, content to just walk and talk with his mother, as she led him back to Gryffindor Tower for the night, urging him to think more on everything she had said.

He could bring her back. The magic that had brought her from his dreams into the physical world had all come from within. He could do it. He'd find a way, but—

There was still a living Frigga out there, somewhere. That would complicate things.

Unless the dreams weren't real—and suddenly, he fervently wished they were, again. He wanted to see them all again, to speak with them all. Even Odin. Even Thor.

Perhaps he has fooled even you, the memory of his mother's voice teased, not even trying to hide the humour she found in the thought. And, perhaps your brother is not as far distant as you believe.

Was she saying that Thor was here? On Midgard? Or…even in the Wizarding World? Even at Hogwarts? The idea was preposterous, and yet…somehow, it gave him strength. If Thor were here, in Hogwarts, or even on Midgard, looking for him, despite having no reason to think that he might find him here…well, it went much further to proving that he genuinely cared about his little brother, didn't it? Horrendously sappy, but somehow heartwarming, too.

That night, his dreams were devoid of both sorts of nightmares, and he sensed that it was due, at least in part, to a barrier erected by his mother.

He awoke much later than he'd intended, feeling exhausted, and came to the realisation that, however he'd managed to pull his mother out of her cabin in the woods, it had left him utterly drained. His magical reserves were almost perilously low, despite the duration of his sleep. It was a dangerous, tiring thing, pulling her into the waking world. Even that brief span of time had consumed all his reserves. He would have to be very careful, and spend a great deal of time and effort building them up.

Ron seemed to know exactly what had happened the night before, ambushing him as he left the common room. Mother hen. Harry at last sighed, and said,

"Yes, yes, I understand that the mirror is dangerous. I'm staying well enough away from it from now on. You needn't worry, Mother."

He was too tired, even now, to properly argue with someone. Ron was still fretting and overprotective, and difficult to shake, but Harry spent most of his day in the common room, studying. Then, he wandered off, the moment Ron didn't seem to be watching, to hang out by the lake, practicing older magic than was taught in Hogwarts, improving his meagre magical reserves through use. There was little he could do, drained to the dregs as he was. When Ron demanded to know whether or not he'd returned to the mirror, he sighed, huffed, and told him to mind his own business, but that he'd been outside, if Ron must know.

Ron folded his arms, and stared Harry down. "Without a coat?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "I'm used to the cold. The Dursleys never bought me any winter clothes, or even gave them to me as hand-me-downs."

And then, Ron was temporarily too busy plotting ways to get the Dursleys arrested, or something, to pay too much attention to what Harry might be doing. Although he probably would have been called out of his thoughts by Harry leaving the portrait hole, if Harry had.

After that, the next noteworthy event was, of course, the dream of the last night of the year. Lily had appeared, in her cabin in the woods, although Harry had stayed awake past midnight to usher in the New Year. Ron had, by then, stopped watching him like a hawk, as if realising that he wouldn't suddenly up and vanish.

Lily in his dreams corroborated what the Lily he'd pulled from the mirror had said. They were one-and-the-same, and when the woman he'd seemed to pull out of the mirror had vanished, it had been only to return to her cabin. Harry had, at long last, caved, and confided in her about Thanos. Once or twice, he pestered her to tell him more about the whereabouts of Thor, and why she had said what she had, but, aptly enough, she kept Mum.

Hermione returned from holidays, and set to reviewing the previous semester's courseload, as well as reading over what would be covered this semester. Harry had better things to do, reviewing all the magic lessons that Frigga had given Loki, and all that Loki had figured out on his own, besides. He was determined to build up his magical reserves, which had probably expanded quite a bit over the decade he'd spent over the Dursleys, out of sheer necessity. How often had he used magic, unknowing, to save himself from dangerous situations?

Quidditch practice started up, again, with Oliver Wood seeming to feel the need to make up for lost time, grilling them endlessly, and pulling them out in the cold and the wet, because "quidditch matches are never called on account of a little weather". The entire team groaned, but bore it. Wood was in his fifth year, which apparently was a cause of great stress—he had to take important end-of-year exams called "O.W.L.s", and quidditch was his outlet.

Percy, while also in fifth year, was much more focused on his schoolwork, prefect duties, and studying for his O.W.L.s, and could barely even be dragged outside to watch the games. But Ron, or the Twins, would insist, and out he'd come with the rest of the school, and lose himself in the match, just as most everyone else.

Quidditch practice was a good distraction from the mirror, at least.

Chapter Text

It was Neville who had revealed to them where Harry had heard of Flamel: on the back of a Chocolate Frogs card. He'd found it amongst his Christmas gifts, eventually, and had shown the trio, and Hermione had lit up with excitement, bounding up to the girls' dormitory, and returning with a tome half again as tall as she was, which she called "light reading". For once, Harry shared Ron's incredulity at her choice of description. Still, her recitation of the book's entry on Flamel told them all they needed to know. The Philosopher's Stone was so legendary that Harry was fairly sure that even Loki had heard of it. A stone that granted its user immortality, and infinite wealth? With those two things, you might almost take a place amongst Asgard's folk….

Well, not really— there was a lot more that that entailed, but there remained the fact that this Nicholas Flamel, who, as a friend of Dumbledore's, must be real, was several centuries old. It was an odd, odd thought.

"Then, that's what the three-headed dog is guarding. That's what was in Vault 713," Harry had said, and the three of them had turned over the details again.

Harry was, however, beginning to doubt Snape's innocence. After the match, he'd made the mistake of following Snape into the forest, where he'd seemed to be threatening Quirrell. No, he'd definitely been threatening Quirrell. The real question was: who was the good guy, and who was the bad guy?

"Have you figured out how to get past that three-headed dog of Hagrid's, yet?" sounded the sort of question an evil overlord asked of a minion, something with which Harry was painfully familiar. It made Snape highly suspect. But his mother was sure that Snape wasn't evil. She'd told him they'd been childhood friends.

Harry didn't know what to think. Hermione seemed triumphant, exultant in having been right all along. Ron seemed to have decided to sit this argument out.

And then, Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback drove such thoughts from all of their minds.

It started with Hagrid sneaking into the library where they were doing research together at a table near the back.

"What's that you lot are doing?" Hagrid asked, arousing plenty of suspicion by trying to hide what books he was carrying from everyone. "Here, now, you're not still looking for Nicholas Flamel, are you?"

"Oh, no, we found out what Fluffy was guarding ages ago," Hermione said, beaming. "What are you looking for?"

"It's a secret," Hagrid said, bending over to lean close to them, the less easily to be overheard. "Come by my house later, and I'll explain."

And he left without further explanation. "Hold on," Ron said, setting aside his books. "I think I'll take a look at the section he got all those books from."

He strode off, and returned to their desk, slamming volumes down before them. "I don't believe it. He's looking for information on dragons. Look: From Egg to Inferno: The Dragon Hatcher's Guide… Native Breeds of Britain. "

Harry sighed. His head met the smooth wood of the desk with a satisfying smack. "He did tell me that he always wanted a dragon, the day we met. Perhaps, he finally got his hands on one."

But, of course, he'd done worse than that. He had a genuine dragon egg. It sat in the hearth, wreathed in flames, and sending the temperature of the house to "boiling". Harry cleared out. There were some things he couldn't put up with, even for his friends, and he half-suspected that he might melt, if exposed to too much heat. Perhaps he was giving his dreams too much credence, or perhaps not. He wasn't risking it, either way. He had little recourse but to let his friends attempt to talk Hagrid out of the dragon. "But Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," he heard Hermione cry, clearly at a loss as to what more she could say.

When the egg had hatched, and he could return to Hagrid's house without risking melting, he decided that he'd do everything he could to convince Hagrid to part with the beast.

To complicate matters, Draco Malfoy overheard a conversation they had on whether or not to ditch class to witness the egg hatching (Ron was all for the idea; Hermione was arguing that that would be highly irresponsible, naturally), and therefore also witnessed the hatching dragon egg. The looming threat of what Malfoy would do with his newfound blackmail material loomed over their heads, as Harry at last braced himself, and entered Hagrid's house, to make his case for Hagrid letting the dragon (whom Hagrid had named "Norbert") go.

"Hagrid," he said. "I don't suppose we might open a window and let some of this hot air out?"

It was still quite stifling in the shack, naturally; Hagrid seemed terrified that if the temperature dropped below that in which the dragon egg had hatched, Norbert would freeze. Weren't dragons supposed to be mountain-dwelling creatures?

Hagrid remained indecisive. "Well…I don't know…" he said. "Norbert's still so young…this winter cold might kill him."

Harry latched onto that. "Hagrid," he pointed out, "do you really want to keep a wild animal locked up in a human home for its entire life? Does that seem fair to him? And that's only if he doesn't grow anymore…Ron, you know a little about dragons. How big do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow?"

Ron turned to face him, which was very nearly a costly mistake; as the boldest of the trio, he'd been keeping Norbert occupied by playing keep away with an old shoe, but he'd glanced over to Harry to address him. "As big as a house, by the time they're a year old," he said, his tone grim. Harry couldn't fault him for redirecting his focus back onto the dragon even as he spoke.

"Do you hear that?" asked Harry, cocking his head. "As big as a house. Hagrid, you could never hide that. Hermione, open the window, please."

Hermione was already on the job before he finished his sentence. Hagrid sat down abruptly, with a solid, graceless fwump.

"I know, I know…but he's still so small and tiny. He'd die out there, on his own."

"There are worse things out there than death," Harry said darkly. Ron shot him another glance, as if trying to gauge whether he needed to drag Harry out of dangerous thoughts, again, but Harry wasn't currently heading into dangerous waters. He gave a small shake of his head, and turned back to Hagrid.

Loki was skilled at convincing people to do things. Let's see whether or not Harry could talk sense to Hagrid.

"Hagrid, I know you researched this topic as thoroughly as you could, but the fact is that dragon breeding has been illegal in the U.K. for so long that any material you might get your hands on would be far out-of-date. You don't have the expertise to take care of Norbert, not really. Suppose he injures himself, or is attacked by something in the Forbidden Forest? And even if he make it to adulthood, what then? Are you expecting him to live the rest of his life without companionship, except for you? A real parent knows when it's best to let go, and stop looking over their child's shoulder all the time."

Ron stiffened, as if he heard a second jibe in Harry's argument, which was, granted, rather intended. Ron needed to stop being such a mother hen.

"Well…I thought I might come across another egg…let him out in the Forbidden Forest. It's what I did with my pet acromantula, Aragog…."

Ron looked distinctly uneasy, and Harry shot him a curious look.

"Giant spiders," he explained, his voice a bit stiff. "The Twins played a prank on me with spiders when I was a toddler, and I've been afraid of them ever since—"

Harry tucked that information away, unable to imagine Ron afraid of anything, but turned to Hagrid.

"I'd let him go, but he's still so little…he'd die," Hagrid protested, looking out the window at the Forbidden Forest with eyes suspiciously bright. Harry sighed. This was worse than arguing with Thor.

He frowned, turning the matter over in his head. Hagrid's concern was that Norbert would die, because Hagrid knew about his existence, and knew how to care for him best of those who knew about him, but—

"Perhaps you might ask Dumbledore for assistance," Harry suggested, eyes fixed on a particularly interesting shape in the grain of the table. He traced over it with his finger as he spoke.

"No!" Hagrid said, eyes wide. "Dumbledore's a great man, but I can't get him on trouble on my account…and he'd be mad at me, too. Dragons are classified as 'dangerous creatures', and illegal to own or breed, see. He already got me out of trouble for having dangerous creatures once—"

Hagrid froze, and cut himself off abruptly. "Forget I said any of that!"

Ron looked as if he were about to prompt Hagrid for more information. He stood up, backing away from the dragon, and throwing the shoe across the room. Norbert raced after it, but Harry was already on his feet. He slammed a hand across Ron's mouth.

"Don't push it! This is our best chance of talking Hagrid out of this madness, but we'll miss our chance, and we'll lose all the progress I've made, if you start pestering him about what he just said. You know he'll throw us out, again."

Ron slumped, and Harry waited a few seconds as he formulated his next sentence, and then let go.

"All right, Hagrid. You can keep your secrets. But if we found someone else who would take your dragon, no questions asked, would you be willing to give him up? Someone who knew what they were doing?"

"Charlie," Ron interjected, fixing Harry with a level stare, as if willing Harry to read his mind.

Charlie…Charlie…Charlie…that name should mean something to Harry, clearly, but who—?

Aha! Charlie Weasley, Ron's older brother!

"Charlie!" he cried, turning to Hagrid. "Charlie Weasley is a dragon tamer working in Romania. He'd have contacts who would know how to care for a Norwegian Ridgeback. Suppose we contacted them by Charlie?"

Hagrid hesitated. "I…I suppose you could send them a letter seeing what had to be done, and if it sounded agreeable—"

"Wonderful!" Harry said, beaming. "Ron?"

"I shall send that letter tonight," said Ron, tearing the boot back out of the dragon's jaws. Hagrid's eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of Norbert's potential departure, or perhaps the inch-long teeth that were sinking into his boot.

"Hagrid," Harry said, eyeing Norbert's crate with misgiving. "If we get into trouble, I reserve the right to tell Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore about all of this."

Hagrid agreed that that was understandable, given that he didn't want to risk any of them being expelled for just being his good friends.

It fell to just him, Ron, and Hermione to transport the small crate under Harry's new invisibility cloak, and it wasn't an ideal plan, but what could you do? What would Thor do? Harry asked himself, as he lifted the crate with Ron's help. Thankfully, the dragon was still fairly small, or it would never have fit under even the voluminous folds of the cloak. The plan was simple: meet Charlie's friends at the top of the Astronomy Tower, deliver Norbert to them, and then sneak away to the Gryffindor Common Room. By now, they were certain that the portrait-guardian of the Tower wasn't about to tell on them. That was just about the safest part of their plan. They just had to get that far.

Ron was protesting that he was fine, but the fact was that Norbert had bitten him as they were trying to force the nevertheless-quite-large dragon into its crate. Harry sort of regretted volunteering Ron for the job, but Ron was smothering, and by far the most reckless of the three of them. He needed the least convincing. He really hoped that Norbert's teeth weren't poisonous, especially since Ron had been bitten the day before, also.

The beginning of the plan went off without a hitch. On their way to the Astronomy Tower, they saw Professor McGonagall pulling Draco Malfoy along in a torrent of stern words— something about how Harry Potter smuggling a dragon out of Hogwarts was just an excuse for being out after curfew, and that she was going to have words with Professor Snape.

Hermione claimed to be so happy that she could sing, but then she sobered as the question of how Malfoy knew of the top-secret delivery occurred to her.

"Then, it was he who stole the letter from Charlie," said Ron, and Harry grimaced, remembering that morning's frantic search for the letter. He must have taken it at lunch, the sneak. It had given him just enough time to be a potential hazard underfoot, but that danger was gone now—so long as Hermione didn't sing!

But they made it to the top of the tower without incident, handed off the dragon, pulled back on the cloak, and descended the long flight of steps, to find Snape harassing Neville at the bottom. That did not sound good. How had Neville gotten tied up in all this?

Beneath the folds of the cloak, the Trio glanced at one another. None of them liked hearing Snape rip into Neville, but when he heard the mention of the word "dragon", Ron seemed to realise what was going on, and, before Harry could make a move to stop him, he threw off the invisibility cloak to rush to Neville's aid. Harry gave Hermione a long-suffering glance, and, with the command that Hermione stay hidden, and return the cloak to Gryffindor Tower, he slipped out from under it, himself, wondering as he did why he had to have such impulsive friends (read: Ron and Neville).

Ron had already managed to get into a heated argument with Snape, one which he was, naturally, losing. Snape's words were oily and slick, they slipped through the cracks in a man's defences and shut them down. Ron was brave enough to pit himself against Snape, but he didn't have the acerbic wit required to match him.

Unfortunately, Harry did. Perhaps even more unfortunately, Professor McGonagall came around the corner just then, continuing her rounds. She took one look at the three gryffindors, and visibly pronounced them guilty on the spot.

"Excuse me, Severus. However, as these students are all in my house, perhaps I might be trusted to decide upon their punishment."

By this, Snape understood that the three of them would, indeed, be punished, although Neville had done nothing wrong save for being out after curfew. He swept away from the trio with an ugly, triumphant sneer stretched across his face. Gloating is never pretty, but this one seemed particularly ugly.

McGonagall rounded on them. "My office. Now. Keep up." And she strode ahead of them. Neville took this opportunity to come up next to Harry and Ron, his head bowed, cheeks flushed. His lower lip was trembling, as if he were on the verge of tears.

"Harry," he said. "Ron. I'm really sorry. I learnt that Malfoy was trying to get you into trouble. He said you had a dragon, and—"

"'Had' is the right tense, too," Harry murmured. Neville stopped for a second, to stare at him, wide-eyed, before he had to run to catch up with them.

"Then…there really was a dragon?" he asked. Harry bowed his head.

"I'm sorry, Neville. We didn't want you involved in all of this. Perhaps we can explain better, later."

"Perhaps you had best explain better, now," said McGonagall, throwing open the door to her office, and holding it open to ensure that they all three sat down. Ron was suspiciously quiet, possibly because he was clutching the bitten hand. Sweat was rolling down his face, which was unusually pale. Harry suspected that he was much worse off than he'd previously let on, the idiot, and Harry'd been too preoccupied by other matters to notice. Bother.

"Professor, perhaps we might send Ron to the Hospital Wing, first?" Harry asked. Ron used some of his scarce energy to glare at Harry. It was not a very strong glare, especially given that Ron was capable of death glares.

"Hagrid had a Norwegian Ridgeback. Apparently, they're venomous. And Ron's been bitten twice. Please, let us take him to the Hospital Wing, and I promise that I'll explain everything, then."

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes at them, and Neville held his breath. The pain was apparently severe enough that Ron didn't even notice her intense scrutiny, and her expression softened, just a little.

"I will not keep you long, in that case," said McGonagall. "Four students, out after curfew on one night! I can't remember the last time I saw such a thing! What have you to say in your defence?"

He refused to acknowledge the fact that her claim that she had never seen such a thing was a lie—there were more important matters at hand. Harry sighed, glanced at Ron, wishing he knew at least a little about healing, and wondered if McGonagall could seriously believe that Ron were faking this all. Or, perhaps, she knew that Ridgeback poison wasn't that dangerous, and was trying to make a point. That was what the Dursleys would do.

He decided to make the story brief.

"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon. A couple of weeks ago, he invited us over, after we'd caught him researching dragons in the library. We got to see the dragon hatch. Unfortunately, so did Malfoy. For the next couple of weeks, we tried to convince Hagrid to let 'Norbert', go, but he always had some sort of excuse. He didn't want him to die out in the wild, didn't want to trust Dumbledore for some reason we didn't press. At last, I was able to convince him to let Norbert go with some dragon experts that we sort-of knew. We promised we'd keep quiet until the dragon was gone, and there was no longer proof that he'd committed a crime. I don't blame him for being wary, but it does leave us in a bit of a predicament."

McGonagall sighed, and rested her forehead in her right hand. "…I see. Thank you for being honest with me, Mr. Potter. It is very admirable of you to attempt to assist your friends, and to take their needs into consideration every step of the way as you did. However…."

Yes, that "however" had been inevitable. "You ought to have told an adult, and received outside help. What the three of you did was incredibly dangerous. I'm sure that Miss Granger was involved, although she at least had the sense to stay out of your ridiculous plan to sneak a dragon out of Hogwarts. Did you truly expect not to be caught?"

Harry shrugged, trying to draw her attention away from Hermione, lest someone (i.e. Ron) give away that she had, in fact, been out after curfew.

"I think that I had better take fifty points from Gryffindor, as a lesson."

"Fifty points, professor?" asked Neville, gasping. McGonagall's nostrils flared.

"Fifty points each. Never have I been so ashamed of gryffindor students, for your recklessness. And you will each have detention, Friday night. Perhaps then, you will take your schooling more seriously."

One hundred and fifty points? That was unheard of. All of Gryffindor would hate them, now….

She let them wander off to the Hospital Wing, in a daze. Hermione greeted them in stoic silence by the entrance to the common room. She straightaway noticed Ron's absence, question in her eyes. Harry couldn't bear to tell her just what had happened.

Well, he supposed that was what he got for trying to be like Thor. Perhaps he should stick to being like Loki.

Chapter Text

He hadn't been able to resist the ready opportunity to spy on Professor Quirrell, however, when it presented itself. He resolutely walked away… after much mental deliberation, when it was plain that he would learn no more (after Quirrell had run away from the abandoned classroom, and several minutes had passed, indicating that he was not liable to return). But, with the upcoming detention being the only distraction, Harry found his mind trying to connect dots almost despite himself.

Perhaps I should enlist to be one of Fury's spies, he thought glumly to himself. McGonagall saw fit to punish Ron, Neville, and me with ostracism-cum-unpersoning. And what do I do? I make use of my sudden non-existence.

He was taking it much better than Ron, who, as the youngest of six sons, second-youngest child of seven, was used to being overlooked, but not ignored. The rejection of Fred and George, particularly, seemed to bother him; whilst Percy was rather haughty and holier-than-thou, and his presence even Ron found stifling, his sanctimonious attitude combined well with his arrogance and gracelessness, making him the sort who looked down his nose at Ron, rather than shunning him, or constantly telling him off, as Harry had expected.

The Twins, on the other hand, had disowned Ron. The entire quidditch team had taken to referring to Harry by only his position on the team: "The Seeker", and the Twins had extended this in an organic way to refer to Ron: they followed the quidditch team's lead by talking around Ron, rather than to him, and when forced to speak of him, did so only in the most indirect ways: the disappointment Weasley, the youngest Weasley boy, and, perhaps the worst: "that red-head who lost so many points". When people tried to connect the two of them, the Twins fiercely denied any relation, familial or otherwise, between them and Ron. Harry thought they were going rather far, but everyone, the entire school, had been looking forward to the prospect of Slytherin not winning the house cup, which it had won for seven years running (mostly because Snape was unfair?).

Harry reconsidered liking the Twins. Whilst accustomed to such treatment from the Dursleys, he nevertheless didn't appreciate it here, in Hogwarts, which had already become the closest thing he had to a "palace on Earth". And Ron, he knew, was used to, if not always being given the attention and respect he deserved, being nevertheless never shunned, never ignored, never forsaken. Whilst Hermione worked desperately to replenish the points they had lost, both because she was their friend, and because she could have easily shared their fate, Harry stuck to Ron like glue. He had no idea how Ron would react to actual neglect, and didn't much want to find out. The answer, as if seemed, was "very badly".

He, Ron, and Neville would make their way out of this, would make their way through this, together. For once, his time at the Dursleys was preparing him better for his current lot in life than anyone else was. He did his best not to let Ron out of his sight, nor Neville. He repaid Neville's kindness by keeping an eye on him to make sure that no one picked on him. It was just as well, because Malfoy, whose status as Slytherin overlord was not in the slightest bit tarnished by recent events, took every opportunity he could to taunt Neville, and to try to goad Ron into a fight, knowing that it would cost them more points. And Ron, for all that he worried and fretted over Harry, seemed unable to resist a challenge. The infamous Malfoy-Weasley feud couldn't possibly help matters, nor could Ron's alienation from his family.

Harry secretly questioned whether McGonagall weren't trying to get rid of them, one way or another. The sentence she'd handed down to them was the social equivalent of an execution. And whilst Harry would never be the social butterfly… people usually liked Ron. To have people go out of their way to snub him was about as usual as Snape handing out candy.

"It will all blow over, soon enough," Hermione said, her tone bracing. "Haven't you said that Fred and George have lost loads of points?"

"Not all at once, though," Ron said, head bowed, as he stared at the chessboard. Apparently, the reminder that he still was really good at chess helped to take some of the edge off his inability to throttle Malfoy. Hermione bore it with something that resembled goodwill.

"Still, it makes them something of hypocrites, doesn't it?" asked Harry, turning the page in the textbook he was studying rather than watching Ron trounce Hermione in chess. "I mean, if they've lost more points than we, despite there only being two of them, and they profess not to care about points, then why do they still behave thus? Family shouldn't turn its back on one another."

His left hand was still clutching a quill, for easy access, which gave him an excuse to clench it into a tight fist. Ron glanced up at him, and then back at the chessboard. He wondered just how tight his voice had grown, talking about family. It wasn't a subject he often discussed, it being a sensitive one on any side of the equation.

"I'm used to it, but Ron, you do realise that, for once, my experience comes in handy, don't you?"

"It is my responsibility to look after you—" Ron began. Harry scoffed, and folded his arms. Let's have a debate, shall we? He knew he could win any of those against Ron. Almost any.

"Hardly," he said. "We can look after each other. You're only twelve, I'm only eleven, but we can still watch one another's backs. Or I could repay your favour by smothering you as you've been smothering me."

To be fair, Ron had toned that down quite a bit after Harry had vented at Hagrid. Of course, it hadn't been that long, and Ron was rather out of sorts.

There was an unusually long pause, here. It was so lengthy, in fact, that Harry set aside his book, about to get up to see whether Ron hadn't been petrified, or something. But, at last, he said, in a rather subdued voice, "Yes. I suppose we might do that."

Which came in useful when the next day, the day before the night of their joint detention, Malfoy cornered them both in the halls; with his flunkies cracking knuckles on either side, there was no non-violent means of escape, and Ron was raring for a fight, anyway. He'd become the equivalent of dry brush just waiting for a stray spark. But Harry had also been goaded and prodded all week, and he'd had about as much as he could take from Malfoy, too. Perhaps he'd done with holding Ron back. To add fuel to the metaphorical fire, the Twins had recently pranked Ron, putting his hair long and in curlers. Harry sensed a reference to something he'd never heard of, and of which he hoped to remain blissfully unaware. Ron had tried rather desperate measures to get rid of the curlers, but he'd been accurate with his description of the Twins on the train: they were clever.

Cue Malfoy's sardonic jibes.

"Well, look who's here. Having a spot of trouble with your family, are you? Well, I can't blame them—you're the sorriest of a sorry lot. I suppose they finally were smart enough to realise how many mouths they had to feed, and realised that they might have more money if they had fewer children—"

Harry had been holding Ron back, but now he cocked his head to the side, considering. Yes, he decided, Malfoy had definitely gone on long enough.

He stepped forwards, noting Ron's stance. Furrowed brow meant confusion. Folded arms, but loose posture. Ron knew he was doing something against Malfoy, but not what. Just as well. His confusion owing to his ignorance as to what Harry was doing might mean that he was drawn into whatever ensued as well, but Harry was past caring.

"Well, I must say that's one area in which I prefer the Malfoys," Harry said, in an over-the-top pleasant voice. "Your parents, for all their faults, clearly realised their mistake in having you, and decided to go easy on the universe. You are, after all, an only child, same as I, but whilst my parents might have more children after me, until they were killed—but I'll skip that part, I know it bores you.

"I suppose, as you're a pureblood, they must have decided that trivial things such as manners and basic decency weren't worth the colossal effort it would have taken to teach you. I can't help respecting how quickly they realised you were incorrigible and too stupid to learn something so basic that most five-year-olds have it down."

Malfoy was already starting to steam at the ears, but Harry had yet to provoke him to the first blow, which showed some restraint. Ron was leaning back and watching, looking torn between admiration and concern. Typical Ron.

"I think it's kind of funny—the person you remind me of the most is also the sort of person you profess to most despise. He's my muggle cousin, see, Dudley. He's blond, like you, and stupid, and rather tubby—"

Harry wasn't sure quite which remark had pushed Malfoy over the edge, but it didn't matter. "And you've decided to take up his favoured 'sport' of tormenting me and punching me! Bravo! Yes, I think you'd really hit it off…."

Either he was naturally very good at taking a punch, or he had—one way or another—acquired an Asgardian level of durability. He didn't even know which direction he was leaning towards in answer to such questions, anymore. He did know that, although Malfoy was actually throwing all the punches (until Ron, of course, got involved, which, to be fair to him, was after Crabbe and Goyle), and he had the reflexes to dodge most of them, he seemed to have the strength to take Malfoy's hits.

And Crabbe's and Goyle's, although, they were a bit like Dudley—slow, stupid, but strong.

Harry was very careful not to fight back. It was unfortunate that he'd yet to find any purely defensive spells in his repeated excursions into the library. He didn't know what Ron was looking for there, but he guessed it wasn't defensive spellwork, or he'd have used some of those by now. As for Neville…he was probably researching plants.

"Potter! Malfoy! Weasley! Stop that childish bickering at once. My office, the lot of you! Move!" McGonagall's loud, carrying voice broke through the noise of the fight. Once again, McGonagall led him through the corridors at high speed, not pausing for anyone.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were sent back to their Head of House with a stern recommendation for further punishment, and then McGonagall stared down at Harry and Ron.

"Explain yourselves," she said, her voice crisp, filled with the no-nonsense Harry and Ron already knew to expect.

Harry explained. Or at least, he gave a twisted version of events that was nonetheless accurate. He told her what Malfoy had said of his parents back on the train, how they'd been ostracised from gryffindor, until, with no other viable outlet, Ron was champing at the bit, and Harry was tired of Malfoy always being able to say and do whatever he pleased. He made clear that this could have been avoided, and that Ron wouldn't have lost his temper so easily, were it not for their social execution.

"I never go back on my punishments, Mr. Potter. And, while I suppose Mr. Malfoy was the first to start one, it takes two to fight. Detention, for both you and Mr. Weasley. Separate detentions. And don't forget you have a joint detention tonight!"

But she didn't make things worse by taking points, too, so Harry bit his tongue, and said nothing.

Harry noticed, as they were walking back to the common room following their sentencing, that Ron somehow managed to be much more cheerful than usual, as if he actually got some sort of battle high from the rush. Harry rolled his eyes before turning to him.

"You fight well," Ron commented, in the cheeriest voice Harry had ever heard from him, leaving Harry so stunned he stopped walking for a while, and had to jog to catch up.

"Wh-what?"

"You have an admirable defense. Even with the fight joined, three against two, you suffered few injuries."

Harry shrugged. "Practice. I told you that I could look after myself," he said, his voice sounding a bit more ragged than usual, but anymore, the thoughts of Thanos were never far behind the experience of pain.

"Are you badly injured?" Ron demanded at once, catching the weariness Harry was trying to suppress.

"No. You just said that I fought well, and I told you that I could defend myself. It's only…" he sighed, knowing that Ron would probably not leave him alone until he understood. "I think of…you know…him, anymore. It's such a minor injury, and yet…."

Ron's hands were tightly clenched, and he stared straight ahead, expression dark and foreboding.

Now was probably the closest thing Harry would get to a perfect opportunity to warn Ron about what the Sorting Hat had said. The subject was already in the air, and Ron seemed to be otherwise in a good enough mood to bear it well. Perhaps he'd have some guidance on the matter.

Such an opportunity would doubtless rarely come again.

The next step in Harry's grand plan to fix everything was to find out what was wrong with the Twins. Their attitude was abysmal, and they had no leg to stand on. The rest of the gryffindor team ignoring him he understood, and the Twins shunning him he also understood (sort of), but their rejection of Ron…no, that had to be fixed.

He waited until Ron was asleep, upstairs in the boys' dorms, before approaching the Twins, with a friendly smile. He ignored their mutters to their friend, Lee Jordan, the commentator for quidditch, as Harry approached.

"Hello, Fred and George!" he said. "I would like a word with you."

The two of them tried to stand, only to find themselves held down in their seats. Harry had been watching them for the past week, and pranksters they might be, but creatures of habit they also were. They would not be leaving those seats until Harry released them from the spell, which was quasi-Asgardian magic, but they didn't need to know that. It wasn't as if they'd bothered to get to know Harry after he'd made the team—not even before Norbert, and the loss of over a hundred points at once.

"We aren't listening," said one of the Twins. Lee Jordan huffed, rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, and then stood up, giving Harry a nod. Not of approval, nor concession. It was more as if he'd just decided something. He left the Twins to Harry, which was what Harry wanted, anyway. He wasn't about to question it; he'd had enough bad luck, lately.

"That's no good. I'm not even here on my own behalf. I'm not here as a messenger, either. Ron's told me that you're the best pranksters in the school."

No response. They weren't going to make this easy for him. Perhaps he should shift tactics.

"Well, then I suppose you're of no use to me. I don't need you to talk to me, or to assist me. I'm not sure I want to associate myself with anyone with so little House Spirit, or family loyalty."

"Oi! Watch your mouth!" said the other twin, once more attempting to rise from his seat. "We're not cowards! And family is—"

"—So important that you've decided to deny Ron, just because he's lost fifty points against the house? I've heard you've made some spectacular losses. I wonder how the house reacted to you, then."

The first twin looked speculative, leaning onto the table before him, hands clasped. They were off in the corner, by themselves, and everyone knew better than to disturb them. If Harry decided he wanted to keep them up all night, no one would save them. They might as well hear him out, right?

And maybe, just maybe, he had a point.

"Look, I understand that you don't know or care about me. I get that you don't know Neville, either, although if you did, you'd know that he's shy, and awkward, and the least deserves your scorn, anyway, considering he was dragged into this only because he was trying to look out for Ron and me against Malfoy."

Twin Number One twitched at the name. "And I'm sure you don't care that Malfoy's been making Ron and my lives miserable. I just thought it highly hypocritical of you to reject Ron, without even bothering to learn his side of the story, all for losing a few points. Is that what family loyalty means to you? Treat me however you will; the idea that lost us so many points was mine, after all. But if you're going to snub Ron, I hope you'll at least be even-handed about it, and turn your back on Charlie, too—after all, the idea was his as much as mine. If you're that devoted to the idea of slytherin losing the House Cup. Personally, I'd think you'd worry more about Ron, and how he's holding up, what with how we've all got detention tomorrow, and Gryffindor House is treating us as if we're pariahs. And then, there's Ron's injuries to consider—"

"'Injuries'?" repeated the second twin. "No one told us—"

"I guess Norwegian Ridgebacks are venomous," said Harry, with an indifferent wave of his hand. "But, Ron didn't lose any limbs, so I suppose it's all alright…."

"'Norwegian Ridgebacks'?" the first twin repeated.

"Is there an echo in here?" asked Harry, rolling his eyes. "I'm just saying, I would think if you truly did have an ounce of family loyalty, you'd care more about your younger brother than points. But I know a lost cause when I see one—"

"No, you're right; we have made some spectacular losses. Remember that time when we—"

"And Ron is our younger brother, and we ought to have been looking out for him. I suppose you're right, anyway. There's always next year for the House Cup, but if Ron dies…."

Harry wondered what story the second twin had interrupted, but decided it was probably the sort of tale that he was "too young" to hear. Whatever that meant.

"Then you'll apologise to him, and stop shunning him the way the rest of Gryffindor is?" Harry asked, taking a step back.

They hesitated. Harry crossed his arms, and made an exaggerated gesture of tapping his finger against an arm.

"I suppose we could—" said one.

"—but what do we owe you for this advice?" the other one finished.

Harry uncrossed his arms, and pointed at one of them, at random.

"You owe me the easily repaid debt of not being such insufferable hypocrites to Ron, and maybe being decent to him, for once, combined with the much more difficult debt of not telling anyone that you're doing this because I told you, or, indeed, mentioning this conversation at all."

The Twins stared. "…That's all?" one asked, at last. Harry had done with keeping track of who was who several exchanges ago.

Harry nodded, and turned to go.

"…I think we still owe you something. We'll see what we can do."

Harry had already left.

"Hmm. That kid's something else, isn't he, Fred?" asked one of the Twins. "Didn't even notice he'd spelled us—"

"Didn't ask for us to stop treating him the way we've been treating ickle Ronniekins…."

"Yeah. Suppose he's a decent bloke, after all. Shame."

"Agreed, Fred. Seems he's prankster material, too. Hope we haven't burnt our bridges."

McGonagall might have been given nightmares if she'd seen the Twins' grins.

Chapter Text

The night of their detention was overcast, which put everyone on edge as they exited the doors, long before they learnt that they were on duty in the Forbidden Forest, looking for whatever was killing unicorns. The stab of vindictive pleasure that Malfoy had, at least, not been able to elude detention as he had all other punishment, had long since gone.

Not even the fact that their detention was, ironically, overseen by Hagrid made Harry feel better about the situation. Malfoy went on in a panicked rush about werewolves in the forest, and attempted to wriggle out of punishment by invoking his powerful father. Ron rolled his eyes, and Hagrid grunted, looking decidedly unimpressed. He picked up a crossbow, and Fang's lead, thoughtlessly responding to Malfoy's jibe as he did.

"He'd tell you that's how it's done, at Hogwarts," Hagrid interrupted. And then he continued by saying that Malfoy could reject the detention, if he wanted to leave Hogwarts, and Malfoy shut up. Harry tried to smother a grin; Ron made no such effort. A fight threatened to break out between the two of them. But with Hagrid there, even Malfoy was wary of picking a fight.

The danger of their task hit them, full force, as they marched into the Forbidden Forest, Neville in the rear, displaying sensible prudence and caution. Ron, naturally, was at the fore, talking to Hagrid in a low voice. He sighed, as if in defeat, and came to stand back by Harry, as Hagrid turned back to issue instructions.

"Alright, you lot. We'll have two teams, to cover a wider search area. Fang will go with one group, and I'll watch the other. There's nothing that lives in this forest that will harm you if either of us are with you—"

"I'll take Fang!" Malfoy declared, tone triumphant.

"Alright, but I'll warn you, he's a coward," Hagrid said, with a shrug, handing over the end of the lead. "Now, as I was saying, there's something in the woods that's been killing unicorns. You're to keep your eyes peeled for the injured unicorn. Follow the blood—it sort of glows silver in the dark—and if you run into danger, or you find the unicorn, send up sparks, and we'll come over to where you are. So don't waste them, alright?"

Harry and Ron nodded, Neville giving a small wobbling of his head, up and down. Malfoy seemed to be ignoring Hagrid's words.

"Harry, Neville, you two are with me. Ron, keep an eye on Malfoy. And that ought to do it," Hagrid said, separating them into their respective groups with an almost businesslike efficiency.

Ah. He had the sense that that was what Ron had been doing—seeing if he and Harry couldn't be put in a team, together. He glanced over at Ron, intending to express somehow that he'd be fine and Ron was smothering, again, but Ron wouldn't meet his eyes. Before the teams broke up, Ron came over to stand by him. He still wouldn't look at him.

"I dislike the sound of this task. As Hagrid said, unicorns are known for their purity of heart, and their speed. The creature able to catch one must be dangerous indeed. I sense…a greater threat lurks just beyond our knowledge. Be careful, Harry."

And then Malfoy and Ron went off into the woods, and Hagrid led Harry and Neville ahead. They hadn't gotten far before a rustling of branches presaged the arrival of centaurs. But the entire search party were twitchy and paranoid, looking for threats. Things might have gone badly—Hagrid had drawn his crossbow—but he lowered it, and Harry relaxed his battle stance, somewhat.

"Hello, Hagrid," said one of the centaurs, with blond hair, and blue eyes, and the body of a palomino. "Were you going to shoot us?"

Hagrid sort of grunted. "Hullo, Firenze. Nah, this is for protection. Can't be too careful."

The same centaur nodded, conceding the point.

"True. These are dangerous times. What brings you into our forest?"

"Something's been killing unicorns," Hagrid said, bluntly. "We mean to find the injured one, and figure out what's been doing this—"

"Mars is bright tonight," said a second centaur, with black hair. Harry sucked in a gasp, thinking about it. He knew enough of Roman mythology to recognise the name of Mars as belonging to their god of war. That couldn't be good. He tilted his head back, but it was a bit difficult for his untrained eyes to pick out the red star from all the others in the heavens.

"And the others, accompanying you?" demanded the black-haired centaur, arms folded before him, showcasing powerful muscles. Posturing, a threat, a warning, but of a different sort.

Hagrid being Hagrid, he missed it.

"Students up at the school," he said, leaving the explanation simple.

"Students?" repeated the palomino-blond, his tone not quite conversational, but perfectly polite. "Do you learn much, up at the school?"

"Er—" Harry said, unsure how to answer that.

"We're not very far in, but we've already learnt some," Neville said, offering up a friendly smile, before ducking his head back down.

"A bit? That's something," said the centaur.

"Don't get too friendly with humans, Firenze," said the second centaur. Harry could sense the impending squabble, but Hagrid interrupted.

"Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary lately?"

"Mars is bright tonight," said the second centaur, again. "Unusually bright."

Hagrid missed the warning, again. Harry's heart was thudding.

"How long do we have to prepare, do you suppose? How bad will it be?" he asked.

The centaur stared at him. Then he came closer, tilting his head, analysing Harry. He took a step back, suddenly, and then another. His eyes narrowed.

"You will regret becoming involved in their affairs," he said. "And do not seek for to command us to reveal more than we offer. We worship the gods of Greece, and have had little to do with those of other realms. Know your place."

Oh. This again. Yay.

"What are you—?" Neville began.

"The stars do not measure time as mortal beings do. The map they provide has many twists and turns that must be navigated, branches in the stream of time. Tonight, a decision shall be made which affects the movement of the stars. And again, several months hence. Choose wisely, little lord. We centaurs have no love for the thing that lurks in the forest. We shall wish you good hunting, Hagrid, and good night."

They vanished with greater stealth than that with which they'd appeared.

"Never," Hagrid said, "try to get a straight answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers, not interested in anything nearer'n the moon. Still, they're decent about turning up when I want a word…."

"Did you understand what they were talking about, Harry?" asked Neville, hesitant. Harry was still trying to calm his racing heart, reminding himself that there were other sources of potential conflict than Thanos, and that the centaur had probably been talking about something more wizarding-specific, particularly since his dreams, if there were any reality to them, were set decades into the future.

"Mars is the Bringer of War," he said. "If his star is bright—doesn't that mean that another war is imminent?"

"Is that what he meant?" asked Hagrid, frowning. "Then why didn't he just say that?"

Harry shrugged. It was probably a matter of racial pride, that centaurs were the ultimate astrologers, and didn't much respect wizards (doubtless, with good reason). There was also the possibility that they thought they were being clearer and more direct than they were, and, of course, what the black-haired centaur had said about the future being a matter of variables, heavily influenced by the decisions people made, and by, quite possibly, the desire not to affect those decisions.

They continued on into the forest in silence, and Neville quietly asked, under the quiet tread of Hagrid's feet on dead leaves, "How much did you understand of what he was saying, Harry? If you don't mind my asking."

"I know that they didn't say much of importance. They seem to be a rather proud lot, but they're afraid of whatever's killing the unicorns, too, so they're tolerating us. And, of course, they warned us about the coming war. But, perhaps we could speak of this later."

They continued on in silence, Neville looking particularly drawn and pale in the dim moonlight streaming down.

Then, Harry felt it. He wasn't sure what it was he felt—perhaps whatever connection Ron had mentioned, in the beginning—but he knew that there was trouble, or rather, that Ron had gotten into trouble, again. He had the vague idea that things might go very badly if someone didn't intervene, and thus, without bothering to even alert Hagrid, he bolted through the forest, subconsciously shielding himself from the prying branches using magic he hadn't even studied, determined to move as fast as he could, without using any of the translated Asgardian magic he'd been working on. If Hagrid or Neville made a grab for him, he didn't notice. If they called out for him, he likewise had no knowledge of it.

What would Thor do? he'd asked himself, when the ineffable tension drew as taut as a bowstring. That was when he'd set off, taking a few cautious steps aside, until he was sure that he had enough of a headstart that it would take too long for the others to forge through the growth to stop him.

He still had to bat aside the occasional overhanging branch or twig, but he was small, and short, and for once these worked to his advantage. He didn't give himself the chance to realise that he had no way of knowing whither he was going, whether or not he was headed the right way, or just into danger. It was the most impulsive he'd been in his entire life, but he had the sense that, whatever was going on, it was crucial that he make it in time.

He didn't notice the increased tension in his scar, either.

He reached the particular small clearing in which Ron and Malfoy were currently going at one another, Malfoy using every dirty trick in the book, as far as Harry could tell. He'd used a few hexes that Harry recognised—the jelly-legs jinx, and a nasty one that seemed to inflict boils upon its victim. Then, there were other, less approvable spells, many of which had missed Ron (Most of the spells must have missed Ron, because it looked as if a tornado had come through the clearing, and possibly as if there hadn't been a clearing when they had begun), Malfoy had a bloody nose, which seemed to be wreaking havoc on his spellwork even before Ron had managed to break Malfoy's only weapon—his wand.

Why, then, the omen?

Harry's initial assumption was that the warning concerned the arrival of a huddle of giant spiders (acromantulai) which threw Ron off a bit. But they were fleeing something else, a behemoth with eyes that gleamed silver in the dim moonlight, high overhead.

"What the hell do the two of you think you're doing?" Harry demanded, and they both started. Harry realised that his sudden appearance, when they were fixated upon other things (in Ron's case, probably the acromantulai), must have made him seem to seep out of the night itself. "Honestly," he said, disregarding their momentary shock,"didn't the two of you learn from brawling the last time? Malfoy, are you truly stupid enough to attempt to fight Ron with just your fists? I guarantee he can best you; you needn't put yourself through the pain, and I know that you, as a slytherin, would rather avoid senseless pain, at least when you're the victim, and not the perpetrator."

Malfoy said something to the effect of, "Why, you—!"

Harry studiously ignored him. "Ron, are you alright?"

Ron was busy pretending that there were no acromantulai present, thank you. "Well enough," he said, instead, rolling a shoulder.

"He set me on fire!" Malfoy protested. Harry glanced at him, wondered why he bothered, when in the dim moonlight, a black scorch mark on a black cloak would be indiscernible.

"Did you?" asked Harry, voice flat and non-judgemental,

Ron looked sheepish. "Perhaps unintentionally," he conceded.

Harry didn't ask how you could unintentionally scorch someone. He still remembered the train ride.

Harry shook his hair back out of his face, and crossed his arms, and then pointedly aimed his wand at the acromantula behind Malfoy. "Stupefy," he said. Malfoy ducked, and the giant, hairy spider shrieked as it went down. The others chittered, and a real fight might have broken out, as the tall shadow with its silver eyes reared up behind the spiders, but then Hagrid appeared, and the forest creatures saw him, understood, and, true to Hagrid's earlier statements, melted away into the night, Hagrid calling admonishments and threats after them, to keep them in their place.

Ron folded his arms, glaring down at the ground. He sensed, not being a fool, that Hagrid would attempt to make him apologise, and he wasn't going to.

"You knew that they were in danger?" asked Hagrid, rounding on Harry. Neville nearly slammed into Hagrid's back, but came to stand, swaying, behind Hagrid, looking as if he didn't much care about the answer, one way or the other.

"I suppose I did," Harry mused. He still couldn't explain it, himself. Ron shot him a sharp look, which melted into a furrowed-browed bemused expression. Harry glanced down, scuffing his shoes. He still wasn't used to so much attention directed towards him, and he was astonished that Hagrid didn't seem angry at Harry's latest act of insubordination. "I just—I had the feeling that Ron was in trouble."

"Well, he's clearly flouting the school rules. I think that merits another detention," Malfoy said.

Everyone present turned to glare at him, even Neville. "No one asked you, Malfoy," Neville snapped. Harry blinked. Ron gave an approving nod, and Harry facepalmed.

"You're not a Hogwarts teacher. You don't have the right to be handing out punishments," said Hagrid, turning to Malfoy. "Now, let's see here. I think we need to redistribute this group, here. Sorry, Harry. I think you should go with Malfoy—you're a tough customer, and Malfoy'll have a hard time of scaring you. Neville's already a bit overwhelmed, see, but I know you're tough enough to handle this."

Harry shrugged, and rolled his shoulders, before nodding, hands folded behind his back as he considered. Yes, that might make sense.

Ron's head was bowed, but his posture still managed to radiate disapproval.

"Harry, will you be alright?" asked Ron, as Malfoy scoffed. Harry glared at him, although he could feel the shame flooding his cheeks with heat. He didn't like Ron being the mother hen, and liked it even less when others were there to witness it.

What would Thor do? he asked himself. Thor's was the only example he had as to how teamwork was supposed to work—first with Thor's Warriors Three and Sif, and then the Avengers. Teamwork was, Harry decided, a matter of making some personal sacrifices for the continued safety of the team, or of the plan. It was also about putting on a strong show of unity and single-mindedness, even when you disagreed.

He moved over to stand by Malfoy, with a sharp nod at Ron. It struck him as highly hypocritical of Ron to fret over Harry when he'd picked a fight himself, with Malfoy. But Hagrid was right: Malfoy would have a harder time of getting under Harry's skin, Harry could fight back with barbed words, and this task was far too important to be making such noise as Ron and Malfoy had been.

He forgot about the earlier omen, all the portents adding up to a cautionary tale: look here, watch out! Ron's sense of foreboding, and his own, had to have been pointing at something. And, Harry being Harry, with the sort of rotten luck that befitted a psychopathic megalomaniac far better than an orphan hero—well, it made sense that he would encounter the real threat in the Forest. The one that Hagrid couldn't drive off.

Malfoy seemed to have learnt his lesson about pushing buttons whilst in the middle of a dangerous operation. He walked through the forest in utter silence, lips pressed tight together. Harry periodically looked back to make sure that Malfoy was still there. Mostly, however, he watched Fang. He knew that dogs had keen sixth and seventh senses. Fang would be the first to recognise a threat.

Suddenly, Fang stopped, and Harry glanced at him, seeing the tail tucked beneath the legs, the ears flat against the head, teeth bared in an attempt to intimidate. He stared straight ahead, and Harry attempted to follow that gaze, but the trees in this part of the forest were too thick, although the glow of a hundred drops of silvery blood lit the way like miniature lanterns, driving off the dark.

Harry heard a sound, the rustle and crackle of something soft and smooth dragging against the dead leaves of last year's plumage. Harry gave Malfoy a pointed look, and then cast a silencio on the idiot, for good measure, before they crept forwards, into the clearing, Harry once again considering praying to someone that they not encounter whatever it was that had been killing unicorns, that the unicorn not be there. It was a stupid impulse, and Harry shoved it aside for good. He had to make his own way forward, he knew, with only his friends and allies to help him. That road to heroism started here and now. He could do this.

They stepped forwards, and the glow grew ever brighter, as the moonlight began to stream in overhead. What would Thor do? he asked himself, as he hesitated, trying to drive himself forwards. The answer here was obvious: he'd ignore his fears, knowing that someone had to do this, and he'd do his best, and acquit himself with prodigious courage.

Harry was a bit more cautious. A large clearing, this one organic, or destroyed so long ago you could no longer tell it wasn't, came into view. In the heart of the clearing was a bright white shape, long, and lean, with radiant white hair, and a long, spiral horn sticking out of its forehead. At first glance, you might think that it was merely asleep, until you noticed the silvery blood coating its stilled flanks, or the thing knelt next to it, so engulfed in its black robes that it seemed to have no face, no eyes, no shape. It lifted its head, as if sensing their approach, and Harry saw silvery blood running down the vague outline of its face. Harry winced as Malfoy's hand clenched around his arm as a vise.

Then, the creature's eyes met Harry's, and it felt as if his scar were splitting open—fearful of Malfoy making any noise, he'd foolishly trusted himself to stay silent. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out at the searing pain in his scar. This was, he decided, how it felt to be branded. He was surprised that Thanos hadn't tried that one.

A shadow stirred, just beneath his awareness. Something scuttled across his mind's eye; hunched over, its shadow was difficult to identify. Danger. Caution. Something bad was waking.

Someone was trying to invade his mind. He realised this with such violence that something, perhaps his automatic mental defences, responded thus, forcefully ejecting the intruder, and he gasped, finding himself bent over on hands and knees.

I will not beg. I am not interested in your idea of Mercy .

A strange, silvery sort of radiance dripped down his arms, through his veins, mimicking the unicorn blood, and he knew what it was at once.

Mother, he thought, remembering what she had said about being on the lookout for threats. She hadn't reacted to the things that had attacked Ron in the forest, nor to the troll, but she acted now. That was a very, very bad sign.

I should have paid greater heed to Ron, he thought, next, and began to shape a shield with his hands—a buckler, the sort he was most used to. Armour began to form around his body.

And then Firenze was there, the galloping of many hooves resounding in Harry's ears, exacerbating his ever-worsening headache. The black-haired centaur, among many others, took up position around the clearing, as Firenze turned to Harry, who was only now starting to get to his feet.

"You did not say that you were Harry Potter, young lord," he said. Harry raised himself to his feet, somehow, but he felt dizzy, and weak. He remembered the night he'd barged into Mother's cottage, half-unconscious, unable to walk straight. This was rather similar.

"I didn't know it mattered," he murmured in reply.

"The forest is not safe for you at this time. You must leave at once. Now, while that thing is distracted, climb on my back."

What would Thor do? Would he retreat? No. He'd see to it that his companions were safe….

"Malfoy," he managed to say, holding out his hand to brace himself against a tree.

"Hagrid is on his way. But you cannot afford to wait for him to arrive, as your companion can."

Harry hesitated, but was able to recognise that his thoughts were too muddy, and his legs too weak, for him to be of much use in a fight. In a daze, he somehow (by memory?) swung his legs over Firenze's back, and they set off, Harry crouched low to reduce his height, and avoid the most branches. It also made it easier to find a grip if, as he suspected, he was about to fall off.

"What was that thing, back there?" he asked, once his head was the slightest bit clearer (due to decreased proximity, perhaps?)

Firenze slowed to a walk, pausing now and again to bat aside a stray branch, of which there were many.

"Tell me, young lord, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?" asked Firenze, and Harry closed his eyes, thinking hard, but he didn't think he'd ever used it, at all, nor seen or heard of anyone who did.

"No. We've only used the horn and tail hairs in potions," he said at last.

Firenze sighed. "That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn. Only one with much to gain, and little to lose, would attempt such a thing. It will save you, though you be an inch from death, but…you have slain something pure and defenceless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips."

Harry shivered, despite himself. A bit like the one I have now, perhaps? he mused.

"If you're going to be cursed, death's better, isn't it? Who'd do such a thing?"

"Oh, yes," agreed Firenze. "But humans rarely look at it thus. Death would be better, unless you had at your disposal something better, something to drive away the curse, and make you immortal. Do you know what is hidden at the school at this very moment?"

Harry closed his eyes, slumping, and felt Firenze turn to look at him, perhaps to ensure he hadn't fainted. "The Philosopher's Stone," he murmured. "Of course…but who—?"

"Can you think of no one who might desire eternal life—who has clung to life, awaiting his second chance?"

Harry suddenly felt bone weary. Something heavy weighted down the layer of dread etched deep into his soul. Of course. Voldemort.

"I see that you understand," said Firenze. Harry could feel the centaur's nod, the way it jolted through the rest of his body, making the yellow hair ripple.

"And now, if I might ask you a rather sensitive question, in exchange for my warnings, young lord," he said, and Harry felt his mind force itself into a state of greater alert. He sat up straighter, trying to borrow authority. Thor was the ambassador. What would he do, in this situation?

"You may," he said, although he could sense the direction this was headed in.

"My fellows and I—the herd—wishes to know what you are. We can sense something about you…something inhuman dwells in your blood, but we are unable to agree. Some say that you are a god in mortal guise, and others that you are the child of a god—what in Greece we call a hero. It would assist our chieftain in knowing how you should be treated, if you would provide us with the answer."

No thought given to the idea that it might all be news to him, that he might not have any idea what they were talking about.

"I don't know," he said, feeling a tendril of madness trying to creep in. It had been a very long night, indeed. Firenze stopped where he stood, and turned to face Harry, as if judging his sincerity.

"You don't know," he repeated, voice slow, contemplative. Harry looked away.

"My mother…my mother was a goddess in human form," he admitted. The words were strange to speak aloud, when he himself still couldn't quite believe them. "But James Potter was mortal, and I—"

He paused, struggling to put the thoughts together. "My mother was a goddess, reincarnated. I might be in the same boat, metaphorically speaking. I mean—I think—"

He was saved from trying to sort out his thoughts (and decide what to believe) by the thundering of a hundred hooves, and the much quieter arrival of Hagrid.

Firenze nodded to him, and Harry climbed off; feeling rather contrite, he spread his hands wide.

"My life is a mystery to me," he said to Firenze. "But if I do work it out, I'd love to return and explain it to you. Oh, and thank you, Firenze. I owe you a debt," he said. He bowed, hand on his heart, and turned back to Hagrid, stumbling over to the much taller man. "We found the unicorn," he said, in a quiet voice. "The centaurs, I think, will lead you to it, as long as you keep me away."

Chapter Text

He couldn't be bothered to explain that night, or even the next, although he tried his hardest to impress the severity of the situation once he, Hermione, and Ron had come together to discuss the events of that evening, and Ron had finished reprimanding him for being reckless. Which, Harry thought, was highly hypocritical

"So, that's it, then. All this time, we thought that Snape just wanted to get rich, but he was working for You-Know-Who, and if You-Know-Who gets that stone, he'll be back to full power in no time. We need to do something—"

"But Harry," Hermione said, her lower lip trembling as he redirected his attention to her. His gaze was probably rather wild and intense right now. Feral. He looked away from her, and she, as if unfrozen, said, "But Harry, everyone says that Dumbledore is the only one You-Know-Who ever feared…surely, as long as Dumbledore is here, the stone is safe."

Harry calmed down, rather, with these reassuring words, but the next few months would give him plenty of opportunity to reconsider, and to see the holes in her argument. He was warily watching for the end of the world long before what he feared came to pass.

It was something of a shock when the Twins sought him out the next day, flanking him, as if in deliberate mockery of Malfoy and his goons. Harry rolled his eyes; if they were still trying to intimidate him, they'd have to work harder at it. He pretended that he didn't see them, working hard on his Potions essay. It wouldn't do to turn in subpar work to that class, and end of term was approaching. This was the last week of March, after all, and he wanted to have his mind free of distractions, come the Thirty-First.

"We hear you had an adventure without us, little brother," said one of them, and Harry very nearly started. He scowled, trying to figure out what they were playing at, now, and set aside his quill and ink. He wouldn't be able to think with the Twins behaving this…erratically.

"'Little brother'?" Harry repeated, and one of the Twins said,

"Do you hear an echo in here, George?"

Harry tried to smother a grin at the obvious throwback. He spread his hands in surrender, and whirled around to face them. By that time, in the blink of an eye, his smile had already gone.

"I'm a bit curious as to how you mistook me for Ron," he admitted. "I know we look very similar, what with the red hair, and the blue eyes, and my excessive height for an eleven-year-old—"

"No, no, we know who you are. You're that Seeker git who lost us fifty points. Bravo! Well done! I think that warrants a party, don't you, Fred?" asked the twin who had been addressed as "George".

Harry frowned, and leant his head on his elbow. "What brings you here, then?" he asked, making his tone as bored as possible.

"Well, we thought that we should tell you that we're on speaking terms with Ron, again," said "Fred".

"And that he tried to redirect our attention towards no longer shunning you, but we told him that we thought you seemed a decent enough chap, for all that you'd lost us an assload of points, and we were planning to speak with you anyway."

"I'm not sure he believed us; he's almost savvy sometimes."

" Some things he hinted at made us quite ashamed of ourselves—"

"—something about you having no decent kin to live with—"

"—and we decided to informally adopt you. It's a Weasley brood thing. We're a mite young to be having children, ourselves, although you were probably such a cute ickle baby—"

Harry frowned, and crossed his arms, trying to figure out their angle.

"Is that right?"

"It means that we've written to Mum, and you're an unofficial Weasley, now! Well, sort of. We understand that you want to keep your birth parents, and all—"

"—and Ginny would be most distraught if her idol were off-limits—"

Whichever twin was speaking received a solid elbow to the ribs from the other, which shut him up. He needn't have bothered, because Harry's mind had already overloaded.

"Then…you're offering—?"

"A family? Sure, little bro. We'll look after you and everything, and try not to be gits to you, again. It's not the same thing as an adoption, of course, but you can't have everything. Besides, you're the last of a proud and noble line of purebloods, didn't you know?"

"Well, blood traitors. Malfoy wouldn't like you anyway. But the Potters go back centuries. Or more."

"So, we just dropped by to say 'Welcome to the Weasleys!' Ta-ta!"

He was sure that it was an act of petty malice, a small revenge, when they turned, then, and skipped away.

So much for writing that essay.

Some gentle prodding from his mother was all it took to set him on the right path, hunting down the aberrations in Hogwarts life that raised suspicion. Hermione had told him, back when they had been fretting over how to handle Norbert, that she'd wheedled the names of the other guardians of the stone from Hagrid, in one of his frequent moments of distraction. Harry now recalled that knowledge, sitting in his chair in the common room, remembering what he and his mother had discussed on the night of March Thirty-First.

He made three columns on his sheet of parchment: name, sort of protection anticipated, and whether or not it was anticipated that Voldemort and his ally knew how to best it.

It made him realise some rather disheartening facts. The first was that he knew what only one of the protections was: Fluffy, although his mother said that Snape's protection "would not be as straightforward as it initially appears". Professor Sprout taught Herbology, and Professor McGonagall Transfiguration, but these were highly flexible fields, as was Charms, the domain of Professor Flitwick. Ron's contribution to his table was the further complication that Flitwick was renowned as having been a champion duelist, before he'd become a teacher. Quirrell was either too unstable (unpredictable, chaotic) or too wily to guess at his contribution, and as for Dumbledore…well, he was considered the greatest wizard of the modern era. His protection could be anything.

Dumbledore had almost certainly not let the protectors confer amongst one another, in case the protections, or minds, of one be compromised. If Harry had doubted such wisdom, he need only think of the conversation he'd witnessed, the threats issued in the Forbidden Forest, after that quidditch match.

The second disheartening fact was the simple one that he didn't know how many of these Voldemort's ally knew, or knew how to counter. He knew that one of these checkboxes was ticked, and he knew that one couldn't be (Dumbledore's); the rest were mysteries. If Snape and Quirrell were, in whatever way, and for whatever reason, working together, then it was highly probable that those checkboxes were both ticked. But maybe they were still at odds with one another. McGonagall's was almost certainly blank, as were Sprout's and Flitwick. But…Hagrid….

He couldn't deny that he wanted to leave that checkbox alone, and give Hagrid an all clear, but the fact was, he had himself occasionally driven Hagrid to reveal more information than he had intended. And there was something else, another reason….

He shooed Ron and Hermione away every time they came to check on him. At least, judging by the continued presence of both Quirrell and Snape, they had made no headway yet, in the quest to acquire the Philosopher's Stone. But, something was eating away at him.

"Hagrid," he said, "just how did you come by Norbert, anyway?" There couldn't be that many people wandering around carrying illegal dragon eggs, and it wasn't the sort of subject liable to come up in casual conversation—they wouldn't want to be caught.

"Won him in a game of cards, down at the Hog's Head." Harry thought he probably knew the name of a tavern when he heard one, and sighed. Liquor had been known to loosen men's tongues.

"Someone you've met before? Someone you trusted?" Harry prompted, hoping for a "yes".

"Dunno," Hagrid shrugged, as if it weren't important. "He wouldn't lower his hood. Don't give me that look," he said, not having to look, by now, to recognise that Hermione was frowning at him with narrowed eyes. Harry privately suspected that Ron had been giving her lessons in death glares, but wisely kept this suspicion to himself.

"What do you remember?" he prompted, head in his hands. This could be bad, or it could be innocuous.

"I don't really remember…he was wearing a big cloak, though…hard to see him that well. You get all sorts at the Hog's Head, though—might not've been fully human."

Hagrid clearly didn't care, which was nice and all, but not very helpful. The thought of someone wearing such a big cloak that their features couldn't be discerned recalled the thing drinking unicorn's blood in the forest to his mind.

"And when you were talking to him, did the subject of Fluffy come up at all?"

Hagrid was distracted, which was just as well, or he might have been more suspicious of the three of them. "Eh, the subject might've come up, I can't really remember…let's see, he asked me what I did for a living, and I said I was the gamekeeper. He wanted to make sure I could take care of Norbert, see. But I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. Should've seen him when he was teething…but I figured out: every animal's got a soft spot for something. Fluffy's is music. I told him, well, it took me a while, but I'm good with animals. If I just play him a little music, he goes right to sleep. A dragon couldn't be much worse than that, could— Now hold on! Forget I said that!"

Harry quite deliberately didn't return the subject to Fluffy after that. If the cloaked man was Voldemort, then he now knew how to get past that obstacle. That was the relevant information. Given the resemblance between the being in the clearing, and the being Hagrid described, things did not look good.

Harry spelt it out for Ron and Hermione, and then retreated to the common room to pore over his list.

"Well, he's got all he's going to get, hasn't he? Seems the only real obstacle he worried about was Fluffy—and maybe he pried the information out of the other Hogwarts teachers in a similar way. Either way, I think you can be sure that You-Know-Who and his…servant…know all they need to get to the stone. We must make that assumption."

"But we don't know that there's a real threat. We don't know how much he knows," said Hermione, looking over the list, and trying to reassure Harry. "And Dumbledore's here, still guarding the stone."

Harry subsided, for the moment. Their final exams came and went, and they went outside to enjoy the day. Harry's scar, which had been twinging regularly, of late, suddenly burnt as if prodded with a hot iron.

"Ouch! It's hurt before, but never this badly…it can't mean anything good. If Dumbledore is so knowledgeable, perhaps I'll ask him, but—the last time it hurt this badly was in the clearing. I think it might mean that You-Know-Who is nearby…."

Ron paled. "But…but he can't be in Hogwarts, can he?" he asked.

Harry gave a helpless shrug. He'd heard that Hogwarts was the safest place in Wizarding Britain, and heard time and again that Dumbledore was a truly phenomenal wizard, the only one Voldemort had ever feared. But the centaurs must have had old, powerful magic, too. According to the bestiaries he'd found in the library, they were considered great diviners in times gone by. Their ability to read the stars was unmatched. Perhaps, Voldemort lurked in the Forbidden Forest, which must, technically speaking, be outside of the protective enchantments buried into Hogwarts's very walls.

If that were the case, however, then the only real danger was his lackey. Mother insisted that it must be Quirrell—that Snape would not tread that far down that road—but Hermione was the one able to collect and analyse information, and the data she had gathered did not reflect well upon his mother's old friend.

"If he has no means of access to Hogwarts, then there is nothing to fear. However, 'better safe than sorry'. I refuse to leave this to chance."

He barely glanced at the owl flying by overhead, as he stormed back into the castle, closely followed by a flummoxed Ron and a desperate Hermione. They probably thought that he had lost his mind.

"And what are the three of you doing inside on such a wonderful, sunny day?" asked Snape, with his trademark sneer. The way he glanced down his nose at Harry suggested that Harry had dragged in something revolting in the folds of his robes.

Or that he was the disgusting thing dragged in.

"We needed to see Headmaster Dumbledore, sir," he said, in his politest voice, the one bounding on obsequiousness. It had never worked on Snape before, and it didn't now; he merely narrowed his eyes at Harry, swooping down towards them. He was a very difficult teacher to even maintain a façade of respect for. Were not the intricacies of diplomacy, the need to court favour, reciprocity, alliance, treaty, politics, by now deep engrained into his mind, he would have given up the man for a lost cause long ago.

"Oh, and what about?" asked Snape, his tone suggesting that he would not believe anything they said, even if they told him that his robe were on fire, and he could himself see the flames.

Harry was coming to hate him. Next to him, now, he could almost smell that Ron was about to accidentally set something on fire. Or, perhaps, "accidentally". Hermione danced on her toes nearby, clearly wishing to flee. She turned to him, and then turned away, and then turned back. It was very distracting, and he needed to think.

"We believe we may have discovered a threat to the safety of the school, sir," he said, making sure to keep his eyes lowered, lest he seem confrontational. Snape could turn the oddest things into "cheek".

"The Headmaster is a very busy man. He has no time to waste on silly, childish games. Go back out and enjoy the sunshine, Potter. You wouldn't want to miss out."

Snape just had to make himself sound even more suspicious, didn't he? Compounding this was his refusal to leave them alone until he'd seen them head back outside, Harry's mind already whirring ahead, drawing up new plans. One of them must surely work. They perhaps should seek out McGonagall. She'd shown that she….

Well, that she'd listen to them, believe them, and then punish them, regardless. What would Thor do? asked Harry, silently, for the umpteenth time. The answer was obvious: authority figures wouldn't listen, and there was a clear and present threat to the safety of the world. The only thing you could do was go against authority, and hope that by the time they caught on, you were too far ahead of them for them to stop you.

…Actually, maybe that wasn't what Thor would do. But it was the plan that occurred to Harry, and it made sense to him. What had his previous attempts to garner support or aid produced? The librarians, relocated or killed, as well as all the sympathetic adults of his childhood. McGonagall, making him, Neville, and Ron the pariahs of Gryffindor House. Snape, who had just…well, true, he didn't have the full story, but that was because Harry wasn't sure that he could be trusted. A paranoid part of him suspected all of them. That part insisted that he should do this alone.

But there was one last recourse. Everyone spoke of how great Dumbledore was. Hopefully, he was not the distant sort of great that Harry was familiar with from Loki's father, Odin.

He barged into the common room, heedless of the scene he was causing. Hermione was hiding her head behind her hands, as if anyone would even possibly be fooled into believing that it wasn't she behind those hands. A glance at Ron showed that he was chewing the whole matter over, and that he had no idea what Harry was about, and why he'd come to the common room.

"Fred? George?" Harry called, and Ron tensed, and began to shift his weight as if bunching himself up for a quick retreat. Probably a justified reaction to legendary pranksters.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the seventh son. What can we do for you, today?"

Huh? Wait, that sort of made sense. Ron was the youngest of six boys, and Harry was younger than he. Seven was a powerful magic number, too. Harry approved.

"We need to see Dumbledore about…something. Can't tell you what. It's horribly boring. Hermione wants to know if she can start taking third year courses next year—"

Hermione ceased from hiding her face to glare at him, which he figured was probably a legitimate response, but he just smiled, and ploughed on. Ron was shaking his head, clearly on Hermione's side, despite the situation. Of course, he also didn't know what Harry was doing….

"—and we thought we'd come for moral support. The trouble is, we have no idea where Dumbledore's office is—"

"Are you going to prank him?" asked one of the Twins. Harry frowned.

"No. I just finished explaining what was going on. Weren't you listening? It's terribly urgent, because we'll be going home for the summer, soon. Besides, if we don't do this now, we might lose our nerve."

The Twins still suspected something, but they seemed to realise that the only way that they'd learn what was truly going on was if they came with.

Not that it mattered. McGonagall caught sight of them roaming the halls and was instantly suspicious. The Twins had been working on some sort of top-secret project or other in the common room when the Trio had interrupted; for all Harry knew, it was dangerous, forbidden, or both. But the Trio hadn't done anything wrong, and it was galling, to be treated as if he were some sort of criminal when he hadn't done anything wrong.

"She does realise that I didn't threaten to burn Hogwarts to the ground; I merely asked if we could speak to Dumbledore, right?" he asked, fifteen minutes later, and the three of them had retreated back to the boys dormitory to further plan. Apparently, whilst the Founders hadn't trusted boys to enter the girls dorms, the reverse was not true, and therefore Hermione was free to come and go from their dorms whenever she wished. This struck him as highly unfair, and he resolved to find a way to bypass the rule, if only to spite it.

Then, it was back down to business.

"Gone!" Hermione moaned, sitting down on Ron's bed, head once more in her hands. She looked as if she were about to curl up in the foetal position, as well. Harry couldn't much blame her. There went their last chance to solve things in a by-the-book way.

Of course, he'd never been terribly by-the-book, either. Life at the Dursleys' encouraged creative compliance, following the letter of the rules whilst breaking the spirit of them.

He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, until Ron shoved his hand away, and pulled Hermione into a hug, whispering things that were probably reassuring, and therefore false, to her as he rubbed her back. It was almost a touching scene, if Harry hadn't been fixated upon more important matters. He'd shoved aside trying to plan how to deal with Thanos for this. It was important!

He crossed his arms, and waited for them to remember him, leaning back and staring at the lovely barn-red timbres above the bed canopies. Not that he wasted the time; his eyes might have been analysing the rafters, but his mind was fixated on the Third Floor Corridor. He had a flute that he could use on Fluffy, but for the rest of it, he'd just have to improvise. He might perish in the attempt, but then, at least he wouldn't be around for Voldemort's resurrection. Although, he discovered, it bothered him that Ron, and Hermione, would be.

He wondered if they'd notice if he snuck off, now.

"Well, that's it," he said, to himself, he assumed, but Ron pulled away from Hermione to turn to face him, slightly. "He's everything he needs: Dumbledore gone, a means of getting past all of the obstacles—his chances are as good as they're going to be. I bet he sent that letter, see. The Ministry is going to be mighty surprised when Dumbledore turns up.

"He'll go after the stone tonight, when fewer people are around. Even by magic, without using instantaneous travel, it would take awhile to get to London, wouldn't it? Naturally, he'd find a way to ensure that Dumbledore had to take the slow way. Dumbledore will be wading through bureaucratic red tape by nightfall. It's perfect, see."

At some point, he'd expanded his narrative to address Ron and Hermione as well. He wasn't sure why he was including them; it might have been a parting gift, in case he didn't return. See now, this is why I did what I did. Understand?

"There's only one thing for it. I'm going to go after the Stone myself, tonight, and beat him to it."

"But—but you heard what McGonagall said—if she sees any of us near the Third Floor Corridor again, she'll take a hundred points—"

"So what?" demanded Harry, finally running out of patience. It was going to happen one of these days. Ideally, he wouldn't have snapped at one of his few friends, but he found he was past stopping now. "Do you think that You-Know-Who will leave us alone, if Gryffindor wins the house cup? Don't you see that there's more important things? He has to be stopped, and I suppose there's no one with more need to see him thwarted than I. 'But, he'll kill you, Harry!' you want to say. Well, do you think that thought hasn't occurred to me? But he'll kill me either way; if he kills me down there, I'm only dying a little sooner than I would, anyway, because I would never even consider helping him! He killed my parents, remember?

"Well, I have to assume that they'd be alright with the idea of me dying to keep everyone else safe! You're not going to stop me—I—I've been studying, and, whether you like it or not, I'm going down there, tonight—"

"Yes," Hermione said, meekly, head bowed, shoulder slumped. She looked utterly defeated, and Harry felt a twinge of conscience. "You're right. I suppose you'll use your father's old invisibility cloak. But…but will it cover all three of us?"

Harry blinked, his thoughts derailed, his plans thrown up into the air like so many jigsaw puzzle pieces. He wondered if he could put them properly back together again.

"What? What did you say? Hang on, you can't be—"

"I said that I would look after you," Ron said. "And I am a man of my word. Family doesn't abandon family. More than that, I care about you. You are my friend. If you venture forth into danger, I shall surely follow. And did you think that Hermione would be indifferent, if you died, and she could have done something, had she been there? We will accompany you. I said it before: you ought to place greater trust in your friends, and turn more often to others for assistance. It is not strength that makes a man in your circumstances face all peril alone, but fear. Tonight, then, you shall head into threat of certain death. Very well. Hermione and I will accompany you. Never fear, Harry. We are with you, to the very end."

"Yes," said Hermione, sounding a bit breathless, and faint, but she raised her head to stare Harry in the eyes. "Just let me go back over my notes. There are a few hours, yet, 'til nightfall—"

Harry sat there, motionless, for several minutes after they had gone.

Chapter Text

Hermione was still fuming over the Neville Incident by the time they'd reached the entrance to the third floor forbidden corridor. Harry was beginning to think he'd have to calculate how Hermione's refusal to speak to him affected their ability to function as a team, but Hermione seemed to understand, at least, that she mustn't let her resentment cloud her judgement, and that they'd need to be able to communicate freely, amongst themselves.

Harry tried not to act too relieved that they were now speaking with one another, again. He'd started to think that there was a problem with Hermione's hearing, or why wasn't she reacting to his apology?

He wasn't really sorry, though—there had been no time with which to argue to Neville, and he posed too great a threat of revealing them before they were ready. And while Hermione did have a point about how he ought to have done something about Neville, himself, he'd thought it more important to see what Hermione would do—the moment of truth—left to her own devices.

That didn't really qualify as testing her, though. He just needed to know how serious she was about this. It was not a test of her character, and would she please calm down.

Shockingly, it wasn't that simple. Ron agreed with both Hermione's verdict, and with the claim that Harry should have done something about Neville. They were, all three of them, a bit too stubborn to back down. Things might have gone very badly, indeed, except that by mutual, silent agreement, they pulled themselves back together outside the forbidden corridor.

Harry whipped off the invisibility cloak, revealing their presence to the empty corridor, and tucked the voluminous cloak into his oversized pockets as best he could, glad for once that his cousin was so hefty; bigger clothes meant bigger pockets, and the fluid nature of the invisibility cloak meant that it naturally seemed to seep into cracks and folds, compacting into itself.

Harry turned to Ron, as if it were arranged that Ron would always be first into the unknown. But the door refused to open until Hermione strode forwards, with still rather jerky steps, and whispered, "alohomora!" The lock clicked open, and Ron pulled open the unlatched door, before looking up in brazen defiance at the three salivating canine heads that lurked on the other side.

Harry glanced down at the harp left sitting upon the floor, and was quietly amused—neither Snape nor Quirrell seemed the type for a harp. Voldemort even less. But that was neither here nor there. The relevant fact was that, whoever was Voldemort's ally, they'd been and gone before Harry and his company—but they weren't far ahead. The small, enclosed area seemed almost to continue to resonate with the dregs of the song, and he could almost feel the warmth of the hand that had plucked these strings.

And then, of course, there was the still rather relaxed disposition of Fluffy to consider. But he was already starting to rouse himself towards violence. Harry pulled out the flute, and began to blow into the mouthpiece. Either he knew nothing of wind instruments (entirely possible), or this one suffered from a severe lack of range. Thankfully, Fluffy didn't seem to care much. Straightaway, his eyelids began to droop, and then he lay down, front paws crossed ahead of him, already twitching with doggy dreams, quite possibly of the violence he would visit upon the hapless intruder who next dared to disturb his rest.

The next hurdle to jump, with Fluffy out of the picture, was whatever lay beneath the trapdoor Fluffy was guarding. Ron being Ron, he volunteered for the potentially fatal task of discovering what lay beneath. He threw himself under the dog's three heads, pulled hard on the trapdoor's handle, and peered into the dark below. Well, at least he wasn't that reckless….

Ron swung his legs over the edge of the hole leading down, and dropped. Harry, shoving the flute into Hermione's hands without bothering to look back at her, took the step forward required to gaze down into the pit. He found himself thinking of another drop, into a void. A fall through space. A fall that had killed him.

He knew that he'd have to drop soon, or lose his nerve. Just then, Ron's voice, faint but still distinct, rose up from below, telling him that the landing was soft, and, without bothering to check to see if Hermione wanted to go first, he dropped. Sure enough, he landed on something soft, nappy and fibrous. A plant.

Wait. A plant? Didn't that mean—?

Before he could finish the thought, the noise of the flute died off, and Hermione dropped down next to them. She then wrenched her arms and legs out of the hold of the killer plant they'd landed on, struggling to reach the edges of it before it could ensnare her.

It had taken him too long to figure out. Damn.

"Hermione?" he asked. "What do we do? How do we kill this thing, or make it let go, or something?"

Hermione kicked out at the plant one last time. It released her ankle, and she stumbled backwards, nearly falling, but catching herself against the wall in time.

"Let's see…Devil's Snare…Devil's Snare. 'It likes the cold and the dark'—"

"Then, light a fire!" Harry cried.

"Don't struggle—it's got too good of a hold on you!" Hermione warned.

"I could—" Ron began, and Harry could hear the sudden upbeat tone to his words, and knew what the suggestion was without him having to finish the sentence.

"Don't you dare," he hissed at Ron. "You could set the plant on fire without trying, true, but what if it ended up burning us?"

"I think I could contain it to a specific area," Ron said, sounding pensive. "It might not hurt to try—"

"You mean you have control over your accidental magic, now?" asked Harry, unsure of how to respond. "Does it still qualify as accidental, or—? Oh, go ahead. Hermione doesn't seem to have figured out how to—"

The smell of ash and smoke assailed him, as well as a high-pitched, squealing noise, as the plant shrank away from the boy who had just set it ablaze. And, true to his words, Ron was containing the fire to his specific area. The fire burnt off around him, and the vines shrank back from him, as if they sensed that his body was covered in flames. Or something.

Hermione, meanwhile, had finally decided to follow suit, and a jet of blue flames assaulted the creeping tendrils covering Harry's feet, and legs. Harry ignored the heat, snapping the vines by kicking. They withdrew from him in that one area, but persevered in trying to smother him.

Ron grabbed hold of some of the vines near Harry's chest and face, and they shrieked and recoiled, as if sensing the imminent danger. Working together, Hermione and Ron managed to free Harry from the vines, and they helped him out of reach.

"Well. That was fun," he said, once he'd recovered his breath, and could stand straight again. He had the sense that the two of them turned to stare at him, and, although they couldn't see it in the dim corridor, he rolled his eyes, and then strode ahead of them, to the door he sensed on the far side. It was more in the way that airflow was blocked than any real knowledge of there being a door there, but he found the handle, and threw open the door into the comparatively bright light of an actually lit room.

Ron followed close behind, his enduring concern almost palpable as tension in the air, and then Hermione, turning occasionally to glance back at the writhing plant behind them, as if its reach might suddenly septuple, and it would be able to renew its attack on them.

The room was filled with winged things flitting about the room. He wasn't sure what they were, at first. They had tiny wings of every design and hue, but something about their "bodies" made him think that they couldn't be birds. Besides, why would there be a flock of birds under the school? And they must be miles under the school, by now. The fall had seemed to take forever, just as—

Don't think about that, he told himself, as he hurried to the far side of the room, where the door leading further into the obstacle course was, naturally, locked.

There were broomsticks along the walls. He sighed. He had no idea how good of a flier Ron and Hermione were, but he knew that he'd need help, catching the key. Because, of course that was what all of the flying things were. Winged keys. And one of them looked ruffled, as if it had recently been caught.

As it turned out, Hermione was a horrendous flier, but Ron was almost as skilled as Harry. Or, possibly, more. It was hard to tell in such a short period of time. But, their teamwork helped them to succeed.

Hermione's fortitude, however, seemed to be flagging.

"What am I good for?" she muttered, having dropped from the broom just before it could crash into the wall. Harry suspected that she'd done some damage to her legs with the fall—the impact must have been jarring, from a height of twelve feet, although wizards might have enhanced regenerative capacities. Not that he'd know; he hadn't jumped from the school roof, he'd climbed. Still, he could recognise the first warning signs of a nervous breakdown when he saw them, he thought.

"Hermione?" he asked, at a loss as to what to say next.

"Hermione, what is the matter?" asked Ron, turning from the unlocked door to face her. For once, the concern in his face, and the worried frown, were not meant for Harry. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy, and mentally kicked himself. He couldn't resent Ron's worrywart tendencies as they applied to him, constantly pester Ron to leave him be, and then complain when Ron did. Besides, Hermione was obviously not well.

"I—I'm not like the two of you," she murmured. "I don't know what I was thinking, coming with you. You've obviously got this handled, and—and you're a lot stronger, physically, than I am. And then, when there's any threat of danger—I freeze up! I think I'd just get in the way, and I—"

"Well, far be it from me to stop you, if you think you should go back. But, might I remind you that you saved Ron's and my lives? I confess that I have never heard of 'Devil's Snare', and would not have been able to find a way to counter it, on my own. I suppose what I'm saying is that you were right, the both of you, and that I was a fool to attempt this on my own. But, if you feel particularly threatened by what lies ahead—" He paused, considering. Ron seemed to know how to defend himself, judging by his fight with Malfoy, in the Forbidden Forest. Harry had Loki's memories to fall back on. What did Hermione have? No wonder she felt she was in the most danger.

He bit his lip. "Hermione, the truth is, you know more about magic than Ron and I combined—and Ron was raised in the magical world. We need your expertise, and your intelligence. If it comes down to a fight, leave it to us. Just stay hidden."

He pulled the invisibility cloak out of his pocket, and wrapped it over her shoulders, turning away before she could respond. "Just be sure to give that back to me when this is done. It's all I have of Dad, after all."

"Harry, I can't—" Hermione protested.

"This will hide you from sight, but not from hearing, so shh. Let Ron and me handle any threats. Just help us to figure things out."

Hermione nodded, and pulled up the hood of the cloak. She'd be harder to keep track of, but she was smart. She'd let them know if they were leaving her behind.

Harry turned to Ron, whose expression was suddenly a bit…inscrutable. Most unusual, for Ron.

"How very…heroic of you," Ron said, as Harry passed him by, on the way to the next obstacle. Harry frowned, not sure he understood.

"No, not really," he said. "I just don't want either of you to die. After all, I dragged you into this."

He didn't know what else to say, how to express the realisation that had hit him, at the knowledge that he would not be indifferent to their deaths. He therefore ignored it, pouting when he saw that almost the entire area of the next room was taken up by a gigantic chess set.

"Right. Ron, you're up."

Ron turned to face the next room for the first time, and froze.

"Wizard's chess is…a bit violent, isn't it?" asked Hermione.

No one said anything. Well, the chess pieces now knew she was here. She lowered the hood of the borrowed cloak, and turned her head around, analysing the room.

"I think…I think we must defeat them, to cross to the next door," Ron said. He turned to the black king, standing nearby. "Is that it?" he demanded. "We must defeat the white king in order to proceed?"

The king turned, and nodded at him. These chess pieces were like ordinary, muggle ones—faceless, and, judging by the room's silence, voiceless. But Harry doubted that they would be as docile and harmless as a muggle chess piece. This would hurt, to be "taken". And, as it seemed, they had to take the places of three of the pieces. That way, if any of them won, all of them would gain access to the next room. Thrice as much chance of success, triple the odds. It was a very good thing that it was only the three of them, undertaking this task. He had wondered if they shouldn't have brought Neville.

"Er—don't be offended, but neither of you is that great at chess—" said Ron, staring out across the chessboard.

"We're not offended," Hermione said, without missing a beat.

"We'll follow your orders," said Harry. "Just tell us what to do."

"I suppose it isn't possible for one of us to replace you," Ron asked the black king. The piece shook its head, bending low over Ron, and then straightening up. Ron frowned, but the way he had phrased the statement suggested that he hadn't had much hope of being wrong.

"I'd hoped to have you take the place of the king, Harry," he admitted. "After all, losing the king means losing the game—it's the most important piece, and it is crucial that you continue, more than Hermione or I. But I had no great faith that such an act could be carried out. Here, now, you take the wild horse—the knight, Hermione can take the place of that bishop, and I'll be a rook. This way, we'll start off all together, and we shall have more time to confer."

The rightmost three pieces glided off the board at his words, sinking into the ground as they approached the edge of the giant chessboard, their energy fueling the spell.

Harry, taking a brief analysis of the subterranean magic, noted that this area was mostly unused, and had yet to develop what might be called a specialty. It could be used for anything. Dumbledore was using the raw power of the earth to generate more power for the traps, whatever they were, but even Harry's seventh sense could make little more of the area than this.

Ron, he noticed, was explaining somewhat his choices for their pieces. Harry was unpredictable, and played by his own rules, which seemed to fit the knight. Hermione was strictly by-the-books, her movements predicable, which lent her to both of the double pieces that remained, but there was a move in chess called "castling", in which the rook became the defence of the king. Ron seemed to think that that description fit him, and Harry couldn't argue.

With no other marker to remind him what sort of pieces each of them were, Ron had to rely on these shorthands to keep track of who was what. But he'd also picked pieces based off how liable they were to be put into harm's way—how he expected to use them, in this match, although chess was not known for being predictable. A knight's erratic movement was the best protection Ron could think of for Harry, because of course he was still trying to protect him.

He, Ron, and Hermione stepped onto the chess board, taking the places assigned them. White moved right after that—pawn to D-4—and the game began.

The next hour (or what felt an hour) was a harrowing ordeal. The first shock came when the first black piece (a pawn) was taken, and the brutality of the game was proven when the ruthless white pawn clobbered it over the head, chipping off pieces of stone (onyx?) as it bashed the poor pawn. The victim melted into the chessboard, as the white pawn moved into the vacated space. Hermione swayed, rocking slightly, and pulled the invisibility cloak around her shoulders. Not that it would do her any good, here.

The game continued, Ron trying to think both quickly and carefully—he had to ensure their safety, as well as make progress against the enemy. White had no such limitations. It was an unfair match, weighted against them, and Harry was acutely aware of this fact. The need to protect three of his pieces was limiting Ron's choices. But, somehow, he was managing to pull them all through.

But, of course, naturally, inevitably came the point, the moment of truth, where there was no other way to progress.

"We are almost at the end," Ron said, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. "Yes. It is the only way—"

"No!" Hermione and Harry cried, Harry surprised again at the strength of his own reaction. He'd seen several chess pieces melt off into the floor, by now. He knew what Ron was saying, the sacrifice he was offering, and couldn't believe that he'd led Ron to this.

"There must be—" he began.

"There is no other choice. Forgive me, Harry. I know that I said that I would always look out for you, and that we were with you for this—to the very end. I do not mean to break my promise, but only in this way will you be able to proceed." His head was bowed. Harry tried not to notice that incessant little voice, telling him how sincere Ron was being, that there was no better option. "Harry—one way or another, be it in my power, we will meet again. This I vow."

"Ron—"

"Don't talk that way, Ron, please—" Hermione begged, her head also bowed, which was insufficient to hide the tears running down her face. Who knew if Ron would survive such a blow? Harry knew what Ron was doing; he was saying his goodbyes. It wasn't fair. Something clenched tight over his heart, and he couldn't breathe. Maybe it wasn't worth it. Maybe they could forfeit, back out, take another road.

"This is the only way forward. Sacrifice is the nature of chess," Ron said. "Hermione, you move two squares up and to the left on the next turn. Harry, that leaves you to move four up, two left. That should give you a checkmate. No, it will.

"Harry—don't hang around here when you've won. Remember why we came. You can always return for me, later, but stopping You-Know-Who and his servant are the priority. Do not forget your objective. Don't let my sacrifice be in vain. And…I am glad that I met you, Harry. Thank you."

They realised that they couldn't stop him—they could only follow his orders. He nodded at them, the both of them, and moved two squares to the left. The white queen's reaction was swift and harsh. She struck Ron a swift and cruel blow with her fist of stone, and he fell to the ground, wordless, making not a sound except that of his body hitting the ground. Harry wasn't sure whether or not he was still alive, but at least Ron hadn't melted into the floor. He took courage from that.

Hermione screamed, and shook all over, but she stayed on her square, and then followed Ron's instructions, numb. Her footfalls looked unusually heavy, as if she were barely picking up her feet, and stumbling as a result.

As for Harry, he became aware of a certain hollowness that he hadn't previously noticed had been occupied. That emptiness rose up, as if it threatened to consume him. He was beginning to question whether everyone around him were fated to suffer as a result. And Ron…without realising it, he'd become reliant upon Ron. He trusted Ron—to keep him safe, but also to keep him sane. Ron was the only one he'd warned about Thanos's access to his mind, and he now felt…unguarded. Vulnerable. Exposed. Ron's defeat woke too many memories of other losses, other sacrifices, other near misses, other times of danger. Harry couldn't avoid thinking about it, but—

Why did it have to hurt? What was the use of having people close to you, if all it was was heartache when they were gone? Something inside him was twisting apart. Somewhere inside him, now, the void loomed. One wrong step and he would fall, and Ron wasn't here to drag him back out of it, now.

The only way not to—

He was not all alone. Not yet. Hermione was still with him, and, while she wasn't Ron, she was smart, and she cared about him—enough to come down here with him, risking her life. He clung to that, telling himself that he didn't know that Ron was dead, and that, if they won this match, the first thing he would do was check on Ron.

He hadn't realised that he cared that much about his friends. How could he not have realised?

Two up, two left, two up. He made it behind enemy lines, and was finally in danger of assassination, except—he had a guard, even now. Its face was blank, devoid of eyes or mouth, or even nose. It was a chess piece, and it didn't have a soul. He could feel that emptiness. It was only an animated object, but it was his bodyguard, too, and it ensured that white couldn't kill him.

"Checkmate," he said. His voice, he thought, had no right being that level.

The white king made a low growling noise, the grating of stone against stone, perhaps, but it picked off its crown, and threw it down at Harry's feet. Inset in the centre was the key to the next door. Of course, of course.

Harry ignored the key, for the moment, pausing to pick up the heavy stone circlet on his way to Ron's side.

"Ron?" he asked, kneeling down beside his best friend. "Ron!"

He was breathing. He could see that Ron was breathing. Harry felt as if he hadn't breathed at all until he saw the staggered rise and fall of Ron's breathing. Laboured. He was injured. There was blood in his hair, Harry was sure he saw it. He turned to Hermione, who was already at the next door.

"Harry, come on!" she cried, tears in her voice. "The key! We have to hurry!"

For a moment, just for a moment, Harry hated her. He hated how callous she sounded, how fixated she was on the goal, when Ron had nearly died. He wished it had been she, and then hated himself for that wish. He wished it had been he, and then recalled that this was his quest. But, surely, another could—

Not now. Not with Ron gone; there were no other contenders, unless Dumbledore miraculously appeared. He hated Hermione for being unharmed, for being better, for being safe, and then it was over, and he hated himself, instead. Why did he deserve protection? He didn't deserve protection. He didn't deserve friends. Look what he'd done to them! Look at his thoughts! He should just die—!

But then…. Don't let my sacrifice be in vain.

Ron'd assumed that he was going to die. And he didn't want Harry to waste time. Harry swallowed, and yanked the key from the crown, running over to Hermione. She paused, then, eyes wide and filled with tears, and ran back over to Ron, just waiting long enough to cover his body with the cloak. She swallowed a sob, and ran back for the door.

She cared. She'd given up her own means of defence, to ensure the enemy didn't find Ron defenceless. Harry felt as if someone had hollowed out his heart. Surely, there was nothing but nothingness inside him. A strange calm washed over him—the beginning of madness, perhaps. He was mostly past caring.

Ron wouldn't want you to—

He twisted the key in the lock, and opened the door.

As Hermione read out the instructions written upon the sheaf of parchment, Harry listened, analysed the bottles before them, studying them, trying to figure it out as she went, giving his mind something to do. The overwhelming stench of the troll in the previous room had shocked him to his senses. Now, there was just the guilt eating away at him. Business as usual, then.

Well, he wasn't interested at the ones at either end of the line-up—neither of them would help him to get through the tall black flames before him.

He tapped one of the bottles that he was fairly sure was poison, grateful that the bench containing all those bottles was backed up against a wall. The poem's talk of "nettle wine's left side" would have been meaningless otherwise.

His heart wasn't in it. He hoped that Hermione was having more luck. She certainly seemed to be, muttering to herself as she walked the length of the table, occasionally pointing, or glancing back at their guide.

Perhaps Harry, too, didn't have "a shred of logic", as Hermione had so eloquently put it. His thoughts might not be organised enough.

"I've got it!" cried Hermione, with a strained smile.

"You figured it out," Harry said. He tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth refused to budge.

She held up a bottle, nodding. It was medium-sized, and round, and didn't look very full. "This one will 'transport the drinker back instead'. I think one of us might want to go back. I mean, I think I should."

He could hardly ask more of her. She'd given up her greatest defence, but had faithfully followed anyway. It was a good thing she couldn't read his mind.

He knew he couldn't ask her to face Voldemort with him. It wouldn't be fair to her. He smiled, somehow, and nodded. He ignored the little voice that told him that it was madness, to face the enemy all alone. Look at how that ended, before. But, he could do it, he knew. Ron was counting on him. The wizarding world was counting on him.

"Yes. You don't have the cloak, anymore." He took great care to ensure not an ounce of resentment or reproach were in his voice. He stated it as a simple fact.

"It's that," she agreed, nodding, setting the bottle on the floor. "But it's also this." She picked up a tiny bottle—a shot glass size of bottle—holding it out to him. He took it from her, holding it up to the light.

"There's only enough here for one," he said, realisation striking him. Of course. The potion bottles must be connected to some sort of pre-brewed batch of potions, hidden somewhere, to refill. And they must refill quickly, given that Voldemort's servant had been and gone, and they'd followed close enough that the troll was still unconscious. And Fluffy. But in that precious time it took for the bottle to refill, defenders could close the distance. Whatever the final obstacle was, it would have time enough to eliminate the intruders, one by one.

Hermione nodded at his words, bowing her head. "I'll go back, and check on Ron."

Harry's head shot up. "Yes. Do that. And send word to Dumbledore using Hedwig—it's worth a try, anyway—and speak to McGonagall. Let her know where we are. Where I am. Thank you, Hermione. I would never have made it this far, but for you."

She paused, where she had been reaching for her bottle. "…Harry?"

"Go on, Hermione. You'd best get Ron to safety. I don't know what hidden dangers that chess set holds. We shouldn't have left him that way."

Hermione nodded, and downed the liquid, and shivered. "Are you alright?" he asked, sudden fear clenching at his heart for the second time. Please, let Hermione be okay…. "It isn't poison, is it?"

"I'm fine. It's just…it's cold as ice."

Ah. He'd fit right in, then. "Good luck, Harry. Be careful. You're a great wizard, you know."

He gave a coarse, bitter laugh, a humourless thing, and looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'm not," he said, his voice very quiet, so quiet she almost had to strain to hear. "You're better than I. And—"

"Me?" asked Hermione. "Books! And—and cleverness! There's more important things—friendship, and bravery, and, oh Harry, be careful—"

She flung her arms around him, and he stiffened. He still wasn't used to physical contact, although he was getting better. But that wasn't why he'd frozen. Not quite. His own thoughts haunted him. He pulled away, head bowed, backing slowly towards the fire as he spoke.

"I'm not a great wizard, Hermione. I'm none of those things you value. Not clever. Not brave. Not even a very good friend. Do you know, I resented you for being safe and well when Ron wasn't? Just for a moment. Hermione, I don't think I'm even a good person, let alone a great wizard. I think…you'd better find yourself better friends. More friends like Ron. But Hermione—despite what I just said, I do care. I just thought… I'd say something sappy. I know I don't stand a chance against Snape, let alone You-Know-Who. I'm just buying us time, in the end. Hoping for a miracle. Maybe I'll surprise myself. Goodbye, Hermione Granger. It was good knowing you. I was glad to be your friend, while it lasted."

He downed the bottle, and waved at her, and ignored her cry of, "Now, you just wait here, Harry Potter—" in a much more ordinary tone, cut off as he stepped through the flames.

Hermione was a smart girl. He knew she wouldn't try to follow him.

Chapter Text

Had he had any prior acquaintance with traveling through fireplaces, he would have been forewarned that it didn't agree with him, which was also a logical conclusion, given his aversion to extreme heat. As it was, he had never even heard of floo powder, and a similar (known) unfamiliarity with wizarding ways meant he'd assumed that the journey through would be…well, less like traveling through a fireplace.

He stumbled out of the fire, nearly falling on his face. Quirrell, who of course was the servant of Lord Voldemort, whirled around at Harry's entrance, which was hardly as quiet as Harry might have wished. Before he could regain his feet, or his equilibrium, he was bound with thick ropes. He strained against them, but they were strong enough not to budge. He exhaled sharply, watching Quirrell, whose back was now turned to him, intently, and listening to the muffled thought processes of Voldemort's servant.

The Mirror of Desire, as Lily had called it, stood in front of Quirrell. Harry could see the inscription carved into the frame. This was Dumbledore's final obstacle? But, in a way, it made sense. There were no overt threats in the room, but time had wings when you were sitting before the Mirror, wasting your life away, pining. There was no threat of force needed.

Harry rather suspected that there was a trick of some sort involved in all this—that the only way to get the stone would be through the mirror, and the mirror itself would work to frustrate such attempts. In the meantime, he knew it was an absolute necessity to distract Quirrell, to keep him from figuring out how the Mirror worked.

Was he the gloating sort of villain? Harry wondered. The sort who monologued, given the chance? Time to see.

"I don't believe it," Harry said, shaking his head—the only part of his body free to move as he pleased. "All along, you were the one after the stone? I mean, at first, I suspected you, but Hermione convinced me it had to be Snape—"

"Oh, Snape. So useful to have him hanging around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-p-poor, st-st-stuttering P-Pr-Professor Q-Quirrell?"

Ah, yes. Of course the stutter was fake, too. Well, at least that would make this conversation easier to endure.

"But—" he widened his eyes in a false display of innocence, "but didn't he try to kill me? During that quidditch match?"

Quirrell laughed, rolling back the sleeves of his robe. "Oh, no. I tried to kill you. And I would have managed it, then and there, if Snape hadn't been muttering a countercurse, trying to save you."

What. Okay, he owed Hermione an apology. Snape's muttering had been a spell directed towards him. He shouldn't have dismissed her intelligence.

"Snape was trying to save me?" he asked, his shock genuine now. Sure, his mother had said they were childhood friends, but to go so far as to save the son of an enemy…? "I thought he hated me."

"Oh, he does," Quirrell said, voice laced with amusement. "Heavens, yes. Wouldn't shut up about it, even in staff meetings. But he never wanted you dead."

"But…but I saw him threatening you, after the quidditch match," he said, frowning. That part had never made sense to him. "And in the staff room, the week of my detention—I heard you sobbing, begging for someone to go easy on you…."

"Ah," said Quirrell, his voice a bit shaky, as it had been then. "Well, that was not Snape. My master is a great wizard, and I find it… difficult to live up to his expectations."

Harry's mouth went dry. This did not bode well. "Your master?" he prompted, a bit faint.

"Yes. I met him in the forests of Albania, as I was doing a tour of the world, learning a bit before taking up a new position as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor here. I was so naïf then, so idealistic, full of mistaken impressions about the nature of good and evil. But he showed me the truth: there is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it."

Harry thought about his own, personal experiences with power, and about Loki's. He thought about good, and evil. Sometimes, the line was very difficult to draw. Other times, however, it was straightforward, which meant that good and evil did exist.

"And what of Captain America?" he asked. "Do you mean to tell me that he isn't good? He has power, but uses it only to help others."

Quirrell scoffed. "And that made him weak. He would have been able to help many more, if he hadn't let his moral code—"

"But he is a good man," Harry continued, voice very soft. "And what of Hitler? He is the go-to example, whenever anyone wishes to define the nature of human evil. What of Grindelwald? What of Stalin? Good and evil are real. You don't have to be evil, you know. You could turn back, reject your newfound Lord, help us fight him."

Quirrell turned to face him, a twisted smile on his face, cold and heartless. "Are you afraid, Harry Potter?"

Yes. Harry was afraid. But not of the things Quirrell thought. Not for the reasons he suspected. He remembered what had happened in the forest, that sense that maybe his mind wasn't as stable as he'd previously believed. He swallowed, hard.

"Good. Now, shut up, Potter, and let me think."

Harry wondered if he could somehow get away with continuing to speak, but there was a lot to think about, and much to keep track of, to remember.

"I don't understand…is the Stone in the mirror? Should I break it?" Quirrell murmured to himself.

Or…not to himself. Harry's heart began to pound, as he heard an answering voice hiss from Quirrell's turban (then that was the reason for it).

"Use the boy…use the boy…."

Don't use the boy, Harry replied, but silently. This was a very undignified position to be in, but he hadn't had the time to recover from his journey through the fire before he'd been incapacitated. He had an excuse.

His scar twinged, and he inhaled sharply, again. There, and gone. Voldemort nearby—he'd already guessed, but he hadn't thought that Voldemort could be this close without such a reaction as he'd had in the Forbidden Forest.

He thought fast, in those moments where Quirrell was approaching him to manipulate his bindings. What to do?

I shall look and lie about what I see, he thought to himself. Few even suspect me, and I, unlike him, know the nature of this Mirror, and can come up with a better lie. But…at the same time, I must get that stone, myself. Think! How do you get the stone from the Mirror?

"No funny moves, Potter," warned Quirrell, pointing his wand at Harry's ankles, where the bonds fell away. Those on his wrists remained, but he could walk, now. He supposed that Quirrell wasn't taking any chances. Pity.

What I want most, at this moment, is for Quirrell and Voldemort not to acquire the stone. Get the stone before Quirrell, and Ron will not have suffered in vain. Get the stone before Quirrell, and we might have a bargaining chip. Get the stone before Quirrell, and we might yet escape this.

He stopped before the familiar Mirror, eyes closed. He could feel Quirrell's disapproval—what's taking so long?

He opened his eyes, and stared at the Mirror. His mirror self gave a triumphant grin, before holding up a small red stone (deceptively small, the size of his hand) which had been in its pocket. The blood-red stone gleamed in the torchlight. Ruby? Garnet? Some other, blood-red stone? The reflection cocked its head, gave a knowing smile, and then nodded, the hand falling back to its side, where it shoved the stone into its pocket.

And Harry's pocket felt heavier, although the pants inherited from Dudley were huge, and loose, with sizeable pockets—he'd noted that only an hour ago (could it really have been such a short time?). You would not know it by looking at him, but Harry could feel the weight of the Philosopher's Stone now nestled deep in his pocket. The reflection nodded, and waited, but it wasn't long before—

"Well. What do you see, Potter?" Quirrell demanded, and Harry frowned.

He turned to Quirrell. Not the truth, but also not what he'd seen before—nothing that had ever been true. He couldn't afford the enemy knowing any of his weaknesses, no matter how plausible his original desire was. "I—I see myself accepting the House Cup from Dumbledore. I've won back all the points we lost, and gryffindor likes me, again."

Quirrell huffed, shoving Harry away, with an, "Out of the way, Potter." But then a second voice spoke, muffled by the thickness of the turban.

"He lies…he lies…." Harry's heart began to beat a bit faster, a bit harder. How could he know? How could either of them possibly know?

And then he remembered the feeling, the way that the cloaked figure in the Forbidden Forest had breached his mind, had tried to read it. He shoved up thick walls, but it was too late for that precaution, now. Voldemort could read minds.

"Potter! Don't lie to me! Tell me what you see!"

Do you take me for a fool? he silently replied. He continued his retreat, as he felt something, an ache, and then burning, fill his veins, luminous silver trailing down his arms and legs, circulating through his body. It reached the bonds around his wrists, and they burnt away.

"What is that?" demanded the other voice…Voldemort's voice. It shook. "What is this magic you are using? Answer me!"

Mother's love and protection was made of silver fire, but it didn't burn Harry, and thus he barely thought twice about it, despite his dread of the high temperatures of Hagrid's cabin.

Tension built in his scar, which began to burn, as if reacting to Voldemort's presence. Up until this minute, Voldemort's presence had been hidden, the effects of his proximity, muted. But, no more.

The burning intensified as Quirrell approached, and the voice said, "Let me speak to him…face to face…."

"But Master, you are not strong enough!" protested Quirrell, which Harry would have considered the sort of statement that an ordinary evil overlord would consider deserving of a death sentence. How dare you question my strength, minion!

"I have strength enough…for this," replied the other voice, instead, and Quirrell reached up to unwrap the turban. With every layer that fell away, the pain of Harry's scar seemed to intensify thrice or more. He barely noticed as Mother's armour solidified around him, changing colour, as it did, from gleaming silver to black and green, lit by an underglow, the sort created by a blocked light source.

Loki's armour. Or rather, a mimicry of it. But Harry didn't see it. The pain was so intense, he was sure that it would kill him, perhaps already had. But slowly, he seemed to adjust to the pain. Not swiftly enough. Too much more of this, and he'd surely break.

The only way—

No! He thought of Ron, and Hermione, how hard they'd fought to bring him this far. He thought of the warning, the portent of danger, he'd felt towards Loki's mantra, the sense that it might be the road to madness, the thing he could least afford right now. He thought of Thanos, and winced.

Somewhere beneath him, within him, the void lurked. He could almost hear it laugh.

No! It was vital that he remain in the moment.

The turban was taking forever to unwrap. Why hadn't it stopped already? When the turban was gone, the magic that was muffling and hiding Voldemort would also go. Harry would lose that protection, sure, but at least the pain would level out. He'd find a place of calm, within himself, and he'd ride it out, or fight it off, or something—

He couldn't think. Where was he, exactly? Why did it feel as if he were falling apart?

The only way not to break—

The turban came away. A face looked back at him, from the back of Quirrell's head. A face with two slits for a nose, and red irises. This must be Lord Voldemort.

"Harry Potter," said the whispery voice, no longer muffled, but clear, high, and sharp. "At last, we meet."

The pain was leveling out. He could do this.

"See what I have become? Mere smoke and vapour. I have form only when I share the body of another. But there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. You saw faithful Quirrell, drinking unicorn's blood for me in the forest. All to bring us to this. He could not retrieve the stone. But you have your uses, too. Now, why don't you give me that stone you have in your pocket?"

Harry continued to back away, even though, as it occurred to him, he had no way back through the flames. Perhaps the lingering effects of the potion would—

"Do you think you're brave, Harry Potter? I killed your parents. They died begging me for mercy—"

The pain had leveled off. "Liar," he hissed. He didn't know much about James, but he knew his mum, and he knew she'd never do such a thing. His lie-detecting sense was silent, which he knew, instinctively, meant that here was one of the rare liars skilled enough that he couldn't read them. He straightened his back, to stand tall, and began to focus magic into a buckler, the same he'd started to form in the Forest.

"Yes," agreed the dark wizard. "You're right. Your father died first, trying to fight me off, and he showed amazing courage and loyalty—I always value loyalty—trying to buy your mother time to escape. But your mother needn't have died; she was trying to protect you. Give me the stone, if you don't want her to have died in vain."

He didn't need to ask his mother what she'd prefer. He knew that she wanted to protect him, and in this case, handing over the stone would probably still not be enough to save him. Either way, it didn't matter. Handing over the stone would be the dishonourable, minion-villain, evil thing to do. Loki had come to Earth to get the Tesseract for Thanos, after all. (Why was it always little rocks?)

What would Thor do? he asked, for perhaps the final time. He closed his eyes, to consider. Thor would destroy the stone, rather than see it fall into Voldemort's clutches. And if he couldn't…he'd at least ensure that the enemy couldn't get to it.

With his free hand, Harry reached for the stone in his pocket, knowing he'd never create a replica that could deceive the man who could even read minds. Voldemort clearly knew things, could perhaps sense the stone's innate magic, even as Harry could. He'd never fall for a fake. But Harry could place protections of his own on the stone, against its use, and against it being stolen.

"Never," he said, fixing Voldemort with a level stare. He was unfazed by the so-called Dark Lord. He'd seen worse, had fought worse, had bested worse.

At his words, or perhaps his calm, the pain in his scar intensified.

"You dare—! Crucio!" cried the most feared wizard of recent history. A jet of light erupted from Quirrell's wand, pointed backwards with amazing dexterity at Harry.

The buckler was still forming; there was no way to block the attack, and perhaps the sudden burst of fire in his scar slowed his reflexes. The jet hit him straight on, and this—

He'd felt more excruciating pain, perhaps, but if so, only in one place. He'd broken then, been broken and moulded and recast into something twisted and wrong. He'd broken, despite his best efforts, not even realising it at the time. But it hadn't been the pain that had broken him. He could make it through the pain. It was making it very difficult to think, to keep track of what was important, what he must and must not do, but…he just had to remember that—

This is a bad idea. I mustn't use the mantra. Remember what the Sorting Hat said? That way lies madness!

—the only way not to break—

No! protested a part of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Ron.

—is not to care!

He didn't care. He didn't care. He didn't care. Sure, it hurt, but pain was an obstacle, and he'd just beaten an obstacle course, with the help of his friends. He would not fail them.

Loki could feel Thanos's influence, seeping from that corrupted corner of his mind. He created a wall, covered it in wards, and blocked off that corner, determined to at least buy himself enough time to defeat this enemy. Or, perhaps, for Dumbledore to come. Worthless old man. Where was he, now? How could he be so easily tricked?

Absent when it matters. Remind you of anyone? a voice in his head mocked, and he was beyond trying to figure out whether or not it was his own.

The buckler solidified in his left hand, all fake enameled wood, steel, and leather, its falsity betrayed by that same inner radiance as underlay the battle armour he now wore. He split his attention between forming a weapon, building a strategy, and keeping an eye on his opponent. At least it was only one opponent. Those were very good odds, indeed.

The pain, though….

Loki had the sense that the curse Voldemort had cast hadn't yet run its course when he'd convinced himself that it didn't matter. He could work through pain; he knew that fact all too well. The pain was still there, eating away at his mind, causing the occasional muscle spasm, but he could work through it. He knew he could.

Dumbledore was not coming to save him. Perhaps he'd known that fact all along. Hermione and Ron must not come looking for him; they were, after all, mere children, and could never hope to fight an adult wizard—

Loki raised the buckler to block a nonverbal spell, and raised an eyebrow at the skill that must display. He'd never seen a Hogwarts professor use nonverbal magic, although…in a school, they probably were used to verbalising and explaining everything they did.

Each spell that it countered hit the shield with a jolt, as if a physical blow had landed. The spells seemed to pack quite a punch.

He analysed his magical reserves. Realised he hadn't been working hard enough on building them; they were nowhere near as deep as he was accustomed to. Forget any of his usual strategies—illusions, doppelgängers, and the like. He just didn't have the energy. Perhaps some of the spells he'd studied in the very beginning – elemental magic, of the lowest tiers, shields, all the weakest spells he'd outgrown long ago… he thought that he could still use those. And he did have the benefit of centuries of combat experience. Voldemort couldn't possibly claim that.

He was, after all, only human.

Unlike the shield and armour, the blade that materialised in Loki's right hand retained an almost crystalline, silvery cast to it. Looking at it, you would not be able to decide whether it were made of metal, stone, or pearl. He could feel it solidify in his hands, knew when to glance down to confirm that the whole had solidified.

"A blade?" Voldemort sneered, his lip curling in distaste. "Now, you resort to muggle means of combat?"

Loki smirked. The fool had no idea. "Oh, believe me. This is no muggle form of combat."

He blocked another stunning spell with the shield, felt the pain in his scar intensify. Noticed that Thanos's influence had broken a ward already. This was all taking too long, and the more pain he suffered, the swifter the wards would fail. Pain, in its various forms, was Thanos's way into people's mind. The way into his mind.

He might have made an attempt to shore up his defences, but Voldemort, withdrawing to reanalyse his situation, as a good tactician should, cocked Quirrell's head to scrutinise his opponent.

"That magic…" he breathed. Oh. It was about the magic, again? Never mind.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees, perhaps, and snow began to fall. Voldemort must have known warming charms, because he didn't stop to appreciate how frigid the room suddenly was. A pity. Mother's fire would melt the ice he stepped on, preventing him from slipping, but Voldemort didn't have that privilege.

"Give it up, Potter!" Voldemort hissed, as if he were incapable of speaking any other way. How long had he practiced to make his voice as sibilant as possible?

Loki just smiled at Voldemort's frustration. He knew full well that an enraged opponent was one that made mistakes. Thor was easiest to trick when he was angry—that impulsivity combined with a mind clouded by rage ensured that he never thought through whether or not a trap might lurk, waiting for him. Thanos was always calm, calm, calm. And he didn't see Thor's spy friends making such a simple error.

But Voldemort? Seemed to have anger management problems. The buckler took the brunt of another torture curse (that must be the purpose of the curse Voldemort had used on him).

"Surrender now, and I will show you mercy," Voldemort offered, getting a hold of himself, and for a moment, even the snow stopped falling. Loki realised that he was close to losing his cool, himself.

Mercy.

"I am not interested in your concept of mercy," he said, softly. It was almost an automatic reply. "And I will not beg."

Voldemort forewent common sense, and attempted to close the distance. This was a mistake. Did he think that the weapon in Loki's right hand was just for show? At Quirrell's approach, Loki moved the buckler to the side enough to bring the blade in his right hand upwards in an arc, tearing along Quirrell's right arm—his and Voldemort's wand arm. The wand fell, but with a movement from Quirrell, it leapt into the left hand, instead. How infuriatingly flexible of them. He would have caught the wand before Quirrell could retrieve it, but the sharp searing pain of his scar that flared when the knife made contact with Quirrell had left his thoughts temporarily…scarce.

"I suggest you surrender, little wizard," Loki said, leaning towards Quirrell. "You have no idea whom you're dealing with."

Very, very true. It would be ideal if he could convince them to surrender, and that quickly. Thanos's madness was chewing away at the restraints. The second barrier wall he installed was flimsier, too hastily constructed, but that's what comes of multitasking.

Voldemort seemed at a temporary loss for words. Perhaps he was fuming at Loki's condescension. Perhaps he'd caught a hint of the danger he was now in. Perhaps he realised a very important truth.

"Well? Will you surrender?" Loki said, lightly. He was in the lead, now, he could tell, Thanos or no. He'd known all along that Voldemort wouldn't stand a chance in a fair fight.

"Do you claim to be something other than a wizard?" asked Voldemort, seeming to decide that now was a moment for a cease-fire, as he considered what Loki had said. "Are you not Harry Potter?"

Loki considered that question for a moment. "Very well, I suppose you have some idea whom you are fighting," he conceded, frowning as he did. Then he smiled, again, which seemed to throw the two of them off. Good. "The question is: do you know who Harry Potter is?"

The answer to that question was, of course, no. Voldemort didn't seem to realise this, re-entering the fray as if this last exchange had all been some sort of elaborate ruse. Which, to be fair, it had been, but it had also been the truth, and Voldemort didn't seem to recognise that. Loki hated being overlooked.

"Seize him!" Voldemort cried, and Loki sighed. This was growing rather tedious. It seemed that no matter where or who he was, no one would listen to him.

Possibly just as well, however. Humans didn't take well to gods interfering in their affairs.

Quirrell, against all common sense, reached for Loki, grabbed hold of the buckler's edge, managing to wrench it away. He should have focused on the knife. Knowing what would happen the moment that his defence was gone, Loki did the only sensible thing. Ignoring the pain that physical contact between even the shield and Quirrell's hand caused, and the way it intensified tenfold when the hand moved to his arms, he drew back his other arm, the right arm, positioning it just right, and then drove it upwards, into Quirrell's heart.

Quirrell staggered back, then, as Loki grabbed for the buckler, settling it back on his arm, keeping a wary eye on Quirrell, and realising his mistake too late.

The pain was caused by contact between Mother's protective magic and Voldemort's evil. But leaving the blade impaled in Quirrell's chest meant that there was a contact connection, sustained contact, between the two. An amateur's mistake. The intensity of the pain he could bear for that brief moment it took to drive the blade home, but now….

Was it growing more intense? He fell to his feet, overcome by the sudden suspicion that only the immediate danger he'd been in had enabled him to work through that pain.

Or maybe it was growing stronger. The only way not to break—

The wards were dissolving. At least he'd lasted long enough to—

Loki fell to the floor, as darkness claimed him. Here was hoping that Dumbledore was at least a match for his mind-controlled self.

Chapter Text

Thor awoke with a throbbing headache that probably resembled what humans called a "hangover", and the sense that something was terribly wrong.

He paused a moment to collect his thoughts, and to see if he could figure out what. The headache dwindled down to nothing, grace of retained Asgardian healing capacity. As he thought, he recalled what had happened shortly before him passing out (a rare occurrence; he could think of only one other time he'd lost consciousness thus, and that was the night he'd almost died). And with those memories came the knowledge of just what emergency required his attention.

As he sat up, he noticed something smooth and silky fall off from where it had been covering him, as if as a shroud. Its transparency turned into a grey opacity as it slid off him onto the floor.

Harry's invisibility cloak. As he stared, he couldn't deny a certain tightness in his chest, making it very hard to breathe. Harry had given the cloak—a family heirloom—to Hermione. Why had she left it behind?

"Oh, you woke up!" said a breathless voice, sounding rather choked, and higher-pitched than usual. He recognised it instantly: Hermione.

He whirled to face her, where she stood, wringing her hands.

She was alone, as he'd feared.

"Hermione," he said, cutting off whatever rant she'd just begun. "Where is Harry? Is Harry with you?"

Silence. Hermione rocked on her feet. He tried to be patient, but it was very, very hard.

"Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry!" Hermione wailed. "There was a room with potions bottles—Snape's contribution, you know?—and there was only enough in the bottle that let you go forward for one, and Harry told me he'd go on alone, and I—"

"You let him go on alone?" Thor interrupted. His voice was sharper than he'd intended. His hands clenched into fists around the sheer fabric of Harry's invisibility cloak. He stood, stuffing the invisibility cloak into his pocket as he did, following Harry's example, somehow unsurprised at how little room the cloak seemed to take up.

Hermione sniffled, and he saw tears streaming down an already red and swollen face.

"Hermione," he tried again. "Where is Harry? Did he go on alone?"

She nodded, looking miserable. She wouldn't even look up, to meet his eyes. Thor stood, swaying on his feet, and Hermione cried, "You mustn't move! Your head—"

"Harry might die if we don't get to him in time!" he said, his tone automatically pitched lower, a warning. Hermione shrank back, and he tried to gather his patience, such as it was. "It isn't your fault, Hermione. But Harry needs us, now."

He needs me. My brother needs me, and I am not there .

He didn't say this aloud, but he thought it. He thought of the danger Harry was likely to be in, and knew that, of the three of them, only he himself had the experience fighting it would take to best Voldemort, if it came to battle.

Perhaps if Harry remembered…. But it was better that he didn't.

"Follow me, Hermione. Be my guide. You have suffered these obstacles before, and you know what—"

"That won't be necessary," said a third voice, and Thor spun to the doorway, as the white and black sides of the chessboard began to reform themselves. There in the doorway was a harassed-looking Dumbledore. Thor considered the idea that an attempt had been made on the headmaster's life, as he journeyed to London. It would make sense, following Harry's logic—at least try to be rid of him, completely. But a failed attempt would rouse his suspicion, and that must have returned him here.

"He's gone after him, hasn't he?" asked Dumbledore lightly, his face serene. Thor's fists clenched again, and this time, he could feel electricity gathering around them. He forced it back into his body, and then, sighing, beat out the fire it had caused.

Electricity plus fuel equals fire, Tony said, sounding infuriatingly nonchalant. It's a simple equation, really.

Now was not the time.

He rounded on Dumbledore, instead.

"You knew? You knew of the threat posed by an imposter teacher, and yet you set Harry the task of defending—!"

The old man aged before his eyes, looking even more drawn and worn as he held up a gnarled hand, somehow silencing Thor in the beginnings of what had seemed a promising tirade.

"No," Dumbledore said. "I knew that someone meant to steal the Philosopher's Stone, and I knew that you and your friends were working to unravel the mystery of what guarded the stone. Never did it occur to me that it might come to this. Never did I believe that Harry would be forced to face our would-be thief alone. But I must admit, he shows great courage and promise, the making of a true hero. I am proud of him, nonetheless."

"We went to the teachers," Hermione said, breathless, eyes flooding with tears, as Thor, uncertain now, tried to consider the best course of action. Harry needed him. But Dumbledore must be the swiftest route thither.

But suppose Thanos—?

As Hermione explained the dismissal and threats of first Snape, and then Professor McGonagall, Thor pondered what to do.

Should he warn Dumbledore? But what did he know, really? That a being that might exist, somewhere in the universe, which might have tortured his younger brother when he was Loki, might have a way to influence Harry's actions from his far-off home, on the other side of the universe? Let's not forget that the events that provided such a connection would not occur for twenty years, yet.

And in exchange, he would have to admit everything. He would have to admit that he was a fraud. He would have to admit that Harry was not quite who everyone thought he was, and suppose Dumbledore chose to inform Harry? He didn't seem to object to making Harry into a (what had Natasha called them?) "child soldier". Such treatment as Harry had received could not be considered normal, not by Midgardian standards.

He frowned. Suppose Dumbledore told Harry, stripped him of that defence, stripped him of that innocence, denied him a chance at happiness, when at last it seemed possible?

No. He would keep silent, for now. He owed it to Harry.

"You are glad, then, that Harry has hastened into danger. Do you seek for his death?"

He tried his hardest to keep his voice level, staring Dumbledore down, urging him to look away, to back down, or to prove himself, if he weren't the mastermind of this plot.

"He shows great courage," said Dumbledore again, head bowed. He would not meet Thor's eyes. Why? Guilt? Subterfuge?

"'Rushing into danger headlong is not courage, but recklessness. True courage is persevering, not seeking out danger, but facing it when he must'," Thor recited. See, Brother! I listened to you, even when you thought I did not.

"Wise words for one so young," said Dumbledore mildly, finally looking at Thor again. "Aristotle, I believe? 'Virtue is the mean between the extremes'."

"…Who?" Thor asked. The name sounded vaguely foreign, but he couldn't place it.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, setting off across the room, avoiding stepping on only one colour square, he made sure to keep each foot on both colours at all times. "Then who imparted such wisdom to you?"

"My younger brother," Thor said, in a level voice. Dumbledore, he knew, frowned, and turned to face him, clearly perplexed. Ron Weasley, the second youngest of seven, with only a sister younger.

"Harry," he clarified. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing more until he had reached the far side of the room. Hermione and Thor followed, taking care as they did to follow Dumbledore's lead of stepping on both white and black tiles at the same time.

Dumbledore reached up to tap the white king on the head. "Stand down, Albus," he said. A white glow seeped from his fingers into the stone, and the crown of the white king came away from the king's head without need of a struggle.

Yes. Dumbledore was the fastest route to Harry.

They hastened into the next chamber, hurrying after Dumbledore, in a silence that it seemed had been universally agreed-upon without conference. In other circumstances, he might have regretted that the troll was out stone cold, and therefore, there was no need to fight it. But right now, Harry's safety took precedence.

In one door, and out the other. Now, they stood in a square room with an altar on the other side, a door to its left facing the one through which they'd entered, and a lit sconce each in each of the four corners. Arrayed across the altar were seven bottles, and sitting beside them, a note written on parchment.

Dumbledore pointed at the black flames on the far side, and they died down. Hadn't he heard something about wizards who had trained themselves to cast spells silently? It must be one of those silent spells. It made sense that Dumbledore would not want to risk revealing any of the secrets of his obstacle course, especially before he knew what lay at the far end.

The fires died down, and then turned green.

Loki went through flames? Thor wondered, and then reminded himself that Harry was…well, not quite Loki. Not a frost giant. No cause to accommodate a weakness against heat.

The flames rose again, green now, as if Dumbledore had thrown floo powder into them. Dumbledore courteously stood aside, with a tight smile.

Thor needed no further prompting. His brother might have chastised him often for impulsive, rash decisions, with good reason. But here…every second mattered. And since Dumbledore was standing aside to wait for the two of them, he might as well go first, that someone, at least, who would stand a chance against the villain of the hour be there to help Harry.

Plentiful experience with how to land on his feet kept him from losing his balance as he came out of the fireplace. He stepped aside to let the others in. His gaze scanned the room, alit upon the Mirror of before, and, despite himself, he took a step back, away from it.

He didn't like thinking of what he'd seen in the Mirror, didn't like the conflicted feelings it aroused. The Weasleys were his family, after all (sort of). Were they adopted family? Natural family? He couldn't decide. But they were mortal, and he wasn't. He wasn't like them, and yet, he was. Ron Weasley. Thor. Two identities, two families, two lives, and yet one individual, one identity, one truth.

Thoughts for another time. He ripped his gaze from the Mirror, trying hard not to think of what he'd seen, before. What was the nature of that Mirror, anyway? To unseat its victim, or to devour them whole? Harry longed for a family, and Thor had offered him one, but that hadn't seemed to be enough. Whatever family he'd seen—real or fake—it had eaten away at his brother's mind as few things had ever managed to.

His gaze landed upon the two bodies in the centre of the room, and thoughts of the Mirror fled his mind. He ran over to the smaller of the two, sprawled on his front, head turned to the side as if by instinct, not to restrict airflow. There was a man behind him—a turbanless Quirrell, but Thor took one glance, saw that the figure wasn't moving, and dismissed Quirrell as unimportant.

But he paused when he noted the sudden drop in temperature as he approached. He turned Quirrell over to see a shard of ice embedded in his heart. He paused, a feeling of creeping dread settling in his stomach. Why did he sense that this did not bode well?

He returned his gaze to his brother, seeing as the blood pooled around the wound, and on the floor, showed that Quirrell had been dead for several minutes, at the very least.

He turned Harry over with much greater care, listening for any sounds of damage done to his body. It was a good thing Quirrell was already dead. He would not have wanted to face Thor's wrath, which he was barely holding back, despite the fact that the man was already dead. How dared he?

Harry had killed him. He must have. But how? Whence had come that shard of ice?

It had melted away by the time Dumbledore entered. Perhaps it had been merely a part of a greater shard, which did nothing to answer the question of its origins.

Thor shrugged, resolving to contemplate the thing more later, after he'd discovered whether or not Harry would be alright. He noticed that Harry's face was flushed and damp with sweat, and, hesitant, reached out a hand, but pulled it up abruptly as he felt the heat breathe off Harry's face. A fever. The heat must have been muted by Harry's muggle clothing, but where his skin was exposed….

His head snapped up to the entryway at a sudden noise—Dumbledore appearing. Shoving aside his misgivings concerning the old man (although, in truth, Thor was older than the wizard, but Dumbledore was much further along in his life span; it still counted), he turned to call for help. Hermione watched awkwardly from the wings, wringing her hands and rocking on her feet. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and she screwed up her face, clearly trying not to cry. Right. Well, let's leave her be for now.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir! Come quick!" he said, hesitating to move Harry, now that he knew he was somehow harmed.

Dumbledore came, in great strides, stopping next to Harry to bend down, he noticed the heat as swiftly as Thor. His expression drew grave.

"We must hurry," he said, and Thor breathed a hefty sigh of relief. Perhaps Harry would be saved now, after all. "It appears he has somehow injured his head whilst fighting Professor Quirrell."

The professor turned his gaze to the body lying spread on the floor, with no cause of death discernible any longer. Thor was not about to inform him of the icicle that had slain Professor Quirrell. Let the man puzzle over it, he supposed. As long as he didn't look too deeply into Harry's background! Not that he would find anything.

"Mobilicorpus!" he cried, and Harry's body floated off the floor. Thor's eyes widened at the sight. He had been intending to offer to carry Harry; he knew he could still manage, but this precluded any need. A levitation charm? It had to be. A glance at Hermione showed her muttering furiously to herself. Was this a novel spell for her?

He fell back to walk with her, offering support despite his own fear as to Harry's chances. He ensured that they didn't slow Dumbledore down.

The walk to the Hospital Wing was silent, once they'd borrowed broomsticks to fly back out the trapdoor, where McGonagall was singing an old lullaby. It was probably Scottish, although he knew he didn't know enough to judge these things. Fluffy was still sleeping; that was what mattered.

They passed as a group out of the third floor corridor. Had he been in his proper form, he would not have hesitated to lash out at McGonagall—her refusal to listen to Harry was part of what had led to this—but he knew he didn't have the authority. All it would do was waste time that Harry needed, and possibly restrict his access later on. He needed to stay in these people's good graces, in case Harry needed him.

He thought of Harry, pale and shaking, as he'd tried to formulate an explanation of just what danger he might pose, given Thanos's connection (corruption, really) of his mind. He thought of the Chitauri Invasion. If Thanos's corruption had had any share in causing that…. And where had that sliver of ice come from? Suppose, just suppose, that it was all connected. Somehow, he doubted that the wizards would stand a chance against what was essentially a mind-controlled god.

And if they did, what might it cost his brother?

He needed to be there, to stay by Harry's side, until he recovered, until he could be sure that there was no threat, on either side. Until he knew that Harry was back to normal, he needed to tread very carefully. He was no one, here. Just another Weasley. And even if he could have convinced them that he weren't really Ron Weasley…well, that, too, had its drawbacks. There was no real solution to be found in that quarter, either.

He slung an arm around Hermione's shoulder, in a silent show of support and gratitude, hoping to give her strength and reassurance. She turned her face into his shoulder, and sobbed, and he glanced ahead, following Dumbledore with his eyes, as he attempted to soothe Hermione.

He needed to follow Harry. He knew that. But Hermione needed him, too. She was his friend, as much as Harry was family. At last, Hermione valiantly fought back her tears, and they turned and hurried after Dumbledore.

Madam Pomfrey, still awake against all sense, turned to face them as the party of five entered. Dumbledore strode over to an unoccupied bed, settling Harry gently upon it, and nodding to the school healer.

Thor watched like a hawk (like a Hawk?) as she took stock of Harry's state with a variety of muggle means before waving her wand over Harry, frowning as she did.

"He needs rest, Professor," she said. "I can find little harm to him except that he seems to have burnt through much of his energy. This overexertion has taken its toll on his body, but he should be fine after a period of rest. You may leave, if you will, Mr. Weasley, and—"

"Hermione Granger, ma'am," Hermione said, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Ms. Granger," Madam Pomfrey finished.

"But, Madam Pomfrey—" Thor protested. She clucked at him, and he fell silent, and then started again. "I need to be here. To stay here with him. I'm all the family he has, really."

By the sounds of it, the Dursleys most certainly didn't count. And Mother and Father were too far away to come, even had they known…but there were a Thor and Loki back on Asgard, younger than this one, unaware of the suffering and trials before them, Thor still brash and arrogant, Loki brimming over with envy and resentment, not yet come to a head. Even if the distance were less, they would need to understand the impossible situation that had arisen. But he remembered Father's words, that he would be alone, here, with Loki none the wiser of the past (or that was the most likely course; Father had said Loki might in time remember), and none on Asgard aware of his absence.

Alone. More alone than he'd been even during his banishment to New Mexico. More alone than he'd ever been in his life. A high price, Father had called it, and he'd thought he'd understood at the time, but he hadn't, not really. All he'd known was that he would have given anything—

"We will inform you when he regains consciousness," interjected Professor McGonagall, swiftly. "It does not help anyone to watch them sleep. Go on, Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley, and do not let me catch you out of bed. Straight to the Tower for the two of you."

Thor remembered the invisibility cloak he still had in his pocket. His failsafe. But…Loki's condition did not look good. Perhaps he would sleep for days. But Thor would not just stay back and stay away whilst he recovered. He would spend as much time as he was allowed to in the Hospital Wing, and save the invisibility cloak he still had in his pocket for the use he sensed he would shortly need to make of it.

Chapter Text

Thor and Hermione did spend an obscene amount of time in the Hospital Wing, watching Harry, looking for any signs that he would recover. Internally, Thor berated himself for ever leaving Harry alone. After all, it was Loki's death (so soon after their mother's) that had driven him, when at last he could bear it no longer, to ask his father whether there were any possibility, any way at all, of getting either of them back.

Which had led him here. He'd left, gone back in time to be incarnated as a Midgardian, complete with no knowledge of the past until he'd reached age ten, when he'd suddenly understood and remembered everything. It had taken him days to recover from the strain this had put on the mortal brain of Ron Weasley, and weeks for him to process and come to terms with all of the information.

He's borne the halving of his family for a surprising length of time, by Midgardian standards, and for not long at all, by Asgardian ones. In his time of loss, he'd turned to his friends, the Avengers. Asgardians weren't much accustomed to the idea of death, and especially not of grieving for those slain in battle, as Loki had been. His redemption, they would have called it, some mocking, others with respect. No one knew what happened when an Asgardian died anymore, which tempered the already keen grief. Back before the Valkyries had all gone, it was assumed that those who perished in combat would go to Valhalla, and many behaved as if that were still the case. As it turned out, instead, the souls seemed to be…recycled.

He probably should have stayed with his father, and helped him bear through this, borne it together, but somehow, it had never quite occurred to him that his father even felt such childish and undignified emotions as grief. Father was always so distant…you might be justified in thinking that he didn't feel at all.

And thus, Thor had sought out the Avengers. He and Jane had broken it off, possibly because he was too busy grieving to spend much time with her—he'd rather thought he wasn't being the best…boyfriend, and she'd agreed to give him space. It was nothing against her. Sometimes, things just don't work out.

Tony had, surprisingly, been the most helpful. The assassin-spies, Natasha and Clint, were far too accustomed to death, and their enmity with Loki didn't help. If they bore grudges, they were well-hidden, but that was to be expected of a spy. He couldn't tell for sure, but he knew that they both had much cause to resent or hate his brother.

Captain America (Steve) was too busy trying to adjust, mired deep in grief, himself. And Bruce…well, he did his best, but habitually suppressing your own emotions made you less than completely helpful in helping someone else to deal with his. Besides, he hadn't been seen since Stark had unleashed his army of killer robots.

And then there was Tony. Orphaned at an early age (although not as early as Harry), his unhealthy habit of drinking himself senseless made him an ideal companion for Thor, despite the huge disparity in their alcohol tolerance. Tony understood the complexities of grief very well, that mixture of anger and regret that characterises too much of the grieving process. I should have done something more, he had said, in this or that way, at varying times, to Tony.

Such as? Tony might retort. Look, I get that he's family, and family's weird, but sometimes, there's just nothing you can do.

He'd felt guilty enough before he'd learnt of Thanos. Perhaps (and he couldn't help hating himself a bit for this) he'd been happier thinking that Loki had voluntarily betrayed them, turned his back on Asgard out of malice and spite, and that he'd decided that he didn't belong there, that he hated his erstwhile family, but was strong enough to endure on his own.

Not that he'd been tortured, broken, and…well, brainwashed. Thanos changed everything. It made Thor realise that he'd never talked to Loki about why. He'd never spoken with him in that length of time between Loki's arrest and the emergence of the Aether. He'd never bothered to find out why Loki had done what he had. And therefore, he'd never heard the name of Thanos before this last September.

That was unforgivable. An unforgivable failure, an unforgivable shortcoming on his part. He and Loki had once sworn oaths of vassalage to one another, and it had been Thor to break them first. And all he could do to redeem himself was to help Harry as much as he could, and try to disrupt, and somehow eventually dismantle, Thanos's hold over his brother's mind.

For the moment, the most he could do was spend most of his waking hours in the Hospital Wing, with Harry. Hermione, he could tell, was more than slightly worried about him—he did not ordinarily have to be dragged away from anything for meals, but his attention, such as it was, was fixated on Harry. Had he already made an incorrigible mistake? Was it too late?

Three days passed, and the fever began to bate. It broke on the third day, leaving Madam Pomfrey in a much better mood, as she bustled about. He and Hermione received a nod in their direction, now and then, but Madam Pomfrey, renowned for being strict, seemed to understand the reason that he and Hermione remained there, by Harry's side, for most of the day. With no exams to distract them, and no classes to attend, nothing was to keep them from doing this.

The fever broke, but Harry did not wake, and Thor knew that this would be another moment of decision, another reason for sneaking around. At the end of the third day was when Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore returned to the Hospital Wing, and Thor sat as still as a statue, as if that would hide him from their view. The most he could tell was that their expressions were grave, and their voices quiet, but urgent, as they discussed Harry (you could tell by the way they kept glancing at the only occupant of the ward).

"I've done all I can for him," said Madam Pomfrey, whose voice was clearer, and pitched louder than the others. "I don't know why he hasn't woken yet. Perhaps an injury my diagnosis did not detect. Perhaps some manner of side-effect from whatever magic he used to survive your deathtrap, headmaster."

Dumbledore looked troubled, frowning into his beard. "It was his mother's love that saved him, I think. There is no telling how that would manifest, or the toll it might take on young Harry. Three days should be more than enough time to replenish his energy, but…there is his scar to consider. You said that it looked agitated. Perhaps he suffered some form of head trauma."

"I can see nothing—" Madam Pomfrey drew herself up in indignation, as Hermione and Thor stared, wide-eyed, at the scene unfolding before them.

"Yes, but your medical studies are…suited to less extreme injuries. This is a very special case. Perhaps a specialist—"

"St. Mungo's has closed for the day," McGonagall reminded him. "But we should be able to contact emergency services to arrange for his—"

Dumbledore held up a hand. "That is not what I meant to say. St. Mungo's is a high-profile place. Even with someone watching him at all times, it is possible the Death Eaters might find him, and beside that…well-wishers are sometimes even more dangerous. More than that, I have heard of amazing improvements in muggle medicine. If magical means have not worked, perhaps we should turn to a muggle specialist, and see what he is able to discern, first. If that fails to work, as well, then we shall be forced to turn to St. Mungo's. Is that agreeable to you, Minerva?"

Judging by the tilt of her chin, her flared nostrils, and her tightly pressed lips, this was not at all agreeable to Professor McGonagall, but she knew her place, and would not dare to contradict Dumbledore.

"We will move him to a suitable hospital tonight, when the students are in bed, I think. The fewer who are aware of his whereabouts, the better."

"Very well, Albus," Minerva McGonagall acquiesced. "I suppose you know best, but this had better not be one of your…eccentric ideas."

Thor began planning furiously. What did he do? How did he go about this?

Two of his friends were spies, and assassins, used to sneaking around. There was no love lost between Clint and Loki, but Natasha…she was less easy to predict. What would she do?

Before infiltrating an area, it's best to know the layout of the place, if you can. Of course, that's not always possible, Natasha said, shrugging. If it's a public place, it's different from a private one. Ideally, you would want to look as…normal…as possible. I know that isn't exactly feasible for you, but hey! Another shrug. In a place like this—a public place—you generally want to stand out just enough to be noticed, so that you can call attention to those places you want it known that you were in—but not enough that people remember you. It can be a difficult balance to achieve.

Try to blend in, in other words, Clint summarised. And think about the function of the place before you enter. A hospital? Well, what sorts of people usually go there? If you can pull off being the sort of person who belongs there, so much the better. Fake an injury! But if you can't blend in….

Pay attention to the doors, Natasha added, hands in her pockets, now. Sliding doors are useful, because when they're faulty they can open when there's no one there. On the other hand, when power goes out for the night…it makes it more difficult to get inside, as they're already wired, and most people know to watch a door like that particularly closely.

Hard to get into? Did you forget whom you're talking to? asked Clint, sounding amused. He turned to face the two of them, looking decidedly nonchalant, as he said, God of Thunder, right? That means you can manipulate electricity. That's what powers all this stuff. If you could find a way to isolate and control the energy even after it left you, you might be able to persuade the doors to open on their own, and short out things like security cameras.

In most buildings, however, doors have handles, Natasha continued, as if Clint hadn't said anything. These sorts of doors are trickier, because they rarely have the ability to open on their own. On a windy day, and if the doors open in the right direction, you can sometimes pretend that the wind blew them open. But that will rarely ever happen. Mostly? Just watch. See who's paying attention, and only open the door enough to get inside. Don't call attention to your presence, but don't try to hide it, either.

Take it slow. Trust your instincts. Sometimes, it turns out, you do have to take risks. She shrugged again, finally removing her hands from her pockets. She cocked her head. Any questions?

"Ron?" Hermione asked, sounding a bit hesitant. "What are you going to do?"

He reached into his pocket, where the invisibility cloak lay hidden. He knew better than to ever let it leave his side. He raised a finger to his lips to silence her while the professors were still here. She pouted, crossing her arms, but then looked at Harry again, biting her lip. She sent him a worried glance.

"Harry is going to get better, right?"

Didn't he wish he knew.

Later that night, he convened a special emergency meeting of his allies. Dean and Neville especially had gone out of their way to help Harry before. He needed their help, now.

He explained to them, in a low voice, about Harry's injury, and how they were moving him to a muggle hospital. All he needed from them was for them to cover his absence for him. Hermione could know that he was gone, but no one else. But if it came down to it, it was better that he were in trouble than they. He understood he was asking a lot of them, and he didn't want them to suffer on his behalf.

"We'll do our best," said Neville, looking a bit shaken, but nonetheless determined to help Harry.

And that night, Thor snuck out under the invisibility cloak, alone. He'd kept the plan from Hermione, knowing full well that she wouldn't stand a chance if what he feared had indeed come to pass. Naturally, that depended upon Harry recovering… but Thor intended to see that he did, if it were within his power to help.

And if Harry recovered… they'd learn whether or not Thanos's corruption had a hold of him. It might come down to a fight, one for which Thor had spent the past three days readying himself. He didn't relish the thought, for once, but he knew the importance of it. Just in case. Harry would not want to harm anyone, he knew.

He stayed in the Hospital Wing for hours, sneaking in and hurrying to Harry's bedside, and then kneeling beside him, to wait. He knew he was waiting for the headmaster, and quite possibly Professor McGonagall. They were his only clues as to whither Harry was being taken. Given a general area, he could use Mother's spell to find Harry, but he doubted it would be able to guide him to the other side of England, let alone the world.

He braced himself, and waited.

He had to wait for quite a long time, before they entered the Hospital Wing in silence. How long he waited, exactly, he might never know, as he had refrained from looking at his watch. They had waited quite some time, until they were sure that the halls would be empty, and none would notice their departure. No one would notice the absence of a single gryffindor student from the dorms—he hoped. No alarm seemed to have been raised, at least.

McGonagall cast a quiet mobilicorpus on Harry to carry him out of the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey watched them go, her gaze scrutinising, watching every step they took, as if willing them to make some mistake that would force her intervention.

They passed out of the Hospital Wing, and Thor followed close behind, trying to squeeze in after them, that he not attract attention to his presence by the strange slowness of the door in closing.

It was mostly their distraction, that they didn't expect to be followed, that covered his tracks. He could be swift, when necessary—the phrase "like lightning" existed for a reason—but it was still asking a bit much to ask him to occupy the two seconds it took for the door to slam shut, without being near enough to be detected by other means.

He lagged behind, just slightly, as they wandered the halls, leading up to the Headmaster's Office. Harry's first visit to the headmaster—and he wasn't even conscious. Thor's first visit, and he'd have to deny ever having seen it before.

This would be more difficult than he'd initially calculated. Perhaps Loki had a point about him planning too little in advance.

The steps leading up to the Headmaster's Office were particularly tricky to navigate, but he managed, by stepping onto the step directly behind McGonagall, and hoping for the best. Again, their distraction seemed to be all that saved him from notice. He didn't like how much of his success seemed to be solely luck, but then, there was a reason no one would ever choose him for espionage.

He realised too late how they were planning on taking Harry to the hospital—or, more likely, to a nearby connected safe house—only when he noticed the fire burning merrily in the side of the wall. He noticed too few of the details of the headmaster's office in his haste, which was just as well, given that he'd almost certainly return here, sooner or later. The less he knew, the more he could honestly say he didn't know. He hated the subterfuge. Directness had always been his preferred domain, honesty. A good diplomat knew lies and truth in equal parts—the way Loki had. Now, he, Thor, was having to act like Loki, to save Loki because he'd acted like…well, Thor.

Too confusing. Focus on the moment, please.

"Kelly Hale," said McGonagall, passing through the flames last. Thor waited a few moments, counting silently, reached for the floo powder after she had gone, throwing in a handful of the green dust (and just how had they forced Harry through?), before repeating her earlier words, and hoping they were right.

He landed on his feet, as usual, looking around a dark, forbidding-looking wooden room, all mildewed floor and rotting timbres. It looked as if it might crumble at any point. This wasn't even "muggle-repelling charms". The building truly looked this way.

He was, however, confident that, despite appearance, it was not about to fall down around him. He closed his eyes, and focused, thinking hard on Harry, his brother, he fixated his will towards that almost familiar goal: find him.

Because Harry had left his sight, he could follow what was essentially an invisible string that he could roll up to his brother's side. The spell was unreliable, often giving only a general area for him to work with, but the fact that he was alone, in an unfamiliar place, meant that there was less knowledge to muddy his thoughts.

He followed the strand, as it wove its way out of the building, across a deserted street, winding towards a three-storey brick building with the occasional tall glass window. There was probably a label to the building, somewhere, but he didn't notice it.

He did notice that the doors leading to within were pull-handle doors.

No one seemed to be watching. He pulled open the outside door, and then the second one, this one with greater care, leading to the waiting room. The professors were in there, and a secretary (or whatever they were called at hospitals!) waiting for their appointment.

He was very cautious in slipping inside, but the receptionist was busy looking at her notes, and muttering to herself, and the professors were fixated upon the problems at hand, and clearly out of their area of expertise. Dumbledore might have some admiration for muggles, but he'd clearly not spent much time among them, and didn't realise that doors weren't supposed to open thus, on their own.

Or, perhaps, he was just preoccupied with Harry's safety. Thor could hope.

The woman behind the desk found what she was looking for, and said, in a voice that was too cheery for the time or circumstances, "The doctor will see you, now. Turn left at the first juncture, and you want the room at the end of the hall."

Thor debated whether to follow and slip in behind them, or whether to wait until they might have left, which, quite apart from not being guaranteed to ever happen, left him in ignorance as to what was going on.

Well, he wasn't in gryffindor for nothing. He slipped in, quietly, after them. The door stayed open for only a few seconds longer than necessary, but it was one of those that was slow to close, anyway. If luck was all that was seeing him through, he'd just have to hope that his luck would hold.

He followed the woman's instructions, turning left instead of right at the intersection, and strolling behind the two professors and their stretcherbound patient. Dumbledore was physically pushing it, which…Thor was fairly sure that stretchers weren't meant to work that way, but perhaps this was something they knew, that he didn't.

Perhaps he should have asked Bruce more questions.

At the end of the hall, McGonagall pushed past Dumbledore to open the door. It swung open, and stayed open, which made a great deal of sense. Thor thought that, this time, it was not mere luck that prevented his being noticed.

They left the door open, awaiting the arrival of the doctor who was going to treat Harry. Thor situated himself against a counter on the far side of the room, which he suspected would not see immediate use. Doctors needed to ask a great many questions before anything else happened, usually, didn't they? But he kept alert and ready to move, anyway. Just in case.

Chapter Text

He had the time, as they were all awaiting the arrival of the muggle doctor, to reconsider the events leading him hither. Up to this moment, it had seemed to be a series of decisions, one right after the other. The professors had arrived, and then he'd had to: leave the Hospital Wing unnoticed; enter Dumbledore's office unnoticed; follow them via floo network; track down the hospital; navigate the corridors. Each time, the same question: wait, or hurry after?

And after all that, perhaps it hadn't mattered at all. Perhaps it wasn't luck at all. Perhaps he was just swift enough that no one would ever notice him squeezing in just before the door shut. At least, not while the professors were this distracted. But then, too, he'd somehow have to find a way back into Hogwarts.

And, once again, he showed that he hadn't planned this through, very well. And after all that effort his brother had gone to to teach him the lesson of needing to wait and see more often.

Are you ever not going to fall for that? asked the ghost of his brother's voice, at the most inopportune time.

He grimaced, but remained as still as possible. The professors were a bit antsy themselves, with the door to the hospital room left open. He mustn't make any noise.

Dumbledore's expression remained grave. He was probably monitoring Harry's health in whatever inscrutable way old wizards did. The prognosis did not look good. Had it been, they would not be here at all.

He avoided looking at McGonagall; despite knowing that she sort of outranked him, the urge for rebuke was still quite as strong as it had been three days ago. As it would be until either he witnessed such a rebuking, or knew that, in the end, no harm had come of her folly.

Deep, deep down, perhaps he sensed it, even then. There were enough omens, enough warnings. He'd known to plan in advance, but he hadn't known what to plan for. One thing was for sure: the wizards had no idea of the potential threat to their lives that Harry posed.

Thor remained silent. This was all a matter of calculated risks, hardly his area of expertise. He couldn't afford to reveal himself too soon, and lose his only chance of preventing…who-knew-what. Ideally, they would never know of his presence at all. But the ideal situation had already come and gone, and its runners-up did not look promising, either.

The doctor entered just then, dredging him out of rather bleak thoughts. His head shot up, but his hand was already on the hood of the invisibility cloak. There might have been a muffled gust of air, but if there was, no one noticed it. It seemed to be part of the magic of the invisibility cloak—it didn't hide any noise of its wearer, or make them intangible, but it itself took up little noticeable space, and muted its own noise. He'd wondered if invisibility cloaks were meant to behave thus, but was reluctant to question it now when he should just be glad of that little fact.

To his credit, the doctor—a young man only a few years older than Harry, if Thor could guess (and wasn't that odd; weren't doctors meant to study for decades prior to working on patients? Perhaps he was older than he looked?)—made up for the wait, slight as it was, by heading straight to the examination table, where Harry lay, unmoving.

He set to work with quiet efficiency, barely glancing at the professors, as he began to ask them questions. Thor noticed his American accent with a bit of a smile.

The professors did not answer questions very well. They didn't know of any previous such injuries, although they were possible, seemed completely unaware of the Dursleys' abuse (McGonagall redeemed herself, somewhat, by her reaction to the signs of abuse the Dursleys hadn't been able to help leaving, or hadn't cared), and didn't even know about his vaccinations history. It served to make them so highly suspicious that the doctor raised a single eyebrow, making him look very much the rebellious teen hanging out with his friends, the sarcastic quirk of the lips. He looked rather a lot like a much younger Tony Stark. In some respects.

But the doctor didn't pry too much, focusing on the injury that had caused him to be called in. He did ask the most obvious questions: how it had been obtained, how long ago, what had been done to treat it. He seemed much more frustrated at their lack of answers to these questions.

"It seemed like a very straight-forward case," Thor heard him mutter. "But without any information…."

Perhaps it was typical of doctors and scientists to react thus, when provided with insufficient, or illogical, data.

"Do you have anything you can tell me about his injuries?" the man said, sarcasm practically oozing from his voice with a casual lack of respect. Professor McGonagall bristled; Dumbledore looked suitably grave.

"There is little else we are able to tell you besides what we already have. You must understand, his injury pertains to sensitive—"

"Yeah, yeah. If you don't have anything useful to add, the door's over there," said the doctor, jerking his head in the direction of the door through which they'd all entered.

He hadn't once turned to even look at the professors, and therefore was most likely unaware of the fierce glare of an affronted McGonagall, or the unusual severity of Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Now really, doctor, I must say—"

"Perhaps he's right. If we don't know the answers to his questions, perhaps we're merely in the way. Let us give him some space in which to work."

Dumbledore swept from the room, his mind clearly troubled, preoccupied. McGonagall hesitated, but followed, and closed the door quietly behind her.

The doctor, believing himself to be alone, for the moment, continued with his work. Thor couldn't see what he was doing very well, but wouldn't have understood what he did see. He knew that that machine over there measured heartrate, and the current pattern of fluctuations was a bad, but not dire, sign. Harry's heart was still beating, but even Thor could see that the pulse was too quick.

"What sort of school doesn't keep records of vaccinations?" the doctor muttered to himself. "And these burns…there's something strange about them, too. Particularly the ones on his face, the inflammation around that scar…almost as if it's what caused the fever they mentioned. But they said something about exhaustion—strenuous activity. I don't think anyone's gone into a coma from overthinking things. Hmm…."

Thor decided to make his move. He'd waited long enough. First, he removed the invisibility cloak, stuffing it into the pocket of his current hand-me-down jeans. As before, it seemed to take up no space. Then, when he was sure that no part of it showed, he turned to the doctor.

"Perhaps I might answer some of your questions," he suggested, in what some had told him was an amiable voice. This did not change the fact that he had, seemingly, appeared from nowhere, and the doctor had not expected to be interrupted when he had thought himself to be alone with his patient. He started, paused, looked around the room, caught sight of Thor, and his posture relaxed when he saw that it was 'just a kid'. Sometimes, Thor hated being in the body of a twelve-year-old. Humans rarely listened to what "children" said.

"How did you get in here? This is an emergency room! No place for kids!"

He looked a bit flustered. This situation could not have been anything like ordinary for him, and the first of the Avengers (Tony) wouldn't appear for two decades, yet. There was no background framework of supermachines and monsters to ease the worldview-upending oddity of this situation. Thor understood that. Accordingly, this man seemed to be handling it…fairly well. Then again, he'd yet to see anything overtly magical.

"I am his brother," Thor said, gesturing at Harry without looking at him. "Our parents were unable to come, but I am here. I may be able to answer some of your questions. I ask only that I be permitted to stay, and that you tell none of my presence."

The doctor glanced at the door, and shook his head. He looked back and forth between Thor and Harry.

"You don't look related—" he began.

"He is adopted," Thor said, this time keeping at bay any inclination towards rising pitch that might make him seem…weak. Unsure of himself. "If that fact is any concern for you…."

The doctor held up his empty hands. "Ah, no. No. I get it. I don't have the policy of letting spectators watch me work, but if you're family—ah, well, I wasn't working yet, anyway. Waiting for the nurses to set up IV, and gathering what data I can in the meantime. Your friends seem a bit…tight-lipped."

"They are not to blame," said Thor, pensive. "They are professors at the school Harry and I both attend…the headmaster has some influence, but it will not help him should he make you aware of their society."

The doctor's blatant boredom showed that he was paying attention to something else more than Thor. Even now, Thor was not used to being ignored. There was something of Tony's eccentric genius about this man, too, now he looked. Perhaps Harry was in good hands, after all. Even if it seemed that the man hadn't yet started.

"So, what information do you have to offer?" he asked, not looking up from a clipboard that Thor hoped was filled with notes.

"Well, I know for one that he never received any vaccinations. His aunt and uncle, with whom he was raised—"

"Hold on—" said the doctor, finally looking up at him again. "How recently was he adopted, again? You're no use if you can't tell me what I need to know."

That was fair enough, but Thor still bristled, forcing himself to calm down. "That is a complicated question, doctor, with a complicated answer. My parents adopted him when he was an infant, but…events conspired to separate us, later. He was raised by his aunt and uncle, into whose care I would not put the life of my worst enemy." Maybe Thanos. Nah. "And he…does not remember me. There is more to the tale than this, alas, but now is not the time. He has told me much of his life since our parting."

The doctor didn't make the obvious comment about the odds of one remembering, and the other not, despite them being the same age, perhaps holding it as silent evidence against Thor's account.

"My name is Ronald Weasley," said Thor. "His is Harry Potter. Professor Minerva McGonagall and Headmaster Albus Dumbledore brought him here. I snuck in after them. I am a student at Headmaster Dumbledore's school, and am not supposed to have left its grounds. But there is a danger about him of which only I am aware, and I knew that I must come, for more even than family loyalty. As I am here, I will answer what I can of your questions."

"How did he get to this state?" asked the other man, promptly. "He's in a coma and no one will give me the background to know how I should proceed."

Thor frowned. "I was not there to witness what happened, but then, the only witness to what occurred is now dead. I suspect that Harry must have killed him, in self-defence. However he accomplished this, it seems to have drained his energy. The school nurse told us that it would take a few days for him to recover his energy. But she believes that he should have recovered by now. His failure to wake is what prompted the professors to bring him hither, to your hospital."

"Oh, it's not my hospital. I'm just visiting, and was invited to see this case. It sounded very straightforward. Now, it doesn't." He frowned. "You're telling me that his body wore itself out? Just what was he doing?"

Thor sighed, and sat heavily on a nearby stool, which was probably supposed to be used to reach the overhead shelves. Or something.

"Yes. That is the dilemma. It is clear that you are unable to proceed without further knowledge of what occurred. However, quite apart from the disclosure of the required information being illegal…it is also somewhat incredible, for a man of your background."

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "What are we talking about, exactly?"

"Understand that by disclosing such information, I am breaking our laws. However, as I am…underage the penalty may be less severe than had the professors done this. There may also be some lenity observed given that Harry is the famed 'Boy-Who-Lived'."

The doctor frowned. "I've never heard of him."

Thor clasped his hands in front of him. "No. You would not have. You are what they call a 'muggle'. You are not a wizard."

The raised eyebrow screamed scepticism. Also, condescension. Thor clenched his fists, and tried not to set anything on fire. In such a place as this, he was given to understand, the effects of his lightning could be catastrophic for his younger brother.

"Wizards?" he asked. "You mean like—"

"I mean the wielders of magic spoken of in legend and myth. Men such as Merlin, who in times of yore remade the world with their skill and strength. Not all are as skilled as Merlin or Morgana, two of the most famed wizard and witches, but Dumbledore has been hailed by some as their truest heir, descendant, and follower. Most are less powerful, less impressive, content to hide from the eyes of those without magic, living what they consider to be ordinary lives."

The doctor had, perhaps, not been listening. He'd been fidgeting with devices at Harry's table. "Oh, magic." he scoffed.

"If you doubt my words, you might call the professors back in. They might, if you informed them how necessary it was that you knew the circumstances surrounding Harry's collapse, deign to show you some magic, and to explain the magical world to you. It would be, in their eyes, a necessary risk."

Again, the raising of the brow. But the doctor reached for a telephone, or something, plugged into the wall, and Thor disappeared under the cloak whilst his back was turned. He made requests that the professors return to explain more about what had happened, and spun back around to face his "young" guest, but Thor had already vanished.

It took the professors long enough to arrive that the doctor had had time to come to grips with Thor's sudden disappearance. What he had told himself could not be known.

Both of the professors came to meet him, and it was somewhat touching that the doctor made no mention, gave no hint that he'd been speaking to one of their students.

"Just what is your relation with the patient?" he asked, instead, and after they'd admitted that they were professors at his school, he'd grilled them on how it could possibly be that the boy seemed to have worked himself until he passed out. He demanded to know the circumstances surrounding Harry's blackout; any little detail might mean the difference between life or death for Harry (Thor hoped that he was exaggerating, but sensed that this was more accurate than he would like), until, at last, Dumbledore caved, gravely saying,

"Very well, I see we have no choice." And, as McGonagall glanced at him with an expression of supreme horror, Dumbledore began to explain about the magical world, the secret magical community. He told of Voldemort and Harry, the "Boy-Who-Lived". He gave the doctor what little information they had concerning the events leading up to Harry's collapse.

The doctor took quite some convincing before he believed in magic. Reluctant to use magic on the little-understood tools filling the hospital room, McGonagall had at first limited herself to spells such as lumos ("I've seen flashlights") and wingardium leviosa ("Nice trick. Are you going to pretend to pull a coin out of my ear next?"). But the doctor so frustrated and vexed her that she moved on into more complicated magic.

Transfiguration. Animal transfiguration. She turned herself into a tabby cat, and then back. She turned his pen into a slug, but left it thus. Dumbledore conjured up a jar terrarium for the slug, and then a quill for the poor doctor. As if misunderstanding his dismay (there was now slug slime all over his papers, whatever they were), he at last replaced the quill with a fountain pen.

The doctor conceded defeat, head in his hands. Then, his head snapped back up.

"If magic is real, why can't you use it to heal him?"

No contempt for the idea of magic remained, as if a switch had been flipped. It was almost alarming.

"We have tried. However, our medi-witch, Madam Pomfrey—" began McGonagall.

"Given his fame, we thought it best to avoid attracting the attention of his enemies, making him a target by bringing him to a magical hospital, if at all possible. I would be less able to protect him outside of our school. Madam Pomfrey has tried her best, but she is only our school nurse. While a very talented woman, there are limits to her ability. But Death Eaters would hesitate to attack a muggle hospital, They would think merely entering it sullying, beneath them."

The doctor's eyes narrowed. Hands clasped before him, he turned his head to face Dumbledore, as if turning the rest of his body was asking too much. "Is there anything else I should know about? It would be nice to know the exact circumstances that led to…this—"

He spread his arm in Harry's direction. McGonagall's nostrils flared.

"We would all like to know that, doctor," she said.

He dismissed them with slightly more respect than the last time. A minute passed. The doctor turned to the counters, where Thor had been before. Actually, he was still there, but he doubted that the doctor had some sort of mysterious sense of where he was. If he had, he wouldn't have been surprised that first time.

"Well? Are you going to show yourself?"

Thor decided a little trust was in order. He removed the invisibility cloak, and stuffed it carefully into his pocket, again.

"What was—?"

"An heirloom of Harry's dad," he said. "He lent it to Hermione to protect her from harm. She left it behind to hide me when I was incapacitated. I shall return it to Harry when he is recovered. For his sake, please do not inform the professors of its existence."

The doctor raised an eyebrow again. "Sure, fine. I just had a thought. If there was a struggle for his life, there might be any number of injuries. Since your school apparently doesn't have any sort of padding in its uniform…hmm. What were you wearing?"

"He was wearing the same clothes he wears now. They belonged to his cousin."

The doctor spun a chair around to face Thor's brother. "And the room?"

Thor paused to remember. "Square. Stone. Very small."

The doctor nodded. "He might have hit his head. Anything might have happened. Damn!"

He sounded quite a frustrated as Thor. It was strange, to hear so much concern from a stranger. For his brother, never the most beloved, hated by Midgardians after the events in New York.

Very strange.

Chapter Text

Thor hesitated, not quite willing to admit his reluctance towards the next revelation, necessary though it was. The doctor was already looking rather out-of-sorts at the unprecedented setbacks with which he had to deal. He didn't need another added on to them.

And yet, Thor, thinking of his words that any small detail might help, knew he couldn't withhold such knowledge in good conscience. He would need to attempt to explain to this Midgardian—by all accounts, more sceptical than even the average—the reality of gods. The Avengers, furthermore, would not form for twenty years.

Which meant that any source he might cite would be centuries old. That, in turn, meant that it essentially fell to him, trapped in the body of a human wizard, to prove the reality of the Norse Gods, none of whom were even aware of his being here. Unless Father knew, in whatever manner he knew everything.

"I have a further confession to make," Thor said. He probably sounded more than a bit ashamed. This felt like being caught out in a lie, and he'd never been very good at those to begin with.

The doctor sighed, huffed, and crumpled up a sheet of paper that Thor hoped wasn't anything important. "This had better be important," he threatened, as if at the end of his patience. He scowled, and started fiddling with the machines. Whether he was actually doing anything or just trying to look busy was impossible for Thor to tell. Hadn't the doctor confessed to just trying to look as if he knew what he were doing, before?

"I believe it may be. But it is rather more incredible than the previous revelation, and I do not wish to—"

"More incredible?" The doctor rounded on him, suggesting that maybe he hadn't been doing anything of consequence. Maybe.

Thor took a moment to gather his thoughts. The doctor shook his head, in what was probably resignation. "Let's hear it, then," he said, with a bite of impatience that had Thor's temper flare, again. This time, he felt the sparks start before they could really form. Too hot-headed, he was. Too brash. Too reckless. And with too little control over his anger. He reined it in, as best he could, turning to face the doctor, who, after all, didn't know that he wasn't speaking to a twelve-year-old human.

"My brother may not be…entirely human," he said. The doctor blinked. This might be the beginnings of shock, or whatever it was rightly called.

"…'Maybe'…? 'Entirely'…?" he repeated. He sounded as if he were perhaps having trouble formulating more coherent thoughts, which was reasonable, given recent revelations.

"What does…? How does—? Okay, I'm going to need a better explanation."

His voice turned amazingly level, and clear, at the end. It was as if his bluster and verbal floundering had cut through metaphorical brush, and he had now come to open, level ground.

Thor wondered what his background was, if he'd been in combat situations before. If he had, he would fare better in the battle that now seemed inevitable. He sighed, a bit sheepish now, and feeling not at all the way he thought any manner of "supernatural being" should on the verge of revealing his true nature. He remembered the pity and disbelief he'd encountered in New Mexico, and braced himself.

"I am… not human, either. However, given his different circumstances, the extent to which our situations might be considered comparable, whether he might qualify as human is difficult to discern—"

"Just wait a second!" the doctor said. "What are you claiming to be, then?"

A stage of disbelief before he even heard what Thor had to say. That did not bode well. Also, his explanation was strangely long-winded, which might suggest he'd spent too much time around Hermione. Or Tony Stark. Or both.

"I am a god," he said, somehow bypassing the existential babble of before. The doctor rested his chin in his hands, as if he just wasn't sure he knew what he was hearing.

"…A god?" he repeated. His voice was flat. "How does that work?"

Thor hesitated. He didn't know, and he wasn't sure whether the doctor even wanted an explanation.

"I…understand but little of the process, myself. This I may say: I come from the future, twenty years hence. It is a time of…'superheroes'. The Avengers, who saved the world from an attack by a host from beyond the boundaries of your world. I was one of their number. But following an assault upon my home, and the loss of both my mother and younger brother, I asked Father—"

"That's quite the sob story. Forget I asked. Look, I've seen more than my daily dose of inexplicable things today, and my view of the world has been irreparably damaged. If wizards, why not gods? And I'll admit I've never met a kid who talks quite like you. So, just give me some proof. What god are you claiming to be, anyway?"

Thor was saved from trying to figure out how he could use his innate abilities in a way that didn't risk killing someone, most notably his brother, when a high-pitched droning caught his attention.

"Damn!" said the doctor, and Thor turned to the graphic display of the heart monitor. They called what it was currently about "flat-lining". Which meant….

"Shit! We lost him!" the doctor said. He fumbled at some sort of tools nearby with shaking fingers, and took several deep, shaky breaths. Thor felt as if perhaps he'd been frozen clean through, or lithified.

"…'Lost him'?" he repeated.

"Flat-line! His heart stopped! He died!"

Something clenched tight around his chest. It became very difficult to breathe, and he doubled over, as if mortally wounded, thinking of that night long ago, when he had himself almost died.

It couldn't be happening again. His brother couldn't die on him again.

"If there is any way in which I might be of assistance—" he began, now uncertain, and hesitant to so much as move. He found that, despite thinking himself frozen to the spot, he'd made his way over to the doctor, to his brother's bedside.

"He's still got brain activity…it's just his heart's stopped…cardiac arrest. I could restart him, but we weren't expecting—never mind. I'll call for the equipment. It will be too late by the time it arrives—and where the hell is—"

He had a sudden suspicion. In that brief time when he'd been adjusting to suddenly remembering everything about who he really was, he'd done some research in the library in town (Loki would have been shocked, and perhaps a bit scandalised, to learn this, and he resolved to somehow protect this secret), where he'd found a book on 'Norse Mythology'. Or several, rather. He hadn't read far into any of them, but one idea had stood out to him that he'd never heard mentioned at home: the Norns, who wove the fates of men and gods. Suppose they existed? Father might know for sure, one way or another. If they were real, he'd never encountered them, but he knew there were many such beings that he'd never encountered.

Now…well, he could almost hear cackling as someone unwound a spool of Fate. Or just how did you restart a heart? Wasn't it with—?

"I don't suppose you wizards have a spell for controlling electricity, do you?" asked the doctor, looking down at his clipboard, but in truth thinking furiously. Thor froze.

"I have never heard of such a spell," he said. "However, as I am the God of Thunder, perhaps I might be able to assist you more directly?"

Blue lightning gathered around his hands, and the doctor, as if sensing the anomaly, turned to face him. Stared.

"Can you—can you control that?" he asked, sounding rather faint.

"I am the God of Thunder," Thor repeated, as if the doctor might possibly have forgotten.

In response, the man stood aside. "Right, well this is… a bit specific, I suppose. I'll…uh…talk you through it?"

For the first time, he seemed at a bit of a loss. Thor sensed that, perhaps, he'd convinced the man. There was a moment's pity for one whose worldview had been upended twice in the space of less than half an hour.

There was a brief period of silence, as the doctor concentrated on guiding Thor's hand to the right spot, seemingly oblivious to what he was doing, perhaps lost in thought. Perhaps he was thinking about a specific problem, the one he named after specifying voltage and finishing off his other instructions.

"It's odd," he mused, watching with evident fascination as lighting drifted down Thor's hands, concentrating in his index finger, which was positioned just so, and Thor didn't dare to move it. He said nothing, focused on the task at hand. The doctor seemed to take this as invitation to continue.

"The nurses I sent for to help me set up the equipment. They never came."

Thor glanced at him. "It is possible that the professors intended to minimise the number of people who were privy to knowledge of existence of the wizarding world," he explained.

"Yes, well, if I had had help, I might have realised that the machine was malfunctioning before it came to this. Why would—?"

"Magic tends to interfere with modern technology," Thor interrupted, sure of what he was going to ask. "Anything invented in the past millennium, and since the witch hunts, in particular."

Basic knowledge, accumulated by asking questions, and belonging to a pureblood family with a long-standing history. The doctor grimaced, but turned back to the heart monitor. Thor felt the tightness loosen its grip of his stomach when Harry's heart began beating again. The doctor also seemed to relax.

"So…'God of Thunder', eh?" he asked, glancing back and forth between Thor and the heart monitor, which seemed to at least have escaped the destructive effects of magical proximity. Thor nodded, and the doctor frowned.

"…Which God of Thunder, exactly? There are a lot, I'm sure. Zeus? Jupiter? Thor?"

Thor glanced at Harry, saw that Harry was now breathing, which was a very good sign, and looked back at the doctor.

"They say that Zeus and Jupiter are different names for the same god. I have no way of knowing for sure, having never met them, but—"

"You didn't answer my question!" the doctor protested. He rubbed his temples, and turned back to Harry. At least he was diligent. "Well, if your protest is that you've never met the Greco-Roman gods, then…and you didn't deny that last one…."

Harry's heart slowly regained its normal tempo, as if it had needed to stop, in order to restore Harry's body to its normal state. Tony might have had some comparison to make concerning this situation and computers. It seemed likely. Thor frowned.

"Anyway, Zeus's title is the 'King of Gods and Men'. Not really 'God of Thunder'. Hmm." The doctor was still thinking, even as he monitored all of Harry's vital signs single-handedly. At least whichever ones he had access to. Quite apart from knowing nothing about computers or medicine, it had changed a lot over the course of twenty years. How the doctor could do all these things at once was a bit of a mystery.

"You're Thor!" exclaimed the doctor, snapping Thor out of thoughts he hadn't realised he'd wandered into. The threat of Thanos still loomed, particularly now that Harry seemed to be on the road to recovery, but it was impossible to plan for. What should he even expect? He was operating under the mere assumption that Loki had been mind-controlled when he'd attacked New York…wasn't he? Or rather, that Thanos was behind it all.

"My name is Stephen," the doctor continued. "I suppose, if I'm not on first-name terms with a god, who would be worthy?"

Thor said nothing, thinking of the exile that had served as a catalyst for all that came after—or at least, had seemed to. If he'd been less proud, would Loki have been happier, less bitter, less jaded? Would he have fallen from the Bifrost?

The doctor frowned, but continued, as if a thought had just occurred to him, when Thor knew it hadn't. This man seemed too sharp to overlook such.

"Say, if you're a god, then does that meant that he—?"

Thor sighed. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" repeated Stephen, incredulous.

"I do not know everything," Thor reminded him. "His example is, as far as I know, unique. My father sent me back in time to be incarnated as a Midgardian, but I retained everything—from abilities and personality, to even my mind and body, that made me who I am. I lost my memories, but recovered even those, and my identity, when I turned ten. I am merely a god clothed in human flesh—"

"That's a creepy way to put it. You're an avatar. That's a Hindu term. Their gods did that sort of thing often enough for them to have a name for it. Krishna, I think…? Use it. It's less creepy than how you put it before."

It was probably telling of something that Thor didn't understand why Stephen found his description "creepy". He shrugged, brows furrowed, as he resolved to ask Hermione if she knew the term. Someday. When he at last told her the truth.

Since when was he the liar, exactly? But it wasn't quite a lie….

"As for my younger brother…" he trailed off, thinking about how best to phrase this, particularly whilst avoiding mentioning the Chitauri Invasion, or…other unpleasant events. "He was slain defending Asgard, but when I asked Father, he told me that he had been reincarnated in the past. I volunteered to follow him. There is no way of knowing to what extent our situations are similar."

Stephen stared between the two of them. "…He used to be a god," he said at last.

And might yet be. Thor nodded.

"One further precaution. I feel that I must warn you that—"

He was interrupted then, by, of all things, Harry sitting up and opening his eyes. Thor tensed, as he turned to face him. After only a couple of seconds, the internal luminescence faded into a familiar, quasi-luminous sky blue.

This could not end well.

Chapter Text

Doctor Stephen Strange had been having a rather… odd day. Or rather, his day had been completely ordinary until the gaggle of wizards had shown up, destroyed any semblance of logic or world order, merrily trampled over his carefully-established beliefs, and then left him to single-handedly run the hospital room (granted, he was rather…alarming, and often scared off the staff where he was invited to work).

Then, enter the Norse gods. Thor, the God of Thunder, with the same red hair and blue eyes as in the basic book of myths he'd checked out from the library at home one rainy day when he'd been bored. And then… who was the other one? The one who might, or might not, be human? He'd woken before Stephen could ask.

And what had Thor (sure, why not?) been saying before he'd been distracted? He'd been giving some sort of warning; it must have been important.

"Harry Potter", the "Boy-Who-Lived" hadn't noticed them yet. Although his gaze was fixed downwards, at himself, Stephen could still see an eerie blue glow around his eyes before it seemed to die off.

The Boy-Who-Lived (wizards and their stupid names) frowned, staring ahead, as he reached towards his chest, where his heart had recently been restarted. Good to know that all of his study had had its use.

"This energy…" he said, and Stephen blinked. Something about that voice set him on edge. He shivered, but wasn't sure why, and desperately hoped that the twelve-year-old child wouldn't look his way.

The twelve-year-old child who might also be a god. And who was Stephen but a lowly neurosurgeon? He shouldn't even be here; this job had doubtless been intended for someone else; was it his lack of readiness that had killed the boy, before he and the boy's brother had dragged him back? He was far out of his league on this one; he should've just gone home.

Instead, he strained his ears, listening, as if some sixth sense were warning him of dire consequence, should his attention stray. The boy seemed still unaware of anything else, as Thor warily fell back into a rather defensive position.

"…Not dead," said the black-haired boy. "How is it that I do not recognise this energy? Am I not aware of all forms of magic? Yet this is not the magic of home, or even that of wizards…what is it?"

He reached out a hand, expression pensive and almost troubled, but as each of them stayed sitting or standing as they were, the index finger slowly crooked around to point. Straight at Stephen. The boy's head snapped to follow the direction indicated by the finger, as if it were some manner of magical compass. Impossible, right?

Impossible, as women turning back and forth from tabby cats, and his slug-pen.

"You," said his erstwhile patient, fixing a disturbing and vacant stare upon him. Stephen refrained from swallowing. Perhaps he was the hare that spotted the snake. "What manner of magic is this?" His voice was sharp, and harsh. Stephen paused, frowned, tried to figure out what Harry (or whoever) could mean. He knew nothing more of magic than he'd witnessed tonight.

"Well," he said, reassured by how level his voice was after everything that had happened tonight, "a professor did come in here a half-an-hour ago, and turned my pen into a slug—"

"I mean—" the boy cut him off, and Stephen did his utmost not to childishly glare back. "What manner of magic do you practice?"

Stephen blinked. He could feel Thor's attention shift to him, but he was too busy frowning, stunned, trying to puzzle out where the hell this idea had come from.

"I can't use magic," he said, glancing at the youngest occupant of the room with a furrowed brow and a frown. "I don't know why—"

"And yet somehow you used magic upon me!" Harry said. Stephen didn't see him get to his feet, even though he'd been watching the whole time. Something about this whole scenario felt…wrong. He swallowed, hard, wondering whether Thor understood. Had that been the warning? Everything seemed to now be escalating very fast. His head was spinning, which was not at all conducive to formulating a decent response to the question thrown at him: "What was it? Answer me!"

Okay, this time he was justified in not noticing what had happened, too busy trying to think of how to respond. Still, he thought it should have taken much longer than it had for Harry (allegedly too injured to move, on the verge of death; he had died) to reach Stephen, who had backed away from the bed to speak to Thor.

And, speaking of, "Harry" seemed to have that odd, old-fashioned(?) speech that Thor had, and the professors didn't.

He should have given some sort of answer, but he was too busy trying to figure out a hundred things, and puzzle pieces were falling into place, and this didn't look good—

He didn't notice the blade, which made it a very good thing that Thor had been paying attention (why had he waited until now to intervene?). He knew that Harry hadn't had any weapons when he'd been brought in (as if that would have escaped the attention of a nurse for three days!), which meant that said sword(?) was made out of magic. That was really unfair. What was the point of even disarming someone who could just make more weapons?

Thor had stopped the weapon's inexorable…exorable approach by grabbing hold of his brother's arm. He followed up this admittedly impressive move—more impressive than catching a punch, probably—by wrenching the sword-dagger thing out of Harry's hands.

This was a pointless move, Stephen could have told him, except that, with the realisation of how close he'd just come to dying, he was finding it strangely difficult to speak. He thought he might have sunk to his knees at this point, but his self-awareness was not at its best. He just sat there, trying to catch his breath. He could feel his heart racing.

"Who dares—?" began not-Harry, which was a laughable statement.

"You do not recognise me, then?" asked Thor. "I thought that, surely, you would remember…. Have you forgotten, Harry? Ron Weasley, your best friend, who swore to defend you?"

No recognition—to either name, which just confirmed what Stephen had already suspected. Could Thor be that clueless?

Huh. Well, apparently he noticed that, because he threw Harry to the side, and another blade dissipated before it could form. Well, that was friendly.

Stephen thought that he should probably just stop thinking, and watch. His thoughts lacked their usual clarity and sharp wit.

"Who has done this to you?" Thor demanded. Silence. Not-Harry might not even understand what was being asked. This fact didn't seem to occur to Thor, either. But the next question, evidently, cleared everything up for both of them. "Was it Thanos?"

That was a new name. Stephen hadn't heard it before. He would have expected the name to be "Voldemort", or "Quirrell"—those were the men he'd been told were responsible for Harry's state when he arrived. Had the professors deliberately misled him? Or was there something that they didn't know? The name bore a striking resemblance to the name of the Greek god of death. Was there an inter-pantheon war?

Thor must have been right; there was a moment when not-Harry's eyes widened, but he otherwise froze, and then it was gone. Such a short time. Easy to miss, but the reaction was there, if subtle, subtle, subtle.

Just as subtle as, say, the half-formed blade suddenly flying in his direction. He surprised himself by ducking in time to avoid it hitting him anywhere important. Thor's gaze snapped over to him, to ensure his safety, or perhaps to apologise—who knew? Not-Harry took advantage of his distraction to stand from where he'd crashed into the far wall, gathering some sort of ominous bluish energy in his hands. It probably was nothing good, and Stephen wanted to warn Thor, but found he still seemed incapable of speech. Possibly because the kid had maybe just tried to kill him…again.

The floor shuddered under their feet, and the tile of the room began to bulge up under them. Harry disappeared, and Stephen thought of that odd cloak that Thor had hidden under. Only, Thor still had that cloak, didn't he?

Not-Harry flickered back into view a second later. He was a lot closer to Stephen than Stephen was comfortable with. He wished, in that moment, even that he did have magic, because this was a three-person fight with only two capable of combat. He was stuck being the defenceless superhero sidekick. He refused to be Robin.

He didn't have much choice. Not-Harry was convinced that he'd used some sort of magic, and seemed paranoid enough to assume that it was something dangerous, something designed to harm him. He wasn't listening to reason.

Or, was the real problem stemming from elsewhere? Was he just looking for an excuse to attack someone? Just whom had Stephen saved, anyway? He reminded himself that the Hippocratic Oath was not a pick-and-choose affair. That, somehow, did not make any of this easier to stomach.

"It is I, your elder brother," Thor tried at last. "Do you remember—?"

Not-Harry laughed, and it was a rather bitter, dismissive, haughty noise. "You claim to be my long-lost brother? Have you come to take me home, then?" That was not a pleasant smile, either, but it suited the mocking condescension in his voice all too well. Why was Thor even bothering with—oh, right. Family.

"I cannot myself return, as no one knows that I came here to find you—"

Thor's fists were clenched, and Stephen was sure that his hands were behind his back because he was trying his hardest not to show that he was gathering more of that blue lightning. Possibly, he couldn't control it. Stephen wanted to take advantage of the distraction provided by their conversation, but somehow couldn't bring himself to move. He was convinced that Harry would notice any movement he made.

"Ah, such a risk! Next, you will tell me that you have done all this in an attempt to save me, is that it? How much you have sacrificed for me? Well, save your breath; I care not. And you may—"

"You died!" Thor cried, as if he just couldn't hold it back any more. The hand that had been beginning to form yet another of those weird blades ceased from its attempt. Stephen wondered if Thor even realised that the fighting had basically come to a temporary standstill while they had their little talk. "You died, and I could not save you! You died, and I could not protect you! I, who once swore to protect you with my own life, as you swore to protect me with yours! And I—"

Not-Harry turned to face Thor, eyes wide with realisation, as if seeing him for the first time. "…Thor?" he asked, still with that derisive undertone, but there was something else there. For a moment, Stephen almost dared to hope. That disbelief, however…what did it stem from? Doubt in his brother's love, or something? Or maybe he, like Stephen, thought it was a bit incredible for a god to look like a twelve-year-old.

The moment of shock was short-lived. This one thought too fast on his feet. "And where are your friends, then? The Avengers? I recall that you needed the assistance of your entire team of mortal friends, in order to defeat me the last time—"

"You remember?" asked Thor. If Stephen had to guess, for some reason, the answer the god was hoping for was a 'yes'. Why?

Not-Harry scoffed. He'd used the word "mortal", but it had been pretty clear from the start that this was god-Harry talking. Or something to that effect. Something pretending to be god-Harry? Had it eavesdropped on the conversation?

"I remember a shadow—" he began, and Thor hastened to interrupt, reacting too quickly. As if he knew where this was going, for once, and was trying to head it off.

"Why? Why side with Thanos? Why did you take the Tesseract? Why did you use it to—?"

"To turn your friends against you? That is your great weakness. You care too much about those you call your 'friends'. You would not last an hour against Thanos—"

There was something a bit off with that phrasing. Thor seemed to agree. Even from here, Stephen could see the way his brows furrowed. Stephen slowly crouched down, and began to crawl backwards, on the floor, towards the door. The best plan was to get the other professors, but his patient was too near the phone. He wasn't doing any good here; he was a liability for Thor to protect. If he left the room, however—

"Is that why you reject us, your family? You know that Father cared. That Mother loves you. That I love you. Why, then—"

"I don't care about any of that!" not-Harry shouted. Stephen wondered if they heard in the waiting room. He almost hoped not. And what was with the sudden temper tantrum?

"Are you unable to understand such a simple fact? He is your father, not mine. Your mother, not mine…and you are not my brother. Why ought I to care about any of you? You rob me of my birthright, lie to me about my—"

"I didn't know!" Thor protested. "And we are your family. Family is not a matter only of blood."

He was thinking about something particular here, and Stephen, despite himself, wondered what. The mortal, human family in which he'd been raised? Or those "Dursleys" Thor had mentioned earlier?

"I care—" Thor said. Stephen could tell that he meant it; apparently, not-Harry couldn't.

"I don't care," Harry said, much more quietly this time. He stood, and formed another of those knives, and it looked as if it was time for more senseless bloodshed.

"Tell me why. Tell me that, at least," Thor pled. Not-Harry didn't seem to need to look at them to form his daggers. Good for him, not so good for everyone else.

"Why? Why do I not care? Why do I reject your offer? Why did I attack a world under your protection?

"What concern is it for you? Do you seek to absolve yourself of blame? Why ask now? Why care now?"

Again, the fighting had stalled, even though not-Harry had finished forming his newest weapon. Stephen held his breath. Hey, why not? Superstition was beginning to seem just as valid an option as anything else.

"I always cared."

"But you never listened. You never noticed."

"I'm listening, now." There was an odd expression on Thor's face. Stephen watched him, keeping not-Harry in the corner of his eye, unsure if it was a good idea to move, and risk drawing not-Harry's attention. Not-Harry seemed, after all, to have forgotten his existence.

The air was, quite literally, charged with energy, which made it a bit hard for Stephen to breathe. It was just as well he was holding his breath.

Silence. Not-Harry seemed to be waiting for an interruption that never came. At last, he answered.

"Do you seek for the secret, how to outlast Thanos? Then, as I am feeling generous, I will tell you. He can only harm you if you let him. He will hurt anything or anyone you care about. I know you are no stranger to physical pain. Perhaps you have the mettle to withstand that. But you would never outlast his other tricks. You care too much. And the only way not to break, is not to care."

Then, the earth buckled under their feet again. Stephen realised that the last time, not-Harry had used this as a distraction to disappear, which must mean that he was the cause, and it wasn't the start of an earthquake. That didn't prevent him from being thrown across the room, landing hard against the shelves on its far side, where he'd first seen Thor.

Okay. Yeah, he'd probably broken a rib or something. He'd landed hard. Hey, he'd survived. He didn't like that he'd hit his head, however. He'd need to see if he'd managed to get a concussion, later. He didn't seem to be displaying any symptoms, but—

Thor looked as if he'd just realised something, which was nice, and all, but he'd much prefer it if this battle could end. Preferably without any of them dying. Stephen wasn't ready to die yet. He hadn't become a famous neurosurgeon yet, or saved a lot of people when lesser brains couldn't figure out how. He hadn't proven himself.

"I see," Thor said. "I apologise, Brother. I should have been there, to help you. That I was not shall be forever a source of shame, for me."

He pulled something from his pocket. It was too covered in electricity for Stephen to see it clearly. Stephen realised what was about to happen just too late to do anything about it. Thor crossed the room to where not-Harry stood, raised the unknown object overhead, and brought it crashing down on Harry's head. Harry slumped to the floor, and Stephen discovered he had the energy to react to events after all.

"What the hell did you just do?" he demanded. He forgot that he was talking to a god for the moment. That was a particular complication he didn't feel like considering right now. Besides, Thor looked sheepish, shoulders hunched and all, so he figured he hadn't overstepped any sacrosanct boundaries.

"Ah," said the God of Thunder, turning to Stephen. "Well, he warned me that a figure from his nightmares, Thanos, might be able to control him, if he—how did he say it?—'used a mantra'. He said that I should hit him if he seemed to be acting abnormally, and I therefore assumed—"

"Thor." interrupted a much weaker voice, from the corner, where its owner lay slumped against the wall. Thor abandoned his attempts at explanation to hurry over to not-Harry(?)'s side. Lovely.

"I'm here," Thor said, but contrary to his words, his voice seemed somehow far distant. Reminiscent?

"I believe that I owe you an apology," continued the weaker voice, which might or might not belong to not-Harry. "Forgive me, Brother. I never meant for it to come to this."

And then there was silence, and the posture slackened as not-Harry slumped against the wall. He shouldn't have been conscious at all—why he was was a study for another time— but Stephen's admirable intellect whirred into motion, cataloguing potential injuries and traumas, any consequences (unintentional, he was sure) of Thor's assault.

Heedless of personal danger, he rose on unsteady feet, reminding himself that he might have injured himself worse than it felt right now, when he'd crashed against the cabinets. Not that he felt all that spiffy.

As he checked to see how Harry was doing now, he turned the rest of his attention to Thor. Everyone knew you focused best when you were multitasking.

"That was your brother, the god," he said, in what he hoped was a conversational voice. Thor frowned, and crossed his arms.

"He was…not himself. The brother I was raised with would not have attacked you thus. I apologise on his behalf for his actions."

Stephen shrugged, his attention mostly focused on what he was doing; he didn't keep much track of the conversation. Enough for him to remember later.

"I didn't get a chance to ask you: just which god is he?"

He surprised himself with how casually he could ask this question, as if this were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps he had sustained severe head trauma.

Thor hesitated, which, even in Stephen's limited experience, was not a good sign.

"He is my brother, Loki," he said, at last. Had he been human, he would have been scuffing his feet, or something, but Thor seemed incapable of prolonged or extreme embarrassment. Stephen was briefly inclined to be envious, but dismissed it almost immediately.

"Loki?" he repeated, turning aside to face Thor. "The God of Mischief and Lies?"

Thor beamed. "He is a stalwart ally, and dependable. But he does have a propensity for mischief, and he is very good at lying. Perhaps skilled enough to deceive himself."

There was almost a visible rain cloud hovering overhead, as in those cartoons. Stephen caught his own thoughts, and had to shake his head. God of Thunder plus rain cloud. Yes, it seemed to fit.

"The one who causes Ragnarök?" he had to ask. Thor turned to him, brow furrowed in what seemed genuine puzzlement.

"…'Ragnarök'?" he repeated. "I have never heard this term. What is it?"

Ah. He probably shouldn't have said that. Now, however, he was obliged to answer.

"It's the end of the universe, or just Asgard, depending on which myths you're reading. There's the one in which Thor dies fighting the Midgard Serpent, and then there's the one in which everyone lives, but Asgard is destroyed. Either one, Loki sets the whole thing into motion. You should look it up."

He was wary of saying too much. Who knew if there were any truth in the idea at all? Suppose he accidentally kick-started everything by telling Thor, affecting how he treated Loki, causing Loki to set off the events that led to Ragnarök?

Stephen frowned. He might not be a superhero, but setting off the apocalypse just didn't sit right with him.

Thankfully, rather than pressing for more information, Thor seemed to realise he must have his reasons for his silence, and moved on to more immediate concerns. (He seemed almost disturbingly pleased at the thought of dying in battle. Stephen had to remind himself that Thor wasn't actually twelve years old.)

"We owe you a debt, doctor. You have saved the life of my brother, twice now—"

"He tried to kill me!" Stephen said, a reaction long delayed from when it was most appropriate, but still with a need for expression. It was as if he'd said the thing as soon as it was possible to safely say, once the danger was past, and he'd had time to fully process the fact that he'd almost been killed at least twice, here, by the boy he'd tried to stabilise and save. And here he was, again, the fool trying again, not learning from the fruits of past efforts.

"He was not himself," Thor said, again, as if that fixed anything. "And we owe you a great debt. I thank you on behalf of our family, the royal family of Asgard." Stephen bit his lip to keep from reminding Thor that Loki was technically a frost giant. If Thor said he was part of the royal family, then he doubtless knew better.

He's adopted. Is that fact a concern for you…?

"If he does not require constant monitoring, if there are a few moments in which he might be left alone, I would repay some of that debt. Please, if you know of a place where we might talk, unnoticed, and uninterrupted, lead me there. We have much to discuss, and but little time in which to discuss it."

Chapter Text

There was something about Thor's demeanour that enforced compliance. Not obedience against his will, or against his judgement, but automatic obedience. He finished checking to make sure that Harry seemed to be well enough to be left alone (as long as he didn't awaken, unexpectedly, still demented, or whatever Thor would claim was wrong with him).

Then, he stood, and, without looking around to see if Thor was following (but giving him time to hide under the fancy cloak of invisibility), he wandered through the halls with an ease that people more familiar with the hospital might envy.

It was almost aimless wandering. He was making for the ordinary check-up room, in which he'd been asked to hide his personal belongings for the night. They'd given him the key. No one else should interfere, there.

He found the room, unlocked it, pushed open the door, flipping on the light as he entered. It was quite an ordinary hospital room, nothing to see here, except for his current travel bag, which was nondescript. It had a drawstring, and fastened at the top. Although it was starting to wear out, it had served him well. Everything he'd brought from America was in there, except for the clothes, which he'd left back at the hotel where he was staying as long as he was in London.

He shut the door after Thor entered, and locked it for good measure. Did the hospital staff have another key? Almost certainly. But that was no reason to be incautious.

"Are you going to explain what happened up there?" he asked, pointing in the general direction of the room two flights of stairs above them, where Harry was. Where the professors awaited. He didn't expect the answer to be yes—there was little enough to tell, at least that Thor knew. That much was already obvious. This couldn't have happened before—all those questions Thor had asked, his shock at the appearance of this…entity showed that the situation was novel for him. Which meant that he probably knew as much about it as Stephen did. And sure enough, Thor frowned, shaking his head. It was a regretful, slow, denial.

"There is but little time left in which to assist you. I must ask that you refrain from asking too many questions, but I will do my best to explain. The wizarding world, as I believe the professors explained to you, is a secret one. They would stand to lose much were it revealed that they had informed a muggle—a person without magic—of the existence of this secret society."

He paused, seeming to debate with himself how to continue, and Stephen had to force himself not to prompt him for further information with the reminder that they had "but little time".

"My brother said that you have magic, of a kind he does not recognise. If he does not recognise the magic you wield, it is unsurprising that the wizards also do not recognise it. That magic cannot save you from them."

"They're going to kill me, is that it?" asked Stephen. His heart, which had had a chance to slow down following his recent brush with death, sped up again. Thor frowned again, folding his arms.

"No. There is a spell oft-used by wizards when muggles stumble across the magical world, one to remove the memories of magic from that individual's mind. It is a simple spell, difficult to use properly, but either one of those professors has the experience needed to use it thus. It is against the law to leave a muggle aware of the magical world. No matter how they might wish to leave your memories intact, the consequences of allowing you to retain knowledge of what has happened this night would be too dangerous for them to risk."

Somehow, the thought of someone able to remove his memories at their leisure might be worse than if they just killed him. How much time had he lost, without knowing it? What was to stop them from going too far, and removing everything that made him what he was? His heart raced, pounding in his ears. It was too much. Maybe he couldn't handle this, after all.

"And, what? You want me to disappear before they can wipe my memory?" he asked. Thor frowned at the unfamiliar phrasing, but was quick enough on the uptake.

"Ah…no. If your memories were left intact, not only would the professors risk arrest, and removal from their positions—and Dumbledore is too great a force for good to risk such—but a team of more skilled wizards would be sent to track you down and to remove your memories in their stead. To flee would only delay the inevitable."

But he couldn't possibly be telling him this without some sort of plan to fix things, Stephen realised. He further knew that it would be best to just shut up and let Thor explain. They had little time, right?

"This past year, I have been researching the nature of memory and magic in the school library. I wished to be ready, should Harry remember anything of the past. I sought for the nature of memory, how it related to magic, and in the process learnt much of the spells used to remove and alter memories…as well as means of storing and restoring them.

"It is this knowledge that I am able to offer to you, now. I have amongst the friends I have made at school, one who is very gifted, and who would doubtless be able to perform any of those spells, if she were given the time to learn. And that is the option I lay before you: if you were to store your memories, we might, ten years hence, when school no longer occupies our minds, and we are no longer being watched by the Ministry, be able to return those memories you stored to you."

Store his memories? How? And…this idea was crazy! Ten years from now, they were offering to give him back his memories of what had happened tonight? Who knew if any of them would still be around, then! Harry had died, tonight, killed by a man who had somehow snuck into the school. It didn't seem that safe of a location. And a decade was a long time on any account.

"How does it work?"

Thor hesitated. That didn't bode well. "You would need some manner of vessel," he began. "A small container in which to house those memories you wished to keep. But be forewarned that storing those memories means that they are no longer in your head. It will be as if you have forgotten the events they depict. It is a difficult task, but you must retain enough memories within your mind that you genuinely believe in magic, whilst storing all truly important knowledge where it cannot be lost. And you must, for the next decade, neither misplace nor in any way suffer the loss of that container that holds your memories. You must make for yourself a message that convinces you of the importance of what is contained within."

His eyes followed Stephen as Stephen bustled about the room. He'd pulled a sample container out of a cupboard with a frown, and then found a sharpie. Then, he frowned, realising that that was hardly enough for a note. Nevertheless, he scrawled on the jar itself, just a short note. There was no time to question this madness; Thor was right. The moment that the professors realised that he'd healed Harry…the clock would be ticking for them, and they would know it. They'd have to wipe his memories.

This jar contains your memories of the events of June Ninth, 1992. Do not open, lose, or allow to be damaged. Seek out Ron Weasley on June Ninth, 2002, concerning restoration of these memories.

It seemed insufficient as a notice. He thought hard for something, anything that would convince his ordinary, sceptical, magic-disbelieving self to believe the note. That was who he'd be again at the end of the night. The sceptical Doctor Stephen Strange, for whom magic was all sleight-of-hand, deception, tricks. Not knowing that he apparently had magic, himself.

And no time to pursue that lead. He hated that fact, the loss it entailed, the missed opportunities. What right did wizards have to take any of his memories from him?

An idea struck him with almost physical violence. He reached into his cloth bag, and had to rummage around for a few seconds before he found a blank, forty-five minute cassette, and his cassette recorder he'd used to help him with lecture notes back in college. He might disbelieve his own voice, or his own handwriting, but it would be very hard to fake both. Even at his most sceptical, he'd probably believe both.

His hands were shaking as he forced the cassette into the player, replaced the batteries (all whilst aware of Thor's curious eyes watching), closed the case, and pressed the record button.

"Alright, what do I have to do? How do I choose which memories get stored?" he asked. Thor glanced again at the device spinning around as it recorded their conversation, the spool on the right slowly unwinding its black tape onto the left-hand spool.

"Only think of the memory you wish to store," said Thor, "and maintain that thought. You will not know when it is gone."

Stephen closed his eyes, both to focus better, and so that he couldn't see what Thor was doing. He had to trust him. It was Thor who was warning him of this threat to begin with, and besides that…Thor oozed sincerity.

He seized on the fight between the brothers in the hospital room, first. There's be little to notice if it were missing, but it was vitally important, he knew. He included the conversation afterwards, where Thor had revealed which god Harry might be, and he'd made the mistake of mentioning Ragnarök.

He nodded, and then blinked. He didn't feel any different, but he could feel something tickling his neck, and just had to open his eyes. There was something viscous and slimy-looking hanging from the tip of a stick Thor was holding. Thor transferred it carefully into the small container Stephen had written his note on.

"I don't feel as if I've forgotten anything," he said. Thor gave him what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, but looked like more of a grimace.

"You have," he said, his voice grim. Stephen considered asking what he'd forgotten, and then realised that Thor had no more way of knowing than he did. He hadn't said. Well, he wasn't making that mistake, again.

"Well, I should have said what memory that was. Both so that I had it on tape, and so that you could tell me."

Thor frowned at the doubtless unfamiliar phrase "on tape", but didn't seem too concerned.

"This is a cassette recorder," Stephen said, taking pity on him. "It records the sounds made around it, and allows them to be replayed at a later time."

To his surprise, Thor seemed to understand this explanation. Huh.

"I think I ought to remember our first meeting, somehow. Out of respect to you and…your brother, I suppose," he said, closing his eyes, and nodding again. Then, that memory must have turned into silvery cord, too, because when he looked for the memory of it in his mind, it was gone. Ah. That was…unsettling.

"Do you have a human name?" he asked. "I mean, you're pretending to be human…I don't know why I didn't ask before…."

"When I first appeared in the hospital room, I introduced myself with that name," Thor said, shrugging. "But you no longer remember that. It is 'Ronald Weasley."

Stephen stared. Thor didn't seem to fit that name. He glanced at the jar upon which he'd scrawled his message.

"The same name as on the note I wrote myself," he realised. That made sense.

"I think…if I remembered the evidence the professors showed me of the reality of magic, it would convince me of the reality of magic. And likewise, if I remembered that I was convinced that magic was real, it would convince me of the reality of magic. That means…is it possible to split memories and store only parts of them?"

It had to be possible. He was going to try it. It was the only thing to do that made any sense.

"I see no reason why it could not be done. Who is to say where one memory begins, and another ends?" Thor said, answering the question that no longer needed answering. It was, Stephen conceded, probably a pretty good point. He closed his eyes, thinking.

"I suppose I'll store the memory of knowing that magic is real, and everything you explained afterwards, up until…Harry woke up. I don't remember what happened after that. Odd."

"Perhaps, then, I should remind you that I asked of you that you remain silent, and tell no one of my presence here. I am a student at the school in which Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore work. It would be best if none were aware that I had left the grounds."

Stephen sighed. "And I suppose I agreed, before, or we wouldn't be having this conversation. And remembering this conversation should be enough for me to know…enough about you, I suppose."

He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the tickling sensation, so like that of stray hairs, that he guessed was actually essence of memories. He remembered everything he'd said over the course of this last conversation, and had hints, fragments of the memories he'd stored, reflections of them in the mirror of his mind's eye. But the real things were all in the jar. All except for McGonagall transforming into a cat, and turning his pen into a slug. All those little proofs.

But he still knew what he was doing, and whom he was talking to, because it had come up in the conversation. Although…Ron Weasley…didn't he have another name? There was something important that he'd forgotten, which made sense. That was the entire point of this plan. Still….

"I think that's all," he said, walking over to where he'd set the still running tape recorder. "Only," he paused as he reached for the stop button. "There was another name for you. I remember asking you for your human name, which means you aren't human, and that, up to that point, I'd been calling you by that other name. But, what are you? What is it?"

Ron Weasley shot him a decidedly sheepish, apologetic, regretful look, and Stephen knew he'd get no real answer. That feeling had bitten and pinched and prodded him all his life, had driven him to seek for answers to questions that others ignored, needing to know as much as could be known. To be denied such knowledge…it made him question the wisdom of this plan, whether his memories might not be irretrievably lost, whether he'd erred in putting his faith in…Ronald Weasley. He reached down, and turned the tape player off.

"The professors will seek you out," Ron murmured. "And when they do, you will forget that we even had this conversation. What good will that knowledge do you, for the short time you possess it? Rest assured that it is preserved amongst your memories."

"And there must be a reason I trusted you, but I don't remember what that is, either," Stephen said. "Give me something to go on."

Ron paused. "I cannot offer you proof of my words," he began, his words drawn out, as if he'd rather keep them inside. "But I suppose, as you will soon forget anyway, I will tell you again. I am Thor, Norse God of Thunder."

Stephen stared, but for some reason, perhaps a residue of the memories he'd lost, he was inclined to believe the boy. He frowned, glancing back and forth between the self-proclaimed god, and his tape player.

He reached for the "record" button. "I don't suppose you'd say that again, would you?"

As the decade passed, Stephen sometimes recalled his cassette tape and the jar of memories, usually when he was moving. Sometimes, he even listened to the tape, trying to convince himself it was real, trying to convince himself that that conversation, of which he had no memory, had truly happened. His handwriting could be forged, but…in the days before even Photoshop, it was hard to believe that his voice had been mimicked to an exactness.

And if someone had, why?

Thus, he believed. He believed enough that, although he invested in later forms of audio-video recording, and bought a CD player, and a boombox, and then an MP3 player, he refused to let go of his old walkman, and his tape recorder. He knew that, nowadays, audio was easier to fake, when it was all in midi and wave files on a computer, software on someone's hard drive. That was easy to manipulate. But no one used cassettes anymore. Now it was all about CDs.

He bought music CDs for his CD player, kept himself up to date in every way but one.

The same cassette, the same cassette recorder, carefully packed up and brought with him, in his overnight bag when staying at a hotel, and never separated from the jar of memories, either. If there were any truth to what that boy—Ron Weasley—had said on the tape, or he himself had said and written, then it was, indeed, vital to keep it safe.

And time slowly passed. He found himself looking forward to June Ninth, 2002, when at last the matter could be laid to rest. If the boy was still alive. If Stephen survived.

He told no one about the jar. He told no one about the tape. He considered them a well-kept secret of his, one that none of his fellow doctors suspected. He had, evidently, once believed that magic was real—enough to say it on tape. This could all be a trick, but….

Sometimes he lifted up the jar, watching the silvery substance lazily swirling within. But he obeyed his own instructions, and kept the lid screwed tight.

In January of 2002, he began his search for the whereabouts of Ronald Weasley, and encountered his first snag. There was no record of any such person ever being born. By now, he'd listened to the tape enough times to remember his casual mention of Ron not being human. How to find him? How?

He jumped at the first chance he got to go to England. He knew that he'd been working at the outskirts of London at the time he'd written his note. It seemed a reasonable place to start.

No one remembered Ronald Weasley. No one recognised the family name. And he had no idea what the boy—young man, now—even looked like.

Twenty-two-years old, something inside told him. That was how old Ronald Weasley was.

Although he still would have laughed had any of his colleagues suggested such, he followed his gut, wandering around London, seeking out places that didn't seem to fit, that stood out. He didn't know what he was looking for. It was a ridiculous, fruitless task. In reality, he was hoping to stumble into someone who knew Ron by sheer dumb luck. Or, that Ron would hear that he'd come, looking for him….

He left London quite as frustrated before, but returned near the end of May. He had to succeed, this time. He had to.

And yet, two weeks passed, and nothing. Even Google was failing him.

He went for a walk to clear his head, and felt something. A tug in a certain direction. For want of a plan, he wandered off in that direction. Far too spontaneous for him. He was acutely aware of the memories and tape player he had in the bag slung over his shoulder. He was carrying little of value besides. And the whole quest was very nearly a futile endeavour.

"Found you," said a voice, and he turned, to see a young man striding towards him. He was dressed in nondescript clothing, and a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up to shadow his face. His appearance screamed suspicious. "Hello, Stephen. It's good to see you again." There seemed to be genuine warmth in the unfamiliar voice.

Stephen just stared, unsure how to respond. Sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else, perhaps?

"Yes, I suppose we should catch up, later. You haven't been to Woodfield Palace, I don't think, or even Markhaven Meadow. But it's Markhaven Meadow you've been looking for. I'll take you there. Hermione stocked up on your favourite tea. She's been looking forward to talking to you even more than… but I'm getting ahead of myself. Too many might be eavesdropping on us. Follow me. Let's restore your memories first, shall we?"

It was that last sentence, for whatever reason, that convinced him. Still wary, he nevertheless picked his way across the deserted street to where the stranger(?) waited.

"Why are you wearing a cloak and hood, if you aren't trying to seem dangerous and threatening?" he had to ask.

The other shrugged, hands in his pockets. "If you must know, ever since the war, we've all become rather famous in the Magical World. It's frustrating, but it was either this or be mobbed by fans, and never find enough concentration to send out…I suppose you would call it a signal…for you to follow."

A signal? That tug in his…sixth sense?

"I'm going to have to use side-along apparation. You won't like it; it's not pleasant, but, rest assured, you won't have to do this very often."

There was something else in his voice, that smugness that comes only of knowing something that your interlocutor does not. He therefore did not ask "why not?".

The man could at least have had the decency to warn him about the process involved. Namely, that it felt like being compressed like a sardine in a can, or that afterwards, the whole world would seem to be spinning in rapid clockwise circles. He stumbled a bit, and then turned to glare at his guide.

"Ah. Yes, I should have warned you that the first time is usually quite unpleasant. But I did not know how you would react, as you are not a wizard. But, enough of that. Behold, Markhaven Meadow!"

He spread an arm wide, and Stephen, rocking on his feet, turned to face the direction indicated, where a quaint three storey cottage stood in the middle of…well…a meadow. As he watched, the front door of the house opened, and a woman with incredibly frizzy brown hair emerged, followed by someone whose appearance he immediately thought he ought to recognise.

"Doctor Stephen Strange," said the red-headed man, nodding to him. "We began to fear that you would not make it. You are late."

A moment's silence, as Stephen still reeled from the disorientation that came of the…experience called side-along apparation.

"Just to make sure," said his guide, "but this is the second time we've met, right?"

"Harry," the bushy-haired brunette scolded him. "Leave off. You know he doesn't know about the time travel, yet!"

What. "Okay," Stephen decided. "Someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on, here."

Chapter Text

He didn't immediately open his eyes when he awoke, although that was naturally his first impulse. Instead, he took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. He was lying on something soft—not as soft as the beds in Gryffindor Tower, but much softer than the hard ground he'd expected. Cold, stone floor, in a darkened room.

Where was he? There was soft light around him, but no noise. Well, there was nothing else for it. He opened his eyes, and glanced around.

This must be the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. He opened his eyes, blinked, turned his head to the side, and caught sight of something grey against a fuchsia background. Sitting in a chair next to his bed was Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, reading a rather thin book.

As if sensing his movement, Dumbledore set aside the book, with a benevolent smile upon his face. There was something important that Harry needed to do. Something he ought to—

"Sir! The Philosopher's Stone! Professor Quirrell was trying to steal it, and I—"

"Relax, Harry," said Dumbledore, with a worried frown. "I'm afraid you've been unconscious for several days, and are behind the times. Professor Quirrell does not have the Stone." I didn't say he did. "Madam Pomfrey found it amongst your clothes when she used the 'Switch-Out' hospital spell to replace your clothes, and handed it to me. It has since been destroyed."

"'Destroyed'?" Harry repeated. "But your friend, that 'Nicholas Flamel'—"

"Ah, you were determined to do the thing properly, weren't you?" asked Dumbledore in an overly cheery tone, still with his benevolent smile. Harry's eyes narrowed. Was this all planned, then?

"You knew—?"

"—that Quirrell was trying to steal the Stone? That you were in danger? Strange, but your friend Mr. Weasley made those very same accusations. No, my boy, I didn't understand the danger you were in. I was halfway to London before I realised the place where I was most needed was the very place I had just left. I returned to help you, but by that time, you were already unconscious. I feared that I was too late."

"Too late", indeed. There was something he was forgetting—

"Yes," Harry swallowed. "I knew I was only buying time for you to return. I feared that if Quirrell didn't get the Stone, You-Know-Who would."

"Not to save the Stone, my boy. To save you. The effort involved in protecting the Stone nearly killed you. For a second, I feared it had. You've been recovering for the past four days. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley have been here every second Madam Pomfrey allowed. They will be relieved to hear that you have finally woken."

"I…almost died," Harry muttered to himself. It was a strange thought. Perhaps stranger was how little the thought troubled him.

"So shall we all, someday," said Dumbledore, whose hearing was nothing diminished despite his age. "You and I both. It is part of being human. The wise accept that fact. They know that death is but the next great adventure, a view of new horizons."

Harry blinked. Well, that was one way of thinking of things, although it brought back to the fore of his mind thoughts he'd rather not dwell upon. Such as: what makes you human?

Dumbledore gave him the minute he needed to come to terms with, and to organise, his thoughts. He stared around the room, unseeing. He didn't ask where Ron and Hermione were. He was certain that Dumbledore had had them evicted to have what was certain to be a talk with much sensitive information discussed.

Next him, Harry caught sight of an end table covered in sweets. He had no idea what to think or how to react.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, in a cheerful voice. "What happened between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows about it."

Somehow, Harry doubted that. If they knew what he'd done, they wouldn't be celebrating him; they'd be shunning him. If they knew the truth, he'd have been expelled.

He wondered what the current opinion of the school was. His gaze slid aside, to Dumbledore. Dumbledore seemed to have been forthcoming thus far. Suppose…?

"Professor, might I ask you a few questions?" he asked.

Dumbledore paused, before clasping his hands together in front of his beard. His eyes, Harry noticed, were twinkling behind his semicircular glasses.

"Naturally, my dear boy. I owe you a debt, for preventing Quirrell from acquiring the Stone. Understand, however, that I will not answer all of your questions. There may be a few which I will refuse to answer. But I will not, of course, lie."

Well, of course he said that. Harry doubted that it was true. He decided to test the waters, a bit.

"Sir, what was that last trap? That Mirror? And how did I get the Stone from it?"

"Ah, one of my more ingenious ideas, if I do say so myself. And between you and me, that's saying something. The Mirror, after all—The Mirror of Erised, as it is properly known—shows whatever is the deepest desire of the beholder. It lays bare before a man the deepest, most earnest desire of his heart. The happiest man in the world, one who desired nothing, would see himself exactly as he is. Had you encountered the Mirror on a different day, it would have shown you whatever it was that you most longed for. But what it shows is not necessarily true, or even possible. Men have wasted away, pining before it. I must ask you not to seek it out again. It is a very dangerous thing."

Harry thought of his excursions under the invisibility cloak, and nodded. That seemed right enough.

"As for how you acquired the Stone, only one who wished to find the Stone—find it, but not use it—would be able to remove the Stone from the Mirror. Otherwise, he would just see himself with great wealth, or drinking the Elixir of Life."

"And you?" asked Harry, determined to find the limits. "What do you see, sir?"

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks. People will insist upon giving me books for gifts."

His eyes sparkled with merriment, but there was something else behind that. Pain. Regret. Harry could almost feel it as if it were his own. Such a silly lie. Dumbledore had made little attempt to hide that that was what it was: a lie. Harry couldn't tell if Dumbledore, like Voldemort, was a wizard sufficiently skilled to hide his dissembling from Harry, and he'd let his guard down to show that he meant no harm, to show his sincerity, or whether his skill in deception were less than Voldemort's. Perhaps his uncertainty was itself sufficient answer.

Harry wondered what Dumbledore really saw, but he knew that that was quite the personal question. He dropped his gaze, instead, and turned to other matters. If Dumbledore was that overt about his lies, he should have no trouble catching him out.

"You know," he said, "at first I'd thought it was Quirrell after the Stone, but Snape—"

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore interjected with a smile.

Harry was a bit put out at being interrupted, but sighed, and started again. "—but Professor Snape hated me so much, Hermione managed to convince me that it was he. Professor, do you know why he hates me? I know Hagrid knows, but he refuses to answer."

Dumbledore paused, his expression distant, as if reminiscing.

"Ah, yes. He and you have had…some clashes of opinion, here and there. It is because he and your father never got on. They were at school together, and they…did not like each other very much. Professor Snape was always jealous of your father, I suppose because of his talent on the quidditch field. And they'd been at odds ever since their first train ride here—a bit like you and Mr. Malfoy, I believe. And then, your father did something Professor Snape could never forgive."

Harry leant forwards, despite himself. "What was that, sir?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. His mother, perhaps not knowing these details, had said nothing of them.

"He saved his life." Harry blinked, staring. That was not the answer he'd been expecting. He bit his tongue to keep from demanding "what?"

"Yes, it's funny the way these things work, isn't it? I suspect that is why he tried so hard to protect you this year. He supposed that if he saved your life, it would make them even, and he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace…."

The story did not smack of a lie, but that did not necessarily make it true. How involved was Dumbledore liable to have been in students' affairs? …Just when had his parents been in school, anyway?

"When was that?" he asked. Details might make it more likely that the story were true. At the very least, they would give him more facts to check.

"Ah. Well, the event of which I just spoke occurred in the spring of 1976. It was towards the end of their fifth year. Dangerous times, those were."

Silence. Harry turned over this new information in his mind. He could guess just what had made the seventies "dangerous times".

And speaking of his father….

"Professor Dumbledore, I received a strange gift for Christmas," he said, cautious, not wanting to reveal the invisibility cloak, but needing to at least see if Dumbledore might have some clue as to who might be able to anonymously send packages—even Christmas presents. "The note said that it belonged to my father…."

"Ah, you are speaking of the invisibility cloak, I presume," said Dumbledore. Harry glanced up, suddenly. Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling like mad. "Yes. Your father happened to leave it in my possession—I wanted to have a look at it, as it is a very fine invisibility cloak. I thought it best returned to you. He used it mainly for sneaking into the kitchens…. I trust you have used it well."

Did sneaking into the forbidden corridor count? (And he still had to retrieve the cloak from Ron.) And—what was this? Dumbledore had sent the cloak? Why had he had it in his possession?

He shook his head. He had the sense that Dumbledore would turn deliberately inscrutable if pressed for what made the invisibility cloak so special. There was a strange edge to his voice, almost of bitterness, that brought to mind his response to questions about the Mirror of Desire—almost as if the two reactions were somehow related. And that meant he'd probably not answer further prompts. Harry moved on.

"Professor…why is it that my scar burnt the closer Quirrell came to me? And when he grabbed my arm—"

Dumbledore's cheery expression turned grave. "Ah, Harry. I had hoped that you would ask this question. I noticed that the area around your scar was inflamed when I arrived, and that Quirrell's skin—particularly his hands—were covered in swollen blisters." Harry stared. He hadn't noticed that.

"I have devoted quite a bit of time to studying why it was that you survived on that Hallowe'en night, ten years ago. And the conclusion I came to was both simple and profound: Your mother died to save you. To have been loved so deeply will always leave its mark. No visible sign, no visible mark, but it will remain with you, always. The power of your mother's love." Harry, almost involuntarily, lifted his gaze to meet Dumbledore's. His mother's love. He wrenched his gaze away, closing his eyes, thinking of his mother. Hadn't he thought that his mother's love was silver fire? But, for Dumbledore to have noticed it…truly, Dumbledore was a knowledgeable wizard.

Dumbledore affected not to have noticed his reaction, continuing instead, "That is why Quirrell could not bear to touch you—why his skin was raw and blistered especially on his hands. He, the servant of Lord Voldemort, preserved, I am told, by the blood of the unicorn, and sharing his soul with Lord Voldemort, could no longer bear the presence of anything as pure and good as the love of a mother for her child. It was your mother's love that saved you. It was agony for them both to be touched by something so good. I suspect that the reverse is also true—that when Voldemort feels a particularly negative emotion, such as anger or hate, or when he is particularly near, you would experience the pain in the scar created by him."

Harry noticed with some interest that Dumbledore said "Voldemort" instead of You-Know-Who. He questioned why. But then, Hermione had said something about Dumbledore being reputed to be the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared….

"That defence is also—and I sense that you were about to ask this question—the reason why I left you in the care of the Dursleys." Harry lowered his eyes, as his fists clenched. Ah. Then this man was the reason, the excuse, the first cause of all the suffering he'd endured after that night. He'd better have a very good reason.

"You see, your aunt is your mother's last living relative, your mother's sister. The protection your mother gave to you at the cost of her own life lives on in your blood, blood that is shared only by your aunt and cousin, Dudley. As long as it is considered your place of residence, as long as your Aunt Petunia is your guardian, that magic remains charged and potent. But it would vanish, were you to live elsewhere. Otherwise, I would offer even that you remain here at Hogwarts for the entire year. But that defence, the sacrifice of your mother's blood, saved your life that night, and four nights ago, and continues to protect you."

"Protects me from what?" asked Harry. His laugh sounded brittle and broken even to him. "Not from the Dursleys!"

"The threat posed by Voldemort and his followers is too great. Not all of Voldemort's followers were sent to Azkaban; some escaped. Although Quirrell is dead, Lord Voldemort abandoned him—he shows as little respect or mercy for his followers as he does his enemies. My sources tell me that he is still alive, after a fashion, in the forests of Albania. You have set him back this once, and while you showed great courage, and I do not mean to make light of your accomplishment, well, there is always the chance that he will find a new means of resurrecting himself. But if he is thwarted thus, every time hereafter by others with that same courage…why, he might never return. All the same, while it lasts, I wish for you to have the very best chance of survival that I can offer. This, alas, is your best chance."

Was it worth suffering the Dursleys, to keep the connection he had to his mother alive? Was he willing to risk losing that connection, if Dumbledore's theory were true, and it was the shared blood of Lily and Petunia that kept his mother's memory alive? Harry bowed his head. He knew the answer. Torture, starvation, deprivation, he could bear. But to lose his mother, again….

No. He'd suffer it all, and gladly. He bowed his head, acknowledging this fact. His fists loosened, and he turned back to face Dumbledore.

"Thank you," he said. "I always wondered why it was that I had to suffer the Dursleys…what crime I had committed. It turns out to have been the crime of another, all along. I understand, now, I think, why you did what you did. But…Headmaster, one question still troubles me. Why did my mother die? Why would You-Know-Who seek to kill a helpless baby, as I was then?"

"Call him Voldemort, Harry," Dumbledore chastised. "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."

Harry sensed an impending tangent, but knew he needed the answer to this question, too.

"Then, is there no reason not to use the name? Surely, there must be a reason people started to call him 'You-Know-Who'. "

Dumbledore frowned; the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. "He considered those who dared to speak his name to be his greatest enemies, and made a point of killing them and their families. It was often a sign that they were members of a secret Order I had created to fight against him. But he already is fixated upon your death. Using his name can do you no further harm."

"But it frightens those around me. And with good cause, I should think. I hardly think that murder is the only crime of which he is guilty, professor. And who knows what less visible jinxes he might have placed upon his name, if he hated for people to use it, thus? But surely 'Voldemort' is not his real name, anyway. You must know what his given name is. Why do you not use that, instead?"

Speaking the name was strange. He'd spent the entire year he'd been aware of the Wizarding World avoiding it same as everyone else. He didn't think that he'd be changing his mind about using it, either. It was just common courtesy not to dredge up bad memories, of loss and of pain. He knew he wanted others to extend him the same courtesy.

Dumbledore paused. "I have my suspicions, and my suspicions are often accurate. But I have no proof, and the Ministry is corrupt, and would frown on what it would view as the defamation of a virtuous man. And I, too, must confess that I hope fervently to be wrong. For if I am not, there is a chance, however small it may be, that I had a share of making Voldemort who he became. No, Harry, it is best to leave those memories in the past."

What sort of odd logic made you think that dredging up recent memories of murder was better than reminding people that the murderer was once considered, at the very least, a good man? Did he, in truth, fear to humanise the villain? He had the keen suspicion that that was the actual setback, no matter what Dumbledore said. The other reasons given might have been reasons, sure enough, but they were not the primary one.

I shall not, of course, lie.

Harry tilted his head back to look at the hanging canopy extended overhead. This bed came with the square frame to support a wrap-around set of curtains for privacy. Possibly, if he'd closed the curtains before Dumbledore had arrived, the old man wouldn't have troubled him. Possibly.

Harry supposed that he could use the name "Voldemort" in private conference with Dumbledore, if the man were sure that there were no lurking dangers in its use. There were, after all, greater threats than that of Voldemort out there.

"And why did he try to kill me as a baby?" Harry prompted, when it seemed clear that Dumbledore had "forgotten" his question.

Dumbledore's expression turned bleak. He looked suddenly old, and weary.

"Alas, Harry, this is one question that I will not answer. I know you hate to hear this, but you are not old enough to hear the truth, yet."

Harry bristled again, drawing tightly into himself. Not old enough.

"Then shall I perhaps die, next year, slain still with no knowledge as to why? Shall I perish over the summer, still ignorant of your great secret? If I have killed Professor Quirrell, however accidentally—" i.e.: not at all, "—if I am old enough to have survived such a deadly confrontation, what worse threat is the knowledge of why?"

"You are not old enough to hear this particular secret, Harry. I fear that the burden it would place upon your shoulders is greater than you can imagine."

Harry sincerely doubted that, but could not, for the moment, think of a counterargument that didn't betray his…unique circumstances. He subsided, instead, frowning, trying to convince himself that it was good not to push the matter. If nothing else, it was building his patience.

He glanced again at the table of sweets, as Dumbledore picked out a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. If he had so many "friends and admirers", then probably the school had forgiven him the loss of fifty points. All it had taken was his near-death. And something else….

"You're welcome to them, Professor. It seems that I have more than enough candy."

"Ah, forgive me, my boy. I was only reminiscing…I used to like these quite a bit before I accidentally came across a vomit-flavoured one. Since then, I've rather lost my liking for them. Perhaps you still do?"

Harry shrugged. "You could try one."

Dumbledore smiled. "I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee-flavoured one, don't you?"

Hermione and Ron were not long in entering the Hospital Wing after Dumbledore exited, as if they'd been waiting just outside the door. Hermione might have been holding her breath with how irregular her breathing was. Then again, it also looked as if she'd been crying.

He'd had to placate Madam Pomfrey, who had argued that they shouldn't come in, by promising not to move in his bed overmuch. She seemed to think that after four days unconscious, he still needed further rest.

Hermione glanced around the Hospital Wing for the aforementioned nurse, and then bent down, crying, over Harry's hospital bed, pulling him into a hug. The injuries he'd sustained in his fight with Quirrell had long since healed, but he still flinched at her touch. It felt as if he were still sore, somewhere beneath the level of his flesh. He turned his gaze to Ron, and glared at him. It was most unfair that he should have to suffer Hermione's assault, and Ron was left free.

But Ron had made the mistake of coming close enough for Harry to reach. Harry, in what would probably be considered an uncharacteristic display in other circumstances, reached up and pulled Ron down into the same hug. But his expression told a different story. If I must suffer this, you shall too.

Ron seemed to take the hidden message.

"Oh, Harry, we were so worried! You've been unconscious for four days—"

"Yes, Dumbledore mentioned that. You'd best back off, by the way: I promised Madam Pomfrey I'd rest. She won't like your interference."

Hermione pouted, but withdrew. Ron seemed determined to discover the extent of his injuries by sight alone. But unless he had x-ray vision, his best attempts would not avail him.

"I'm fine, Ron," he heard himself say in exasperation. Ron looked troubled, but said nothing, which was alarming all on its own. He'd expected protestations.

Oh, well. No sense getting riled up over a turn of good fortune, for once.

"And the two of you? Did you sustain any lasting injuries? Did Madam Pomfrey heal you?"

Hermione frowned. "I told Ron that he should get his head checked—er, you know what I mean—" Harry had to stifle a grin, despite himself, at Hermione's poor wording, "—but he insisted it was fine. He was too busy worrying about you. I didn't push it, because I was more worried about you, too, especially since you were unconscious for days, and Madam Pomfrey said it was just magical exhaustion, but we didn't want to distract her, and we figured it wouldn't be very long until you woke, anyway, so I—"

"Hermione," Harry said, in his calmest voice. "Breathe."

By now, he knew that when Hermione got worked up about something, she seemed able to forego breathing to unleash an endless stream of words arranged into a single, run-on sentence. He decided not to discover whether or not she'd still pass out due to oxygen deprivation.

Hermione blushed, and held her breath for a few seconds in a calming exercise. Good. Harry turned his attention back to Ron, who was looking about the room. Once again, it seemed as if there were something he very much wanted to say, but Harry knew that it would be a fruitless endeavour to try to coax it out of him.

"What happened down there?" he asked, instead. "I mean…after we parted ways. Hermione, did you go back to the owlery to find Hedwig, or did you wake Ron first?"

Hermione frowned, and exhaled at long last. "Well, I found Ron first, and he was still out cold—" she gave a significant glare in Ron's direction, "—and I couldn't wake him, so I waited, in case the chess set attacked as we were trying to leave, but while I was waiting, Dumbledore had decided to come check on the Stone.

"'He's gone after him, hasn't he?' was the first thing Dumbledore said to us, and I admit the first assumption I had was that he'd set everything up just so, that we would be able to pass through, picked off one by one, until you had to face Professor Quirrell and You-Know-Who's joint forces, alone…. It might all be a coincidence, though…."

She paused, looking contemplative, before rushing headlong back into her summary. "Dumbledore led us through all the traps, and he had some very interesting shortcuts through the obstacles. I don't even know how all of them worked. But…when we got to the room with that Mirror, you'd…."

Harry understood what she meant to say without her having to finish the sentence. And he knew what came next. Inevitably, she would want to know what had happened, how he'd worked himself so hard that he was unconscious for four days. He had no answer for her. But, for some reason, his mind was urging him not to examine that particular memory too closely.

"I don't know," he said, before she could ask. "Headmaster Dumbledore said that my mother's love saved me by burning Quirrell. I am inclined to agree. But as to why it left me unconscious for—what did you both say? Four days?—as to that, I couldn't say. Dumbledore answered a few of my questions, pretended not to know the answers to as many, and himself didn't know the answers to some. He did tell me why I must return to the Dursleys, at least—"

"What?" Ron roared, drawing Madam Pomfrey's attention to them. "You must return? Did you make clear—"

"I'm fine, Ron," Harry said again, glancing surreptitiously at Madam Pomfrey. He almost wished that she would kick both of his friends out, but then…. No, best to get this over with. He sighed, and braced himself. "He said that the Dursleys were the only reason that the protection provided by my mother's sacrifice was still active. I'm not willing to risk it, and it's only for six more years, anyway…."

"Unto this point, their behaviour was tempered by the belief that they might yet 'cure' you of magic. Now that you are attending Hogwarts, however, what is holding them back? Harry, please—"

Begging did not suit Ron, Harry decided. It was tempting to just placate him with some manner of vague promise to do something about this, but Ron would learn eventually that he'd done no such thing, and Harry had no great desire to destroy what trust he'd built up for a short reprieve. It was necessary to make Ron see that this was necessary, but since Ron was a bit hotheaded and impulsive, and didn't listen too well when angered….

"Ron," he said, keeping his voice deliberately calm. If he lost his temper, then any hopes of doing the thing properly were gone. "I've already said that my mother's love was what kept me alive when Quirrell was trying to kill me—it burnt him when he tried to touch me, to even come close. Because my Aunt Petunia is my mother's only living relative—" well, sort of, depending on how you viewed things, "—I have to live there during the summers, so that it's considered my place of residence. But, I'm sure Dumbledore would be in favour of me spending some time over the summer elsewhere, as well. Just as long as I spent enough time there to renew that protection. You're the mother hen, Ron. It seems a worthwhile risk, if it helps to protect me from You-Know-Who."

But in truth, he was thinking more of his mother's almost monthly visits. He was not risking those for anything. While he knew that Ron had no authority over where he stayed, there was still some sort of concern that…he wasn't sure what. That Mrs. Weasley would take the Dursleys to court for child abuse? It was a worthy thought, and once he would have jumped at the chance, but now that he knew what was at stake….

"Believe me, when I was little, I sometimes turned to adults, looking to escape the Dursleys. Often they promised to help me, and they believed me. They vanished, then, and I never knew what became of them. I never saw them again.—"

"They were probably obliviated!" Hermione chimed in. Seeing his puzzled frown, she explained, "It means that someone wiped all memory of you from their minds."

More mind magic. Harry shuddered. He shook his head. "The point is, even if I did decide to leave the Dursleys, I have little faith that arrangements would stay as they were. I would have to disappear, I suspect. And wizards reach majority at seventeen. It's only six more summers, Ron. Please, Ron. Just trust me."

Because, what else was there to say? Ron turned away, and said nothing in response.

Hagrid came in later that day. Harry rather suspected that he, too, had frequently checked back on Harry to see if he was awake yet. But he probably didn't burst into tears every time, as he did this time, crying about how it was all his fault, that Harry could have died, that he should be sent out to live as a muggle. (Harry, despite himself, couldn't help wanting to see just how Hagrid would even try to live in the muggle world, given how much attention he'd drawn in their brief trip to Diagon Alley.)

Harry sighed, resigning himself to attempting the impossible. "It wasn't your fault, Hagrid. This is You-Know-Who we're talking about. Even if you'd kept silent, he'd have figured out some way around you and…Fluffy. At least this way, you got to get over your fantasy of hatching a dragon, and no one got tortured or killed to extract the information. Personally, I'm glad that he used non-violent means."

Hagrid looked a bit uneasy; this had clearly not occurred to him. "Eh. I've got tough skin, anyway. Spells don't work on me quite right. That's probably why…still, I suppose you have a point. Supposed to be one of the most brilliant wizards in history, he is. Dumbledore just sent me out to get you a present. Should've sacked me, but there you have it. Great man, Dumbledore."

And he pulled out of his many-pocketed coat a thick, leatherbound book. Harry took it from him, cocked his head in confusion, and then, realising that Hagrid was going to keep his secret for once, opened it up.

And stared. It was a photo album. Smiling and waving at him from every picture were photos of James Potter and Lily Evans. Mum and Dad. Outside of the Mirror, he'd had no way of knowing what James Potter even looked like. Words failed him.

"Sent letters to all your parents' old school friends. Knew you didn't have many pictures of them. Dumbledore had me put it together."

"Hagrid, this is…." He couldn't find the right word, but perhaps the awe in his voice sufficiently carried his point.

Hagrid just gave him one of his crinkle-eyed smiles. Harry had the sense that Hagrid understood exactly.

Chapter Text

The next day, Harry was at last allowed to leave the Hospital Wing. Since it was almost dark out, he headed straight for Gryffindor Tower, to put the photo album with the rest of his meagre belongings. What else was there to do? If he were Hermione, he would have gone to the library to research something. Although in truth, Ron was probably trouncing her in chess right now. Harry just wanted that normalcy, such as it was in this castle, back.

He'd still spent more time asleep than awake over the past twenty-four hours, and hadn't had much time to think over what had happened in the fight against Quirrell. He hadn't dwelt upon it much, had tried not to think about it, sensing that that was a Bad Idea, but not following that train of thought to the conclusion of what that had to mean.

He was therefore unprepared for the confrontation that followed his return.

It started innocently enough. Ron was clearly relieved to have Harry back in Gryffindor Tower, which was touching, but he was also in a heightened state of concern and overprotection, which was just…tiresome. Harry needed a reprieve from that, and, apparently, spending five days (spending the majority of a five day span) unconscious didn't count. As it was still early in June, he didn't even have his mother's visit to look forward to, which made him all the more eager to search through the photo album Hagrid had given him. But Ron had to draw attention to him when he entered the Tower, and then straightaway set to scolding him.

"Ah! Madam Pomfrey saw fit to release you at last. Welcome back, Harry," Ron said, with a smile. Something about his smile seemed strained. Perhaps he was still thinking about the Dursleys. Harry sighed, and tried to appreciate the fact that someone cared whether or not he lived or died. He still wasn't accustomed to the idea, and he'd be going back to the Dursleys soon… maybe it was best if he didn't accustom himself to it that much.

Sooner or later, he was always going to be alone. He knew that. It was one of the few reliable truths of life. But…for some reason, he didn't want to push his new friends away, either. They wouldn't last—good things never did—but he'd just try to appreciate them whilst they were still there. While they still cared….

The only way—

It was easy to shove that thought aside, now, but he was glad anyway when Ron interrupted.

"Harry? Are you quite sure you've recovered? Perhaps you should—"

No one was around to witness it but Dean, Seamus, and Neville, and yet, Harry still felt…well, a bit affronted. Did Ron always have to be such a worrywart? Hadn't Harry just said—

"Something troubles you, Harry," Ron said. He'd come closer without Harry noticing it. It was a bad sign when Harry didn't notice people's approach. From childhood, he'd been forced to have it hard-engrained: potential threat approaching; prepare to run. Of course, he could fend for himself, now, but still… it never did to lower your guard.

Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Harry flinched, drew back, considered his options, heart racing. But… Ron wasn't the enemy. Ron was never the enemy. He could trust Ron. Couldn't he?

"Leave me alone," he said, voice surprisingly calm, all things considered. "I said I'm fine."

Ron looked sceptical. He glanced around the room. Hesitated. But he still had hold of Harry's shoulder, so Harry couldn't take the opportunity to vanish. (Speaking of vanishing, he still needed to retrieve his invisibility cloak. Later.)

"I believe it is time that you and I spoke about recent events," Ron said. He glanced around the room, again. "Dean, Neville, Seamus. Would you mind if Harry and I spoke in private for a few minutes?"

Harry wondered if Ron noticed it happen—that the three of them, the three mentioned, made no protests, gave no excuses, didn't even grumble. They glanced at Ron, glanced at Harry, and then slipped away, obeying Ron's tacit order. That was crazy. How had Ron done that?

Harry was left reeling. He realised only then that he even had had some sort of hope that one of them might come to rescue him from his impending misfortune—or even Hermione. Where was she, anyway?

Ron waited for them to leave, watching out of the corner of his eye. Harry decided to head off the approaching confrontation.

"I'm fine, Ron. Really. Madam Pomfrey let me leave the Hospital Wing, and she's very strict. She wouldn't let me go unless she were sure. Now, if you're done worrying needlessly—"

Ron interrupted him, with a helpless wave of his hands. "You died, Harry!" he cried. "I think my concern after that is not 'senseless'."

Harry froze. He gripped the photo album tighter, lest he drop it. His heart was now racing, because Ron was not the type to exaggerate such things, or to outright lie. Ron was terrible at lying, anyway. But that meant that he'd died—died—and had no memory of it. How could he have died and not remember it? How could he have died and not know it?

He stared at Ron, wide-eyed, for a moment, and then, clenching the photo album tightly, still, he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

"I—I died?" he repeated, unsure of himself, now, unsteady on his feet. His knees buckled and he knelt on the floor, lest he fall. He could feel Ron crouch down before him, to stay more or less level. "How? I—When did I die? No one told me anything about that…."

Ron sounded a bit hesitant, too, when he spoke. Harry cracked an eye open, but he didn't have it in him to analyse the situation. He felt heavy, and tired, and weak. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe he should have stayed in the Hospital Wing.

"It was at the hospital," said Ron, slowly. "The doctor said—"

Harry raised a hand, cutting him off. "What hospital? When? Ron, I've never been to a hospital in my life. I distinctly recall telling you that, when I was explaining about the Dursleys, how they—"

"It was the day before yesterday," Ron corrected him. His expression was grim, perhaps filled with needless grief. Harry wasn't inclined to analyse it overmuch, when there were far more important subjects to pursue. He'd been to the hospital? Really? But if Ron thought he should remember it…then why didn't he? "Do you remember…nothing?"

Harry was tempted to make some sort of simple-minded, incoherent answer, as when Hagrid had told him about being a wizard, and said that Harry knew nothing (about the wizarding world), and Harry had defended himself by saying that he could do arithmetic.

And beneath that, the shadow of another answer, unsuited to the situation, but there nonetheless, as if inextricably tied to the concept of memory.

I remember a shadow, in the shade of your greatness. I remember—

Irrelevant, Harry told himself. He closed his eyes again, pursued the topic of recent events for the first time. He didn't remember the hospital, but….

"Harry?" Ron prompted, concern oozing from his voice. What right did Harry have to cause others such distress?

Was there something he should be remembering?

"What do you remember, then? What is the last thing you remember?" asked Ron. His tone was surprisingly urgent. Why?

"I remember fighting Quirrell…and then—"

That was it. That was what he hadn't wanted to remember. Had deliberately buried in his own thoughts. The mantra. He'd used the mantra.

"Ron," he said, unable to keep his voice from shaking. How could he have forgotten? What had happened? What wasn't he remembering? What had he done? "Ron, what happened? Why are you asking me what I remember? What did I do?"

Ron's hand had left his shoulder, and he hadn't noticed. Ron seemed about to withdraw (tactical retreat…), and Harry clenched his hand tight around Ron's lower arm. Ron didn't even wince, but he was paying attention, now.

"Ron, what did I do?" Harry demanded. Intellectually, he knew that it would do him no good to know. That didn't change the fact that he needed to know. It was imperative. Whatever it was, it must have been bad. That was the only reason Ron wouldn't reply. And the longer he delayed, the more devastating the turns Harry's mind took.

"Ron. Answer me!"

Ron froze, blinking furiously, and looked back at Harry. Harry found himself wishing that he knew how to read minds.

"The doctor—the one at the muggle hospital. You tried to kill him. You do not remember? You were subdued, however, before anyone could be seriously hurt."

Harry reeled back, sinking back to his knees. He realised that he'd dropped the photo album at some point, had no memory of when. All about him, it was as if his memories were disappearing, one by one. An illusion. He knew that. Intellectually.

"I…tried to kill someone…" he said. He wanted to laugh. It sounded incredible. And of all people, why a doctor? They were sworn only to help people; that one had probably saved his life, back when—you died!

"Oh," he heard himself say. His hands were shaking. He didn't trust himself to pick the album back up. It isn't as bad as Loki trying to conquer the world. Not as bad as Germany, he told himself. That was small consolation, because this was in truth a devastating blow. All this year, he'd hoped—operated under the assumption—that the mind control couldn't touch him. He'd known better—in his mind. But to hear it stated flat out….

"I knew it was something bad. The last thing I remember, before waking in the Hospital Wing… I used the mantra. I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. I never meant—"

There was no justification, no excusing what he'd done. He'd known better, but he hadn't been able to think through the pain. Hadn't wanted to think through the pain, enough to do the right thing. He hadn't been strong enough.

Ron shook his head, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder again. An attempt at a silent show of support. Harry understood that much. He shrugged the arm off. Stood.

"Harry, you must not blame yourself. You are the only one who died, and even you were saved. No one holds it against you. And if they knew the truth, none would blame you for your actions."

Harry turned to face him, as Ron rose to his feet, too. Slowly. Giving Harry space. Time. The opportunity to stay and listen, or to leave. Why wasn't he leaving? Selfishness?

Because Harry knew what no one else could. He knew where it came from, the mantra. He knew what it led to. And now he knew that it meant that he wasn't safe to be around. As long as the mantra was there, there was always the chance that he'd lose control. That that other entity (Thanos, his mind whispered unhelpfully) might control him, and who could hope to prevail, then?

He thought of Loki, who fell from the Rainbow Bridge when he'd learnt the true circumstances of his origins. But that had led straight to Thanos. Harry would just isolate himself, and endure. He'd spent his first ten years alone. He could go back. He had to.

He bent down to pick up the photo album, and walked towards the door hiding the staircase to the boys dorms.

"Harry," Ron said, and there was something in his voice…it sounded like a command. Despite himself, Harry stopped, and turned around, back to Ron. "You are not at fault. If anything, I must apologise. I swore to defend you to the end, but where was I when you needed me most? I will do what I can to help you. Just ask. Harry, do you trust me?"

Harry frowned, puzzled, not understanding where this was coming from. The sudden solemnity was understandable, but why was Ron acting…thus?

"I…" he paused, considering. He realised that Ron had been there for him, from when they first met on the train, even to the obstacle course beneath the school. Friends as stalwart and steadfast were hard to find. His throat constricted. He nodded.

"Then let me help you," Ron said. "I said that I would help you, and swore to protect you. Even from yourself, if that is what you fear. Please, don't turn your back on us who care about you."

"If I tried to kill a doctor—"

"But you did not succeed. I knew that there was a risk, and snuck out of school to ensure you did nothing you would regret. I was able to subdue you. You need not attempt to suffer the whims of Fate alone. We will help you, Hermione and I. Let us help you."

Ron. Ron had somehow subdued him? Ron had snuck out of school? It didn't seem to fit….

"…You…?" He set the album on an armchair as he came back, cocking his head, frowning, trying to understand. Why would Ron make such an offer? Why? Why? He couldn't possibly understand what he was offering….

What if he did? What if there was a hope, slim though it was?

"Do you…mean that?" he asked. He had, somehow, never felt quite this vulnerable before. Perhaps because he'd never had occasion to trust anyone, thus.

"Of course," said Ron, all solemn gravity and purpose. He meant it. He would try. And he seemed to understand what that meant, too.

Harry stood there, stock still, rendered momentarily motionless, unable to speak or move.

"Thank you," he said, after far too long. "Not just for that. I mean…thank you, Ron. I think you and Hermione are the reason I survived this year."

He tried for a wry smile.

"Never," Ron said, his voice one of stern command, "make light of your own death, Harry. There are those of us who would never overcome your loss."

Harry sighed. Ron was still going to be insufferable, he supposed. There was no avoiding that. Still.

Ron pulled him into a one-armed hug, and then turned away, saying, "Just be careful."

Careful. Right. As if that ever did him any good.

The points were in, and Gryffindor had lost…at least, until Dumbledore had awarded some last minute points. Slytherin was seething. Neville's sixty points, and Ron and Hermione's fifty points each, were enough to push them over the top into first place, shunting Slytherin aside. Harry had, therefore, deferred the addition of points Dumbledore threatened to award on his behalf. The school loved him again, judging by the half a candy shop's stock he'd received whilst laid up in the Hospital Wing.

What other cause was there for further points? But mostly, he just didn't feel that he deserved them. He couldn't believe that Dumbledore would stoop so low as to award him points for killing a man, even in self-defence, and especially after he'd almost killed another, innocent man (not, apparently, that anyone knew that save for him and Ron).

He wondered if things would have been different, had he dared to use the ambient energy of the obstacle course. At the time, he'd feared that tapping into it would cause Dumbledore's network of spells that were drawing on that same energy to draw on his own. But perhaps it would have worked.

He decided that it probably wouldn't have mattered—all it would have done would have been to give him slightly more energy in the inevitable battle, and in the end, the problem had been when Quirrell had reached past his shield, gotten past his guard, and made actual, direct, skin-to-skin contact. That was what had caused him to lose control. That and the mistake of leaving a dagger made of his mother's love (right?) embedded in the enemy's chest.

Amateur's error. But all was well that ended well, possibly, and he'd survived.

Ron must have spent the past few days thinking very hard about how to go about it, because in the train compartment, he'd wasted no time in informing Harry of his plans for how they would stay in touch over the summer.

Harry's immediate thought was that he himself had a very fine owl named Hedwig, who would very much appreciate the opportunity of stretching her wings and leaving the wretched Dursleys behind. But Ron had to bring him back down to earth with the reminder that the shock of Harry being a wizard was now over, and who knew how they'd react to his return to their house? Given their history, the prospects did not look good.

This was one of those things that did not bear thinking about, as Harry readily acknowledged to himself. Given that the Dursleys' standard punishment for his infractions (witting and otherwise) was starvation-cum-imprisonment in his cupboard under the stairs, it seemed unlikely that Hedwig would be given free rein. How he intended to keep her alive if they decided to starve him was yet another problem for which he couldn't plan without further knowledge. He now lived in the second bedroom (formerly Dudley's second bedroom), which suggested that he might occasionally be able to get away with breaking the rules and letting her fly free. But he couldn't count on anything.

Ron handed over a small, pocket-sized cylindrical canister. Harry opened it, curious, to find a series of black rings strung on a cord. The very last one, at the end, was not black, but red. He frowned, turning to Ron, hoping that his expression adequately conveyed that he had no idea what to make of any of this.

"I will send the family owl, Errol, to visit you once a week. Although he is very old, given time, he never fails to make a delivery, and it rarely takes more than two or three days. Although I would prefer a better plan, this is all that I have. The twins gave me those rings when I explained my plan to them. I'm sure that you have noticed that most of these rings are black, save for the last. Once a week, Errol will come to check to see how you fare. If you are as well as might be expected, give him one of the black rings. If an unanticipated danger has befallen you, give him the red ring. If I receive such a ring, or if you fail to respond, I shall myself come to check to ensure that you are well. I need hardly stress the severity of this."

"You mean, you'll come to Little Whinging looking for me if I don't reply? Suppose the Dursleys shut up my window and won't let Hedwig out?"

Ron shrugged. "Then, that is what I shall learn, and I will tell Mum. She would be most displeased to learn of their treatment of you."

"Ron, how do you even think you could possibly find me? Have you ever been to Little Whinging?"

Ron paused, glancing down. "When we first met, I told you that my mother had taught me a spell for finding those who were important to me. It works best when I have little knowledge of the area, or of their whereabouts. to distract me, but I was able to find you, here, on this train. I shall also find you in…Little Whinging."

Harry paused. The whole plan seemed far-fetched and absurd, and it seemed quite a bit of trouble for the Weasleys to go through on his account. There was no way he was worth that amount of effort. Especially not given what he'd done. And yet…despite himself, he felt he owed it to Ron to help the plan succeed. Why was that? He sighed, glancing down at the floor of the train.

"…Look for Stonewall High School—that's the local public school; it can't be far away. And Little Whinging Public Library. And as for streets, there's Wisteria Walk, and Magnolia Crescent. They're near enough."

Why had he even said that? He hung his head, regretting it already, but Ron nodded, slowly, as if he hadn't said anything unusual. Maybe both of them were insane. Harry sighed, and buried his head in his hands.

"Ron, do you even know how to get to Little Whinging? Aren't you worried about getting in trouble?"

Ron seemed to be attempting to smile and frown at the same time. "There are more important things than whether or not I 'get into trouble', Harry. Your safety is one of those."

Harry had no idea how to react to that. It was just as well, because he missed his chance when Hermione re-entered the compartment, none the wiser. She looked back and forth between them as if she suspected something, but she wisely didn't ask.

{end Two Princes}