Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If this was a saga,
They would call him Hrafn, the Raven-born.
Not Harry.
Not the boy under the stairs.
They would speak of him in low voices beside hearths, and say he was marked by sky-fire and silence, a child whose name was nearly lost.
They would not begin with a cupboard, but with a dream:
Feathers black as forgotten fire.
Wings that cut the night.
A voice in a tongue older than bone.
A thread wound tight by the Nornir, gleaming and strange.
But this is not yet that saga.
Not yet.
This is still the beginning—
where the boy called Harry Potter is running.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

It had been one of those days where the light never truly arrived—the kind where the lamps stayed on from morning till night.
Low-hanging clouds pressed heavy over Surrey, grey and thick, as if the sky had slumped down to earth.
A November day that clung damp to your sleeves and whispered of winter’s slow approach.

Dudley and his gang had invented a new reason to play Harry Hunting.
This time it was because Miss Burrows’ hair had turned blue during maths.
Harry hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t know how he’d done it. But that never mattered.
Even the rain hadn’t slowed them.

He’d escaped by cutting through a narrow alley and slipping into the only place that felt remotely safe: the library.
It was quiet here. Dim.
Smelling of paper, dust, and warm radiator heat.
Harry dried himself under the hand dryers in the bathroom before ducking into the children’s corner.
There was a nook there—tucked between low shelves and beanbags—where he could hide, curl up, and disappear.

He used to read picture books. Comics. Anything with dragons or odd machines or sneaky foxes.
Now, at nine, he’d moved on to The Secret Garden, The Hobbit, and anything by Roald Dahl.

But that day, his fingers drifted toward the nonfiction section.
Past books on spiders and space and steam trains—until he paused.
A strange tingling pulled at his skin.
His hand stopped on a slim volume: Vikings of the Northlands.

He opened it.
Dragons carved into longships. Helmets without horns. Names like Freyja, Odin, and Loki.
He turned a page. Then another. And another.

That afternoon, he forgot the bruises.
He forgot the rain.
He even forgot Dudley.
Instead, he flew over storm-slashed seas in a dragon-headed boat, clever and wild and fearless.
He imagined himself as a Viking boy with dark hair and sharp eyes—braver than anyone.
Fire trailed behind him like a comet.

He came back the next day.
And the day after that.

Soon, he was borrowing every book the library had on Vikings.

His world was filled with gods, runes, and thunder.
He read about real Vikings, not just the ones from stories.
About the Danegeld—the silver ransom paid to stop Norse raids—and how the longships sailed up English rivers, carving settlements into the land.
York, he learned, had once been Jórvík.
Some words on modern road signs—By, Thorpe, Ness—were once Viking place-names.
Now, they felt like secret runes scattered across the map.

He found a book on Old Norse words that still lived in English:
Sky. Egg. Anger. Window.
Even they and them. Even knife.
That made sense to Harry.
His life was full of sharp edges and watching the skies.

He read how Norse settlers had stayed for centuries—not just raiders, but farmers, smiths, poets.
Some married locals. Some vanished into the land.
Coins, combs, runestones, bones.
Maybe even here, Harry thought.
Maybe a man named Halfdan once stood where my school playground is now, watching the same clouds I do.

He began imagining hidden runes beneath the pavement.
Longships sleeping in the riverbeds.
The bones of gods humming under his feet.

And the gods—oh, the gods.
He loved Thor, who thundered across the sky in a goat-drawn chariot, fierce and loud and full of heart.
He loved Odin, the one-eyed wanderer who traded sight for wisdom and hung himself from the World Tree to steal magic from the dead.
But most of all, he loved Loki.
Loki was clever and strange.
Loki changed shape when the world needed something new.
Loki could be a mother or a flame or a whisper in the dark.

Harry began copying their names into his notebook.
He traced the runes carefully by hand, copying them from library books, carving them onto scrap wood with a compass needle when no one was watching.

It felt like magic.
Not the flashy kind from cartoons—not sparkles or wands or funny hats.
This was something older. Quieter. Sacred.

It wasn’t spoken aloud at the Dursleys’.
Even the word magic was forbidden in their house.
Even Dudley wasn’t allowed to watch Fantasia or read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

But Harry found it, anyway.
In stories. In sagas. In silence.

And then—one day—everything changed.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

He was walking home from the library, still smiling at the memory of Thor in a wedding dress, when he saw it.

Tucked between a betting shop and a laundromat on Westham Lane was a building he could have sworn hadn’t been there before.

Crooked. Narrow. The paint flaking in faded reds and greens.

A wooden sign swung overhead, carved with strange markings.

They looked like runes.

And if you stared too long, the letters seemed to shift—like they knew you were watching.

A bell jingled as he pushed the door open.

The smell hit him first:
Smoke. Herbs. Dust.
Old pages and something else—something older than books.
Something like memory.

Strings of beads and bones hung from the ceiling.
Shelves sagged with books in strange languages and colours too rich to be modern.
Velvet-lined bowls held smooth rune stones. Candles dripped wax onto clay saucers, their light dim but warm.

It looked like the kind of shop you found in fairy tales—
Or dreams.

Harry stood just inside the door, unsure whether to step further.
The quiet hummed around him.

And then, from behind a beaded curtain, a woman emerged.

She was tall, slightly stooped, like a wind-shaped tree. Her grey hair was braided and wrapped in silver wire. Her wrists jingled with bangles. Her hands were tattooed with marks Harry didn’t yet understand.

She looked at him—really looked at him.
Not with suspicion.
Not with pity.
But as if she had been expecting him.

“So,” she said, her voice like gravel and wind, “you’ve finally wandered in.”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t ask for money.

She just nodded once and motioned toward the back, where an old rug sat beneath shelves of books and candlelight pooled like honey.

Harry stepped forward.

The rune stones called to him first. He ran his fingers over their carved edges—each one humming faintly beneath his touch.

One stone rolled into his palm.
It felt… right.
As if it had been waiting.

He showed it to her without a word.

She took it, turning it gently in her palm.

Laguz.

“A rune of water,” she murmured. “Flow, intuition, the hidden path. Not a safe rune—but a true one. For those who seek.”

She placed it back in his hand.

“A good choice, Raven-child.”

Harry blinked.
“What did you call me?”

She smiled.

“Hrafn,” she said softly. “Raven. That is what you are, even if no one has said it aloud yet.
Watcher. Messenger.
The one who sees between worlds.”

She tapped his forehead, just above his scar.

Her touch was light, but Harry froze. He hated it when people looked at that mark.

But Raggi didn’t flinch.
She didn’t call it strange or freakish.
She studied it with reverence.

“You are marked,” she whispered. “Sowilo. The sun. The victorious one. Not the flickering kind of light. This is the light that reveals. It doesn’t burn—it shows. Whether you want it to or not.”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

No one had ever spoken to him like that before.
No one had ever seen him like that before.

She didn’t press him.

Instead, she handed him a small cloth pouch.

Inside was a pendant.
Old and cool to the touch, strung on a leather cord. Tiny runes were carved into the surface—some familiar, some not.
Harry looked up at her questioningly.

“It will keep you safer,” she said simply. “That’s all you need to know—for now.”

He slipped it over his head without quite knowing why.
It rested just below his collarbone, oddly warm against his skin.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

He didn’t tell the Dursleys where he’d been.
They didn’t ask.

In fact, they barely looked at him.

The change was slow, almost unnoticeable at first.
Fewer harsh words.
Less shouting.
Even Dudley’s favourite game—Harry Hunting—seemed to lose its thrill.

Harry didn’t understand it.
But he didn’t question it, either.

He found himself slipping out more often, free to walk the streets, to sit quietly in the library, or—more and more—wander back to the crooked little shop on Westham Lane.

At first, just to look. Then to help.

Raggi never asked much of him—just handed him a broom now and then, or had him stack books, or hold a jar while she poured something that shimmered like bottled moonlight. She never made a fuss, but she always seemed to notice things.

When his hands were red from the cold, she gave him a steaming mug of bitter tea that made his chest feel warm for hours. When he flinched at loud sounds, she moved more quietly.
When she noticed the way his clothes hung off him, she began wrapping slices of dried meat and nuts in cloth and tucking them into his pocket without a word.

Harry didn’t quite know what to make of it.
He didn’t want to seem greedy.
Didn’t want to make her stop.

So he just said thank you, even when the tea tasted odd or the meat was tough.
And he kept coming back.

Raggi never explained the pendant.
But somehow, Harry knew it mattered.

Chapter Text

“Raggi,” Harry asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them, “are you a witch?”

The question had been curling in his chest for weeks, ever since the first frost had silvered the pavements and the Dursleys had started snapping at each other more than at him. December was creeping in, and Harry had been watching Raggi more closely—how her fingers traced invisible patterns in the air when she stirred a pot, how her eyes seemed to follow threads that no one else could see.

Not that she resembled the witches from Dudley’s cartoons or the White Witch from Narnia, with her icy crown and cold, cruel smile. Raggi was... different. Wilder. Softer. But different all the same.

Raggi didn’t look up from the small leather pouch she was tying shut. Her fingers moved with that same quiet rhythm, looping the cord into a knot that somehow looked like a symbol Harry half-recognised. Her lips quirked, though—not a smile, not quite.

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” she said at last, voice soft but steady. “Witches use wands and speak commands. They point and expect the world to bow. But the weave of the world doesn’t take kindly to being ordered about, child. The threads are spun by hands older than mine, and they tangle if you tug too hard.”

Harry frowned, chewing on his lip. “So... you don’t do magic?”

She snorted—a quiet, amused sound, as if Harry had asked whether water knew it was wet. “Magic?” she echoed. “Words like that are like buckets. People slop them over things they don’t want to understand.” She looked at him then, truly looked, and Harry felt the weight of her gaze like a hand resting gently on his shoulder. “I don’t command the threads. I listen. I ask. I give thanks when the weave holds firm and hope when it frays. That’s all.”

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

A couple of weeks later, the rain came down like needles, slicing through Harry’s jumper and into his bones as he ran.

He was locked out. The Dursleys had packed for Spain in a rush of shouting and zipping luggage. Petunia hadn’t even looked at him when Vernon turned the key in the front door. “Don’t get into trouble,” was all she said, as if he were a dog.

And then they were gone.

No food left behind. No key. Just the wet street and the rising cold and the emptiness of Number Four.

So Harry did what he had learned to do since November: he ran to Völuspá.

The sky was already bruised with twilight, and the streetlamps flickered against the wind. His trainers squelched with every step. By the time he reached the little crooked shop—tucked between an off-license and a shuttered bakery—he was shaking, soaked to the skin, and starting to forget what warmth felt like.

He pushed the door open with numb fingers. The bell above the lintel gave a low, hollow chime, not its usual jingle. At the same moment, from somewhere deep within the shop, a grandfather clock struck the hour—bong, bong, bong—and the scent of pine resin, beeswax, and cloves wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Just in time,” Raggi said from behind the counter, as if she’d been expecting him all along. Her voice was calm, but her eyes swept over him with quiet urgency.

Harry blinked at her, teeth chattering.

“The Wild Hunt rides now, child,” she said, stepping forward and unhooking a heavy woollen shawl from a peg. “The sun has dipped. The veil between the nine realms thins on this night. Come in. To the hearth.”

He stumbled in without a word. She closed the door behind him with a murmured breath and touched a bindrune carved into the frame—a pulse of warmth rippled through the air, and the howling wind outside dulled as if the walls had grown thicker.

Raggi led him to the back room. The hearth was already lit, flames dancing in the low stone grate. A cast-iron pot simmered with something that smelled of honey, cinnamon, and dried orange peel.

By the fire, she had laid out a set of clothes: thick woollen trousers, a soft tunic, hand-knitted socks, and a heavy jumper with embroidered runes at the cuffs. “They’re yours,” she said before he could ask. “Spun and stitched since Samhain. The threads said you’d be here.”

Harry changed slowly, stiff fingers working at wet buttons. By the time he emerged in the dry clothes, he felt as if his skin had begun to remember being warm.

Raggi handed him a mug. It was warm, spiced milk and honey. He drank it down so fast he nearly choked.

She chuckled softly, then grew solemn. “Tonight is not just cold, Hrafn. It is sacred. It is Yule—the Solstice—the Longest Night. We’ll keep watch by the hearth, mark the threshold, and leave gifts for those who pass unseen.”

Harry looked toward the door. “You really think something’s out there?”

“I don’t think,” Raggi said. “I remember. And I respect. That’s enough.”

From a small carved box, she took a bundle of herbs tied with red string—juniper, spruce needles, dried rowan, and clove—and cast them into the fire. The flames leapt high, then settled.

“We honour the dark,” she said. “We don’t chase it away. But we tell it we see it. That we are not afraid to sit with it. That’s what Yule means.”

Harry watched the firelight dance on the walls, the flickering shadows like riders galloping across the stone.

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, the hearth burned steady.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

After supper—simple oatcakes, sweetened root mash, and dried fruit warmed in honeyed spice—Raggi wrapped Harry in a thick woollen blanket and tucked him into the low settle by the fire. The hearth crackled behind its iron grate, casting long, flickering shadows on the ceiling beams above. Outside, the wind moaned, wild and high, but in the shop, all was still.

Raggi sat on a low stool nearby, a clay bowl of the offering mixture—honey, juniper, crushed clove, and golden apple peel—held in her lap.

“Now, child,” she said, her voice low, “I promised you safety for the Yule tide, and so I do. None turned away at this time may come to harm beneath this roof. Not from spirits, not from fate. Yule Guests are sacred.”

Harry’s eyes, heavy-lidded from warmth and food, flicked to her. “Even if they’re being chased?”

“Especially then,” she said firmly, and leaned forward to press the rune disc—marked with Sowilo, Algiz, and Raido—to the lintel above the hearth. “The roads twist strangely on nights like this. Those with no shelter may wander into storms that don’t belong to this world. So tonight, we keep watch. We listen. And we remember.”

She tossed a pinch of the offering into the fire. It hissed and flared gold-green.

And then she began to sing.

It was a low, melodic chant, old-sounding even though Harry didn’t understand all the words. Some were English. Others were not. The melody wound like smoke through the air, circling the rafters. Her voice wasn’t sweet—it was rough as bark, but steady and strong.

She sang of riders in the sky, of ghost-stags and hounds with fire-eyes, and a one-eyed man in a cloak of storm, riding at the head of the Hunt.

When the song faded, she set the bowl aside and leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hush, as if the stories themselves might be listening.

“Odin,” she said, “goes by many names. You’ve heard a few in the runes—Allfather, Wanderer, Battle-wisdom, Word-Weaver. But one of my favorites is Óski—the Wish Granter.”

Harry’s brow creased. “He gives people what they wish for?”

“Sometimes. If they are worthy. If the gift fits the thread of their life.” She tucked the blanket more tightly around him. “In the old tales, he often walked among people in disguise. An old man, white-bearded, hooded or cloaked. He’d knock on the door of some farmhouse or hall, and those who showed him hospitality—food, warmth, shelter—would receive a gift in return. A blade. A blessing. Or simply a victory when they needed it most.”

She stirred the fire again. The flames jumped, showing the glint of bronze in her rings.

“In one tale,” she said, “Odin gave Sigmund a sword when all hope was lost. In another, he came to Hrolf Kraki, offered him food and protection—but the king turned him away, too proud. Later, Hrolf died, unarmed. The gift refused is a thread that snaps.”

Harry listened, eyes wide and glowing in the firelight.

“Odin gives gold to some, victory to others. But what matters is not what he gives,” she said softly, “but whether we are open to receiving. Whether we see the gift for what it is.”

She leaned back, then, settling in.

“You were left out in the cold tonight,” she added, not unkindly. “But you found your way here. That, too, is a kind of wish granted.”

The wind howled again beyond the warded windows, a long, distant cry that might’ve been a fox. Or not.

Harry shivered a little, but only from awe. “Do you think... he rides tonight?”

“I know he does,” Raggi said, laying a hand on the hearthstone. “And he will ride past us, because we have shown him respect, and because you are under my roof, child. You are my Yule Guest, and by the old laws, that makes you untouchable.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, the crackle of the fire warming his cheeks.

“Can I be like Sigmund someday?” he murmured. “Worthy of a sword?”

Raggi smiled and brushed her knuckles along his hairline. “You already are, little raven. But not all swords are made of steel.”

And as the flames settled into glowing embers and the nine realms spun quietly beneath the stars, Harry Potter fell asleep in a room marked safe from the storm—held between the fire, the weave, and the quiet voice of a woman who had never once called herself a witch.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

It was the best break Harry had ever had from school. No chores. No shouting. No bruises. Just helping Raggi.

And helping Raggi was nothing like doing Petunia’s dirty dishes or scrubbing mud off Dudley’s shoes. Helping here meant real things. Shaping food with your hands, not just heating tins. Carving runes with care, not marking walls in desperation.

He helped her prepare the lamb, dried and cured, then steamed over beer and spices in a great lidded pot, the smell of rosemary and juniper filling the house until the windows steamed. He turned waffles on her heart-shaped iron, watching them puff golden and crisp before being spread with sour cream and homemade raspberry jam so vivid it stained his fingers pink.

He fed the fire. He kept the water bucket full. He traced his fingers over bindrunes and listened—really listened—as she told stories by firelight. Of gods with many names. Of Yule feasts, riders in the storm, and wishes given to the worthy.

He didn’t want to leave.

But he knew better than to overstay a welcome. Even here. Especially here.

On the last morning of Yule, Harry stood by the hearth, already dressed in his old, thin coat again. The jumper Raggi had knitted was wrapped inside his satchel, along with the small bag of books she'd “accidentally left out for him to find.” He didn’t know what to say. His throat was full of warmth and salt.

Raggi handed him a folded piece of paper. “For the cupboard,” she said simply.

He looked down. There were runes drawn in her steady, looping hand—Fehu, Berkano, Algiz, and others he hadn’t seen before, arranged in a precise threshold array.

“Carve these in the doorframe. You’ll need your blood to wake them.” She didn’t look at him, but her voice softened. “I know you haven’t told me. About how they treat you. But I know. And this will help. It’ll keep you safe, as best it can. Warm. Whole.”

Harry nodded. He couldn’t speak yet.

Then she handed him a small box.

It looked ordinary. Old wood, plain, no markings. The size of a shoebox. It didn’t rattle.

Inside, wrapped in soft cloths, were small food parcels. Dried lamb, thin and salted. Flatbread folded with herbs, oatcakes pressed with caraway seeds. One neat clay jar of broth sealed with wax. And a single, small golden apple.

Harry looked up at her, brows furrowed.

“This box is linked to my offering table,” she said, eyes shining. “Each morning I place food in its twin—bread, cheese, whatever I’ve made. You’ll receive part. Quietly. Modestly. The cupboard won’t give you a feast. But you won’t go hungry.”

She tapped the lid. “It replenishes only when empty. And only if you give back. A crumb by the door, a sliver of cheese, a few words of thanks. Food is a gift, not a prize.”

Harry swallowed. “It’ll really... refill?”

“It already has,” she said. “Just don’t tell your uncle.”

He laughed—just a little—and she smiled.

“And the apple?” he asked.

“Idunn’s Kiss,” she said. “One a week. More than that would spoil you.” Her fingers brushed his hair. “It won’t glow or sing, but if you’re bruised, or hungry to the bone, it will help. Gently. As it should.”

Harry nodded slowly, holding the box with care. “Thank you.”

“You’re not meant to stay here. Not yet,” Raggi said softly, leading him to the door. “The threads are still being woven. But your room will always be here when you need it.”

She opened the door. Cold air gusted in.

He turned, just once, to look back. His room. A bed with wool blankets. Books. A real pillow. A plush rabbit with a lopsided button eye sitting on the shelf like it had always been waiting for him.

She had made it for him.

“Happy Yule, Hrafn,” Raggi whispered. “The gods go with you.”

And when he stepped out into the wind, the box warm under his coat, and the runes in his pocket, Harry felt like the Wild Hunt might pass over him without a glance. Like he had been marked, not just for safety—

—but for belonging.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

The door clicked behind him.

The Dursleys didn’t speak. They hadn’t even asked how he got back. Harry saw a flicker of disappointment in Vernon's eyes that he was still there in their house. Petunia only wrinkled her nose at the smell of smoke clinging to his jumper. Vernon muttered something about "scruffy freaks," and Dudley glared at the box Harry held close to his chest, but didn’t try to snatch it.

They just left him in the hallway.

“Cupboard,” Vernon barked.

Harry nodded. Said nothing. Just turned the handle and crawled inside.

The cupboard was the same as it had ever been. Small. Dusty. The faint reek of paint and disinfectant clung to the walls. The single lightbulb cast sharp shadows on the cracked ceiling. The cot creaked under his weight.

He set the box down gently in the corner, wrapped in a blanket. Then he reached into his pocket.

The folded paper Raggi had given him was still dry. Her handwriting curled like roots and threads, the runes carefully drawn, a map for his hands to follow.

He drew his penknife.

The carving took time. He scraped the blade slowly into the wooden doorframe of the cupboard, just above the baseboard where no one would look.  His hands trembled, but not from fear. He was steady. Focused.

When the last line was done, he pressed his thumb to the edge of the blade.

One small bead of blood.

He smeared it across the centre of the array.

The air shifted.

The runes glowed faintly, a soft, golden shimmer that sank into the wood like breath disappearing on a glass surface. Then—silence. But not the dead silence of cupboard stillness.

The cot beneath him creaked again, differently. It was no longer too small. It stretched, subtly, like the room had grown while he wasn’t looking. The thin mattress plumped under his weight. The blankets felt thicker, warmer, and his back no longer pressed against the cold wall.

He sat up slowly.

The smell was gone. No more bleach or old paint. The air now held a hint of juniper and wool and ash smoke—the scent of Raggi’s hearth.

The bare bulb above him was gone too. In its place was a soft, steady light—no source, just a gentle glow.

His box still sat in the corner, unchanged—but now it looked like it belonged there. A real room. His room. Small, but safe. Sheltering.

He touched the edge of the cot.

"This is magic," he whispered.

Not like stories in Dudley’s games. Not like the schoolbooks he was told to read and never remember. Not like fairy tales that ended in disappointment.

This was real.

The runes had changed his world. Not with explosions or flashing lights—but with space. With warmth. With possibility.

He leaned back into the blanket and tucked it under his chin. The walls no longer pressed in on him. The floor didn’t bite into his feet. He wasn’t cold.

And somewhere beneath all that, like a thread drawn tight through his heart, was one sharp, unshakable thought:

She might not call herself a witch. But I don’t care what she calls it. I want to learn everything.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

Before he fell asleep, he placed a small piece of flatbread from the day’s box at the base of the cupboard door.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the wood. Not to the Dursleys. Not to any grown-up who’d locked him in.

To the runes. To the threads. To the gods who listened when no one else had.

He curled into the warmth, pulled the blanket to his nose, and dreamed of sigils glowing on hearthstones, and ravens, and a voice singing old stories in a language older than school.

Chapter Text

If this were a saga, they would say:

Two winters passed beneath the turning sky, and the raven-child grew.
Not in stature—but in silence, in knowing.
Through frost and flame, leaf-fall and thaw, he followed the path not lit by lanterns, but by runes and dreams.
And the one called Raggi walked beside him.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

For the next two years, he practised in secret—or with Raggi—the rituals and beliefs of the old Norse ways.

On certain nights, he’d whisper oaths to the wind, standing barefoot in the garden with his arms raised like the old stone figures he’d seen in rune books. On others, he’d burn breadcrumbs in a saucer and watch the smoke rise, twisting like prayers toward the moon.

They never used the word magic.
To Raggi, that word was too shallow—too polished and theatrical. The runes were not tricks. They were older. Wilder. Truths carved from the bones of the world.

“Magic makes people think of wands and rabbits,” Raggi said once, handing him a bowl of steeped herbs. “But this—this is not for show. This is the way things are. It’s thread and smoke and listening close.”

And Harry listened. He learned to still himself, to watch for signs in the smoke or the movement of birds. He watched Raggi cast runes from her worn leather pouch, or the bones she kept in a velvet-lined box wrapped in midnight-blue cloth.

“The Nornir spin, child,” she would murmur, her eyes half-lidded as the runes landed. “But we may glimpse the thread, if we’re careful.”

He read everything he could—from public library books to the cracked old volumes Raggi let him borrow from the locked glass case at Völuspá. He devoured the stories like food.

Loki was a beautiful, wild shapeshifter—sometimes a mother, sometimes a father, sometimes neither. He gave birth to an eight-legged horse and fathered a wolf and a serpent. Loki could be a flame or a whisper, and Harry loved that. He found kinship in Loki, the outsider.

Then there was Thor, who once dressed as Freyja to reclaim his stolen hammer and rode through the sky in a chariot pulled by goats. And Odin—the one-eyed wanderer—who gave his eye for wisdom and hung himself from Yggdrasil, the World Tree, for nine nights to steal magic from the dead.

That was magic Harry understood.

Messy. Sacrificial. Deep. Real.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

Often, Harry dreamed of being like Loki—changing, shifting, becoming what was needed. Becoming what felt right.

Loki could be a mother or a father, a fox or a flame, a whisper or a storm.

Harry loved that.

He imagined slipping between shapes like breath through leaves, walking barefoot through mist, vanishing into the sky.

And once—only once, but he never forgot it—he woke up with long hair.

It had happened after Aunt Petunia had tried to punish him by giving him a butchered haircut. She’d called it discipline, but Harry knew it was just cruelty in a new shape.

That night, he'd closed his eyes and whispered to the dark:

Let me be like Loki. Let me change.

And in the morning, when he looked in the mirror, he had shoulder-length hair. Dark, straight, a little tangled. It curled slightly at the ends. And it was his.

He left it that way.

Sometimes, he tied it back with a string. Sometimes he let it fall across his face like a curtain. Sometimes, people on the street looked at him and didn’t know if he was a boy or a girl.

Harry liked that.

I could be anyone, he thought.
A boy. A girl. Something else. Something in between.
Something new.

He imagined one day he’d have a coat of feathers, like Loki’s falcon-cloak. Maybe not a falcon—maybe raven feathers, dark as night and shining blue in the sun.

Maybe I’ll fly like Huginn and Muninn, he thought, and carry truth across the world.

Maybe he already was.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

Chapter Text

Raggi had seen it in the bones.

So when the letters began arriving—folded thick, heavy with magic—Harry was not surprised.

He was ready.

By then, he had a secret world of ash and breath, whispered names and quiet power. The Dursleys couldn’t touch it. Even when Vernon raged and barged into his cupboard, they never noticed the rune marks carved into the wood. They never smelled the faint trails of herbs, burnt just so, as Raggi had taught him. They didn’t understand why the cupboard stayed strangely warm through winter.

They never saw him. Not truly.

And now, on a rock in the middle of the sea, the storm howling like Fenrir outside, Harry sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. Alone. Watching the waves fling themselves against the windows.

He felt it.

A pulling.

Something was about to happen.

He unbuttoned his shirt, baring his skin to the cold air. With steady fingers, he struck a match. Its light flickered gold against the dark.

With the charred tip, he drew a circle beneath his ribs, whispering the runes as he traced each one.

• Algiz (ᛉ) — the elk, the divine shield. A ward against harm.
• Eihwaz (ᛇ) — the yew, the liminal guard. It bent, and rose again.
• Isa (ᛁ) — ice, stillness, concealment. The veil when all else failed.

Together, they formed a bindrune. One he’d carved before—but never with such trembling intent, in a place carved from salt and storm.

He whispered:

“I call on Eir, who soothes the broken.

I call on Hlín, who hides the hunted.

Watch me. Shield me.

Make me unseen to those who hate what I am.”

A low hum vibrated in his chest. Faint, but real.

The storm seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind paused—as if something vast and ancient, deep beneath the waves, had opened one eye and was watching.

And then—

The door shattered inward.

A giant filled the frame. Wind howled behind him like a pack of wolves. His eyes glinted like flame, and his coat billowed like wings of stormcloud.

“Harry Potter?” the giant boomed. “Well, I’ve been lookin’ all over for yeh.”

Harry didn’t flinch. The runes still glowed faintly beneath his skin. They had shielded him.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

When he returned to Surrey, Harry felt strange—filled with too much input from a journey that had moved too fast and yet somehow gone too deep.

He had seen nearly invisible rune arrays tucked into every corner of the wizarding world—carved into doorways, woven into market stalls, stitched into sleeves.

It had all felt rushed: his new wand, his books, his trunk. But at one stall, time had bent a little. He had seen it. Felt it.

And the old man in the wand shop had seen through him too—though not all the way. He’d called Harry’s scar his Sowilo rune. A tragedy.

Harry had listened. And not listened. He’d put on a new kind of cloak that day—not one made of fabric, but of identity. The I’m-Harry-Potter-apparently-the-saviour-of-a-world-I-know-nothing-about kind.

Still, he understood: there was more to this than the man with the pink umbrella had told him. Much more.

The house on Privet Drive was dark when he arrived. The car gone from the drive. The front door locked.

They hadn’t come back.

Harry sighed. He didn’t go inside. Instead, he dragged his trunk to the shed, covered it with a cracked tarpaulin, and whispered through the bars of Hedwig’s cage:

“Stay here. I won’t be long.”

Then he walked to the only place that had ever made him feel known.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

The bell of bone and stone chimed as Harry stepped through the door. Warmth wrapped him at once—herbs, woodsmoke, the faintest trace of beeswax candles. Three cats lifted their heads; Sigyn leapt down to wind herself about his ankles. Somewhere in the back, a kettle whistled.

Raggi emerged from behind the beaded curtain, thundercloud-grey robes brushing the floor, a raven perched on her shoulder. She studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp as if she were reading the weave itself. Then her expression softened.

“Hrafn,” she said. “You’ve come back. The thread has turned.”

“They haven’t come home,” Harry murmured. “The Dursleys.”

“I know,” she answered simply. “The runes warned me. I had to let it unfold.”

She gestured to the table near the window. Huginn croaked from the rafters as Harry sat, shoulders easing for the first time since the storm.

With a flick of her fingers—no wand—a tray floated between them: tea, two cups, and a plate of waffles golden as sunlight.

“I dreamt of you last night,” she said. “Meeting kindred spirits. A warrior. A shield-maiden. Enemies dressed as friends, friends dressed as enemies. The path ahead is crooked, half-hidden.”

Her words sank deeper than Harry wanted to admit.

After tea, she opened a small chest and placed a silver pendant in his palm, cool and weighty.

“Algiz,” she said. “A shield. It will stir at crossroads, and when those woven into your thread draw near.”

Harry whispered the name. The rune warmed faintly against his skin.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

For the next few weeks, Harry stayed at Völuspá, sleeping in the narrow loft above the shop where shelves crowded even the walls. The small window looked over the harbour, and the smell of salt always clung to the curtains. He studied by candlelight, quills scratching until his fingers cramped, with Rán curled against his ribs and the soft hum of wards in the beams above his head.

One night, nose deep in Hogwarts: A History, he frowned. The book spoke of founders, wards, enchantments that had lasted centuries—but not a word about the Vikings who had raided and traded across Britain during those very years. No mention of Norse wizards, or the Danelaw, or the sea-kings who had ruled half the coast.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he muttered, tracing a map with his finger. “A castle built around 990, and not a single word about the Northmen.”

Raggi only hummed. “History is a cloak, Hrafn. It covers as much as it reveals. What’s missing tells you as much as what is written.”

That thought gnawed at him as he compared his rune-lists to the tidy Latin spells in his textbooks. It was as if a whole root of magic had been trimmed away, leaving only branches. Polished. Tamed. Safe for classrooms.

He closed the book and whispered into the dark: “What else did they erase?”

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

One dawn in mid-August, Raggi woke him early.

“Bring your pendant,” she said, leading him out into the fields beyond town.

The air was cool, washed pale with the promise of harvest. A rough altar of stone waited there, crowned with sheaves of barley, apples, and a carved wooden boar. A fire-pit smoked faintly at its heart. Cats and ravens sat scattered among the stones, silent witnesses.

“Freyfaxi,” Raggi murmured. “The harvest feast for Freyr. For good years, good soil, good threads ahead.”

She led him into the fields. A rough altar of stone waited there, crowned with sheaves of barley, apples, and a carved wooden boar. Cats and ravens sat scattered among the stones, silent witnesses.

Raggi set a knife in his hand. “Every journey begins with offering. We give to the land, to the gods, to the threads that hold us.”

Harry cut a lock of his hair and laid it on the fire. Smoke curled skyward. He whispered the names he had learned: Frey, Freyja, Loki, Eir.

Raggi poured mead across the altar, the air thickening with unseen presence. Then she clasped Harry’s wrist, guiding his hand to mark Algiz into the air.

“Shield,” she intoned. “For the boy with the bindrunes. For the one walking between worlds.”

For a moment, Harry thought he heard vast wings overhead.

That night, Raggi pierced his ears with slim black rings. “Odin’s rings. Sight against glamour and deceit. You’ll need them in a place full of masks.”

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

On the last night of August, Harry packed. Rán, the black kitten, padded over and curled into his scarf.

“She’s chosen you,” Raggi said. “Hedwig will guard from the skies, but Rán will guard your sleep.”

Harry stroked the kitten’s fur. She had slept against his side nearly every night already.

Then Raggi lifted out a long wooden box. Inside lay a wand of pale ash, runes faintly dancing along its grain.

“It belonged to a völva once. Ash wood, thestral hair. Carved with Sowilo and Algiz. It remembers.”

Harry lifted it. Sparks spilled like rainbow fire. His chest tightened.

“Why me?”

“Because you stand between things,” Raggi said. “Between truths. Between what was and what will be. And the old magic… knows you.”

The wand hummed in his grip. He knew then that he would carry both names into Hogwarts—Harry Potter, and Hrafn.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

At King’s Cross, the Muggle world moved past in a blur of noise and steam.

Harry paused at the barrier. Nine. Ten. Nothing else.

A man sat on a bench by the pillar. Grey cloak. Broad hat pulled low. One hand on a cane, the other—an empty sleeve.

“Lost, are you?” The voice was rough, old, iron on stone.

Harry shook his head. “Just… waiting.”

“Waiting does nothing. Worlds open only when you move.”

“There’s nothing past here,” Harry said.

The man tapped the pillar with his staff. The sound rang deeper than stone. “Step between the heartbeats. That’s where doors open.”

Harry’s breath caught. Raggi’s words.

The man leaned close. “And when you do—keep your eyes wide. All-seeing, even if it costs you one.”

The crowd pressed around them, but no one else seemed to notice him.

A whistle shrieked. The clock struck. The moment wavered, thin as glass.

Harry turned to the pillar. Looked back—

The bench was empty.

Only a raven feather lay on the ground.

He picked it up. It thrummed against his skin.

Then he stepped forward.

And the world blinked.

Warm air.

Owls. Laughter. Magic.

He had done it.

Chapter Text

Harry had been early. Too early.

It left him with nothing to do but lean out of the compartment window and watch the chaos on the platform below.

The station already felt like another world. Steam curled white as winter breath, hissing around ankles and swirling against the scarlet bulk of the train. Muggles on the far side of the barrier stared wide-eyed, baffled, muttering about costumed conventions and period dramas. And maybe they weren’t wrong.

Harry half-expected to hear the vworp vworp of the TARDIS materialising in the corner, or to see the Doctor himself swing round a column, question-mark umbrella twirling. A train station in 1991 turning suddenly into Victoriana circus — it was exactly the sort of set-up Sylvester McCoy would show up to sort out, with Ace blowing something up in the background.

He smirked faintly. Well, if this was an episode of Doctor Who, he was fairly sure he hadn’t been given the script.

Children tumbled past below, some in neat Muggle jeans and jumpers, others buttoned into brocade coats and caps straight out of Dickens. A witch in a monstrous purple hat stood scolding her grandson — the thing looked so much like a vulture perched on her head that Harry had to stifle a laugh.

Not far away, a little blond boy was wrapped in fierce hugs from his mother and father, both of them polished and elegant in the way only the very posh managed. Their goodbyes were stiff but fond. Harry’s chest tugged uncomfortably, and he looked away before the envy could settle too deep.

He wasn’t the only one alone, though. Here and there, he noticed children standing awkwardly at the edge of the crowd — a girl clutching a second-hand cage, a boy with patched robes. Not everyone had a cheering section. That thought eased something in him, just a little.

A sudden stir near the barrier caught his attention. A whole knot of redheads had arrived together: three tall boys, two so alike they had to be twins, a smaller boy with his mother hovering anxiously, and a little girl trailing behind with her hand tight in hers. They were barely clear of the arch before three wizards in crimson-trimmed robes closed in on them, badges gleaming at their shoulders. Wizard police? Whatever they were, the conversation turned sharp and fast, voices raised over the hiss of steam.

Harry watched for a moment, curiosity pricking — but the argument looked no closer to being solved, and he decided it wasn’t his problem. He ducked back into the compartment, drew the door shut, and settled with his book across his knees.

First things first. He dug into his pocket, drew out the stub of chalk he always carried, and sketched a quick array on the doorframe. A ward against hunger-for-fame. Let only those pass who sought him, not the mask. The chalk shimmered faintly, then settled like frost into the wood.

Moments later, the handle rattled. A boy’s outline flickered in the glass—red hair, long nose. A tug, a frustrated grunt, retreating footsteps.

Harry leaned back with a grin.

“Chalk: one. Fame-hunters: nil.”

The train lurched, and the door slid open smoothly.

A tall boy with pale eyes stepped inside. He didn’t ask permission. He simply looked.

Hair shaved at the sides, the rest tied in a hawk’s knot. A silver ring glinted on his finger.

Harry saw it instantly. Perthro. Secrets. Fate.

The boy’s gaze flicked over Harry’s earrings—small black rings etched with runes—then to Rán, asleep, then to the faint bulge of the pendant under his shirt.

A smile, just the edge of one, touched his mouth.

“Theodore Storm Nott,” he said, inclining his head.

Harry returned it. “Harry Potter. Hrafn.”

“May the gods smile on this meeting.”

“And if Odin approves,” Harry said without pause, “may we meet again in glory.”

Theo’s lip twitched. “Ef nornir leyfa.”

Harry grinned. “If the Norns allow it.”

The silence stretched — but not uncomfortably.

Then, unexpectedly, Harry began to giggle. He couldn’t help it. Raggi had told him he would find a friend, but it still felt impossible. At school, people had called him strange for his obsessions. In Diagon Alley, he had struggled to find a single book that even mentioned the old gods. And here — the very first boy his own age he had met in this new world had greeted him in the speech of sagas.

Theo studied him for a moment, then gave in and laughed too. Here he sat with the so-called Boy Who Lived — not the shining hero of rumour, but a boy in warrior braids, with runes at his ears, swearing by the gods. For Theo, an outsider even among pure-bloods because he clung to his dead mother’s ways, it was like a door had opened. Ecstasy, relief — and a little disbelief. He had found someone like himself… even if that someone was the supposed saviour of the light.

Theo pointed toward the faint chalk marks Harry had drawn on the compartment door.

“Nice,” he said simply.

Then, with a flicker of a smile, he drew a small pouch from his pocket and spilled rune-stones onto the seat between them.

Harry leaned closer, curiosity sparking. “You travel with those?”

“Better than Chocolate Frogs,” Theo said dryly. He picked one up, let it click against his teeth, then set it down again.

Harry laughed. “Fair point.” He reached for a stone, turning it over in his fingers. The grooves felt alive against his thumb. “What’s the game?”

“Rune-roll,” Theo explained. “Half fate, half bluffing. You cast the stones, read the runes, and try to convince your opponent the gods favour you—even when they don’t. My mother said it teaches you whether you listen to luck… or lies.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed. “Sounds like something Loki invented.”

“Then you’ll be good at it,” Theo shot back, deadpan.

Harry barked a laugh. “We’ll see.”

They played. Harry lost the first round in under a minute, the second almost as quickly. But in the third, he leaned back, smirked, and declared, “Frozen fate!” when Isa turned up — bluffing outrageously until Theo caved.

“Not fair,” Theo muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Harry spread his hands in mock solemnity. “It is if you cheat cleverly enough. That’s half of life, isn’t it?”

Theo snorted, but he couldn’t help grinning.

For a long moment, the steady clatter of the train seemed to fall away. It was just the two of them, rune-stones scattered between them, already weaving something that felt like it might last.

Harry tugged a book from his satchel—The Saga of the Volsungs. Theo’s eyebrows lifted.

“Good choice.”

“Better than the schoolbooks,” Harry said.

They bent over the text together, trading favourite moments—dragons, curses, wolf-brothers. Outside, the countryside blurred by. Inside, something steady was weaving between them.

Now and then, the door shuddered. Someone trying to get in. Each time, the ward refused. Until—

The door slid open without resistance.

A girl with a halo of bushy hair peered inside, clutching a book to her chest. “Excuse me—have either of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost one—”

Her gaze landed on Harry. She froze.

“Oh! You’re Harry Potter!”

Harry blinked. “…No, I’m Hrafn,” he said solemnly, eyes dancing. “Harry Potter’s probably down the hall somewhere, signing autographs.”

Theo snorted loudly. Morag—who had just squeezed into the compartment behind the girl—actually cackled.

Hermione flushed, torn between confusion and indignation. “But—your scar… exactly like the pictures—”

“Ah,” Harry said gravely, “that’s how you know it’s not me.”

Rán flicked her tail as if to punctuate the trick.

Hermione huffed, cheeks pink. “Well. If you do see a toad, tell Neville. And if you are Harry Potter—” she hesitated, eyes flicking to his braids “—I think the books didn’t quite get you right.”

She vanished as quickly as she’d come.

Harry let out a breath. “That was close.”

Theo smirked. “Not really. You lied so smoothly, even Loki would’ve clapped.”

Morag grinned wolfishly, dropping her satchel with a thud. “Och, a raven and a storm—aye, you’ll do.”

And just like that, their pack was three.

Harry and Theo exchanged a look.

“Morag MacDougal,” she announced grandly. “Isle of Skye. Witch, shield-maiden, third cousin tae the Second Sight.”

“…Right,” said Harry.

Morag tapped the pendant at her chest. “Saw the two o’ you in a dream. One had wind behind his eyes, the other sea in his bones. That’s you. And you.”

Theo blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.” She grinned wide. “Didn’t your mentors tell ye? Runes don’t lie.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Raggi said dreams speak sideways.”

Morag beamed. “Aye. And mine told me I’d find ye both on this train—with your cat, your storm-braids, and your old blood magic.”

Harry hesitated. “Most people don’t talk about that.”

“Most people,” Morag said cheerfully, “are porridge wi’ nae salt.”

That broke the tension. Harry barked a laugh, Theo smirked into his sleeve, and Rán stretched, tail flicking like punctuation.

They passed the hours swapping biscuits and small stories, sometimes competing in Rune-Roll, sometimes leafing through Harry’s battered saga. Inevitably, talk turned to Hogwarts itself.

“So,” Morag asked, prodding Harry with the last crumb of treacle tart, “where d’ye think you’ll land? Ravenclaw? Gryffindor?”

Harry shrugged. “All I know is what Hagrid told me on the way here. Gryffindor’s supposed to be all courage, Slytherin’s all snakes and villains, Ravenclaw’s clever, Hufflepuff’s leftovers.”

Morag rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly audible. “That’s daft. Gryffindor’s no’ just courage, it’s hot heads an’ show-offs. And Slytherins? Half the best curse-breakers and diplomats come from there. My gran says Hufflepuff’s where the real stubborn ones go—the folk who’ll outlast storms just by diggin’ their heels in.”

Harry tilted his head. “So Hagrid’s version was… biased.”

Theo gave a dry little smile. “Biased is polite. Everyone makes their own House sound best. But the Hat doesn’t just sort the bold or the clever—it looks at how you think. What you hunger for.”

Harry sat back, thoughtful. “That sounds better than four boxes in a row. But…” He hesitated. “If it listens to what you want—what if it listens wrong? Or worse, what if it listens to what other people think you should be?”

Theo’s gaze sharpened, as though he understood too well. “That’s my worry. My father and brother were Slytherin. The Hat might assume I belong there too. Even if I don’t.”

Morag leaned back, boots thumping against the seat. “I pretend I don’t care. But truth is? I’m afraid it’ll shove me in Gryffindor. Brave and brash and loud. My brothers already took those paths. I don’t want tae be a copy.”

Harry stared at the window, where the countryside blurred into a smear of green and gold. “People already think they know what I’m supposed to be. A hero. Brave, daring, shining. But I don’t feel like that. Not at all. What if the Hat just makes me into… their story?”

The words hung heavy for a moment.

Then Morag reached over and jabbed him in the arm. “Then you tell the Hat tae shove it. It’s a hat. What’s it going tae do—bite you?”

Harry huffed a laugh. Theo’s mouth twitched.

“Maybe you’re right,” Harry said quietly. “Maybe I’ll tell it where to go.”

“Och, don’t pretend,” Morag said, eyes gleaming. “You’re both ravenlings already. Sitting here arguing sagas instead o’ sweets, teaching each other rune-games. If that’s no’ Ravenclaw, I’ll eat my boots.”

Harry smirked. “Make sure they’re leather. Easier to chew.”

Theo raised an imaginary goblet. “To Ravenclaw—or at least, to not letting a hat decide who we are.”

Morag clinked the air with her fist. “To the pack.”

Harry lifted his hand last, a small smile playing on his lips. “And may Loki trip anyone who tries to shove us into the wrong box.”

Rán mewed from the seat, as if in agreement. Outside, a raven wheeled against the twilight sky, its cry sharp as laughter.

Chapter Text

The Hat’s shout still echoed in his skull — “RAVENCLAW!” — long after the hall’s roar had faded.

For a heartbeat, the world had gone silent. The Gryffindor table had stared as though he’d dropped his crown; the Slytherins looked cheated of a legend; the Hufflepuffs only curious. But at the table beneath the blue banners, a few older students had risen to clap — sharp, knowing smiles, as though they’d expected it all along.

He remembered Morag’s cheer loudest, Theo’s calm nod, and the faint glint of runes carved into the high table’s edge.

Then the feast blurred into light and warmth, laughter and new names, until the candles guttered and sleep crept close.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

The dream came first.

He was a raven, wings vast and dark, gliding over a sea of green. Forests whispered beneath him, endless and strange, until a mountain rose from the mist. Upon its peak stood a citadel of stone and spires, windows like watching eyes. He wheeled once, twice, then folded his wings and dropped toward the highest tower.

The moment his talons touched the ledge, he woke.

Golden light poured across the dormitory, the sun cresting the hills. For a heartbeat Harry wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming — the tower felt so much like the one in his vision. Round stone walls, warm wood panelling, the faint scent of chalk and old parchment. The room glowed with morning, everything burnished bronze and blue.

He blinked, taking it in. This was his — his nook carved into the curve of the wall, a shelf and curtain for privacy, initials and runes from years of Ravenclaws before him. His window with its deep stone sill wide enough to curl up in, books already stacked haphazardly there. His pack at the foot of the bed, Rán curled warm at his feet.

For seven years, this would be home.

A grin tugged at him, fierce and new. Ravenclaws bunked together — all of them, no dividing lines of boys and girls. One longhouse of odd birds.

Theo was there, braids neat and gleaming even in sleep. Morag sprawled sideways, muttering in Gaelic. Padma lay perfectly still, her blanket tucked with precision, the faintest smile at the corner of her mouth as if she were reading even in dreams.

Harry exhaled, tension easing from his chest. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not alone either. Just Hrafn — in a tower of companions who already felt like a pack.

Outside, a raven called once from the ledge. He reached beneath his pillow, fingers brushing the feather the old man had given him at the station. The two pulses — feather and heart — beat together, like a promise.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

The first few days at Hogwarts were an uneven adventure. Harry was either first — or last — to master his spells. His elm wand had a mind of its own, occasionally helpful, occasionally rebellious. Once, when two older boys shoved him against a wall, muttering about dark wizards and traitors, it flared hot in his palm. A spark burst like flint, sending them stumbling back with a hex.

It hadn’t been him casting. The wand had defended him.

And then there was that peculiar hum in his ears — not embarrassment, but the heat Raggi had warned him about - from his earrings. The sense that words around him didn’t always carry truth.

By midweek, he was filling pages with sketches of runes found about the castle: etched faintly into stair rails, hidden in arches and windows. Once, a step shifted beneath his foot, and he nearly fell — until Morag’s quick grip steadied him. By the third day, his notebook held five pages of symbols, their shapes seeming to twist slightly when he looked away.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

Thursday brought Potions.

The dungeon classroom was colder than the rest of the castle, the air heavy with herbs and damp. Harry paused at the door — the frame itself was carved with dark runes to contain fumes and toxins. He traced one lightly, feeling it vibrate beneath his finger.

A shadow fell across him.

He looked up into Professor Snape’s eyes.

For a long, suspended second, the man said nothing — gaze flicking from the rune to Harry’s braids, to the pendant at his throat. His expression tightened, then shifted — the sneer he’d been preparing paused halfway.

Harry bolted for a seat beside Morag, cheeks burning. Snape turned sharply, robes snapping, and began the lesson in a voice soft as a blade. But every so often, Harry caught those dark eyes flicking back to him — not kindly, but curiously.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

By early Friday morning, Harry had found a rhythm of sorts.

The Great Hall was quiet when he slipped in, steam curling from his cup of tea. Only Padma sat nearby, already reading with a focus that blurred the world around her.

Hogwarts wasn’t what he’d imagined. It was no Malory Towers with kindly matrons, but a drafty, echoing castle where children ran half-wild. Professors were distant, the prefects overworked. By the second day, whispers had already followed him down corridors: comments about his braids, his pendant, “the old ways.” Once, a shoulder slammed into him and a hissed traitor followed.

He realised quickly: this wasn’t a school where adults swooped in to fix quarrels. You learned who stood beside you, and who didn’t.

Luckily, he had Theo, Morag, and Padma — Padma, who never looked sideways at him, only raised a brow when his wand sparked and murmured, “Improvisation. Bold strategy.”

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

That morning when the owls came it brought more to the little group of ravens then just letters

A tawny bird swooped low, dropping a rune-carved wooden box before him. Another, hawk-shouldered and fierce-eyed, set one before Morag. Both boxes were strapped in soft leather and hummed faintly with protective spells.

“Care packages,” Morag said with a grin. “Mum’s spellwork. Yours too, by the look of it.”

Harry unbuckled the straps. Steam and the scent of herbs and barley rose up. Inside was a pot of lamb stew, still hot as if it had left Raggi’s hearth moments ago. Wrapped beside it were slices of dark rye bread and a jar of lingonberry jam.

Morag’s box held bannocks, crumbly cheese, and honey-roasted hazelnuts. Theo eyed the nuts with reverence.

Padma glanced up from her book, eyes bright. “Next time, I’ll ask my father to send halwa — with almonds and cardamom. And I can make chai. Proper chai, not whatever this castle calls tea.”

Harry grinned. “What’s chai?”

“You’ll see,” she promised.

That evening, instead of joining the feast, they carried their boxes upstairs and spread the food across the low dormitory table. The firelight gleamed on warm wood and carved runes.

“Touch my cheese and lose a finger,” Morag warned, brandishing her spoon.

Padma sniffed. “That cheese could kill a man.”

Theo, perfectly solemn, said, “Bannocks are marked with protective runes. Old Hebridean custom — bread that rises crooked invites misfortune.”

Morag groaned. “He’s lecturing while I eat.”

Harry only smiled, warmed through. The food tasted of home — of three homes, braided together — and for the first time since arriving, the castle didn’t feel so cold.

A pack, he thought, watching firelight catch in their eyes. At last, a pack of his own.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned bright and sharp with autumn chill.

Harry slipped outside after breakfast, parchment and quill in hand. He settled by the Black Lake, sunlight winking on the water, and began to write.

A couple of minutes later

He sealed it with runes and a drop of blood. The letters shimmered briefly, then sank into the parchment.

A shadow fell across him.

Bushy hair. Set jaw. And beside her, a redhead puffed up like a rooster, freckles bright in the sun. Both wore lions on their robes.

“You weren’t at dinner last night,” Hermione said sharply. “That’s against the rules. I’ll have to tell Professor Dumbledore.”

Harry blinked. “Will you, now?”

Ron stepped forward, chin high. “You should’ve been in Gryffindor. That’s where proper wizards go. Not—” his nose wrinkled—“not in Ravenclaw with snakes.”

Harry tilted his head. “Snakes don’t caw, last I checked.”

Ron flushed. “Your parents would hate it. Sitting with dark sorts. Everyone says you’re a—” he stumbled over the word, clearly repeating something overheard—“a conspirator.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “A conspirator. Creative.”

Ron puffed his chest. “We’ll tell Dumbledore. He’ll… rehabilitate you.”

“Into what?” Harry asked mildly. “A proper Weasley?”

Theo’s voice cut through the tension like steel. “Do you even know what that word means?”

Ron faltered. “It means… he’ll sort him out.”

Morag appeared, braid swinging. “Merlin’s beard, Weasley, you’ve been here five days and you’re already parroting your mum’s supper gossip. Learn what words mean before ye throw them about.”

Ron’s ears went scarlet. He snatched for his wand — sparks fizzled uselessly, scattering like water against stone. Harry’s pendant glowed faintly, absorbing the magic.

He rose, voice cool as the lake. “I’m not your Potter. I’m not your project. And I don’t need saving.”

The silence that followed was thick as smoke. Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. Ron muttered something about traitors and backed away.

Theo smiled faintly. “Run along before you confuse yourself with another big word.”

Morag added, “Aye — practise conspirator in the mirror.”

When they were gone, Harry folded his letter, hands shaking faintly, the runes on it glowing red for a heartbeat before fading. I will not be reshaped, they seemed to say.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

Harry stormed into the Ravenclaw common room, snapping the eagle’s riddle answer before it had even finished asking. He didn’t stop until he reached the sofa near the hearth.

Rán was there — a blot of ink curled into the cushions — and she lifted her head to trill softly as he collapsed beside her.

A tall girl with a prefect’s badge looked up from a stack of parchment at the nearby table. “Rough morning, Potter?” she asked mildly.

Nadia Mansour, sixth year — one of the Ravenclaw prefects, known for knowing everything.

Morag and Theo came in a moment later, flushed from hurrying. Harry muttered the story — the confrontation by the lake, the slur, the jinx that fizzled harmlessly against his pendant.

Nadia closed her book with a quiet thud. “Idiots,” she said flatly. “They see what they expect — a name, a hairstyle, a symbol — and spin a story to fit it. You’ll get a lot of that here, Potter.”

From an armchair by the fire, Isla MacDougal — Morag’s older sister — looked up, one brow raised. “They want their tidy little hero,” she said. “Brave, shiny, simple. Easier than admitting you’re something they don’t understand.”

Theo gave a sharp little nod. “They’d rather keep the story simple.”

“Always do,” Isla said with a grin. Her hair was braided through with silver charms that winked in the firelight. “Folk see a plait and think of dark rites. Never mind that long before Crowley’s lot, binding your hair meant something else entirely.”

Harry looked up at that, faintly surprised but pleased. “You know the truth of it, then.”

Nadia’s lips quirked. “Of course we do. You’re not the first to wear the old ways here.”

She leaned back in her chair, voice taking on the crisp rhythm of someone who enjoyed telling the story properly. “It started with Elspeth Crowley — self-styled Mistress of Shadows. Eighteenth century Cornwall. She and her followers used binding charms during their rituals — mostly borrowed from older northern traditions. When the Ministry caught her, they overreacted, as usual. Issued a formal ban on ritual plaiting in 1743.”

Isla gave a snort. “Aye, and ever since, half the wizarding world flinches at the sight of a braid. As if hair could hex them.”

“Superstition’s like ivy,” Nadia said. “Once it takes root, it’s nearly impossible to pull free.”

“But we ken better,” Isla said, eyes bright as she turned to Harry. “We remember the older meaning — the real one. The braid binds what matters. Oath. Identity. Truth. That’s why my gran still plaits her hair before the solstice rites — to remind the gods who she is.”

Morag’s voice was fierce with pride. “And why I braid mine before exams.”

Nadia smiled faintly. “Then you’re in good company. Those who fear what they don’t understand will always call it dark. That’s not your problem, Potter. Or yours, MacDougal.”

Callum Wright — the other prefect, lounging by the window — added lazily, “Half of them couldn’t tell Isa from Inguz if you carved it on their foreheads anyway.”

That earned a laugh, quiet but real.

Isla leaned forward, her tone softening. “Don’t let them shame you out of it, Hrafn. Old ways have deep roots. Deeper than the Ministry, deeper than Hogwarts, deeper than fear.”

Harry nodded once. “I know. I won’t stop.”

“Good lad,” she said, smiling. “Ravens keep their feathers, no matter who calls them black.”

Padma, perched halfway up the stairwell with her tea, raised her mug. “To ravens, then,” she said dryly. “And to feathers not shed for frightened hens.”

The laughter that followed filled the room like the sound of wings.

Harry leaned back, Rán’s purr rumbling under his hand. The firelight shimmered across runes carved faintly in the mantle, flickering like whispers of old power.

For the first time that week, the castle felt less like stone — and more like belonging.

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

Later, in their dormitory, the four of them sprawled by the low table. Theo said quietly, “We could ignore them.”

Morag grinned. “Or we could do what Loki would do.”

Padma raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Turn their foolishness against them. Make them look daft.”

Harry’s grin sharpened. “Nothing cruel. Just… mischief. A trick to remind them we don’t bow our heads.”

Theo mused, “A riddle slipped onto the Gryffindor noticeboard?”

Padma smirked. “Or a potion that turns their pumpkin juice into curry for a week.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed. “Or I could braid every portrait in their common room. Loki’d like that.”

Morag laughed so hard she nearly dropped her spoon. “Imagine McGonagall’s face when she finds the Fat Lady wi’ pigtails!”

The laughter died down slowly. Harry stared into the fire, voice softer. “Maybe Loki wouldn’t just trick them. Maybe he’d change shape. Walk right past while they were looking for someone else.”

Theo tilted his head. “Shape-shift?”

Harry nodded. “I’ve been mistaken for a girl before. It didn’t feel wrong. Sometimes I think… maybe it would be easier if they weren’t looking for Harry Potter at all. Just someone else.”

Morag sat up, eyes bright. “You want tae try it.”

Harry’s smirk turned shy. “They want their hero. What if they never find him? What if tomorrow they meet Kára instead?”

The name fell like a spark in the air.

Theo’s grin widened. “Then we’ll make it happen.”

Morag raised her mug in salute. “To Kára.”

Padma smiled faintly. “And to mischief well done.”

ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ✦ ᚨ ᚱ ᛉ

If this were a saga, they would say:

Thus began the whisper of the raven’s kin —

not in war, nor in glory, but in laughter.

And Loki, watching, smiled.